#jean needed to be with phoenix first before Doing All Those Things Which She Did With You

[brainrotcharacters]

makes me giggle to think of X2 Logan meeting dp&w Logan when this is a thing

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

THIS THING IS FINISHED.

HALLELUJAH.

I AM SO TIRED.

(But I still had fun. Thanks for all your patience, friendo!)

___

Abel Impulse [Part 4]

(Disclaimer: two of the characters in this story do not belong to me. Casey Clowes was created by my amazing friend, @insane4fandoms.)

(Now, as for the fanegos who do belong to me: for more information on Azalea, go here. For more information on Phoenix, go here. For more information on Caliban, go here. For more information on K.O., go here.) 

(Trigger Warnings: talk of murder/death, blood/gore, knives/blades, physical violence, cannibalism, fire/smoke, descriptions of illegal business, mentions of arson, implied past abuse, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

___

It was so funny how life worked out.

Years ago—back before K.O. had started going by his ring-name—he’d tried studying with the hope of becoming a nurse someday.

Partially because nursing had absolutely no bearing on masculinity (plus, every female nurse out there already has bigger balls than you anyway, BRADLEY), and partially because aiming for a doctor’s status would’ve cost him much more than just his immortal soul.

Well, the latter point ended up applying for pretty much any degree, no matter how many chances it was supposed to give you. 

And on top of that…well, at some point, things wouldn’t stop happening. Just one fucking disaster after another. 

Life started to suck even more than it already did. More for a dear friend than for K.O. himself. No matter how shitty the world felt for K.O., he’d known that she always had it much, much worse. 

He’d had to move things along. Money had to be made; more than he’d been scraping by with, and at a faster rate than just scraping.

So, he started doing things that he probably shouldn’t have done. 

But then, if he’d never done those things, he wouldn’t have found such a lucrative career. He wouldn’t have earned himself a reputation in the world of underground fighting, wouldn’t have been able to command respect from sons of bitches who weren’t used to giving it.

He would’ve have found a place with Murdock, along with the rest of his family. 

He wouldn’t have been able to get that friend of his the ticket she needed to survive.

Those college courses that he eventually couldn’t afford to keep attending…there’d always been plenty of jokes that circulated through them. The biggest (and most questionable) jokes were about the fact that nurses couldn’t be nurses if they couldn’t handle having to deal with unruly patients.

Because that called for various levels of physicality, see? 

Granted, that probably wasn’t an excuse to aim for someone's weak points until they could be tossed back out of the same window they’d broken in through. 

But hey, K.O.’s work wasn’t meant to be official (read: legal). It helped that he enjoyed said work much more than he ever would a career that had to be out in public.

…It also helped that the unruly person K.O. had to handle right now was wielding a chainsaw and acting like a chihuahua hopped up on a mix of amphetamines and Pop Rocks.

The wind was picking up outside, warbling in a sharp, shrill way—like it was dragging along the stubborn shards still attached to the window frame. 

“Casey?!” Mad bellowed, boots crunching on broken glass as he leapt into the hallway. The chainsaw bobbed up and down at his side as he charged toward the dusty old check-in desk. (Which, in the grand scheme of things, offered plenty of potential hiding spots.) “Casey, where are you?!” 

He hadn’t seen K.O. yet. He had his back to him. 

Well, it wasn’t like K.O., as well as his many past opponents, had to play by any rules in the ring…

He set his jaw and marched forward, fishing through the pockets of his amaranth-dyed jeans. The brass knuckles slipped on so easily, so naturally. It made sense: they’d been part of a welcome gift when he was first accepted into The Pentas Family. 

Once Francis and J.P. had been reunited with his left and right hands respectively, K.O. broke into a sprint.

Mad barely had time to glance over his shoulder before K.O. snatched a handful of his hair, yanked his head up, and slammed it onto the counter.

He wrenched it back and forth with three dull thuds and wild shrieks of pain. 

Just as he was about to go for a fourth, Mad managed to twist in his grasp, driving his elbow into that little spot just below his attacker’s sternum. 

K.O. had no choice but to release his hold. He had to back away, had to swallow the bile that surged into his throat.

About two seconds later, foreign weight crashed into his cheek. The taste of iron gushed around his mouth, the smell racing up to his nose.

Mad failed to pull his fist away quickly enough, which gave K.O. the perfect opening to grab hold of the offending arm and wrench it to the side. He swung Mad into the closest wall, forcing the chainsaw to fall away. 

Mad thrashed and bucked and screamed, but K.O. kept one arm twisted behind his back. It gave him plenty of leeway to shove him onto the floor and pin him there. 

Now, Caliban had more experience in dealing with Mad, so of course he’d gone on many a rant about Mad. And more than one of those rants included the speculation about taking swigs from jerry cans. 

And as this bear-suited bastard simply refused to stop kicking and squirming and swearing and feeling like a smaller, fleshier version of those mechanical bulls, K.O. decided he could put money on him having sipped battery acid straight from an Energizer pack.

But before K.O. could add enough extra force to snap any of the bones in Mad’s arms, stampeding footsteps caught his attention.

His eyes snapped back to the hallway, to the staircase that stood at the very end of it. 

First he saw Snare racing down those steps, his long, thin legs moving in and out like scissors beneath him. 

Next, he saw Scout, yipping and baying, hot on Snare’s fuzzy heels. “Arr-woo, arr-woo, aar-woooo!”

Finally, he saw another one of his human peers rushing after the animals: Azalea, whose long, chestnut hair was practically lashing through the air behind her. 

“Aza?” K.O. called, having to spit out a wad of blood to clear his voice. “What’s going on?!”

“I have no idea!” Azalea responded, barely able to spare him a glance. Her sights were firmly set on her brother and Casey’s respective pets, chasing them as they chased one another around the corner and out of sight.

(Not that K.O. could really blame her. If Snare got lost for a second time tonight, Caliban would probably pop a vein or two, and there was no guarantee that those veins would be his. As for Casey…well, even if no-one could ever be John Wick, one point of this new plan was to get him off The Pentas Family’s collective back for at least a little while.)

Too bad the mild surprise caused him to loosen his grip. 

Without warning, Mad drew his legs close, pulling his knees halfway back under him. That was all he needed to rear up and slam the back of his head into K.O.’s chin.

Fun Fact: the human chin could be a bit of an off-switch in the ring. It could be the key to creating a lever-effect, forcing an opponent’s brain to rock around in their skull and knock them out cold. 

Mad hadn’t punched K.O. straight on, hadn’t used quite enough force, but K.O. still saw stars, still felt ice splinter throughout his jawbones. 

Before he knew it, K.O. was up, then falling, then landing painfully on his back. 

As the spots cleared from his vision, he saw Mad hefting his chainsaw, looming over him.

“Where is he?” Mad demanded, raising his weapon above his head. “Where’s Casey? What did you do to him?!”

“What did you do to him?!” K.O. echoed. “Just hearing your name makes him look like he’s gonna be sick!”

An unintelligible roar flowed out of Mad’s lungs. And then the chainsaw came arcing down. 

Nerves on fire, K.O. shifted, craning his neck out of the tool’s path in the nick of time. The metal band and all its jagged teeth hit the floor just an inch or two away from his head. 

Only…it didn’t lodge itself there. Aforementioned teeth didn’t sputter or get caught on anything. No clouds of dust or chunks of linoleum were sent flying.

The more seconds ticked by, the more K.O. noticed just how quiet the chainsaw was. Just how quiet it’d been this entire time, come to think of it. The engine hadn’t been rumbling or whirring at all. 

Mad seemed to realize this around the same time. “W-What the—?”

His face seemed to be caught in slow-motion as it went from contorted with fury to…slack with confusion.

He pulled back, examining the chainsaw’s main body. He tried revving it once. Twice. Three times

Nothing happened.

“Oh—oh, fuck you!” Mad cried. He started shaking his weapon, prodding at the button, smacking it every which way. “Fuck youfuckyoufuckyouFUCK YOU!”

While this was transpiring, K.O. had been dutifully wriggling his way free, getting into a better position to regain his balance. However, he just so happened to be struck with a brilliant flare of word-association.

“How good are you?!” K.O. barked. 

If there was ever a time for a record to screech somewhere in the background.

Mad froze, one gloved hand suspended in the air, suddenly forbidden from completing its arc.

His wild, orangish-brown eyes wandered over to meet K.O. grayish-blue ones, mouth agape like a fish that had just plopped down onto the deck of a boat. 

“Huh?” K.O. continued, raising his eyebrows and plastering on the widest, most shit-eating grin he could manage. 

He was no stranger to fuck you’s in the ring, and through the years, he’d gathered responses to them. One of his favorites was simply pausing to offer a thumbs-up along with a sweet, cheesy smile. If that didn’t anger his opponents enough to throw them off their rhythm, nothing would.

Sure, there were plenty of variations to that tactic, but he’d never gotten to try one quite like this before.

Mad stayed silent. He fidgeted in place, like he desperately wanted to back away but was also gravely concerned about the potential of anyone seeing him retreat. He glanced to the side for half a second, which was plenty of time for K.O. to make sure that they’d moved closer to that broken window.

A little more goading was in order.

K.O. started with a whisper: “How…good…are…” 

He knew his eyes were wide enough to resemble a mouse lemur’s Thousand Yard Stare, that his grin was getting more manic by the second.

And he did nothing to change that.

All the better to keep attention off of how he was moving his arms, elbows rising off the floor to free up his hands as he ever-so-slightly leaned forward.

“…YOU?!” He finally concluded, his voice rising all the way to the top of his lungs.

Mad’s face twisted again, eyes narrowing, lips peeling back in a snarl as a veritable wave of disgust and mortification crashed over him. He even seemed to briefly forget the technical difficulties his chainsaw had been suffering. 

He might’ve been about to spew out a comeback, but that was when K.O. saw his chance. 

The boxer launched himself off the floor, putting everything he had behind his fist as it flew into the side of Mad’s stomach. (Kidneys never liked being tapped, after all.)

Mad crumpled back, doubled-over and coughing up his lungs. 

K.O. was behind him in an instant, one hand snatching the collar of his suit while the other grabbed a section of belt that rested on his hip.

More glass crunched beneath both of them as he hauled Mad forward, then bashed him against the bottom half of the window’s hollow frame. There was nothing to be impaled on, but the amount of force K.O. used probably made it feel like there was. 

But then, he was only halfway out. 

K.O. remedied that via clutching one leg in each hand and flipping him over the threshold.

Mad might as well have been speaking in tongues, howling and raging all at once as he landed on the cracked pavement outside with a solid thud.

K.O. watched him writhe out there. He wanted to pull a Final Girl and leap out himself, wanted to keep fighting.

 You always got to finish fights in the ring. Outside of it, that wasn’t always how things worked, depending on the situation. He wanted to finish one this so damn badly.

But he couldn’t. Doing that would distract him. It would leave his peers down a man.

So, he git his teeth and made himself stay inside, pacing back and forth before the window. He clenched his fists, and the familiar weight of Francis and J.P. gave him comfort.

Over by the desk, a side-door creaked open. The fighter almost jumped out of his skin, halfway back into stance until he recognized the entering figure by a teal blazer and deep violet jumpsuit. 

Phoenix didn’t seem to notice him at first—she took a seat behind the desk, then propped her elbows on it. One hand reaching over to rest on her head; the garnet embedded in her ring almost seemed to glow against her raven hair. 

“Phoenix!” K.O. called, jogging over. He hadn’t seen her since the window had a frank exchange of ideas with Mad. It was truly like she’d just vanished into thin air. “Where’ve you been? What was going on out there?!”  

“Someone else wandered over,” Phoenix replied, her voice quiet and disbelieving. “Around front. I think they came from his neighborhood.” 

K.O.’s eye twitched in time with how his stomach sank. The window he’d just thrown Mad back out through was in the front of the building. “...How much of that did they see?”

“Oh, they saw all of it. You, Mad. Everything.” 

K.O. clicked his tongue, hands rising up to clutch at his temples. “Ssshhhhit.”

Normally, news like this would’ve called for the pushing of a Big Red Button that was never where it needed to be. 

Fortunately, Phoenix had more to share. “Almost. But I managed to talk them away from all this.”

K.O. blinked. Then blinked again. His head still felt like it might explode, but the lack of police sirens outside was encouraging. “Well, what’d you tell them?” 

“That I was part of group filming videos for a YouTube series.”

“And that worked?!” Azalea’s voice pronounced. Both K.O. and Phoenix glanced over to see her trudging down the next hall, away from the motel’s Pool and Gym areas. Scout and Snare were with her, tucked under each arm like footballs, both wrigginlg and trying to nip at one another. “They actually believed you?”

“They did!” Phoenix threw her arms up and leaned back in the chair, fixing the ceiling with a look that suggested she was questioning her place in the universe.

“I don’t know why, but they just did! I kept my phone out and told them it was some parody along the lines of Guys Gone Wild, and they just accepted that and walked back home! It’s the kind of stuff that doesn’t even work in the movies! I can’t understand it!”

“I mean…” K.O. murmured, putting a hand on his hip to keep his balance, “…people will do pretty much anything for YouTube. For better or worse.” 

“Good point,” Azalea agreed, nodding despite the whiplash not budging from her features.

Before any more existentialism had a chance to take root, a faraway scream tore through the air. 

As well as the unmistakable rumbling of a chainsaw’s engine. 

Pulse hammering through his ears once again, K.O. realized just how long he’d stayed away from the hollow window. Just how long he hadn’t kept an eye on their enemy-for-the-evening.

Without another word, Azalea passed Scout into K.O.’s arms, and Snare into Phoenix’s, before charging toward the stairs, one hand fishing through her vest pockets. 

___

Casey could NOT afford a standstill right now.

Mad had followed him from that house, and judging by the chorus that just managed to echo up the staircase down the hall—thuds and crashes and language which would’ve briefly turned Casey’s mother into a drill sergeant (bless her heart) had she been here—he was flying into one of his critical tizzies. 

The proverbial fan had officially started producing Crap Confetti. 

Now was NOT the time to freeze and stare, no matter how much fresh shock was slapping you across the face. No matter how that infamous metallic stench was strong enough to reach him before he’d gotten to motel’s second floor, to make the air feel thick now that he was closer.

A smart person in his current position wouldn’t have found themself standing in a doorway, shaking and staring with a clenched jaw, gripping the frame hard enough for their knuckles to cramp. 

This made him think of the things Donn had said back when Casey had left the police force, set in a healthy mix of encouragement and concern. Some were fuzzy, but one that remained clear as Crystal Pepsi (yes, he wasn’t a youngin’ anymore, har-har) in his head: “Private eyes are kinda like sharks. Always have to keep moving, one way or another. Even when they rest. The only difference is that the eyes get to choose…well, until they don’t.” 

Of course, views like that always worked on the other side of things. 

The types of people Casey was hired to snoop around, for instance, could rarely afford to sit still for long. 

And unfortunately, sometimes the symbolism didn’t end there. Especially when it was obvious that it should’ve. 

In the corner of Room Thirty, there was a bed much like the one Casey had woken up on about five-or-so minutes ago. And, much like an analog-horror retelling of the Goldilocks story (not that Casey had seen one, but you could find anything on YouTube these days), there was a bruised, bloody corpse on that bed. 

Casey had seen his fair share of dead bodies. Hell, the same thing went for a person looming over aforementioned dead bodies. But then, any medical examiner who had developed a nasty habit of biting their subjects wouldn’t spend much time keeping their job (or being allowed out in public). 

Caliban was kneeling down beside the bed, holding one of the corpse’s arms close, his teeth buried in flesh. Dark red droplets were sent flying through the air, while thin ribbons oozed along his lips and chin, almost frothy.

He shook his head almost like a zoo animal testing out some clever enrichment toy. And on top of the wet, rubbery sounds of skin stretching and tearing, on top of the syrupy little smacks and plops of blood, Caliban’s voice seemed to be boiling.

It was a mess of murmuring growls that went from low to shrill and back again every few seconds. (And for that, Casey was grateful he couldn’t make any words out.)

Snare shuffled by his owner’s leg, propping himself up to nudge at his side with that soft air of understanding. Little red stains marred his pale fur here and there.

Just a few feet behind all this, a sliding glass door stood ajar. Faint moonbeams stretched through the gap, sputtered in and out thanks to the splotchy shadows of clouds. At the same time, a gust of cool air rushed into the room, making the blinds sway and rattle.

While the fresh bandages around Casey’s stomach were tight, the chill wove its way through them. And apparently some of the blood hadn’t quite dried yet, because it seemed to freeze against his skin right there.

That pain was the reprimanding flick his brain needed right now.

Casey stormed into the room and snatched a handful of hood sticking out from the collar of Caliban’s jacket. 

The cannibal let out a short, ragged cry as he was pulled away from the victim.

Who, now that he was closer, Casey could see had been put through the ringer even after death. A deep Y-incision slid along the torso, edges caked in crimson. It exposed glistening tissues and tendons and…not much else. 

Various gashes were littered about the cavity, sliced with too much specific procedure for comfort. Nothing inside the ribcage except the sternum, having been snapped off and left to slump further down.

It took time and a sick type of effort to make a corpse not even resemble a human anymore, and this guy almost had the basic qualifications of a cicada husk.

At least Casey had a distraction from the bile rising in his throat.

Caliban writhed in place, clawing at Casey’s sleeves. He lunged halfway, snapping his bloody teeth over and over like a crocodile on bathsalts. 

 Snare leapt onto the mattress—onto the cadaver’s lap, really—with an arched back and flattened ears, baring his buck-teeth with a gravelly hiss that would’ve sounded kinda adorable if not for all the gore.

Scout charged over, bracing his paws on the side of the bed to engage in another staredown with the hare. He offered a warning growl, shoulders tense.

Immediately realizing that this part of his plan wasn’t worth it, Casey shouted, “HEY, HEY!” and used his free hand to grab one of Caliban’s wrists, forcing some extra space between the two of them. “Knock it off! It’s just me!”

The snarl on Caliban’s face twitched. His yellow-tinged eyes remained wide, but the vicious energy spinning around in them seemed to drop. Not by very much (...like, at all).

But Casey knew he had to take what he could get. So, he pursed his lips and maintained eye-contact.

It was more difficult than he’d care to admit, considering the entire lower-half of Caliban’s face was spattered with blood.

“...Your buddies made a deal with me,” Casey announced, keeping his voice low and careful. He couldn’t afford to show fear at moments like this. “I’ll go with you guys—I’ll pretend none of this ever happened.”

He ever-so-briefly paused, then added, “IF Scout and I get out of here in one piece. Sound like something you can handle?” 

Caliban froze for a few long seconds. He looked Casey up and down, some obvious disbelief having wormed its way into his frenzied energy. 

Casey clicked his tongue. This wasn’t the first time someone had analyzed him

It didn’t last.

“You and Scout,” the cannibal murmured. “So, I’m guessing you'll want me tied to the car roof? Y’know, so I won’t get too close to him?” He tilted his head to the side with a very sarcastic hum. 

“Oh, get screwed with that!” Casey snapped, subconsciously tightening his grip. “‘Boo-hoo, someone called me out for making a hobby out of torture! Better go CHEW ON A DEAD GUY to make myself feel better!’”

“Don’t take your damn lack of hobbies out on me! We've all gotta make a living somehow! And last I checked—” Caliban sputtered, twisting and edging away, “—I’ve never gone after you just ‘cause I thought you might do something to Snare!”

“But you could,” Casey argued. “You could, you would, and I’m pretty sure you’ve already done some slaughterhouse-level stuff to people who made Bunny Foo-Foo jokes that you didn’t like.”

Irony truly works in mysterious ways, since the squabbling kept either of them from glancing down at their respective pets. 

The way Snare’s ears twitched, then shot up, went unnoticed. His beady amber eyes darted over to the balcony door, then to Scout. While the beagle didn’t relax, he still went silent, warm eyes widening. When he finally tossed a glance over his shoulder, Snare hopped off the bed, turning into a pale blur as he scurried across the floor. 

A yip was caught in Scout’s throat as he bounded after the hare, both of them vanishing down the hallway outside.

“...Yeah, fine, that’s fair,” Caliban huffed, wrestling out of the detective's grasp. “But that’s still different from just assuming!”

“Barely!”

Another breeze swept in through the balcony door, stronger than the last and accompanied by an eerie whistling. 

As if on cue, the chaos downstairs cranked itself to eleven: an enraged shriek tore through the air, even louder than all the prior shouting. 

Both mobster and detective flinched in near-unision, the former gazing past the latter, his shocked scrutiny morphing into something else entirely.

(Casey couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. Had the worst type of stress-eating really kept Caliban’s focus away from the cacophony?)

Tongue skating over his glinting teeth, Caliban began stalking toward Room Thirty’s door.

One hand was already fishing through a pocket in his leather jacket—Casey knew that move all-too-well. Without thinking, he marched around Caliban to effectively block his path. 

Caliban halted, just before he could draw any weapons. 

“Give it back,” Casey ordered. 

Caliban squinted at him, an interesting mixture of aggravation and confusion swirling through his features. “...What?” 

Casey narrowed his eyes, feeling his anger spike. “I don’t need to be babysat, especially by a freak like you. I want my glock back.” 

Caliban glared right back, his hand now gripping at his jacket’s lining, the zipper’s track almost certainly digging into his palm. “Look, we don’t have time for whatever this random damage is—” 

“Random?!” Casey echoed, incredulous, taking a few harsh steps closer. 

Caliban, in turn, backed up, his hand falling away from whatever lethal knick-knack awaited in his interior pocket.

“My ‘damage’ is the only non-random thing that’s happened tonight!” Casey kept advancing. 

“We weren’t any more prepared to find you around here!” Caliban kept retreating. 

Casey threw his hands up. “That doesn’t matter! What, did my gun just get up and walk away while I was out? You guys can drag me into an even bigger mess than I was already dealing with, no problem, but you couldn’t go catch that?!”

Admittedly, the idea of a walking gun was very distracting. And that was for the worse in this case, since it might’ve been the reason neither Casey nor Caliban noticed the nighttime air growing clearer and clearer as they moved, wind lapping at their hair.

Hell, they’d both reached a sufficient volume to drown out how the balcony’s rotting floorboards groaned under new weight. 

“I didn’t take it!” Caliban protested. “I didn’t take anything from you!”

“Yes you did!” Casey shouted. “Because nights like this are just games to you, and because you and your family just see me as one more damn toy for them!”

He finally had to stop, since he’d all but pushed right up close to the cannibal, forcing him to bump into the balcony’s wooden railing.

Acting on reflex, Caliban’s hands flew to grab ahold of the top post as he leaned away.

Time seemed to slow down after that. 

The SnNA-A-AP of decrepit wood rang into Casey’s ears. A chunk of the rail gave out. It plummeted down fifteen feet to land with a dull, deafening CRUNCH.

With nothing to support him, Caliban lost his balance. He wavered in place, arms a blur as he clawed at the air, as one of his shoes slipped along the edge.

And his scream…

Casey had heard plenty of screams before.

He’d heard legitimate death-rattles: wailing set in hysterical gibberish from a high-chasing gone terribly wrong, agonized howls seeping through a crushed car that bled into sobbing (which itself eventually bled into echoing whimpers), enraged bellows that still coiled around his mind long after being silenced with either a heavy thud or a swift BANG!

The scream that rushed out of Caliban’s lungs was a lot like them.

Casey let out a holler of his own. It scraped its way up his throat in a manner similar to broken glass. Somehow, though, he still moved. He was still just fast enough to surge down and grab one of Caliban’s wrists. 

Caliban responded in kind, both hands lashing up to clutch at Casey’s arm. 

Casey felt himself start to slope forward, felt his legs dragging against the balcony’s floor.

Another panicked cry spilled out, and he had no choice but to use his other arm as an anchor. A splinter planted itself right between his forefinger and thumb as if it’d been waiting for him, but the stabbing little spark was almost a comfort compared to the alternative.

Caliban was shorter than him—logically, that meant he had to be a smidge lighter, too. But dangle any weight over the side of a building like this, and logic just went right out the window, didn’t it? 

“H-Hang on! Hang on, hang on!” The words streamed out of Casey’s mouth before they’d even computed in his brain. That made the fact that they felt more directed toward himself even more unfair. 

“...Well, would you look at that!” Another voice called from below, dripping with an acidic type of delight. 

 Mechanical whirring followed suite, getting louder and louder each second.

Centipedes made of dry ice scuttled up Casey’s spine.

A haze had settled into the edges of his vision, but that couldn’t spare him from the sight of a familiar figure down below, strutting to hover by the broken railing.

It shouldn’t have been so easy to spot tan fabric in the shadows like this, but dark red smears could make anything stick out like a twisted neck.

Not to mention the gadget cradled in his arms—the engine hidden behind bright orange casing made it shudder, pulled a jagged chain to form a rotating outline around a long metallic bar. It glinted in a way that was on par with Caliban’s teeth.

“Maybe there is such thing as karma,” Mad mused. “It looks like you’ve been a good boy! How else would you get a reward like this?” He spat out the word good like it was a rotten, fuzzy-yet-slimy piece of fruit, but his grin continued stretching from ear-to-ear as he gazed up at Casey.

Casey, meanwhile, couldn’t breathe. He tried to, desperately needed to, but his lungs were curling in on themselves like moldering paper bags. 

Caliban was in a different boat: his own breath came out in hitching gasps. His focus spun back and forth, above and below.

“Why are you still holding on?” Mad asked, and his confusion almost sounded genuine. “Just drop him already! Don’t worry, I’m right here to help you finish this!”

A fall from this height likely wouldn’t be lethal. But there was no way to avoid serious injuries, no matter how you landed. Broken bones, head trauma, internal bleeding…there could still be some potential to recover from any of that, but your chances dropped more and more with the addition of a nearby psychopath.

Casey could see Caliban trying to arch his brows, trying to bare his teeth, trying to spit out some threats, send out some anger to challenge Mad’s jeers.

Trying to push that anger over fear. 

But Casey could also see how those efforts didn’t go through cleanly.

Mad’s chuckle was distorted, like it was literally crawling out through his teeth. “Come on, Casey. This can be your big chance. Things will be so much easier for you when he’s gone. Just one less boogeyman for you to chase around.” His voice had grown so soft in a split-second. Casey couldn’t remember the last time he’d sounded like that. 

Caliban’s eyes had already been wide, but now they were watery. Now they were making a straightforward threat to burst right out of their sockets… 

“Just let go, and it’ll be one opportunity after another! Because once he’s gone, it won’t take long for his sister to find out. And then you’ll get to take care of her, since she’ll be too busy crying to hide away.”

…And that made sense; as Casey stared on, he saw just how lost Caliban had gotten somewhere behind those eyes. It shouldn’t have been possible, given how quickly this had happened. 

But it was, and Casey knew he had no room to talk about it.

“I believe in you, Casey.” Mad drummed his gloved fingers against the handle of his chainsaw, then offered the most sincere smile his twitching features would allow. “Just let—”

“NO!” Casey’s voice reappeared without warning, shaking through his skull and all the way down to his ribs. “You don’t get to do this to me! You’re not worth it!”

A fresh line of energy seared through Casey’s veins. 

The screaming agony drained away from his muscles, like he’d just taken a dose of the purest, most refreshing thing in the world. 

With that, he squared his shoulders, pushed himself onto his knees. He then let his other arm swing down, and began hoisting Caliban up.

Casey didn’t look at Mad. He didn’t need to. He knew the way Mad’s face was twisting and contorting right now, like that of some demonic influence only able to possess a body after it’d been buried, twisting in awful spasms to push at the coffin lid. 

“FINE, THEN!” Mad screeched. “BE THAT WAY! I JUST HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF!”

Caliban’s face went blank, as though he’d forgotten Mad had ever even been there in the first place. Thankfully, he was still quick enough on the uptake. He shook his head, grit his teeth, kicking his legs to provide some momentum that both he and Casey could work with

Just as Caliban managed to prop an elbow up on the balcony's edge, Casey caught movement in his peripheral vision. 

A flurry of gleaming arcs, all accompanied by what sounded like a diseased, overgrown mosquito. (It mixed well with Mad’s furious babbling, all things considered.)

Then Caliban threw his head back as another scream rattled out. 

It was horrific, slashing through the air and hitting Casey’s ears like a bundle of razor blades. The earlier one had been from shock—this one was raw, unadulterated pain.

And yet, it was the exact push Casey needed to get to his feet, dragging Caliban up and finally, finally back onto the balcony.

Just as he did, however, he felt movement nearby, felt something brush against his side. Another voice was there, high and loud and panicked, but he had no time to recognize it or unblur the words before—

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

Everything to Casey’s right dropped, going fuzzy as a deep ring buzzed through his eardrums. He just barely managed to see misty trails streaking through the air.

Down toward Mad, whose rage finally drained away, leaving more than enough room for a rare case of terror. 

One shot hit the ground, ricocheting against the broken part of the balcony, sending bits of wood flying. Another lodged itself right in that spot where the chainsaw’s band disappeared into the casing.

Mad turned on his heel, but he wasn’t fast enough. The third shot nicked his arm, eliciting another howl.

“Cal!” A different voice cried out, feminine and somewhere closer behind Casey. “Cal, oh–Oh my God—!”

The echoes of bullets were still thrumming through his brain, so Casey had to reach up and knead at his temple as he turned around.

He discovered Azalea hovering over the crumpled form of her brother.

To Caliban’s credit, he still held himself halfway up, but his breathing was ragged, laced with raspy groans. 

Earlier, the smell of iron (or old, wet pennies. It varied from person to person) had been strong, but it’d also been…somewhat faded. The victim had to have been dead for at least thirty minutes before Casey raced up here and discovered them. 

Now that smell was hitting him all over again, sharp and heavy enough to be compared to dryer exhaust.

His stomach churned as he watched Azalea shed her carob-colored vest and push it toward one of Caliban’s legs. The lower half of his gray jeans had been torn open, and long bits of frayed, tangled thread could’ve almost been mistaken for tendons.

A swath of mangled skin stretched along the cannibal’s calf. Pink, glistening tissue peered out at all the world above. 

Without sunlight, blood had a habit of looking more like oil. 

Right here, right now, however, it practically glowed. 

So many beads oozed up and out, shining and sliding along undamaged skin like crimson worms on a rainy day. 

“You’re gonna be okay, Cal,” Azalea declared, her voice wavering in time with the way her hands shook.

It began saturating Azalea’s vest less than a second after she tied it around the wound as tight as she possibly could. 

“You’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay—”

It clung to Azalea’s hands, as though it was trying to seep into her own veins through the lines in her palms.

“We’re gonna get through this! Everything’s gonna be fine, you understand?!”  Azalea leaned closer, gripping Caliban’s shoulder. 

Caliban nodded desperately, sucking in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. His eyes were screwed shut, but a few tears still managed to slip through the cracks. 

It slowly-but-surely formed a dark puddle that spread onto the floorboards.

Onto the floorboards…which gave it perfect access to a dark, familiar shape that lay not even half a foot away from the siblings.

Casey’s jaw dropped open. It felt like he needed to scream, but the necessary air was too stubborn to leave his lungs.

Now, he was man enough to admit when he was wrong, mind you, but tonight had already taken a lot out of him. 

So, as Casey finally stepped closer to this new mess, as Azalea peered up to lock eyes with him, he felt pretty damn justified in snatching his glock up and pulling it close to his chest, his face twisting into a cold scowl all the while. 

The handle was sticky with blood, but he couldn’t focus on that right now.

Azalea flinched in response, but she didn’t offer any challenging grimace. She sighed through her nose, tilting her head in a curt nod. She then turned away from him, grabbing one of Caliban’s arms and draping it over her shoulder.

Caliban rocked himself forward, shifting his weight over to his uninjured leg. Violent shivers wracked his body as he staggered to his feet, but they weren’t slowing him down all that much. He and his sister walked in tandem as they went back inside, as they crossed Room Thirty. 

The world was suddenly spinning under beneath Casey. He charged past the duo, careening into the hallway. The muscles in his jaw were already burning. His pulse was already hammering against his skull as blood rushed through his ears. 

From what he’d seen, this motel offered no parking around back. A canal ran just a few hundred feet from the building, but that was it. There were no trees, no bushes, no conveniently-placed alleyways. 

There was nowhere for Mad to run. Nowhere but the house across the street. 

Casey reached the first floor just in time to collide with K.O.

The boxer seemed to be saying something—shouting something, really—but the words were hazy when they reached Casey’s ears. 

As was Azalea’s voice calling from somewhere overhead. Panic surged through K.O.’s eyes, and he started galloping up the stairs. 

But Casey had reached the main entrance by then; the rickety old door slammed against the outer wall.

“MAD!” Casey’s voice ripped around the edges as a veritable air-raid siren climbed all the way up from his stomach. He stampeded after the shape that was limp-sprinting in the distance, having just made it to the edge of the parking lot. 

Fresh air had never felt so wrong. The wind had grown stronger, and it cracked over Casey’s aching lungs like a whip.

His fingers twitched around the gun’s handle—blood that wasn’t his had essentially fused his skin to his weapon. Everything would come peeling off like a greasy sunburn if he tried to let it go.

A tiny voice in the lowest pit of his mind wondered if Mad ever felt like that—ever had to move slowly if he needed up touch his face, ever had nightmares about all that charred flesh sloughing off in several pieces and melting into the dirt before he could do anything about it. 

Burn scars were known for causing pain years after they’d formed. 

But that would’ve been heaven compared to air meeting your skull while it was still wet with sinew…

The seconds were well-past feeling like hours, but they still saw Casey lunge, putting everything he had behind his shoulder as he rammed it into Mad’s back. 

Mad was sent sprawling onto the pavement with a shriek. The chainsaw, no longer growling or trembling, flew from his hands and landed a few feet away with a heavy thud. 

Casey had lost his balance too, but that turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

Mad squirmed and yowled, but he was kept pinned to the ground, even as Casey grabbed him by the collar and turned him onto his back. A sickening wheeze rushed through his teeth as the detective’s knee was planted onto his chest.

His hands—no, the gloves hiding those damn prosthetics—flew up to wrap around Casey’s wrist, but it was too late.

Casey's grip found a perfect fit around the maniac’s throat, forcing him to lay his head down on the asphalt.

Casey leveled his glock at Mad’s face, and that helped convince him to finally go still. 

And that, in turn, convinced Casey to finally start breathing again. The air had to slip through rows of teeth that were grinding so tight it was a wonder none of them cracked right there. 

It was acidic as it traveled into his lungs. 

Although, in the grand scheme of things…it didn’t feel so bad.

Mad was panting like a dog. His eyes rolled around in his head, darting back and forth between the gun and his attacker for a solid ten seconds. 

After that, as his focus finally settled on Casey, Mad’s breathing grew more even. 

“...What are you waiting for?” His voice was a thick gurgle. The corners of his mouth quirked up, stretching his lips into a lopsided grin that was wide enough for a dollop of blood to bubble up and trickle down his chin. 

Casey couldn’t reply. He felt one of his eyes twitch, felt more fear and hatred slither through his brain. 

Mad started chuckling at the glower he was given. He choked and retched as more blood dribbled out, but that horrible smile never left.

“Oh, c’mon…” Mad crooned. With a palpable amount of effort, he lifted his head, then tilted it so that the gun’s barrel was flush against his temple. His eyes were drilling into Casey all the while. 

The instructions from target practice all those years ago rang in Casey’s ears. 

Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it.

His finger was already on the trigger.

It would take less than an inch of movement, and then this nightmare would be over.

The cycle wouldn’t have a chance to repeat itself; no other nightmares like this one would have a chance to find him.

He couldn’t budge.

“That’s right. You know can’t do it. You couldn’t even do it when we had those dollar-store water pistols.” Mad let out another laugh. It sounded the way half-melted wax felt. “Remember that, Casey?”

He relaxed his neck, letting his head loll to the side. “All those games…the matches of Cops and Robbers…”

The half-blinded eye was the only one staring up at Casey now, but that made it no less piercing.

“I always had to let you win. I always knew there was no point in playing fair, but I still—”

Another hand materialized around Casey’s wrist with a vice-like grip. In one swift, fluid movement, his arm was guided down. 

Away from Mad’s head.

BANG!

This time, the shot didn’t seem so loud, but Casey’s head was still on the verge of cracking open like an egg. Mad’s scream didn’t even need the time to rise to a fever pitch, accentuated by what could only be a bone shattering under the weight of a bullet.

The cold, clammy clutch around his wrist grew heavier. 

Then a different noise joined the wailing. At first it sounded muffled, like it was echoing from very far away.

But it quickly grew louder and clearer as Casey, out of the corner of his eye, caught rows of teeth. In fact, there almost seemed to be far too many of them to fit in a human mouth; for a second or two, it even looked like their owner’s maw was wider than his face. 

They were outlined with red, gnashing at the air as a chorus of unhinged cackles seeped through them. One canine glistened more than the rest. That silvery shine stuck out in the darkness like a broken ankle.

Casey staggered back, yanking his arm away.

Caliban’s laughter screeched to an abrupt halt. A near neck-snapping double-take made him sway in place as his hand flew back.

He took a few steps to the side, shoulders tense and head tilted like a pacing animal. 

But his eyes never left Casey’s.

They were even more feral than Mad’s, bulging from their sockets, pupils having shrunk to pinpricks that were just about shaking.

And yet, somehow, they were focused. They were searching.

For the first time all night, things were quiet. Not completely silent, but…

Mad’s screams had tapered down into sobs, hiccups bubbling around pants for air.

Against his better judgement, against all the clamoring voices in his head, Casey glanced away from Caliban. 

Glanced back down at Mad. 

He’d never seen that bear suit without seeing splotches and stains—it really did seem to be the only thing Mad ever wore.

Now, a new blemish was adding itself to that particular collection.

Blood leaked out through a fresh tear in the fabric, revealing the small, raw, glistening crater that now adorned one of Mad’s kneecaps.

Something cold and jagged began to prod at the roof of Casey’s heart. He couldn’t give any hints about that. He fought back against the burning sensation that was swirling through his eyes.

He expected Mad to shriek at him, to swear and spit and threaten and demand. 

But as it turned out, Mad wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, as he lay wheezing and shaking, he craned his neck to stare past the investigator.

His bloodshot eyes weren’t glazed over. They’d gone…soft? 

Casey followed his gaze, and twisting light bombarded his vision. 

Fire was blossoming through the motel. 

One of the first-floor windows was broken, allowing the flames to lap out around its edges and quickly crawl along the siding. The entire building would be engulfed in a matter of minutes.

The blaze itself, though…it didn’t look warm, didn’t have an angry red glow at the center.

It was pale.

Hell, if not for a blue sheen and streaks of yellow, it would’ve been translucent.

Casey had never seen anything like it before. Not once in his entire life.

He couldn’t even see any smoke billowing off into the air, let alone smell it. 

Why does the fire look like that?

Casey didn’t even realize he’d murmured that question aloud. 

He still couldn’t quite believe he had when a voice, low and feminine and somewhere close, answered, “Oh, that was just ethanol.” 

A violent shudder crept through his skull, down his spine, along his ribcage as he registered the muffled sound of tires grinding against asphalt. 

Casey blinked, and the motel was completely out of sight. So was most of the outside world, as a matter of fact. He turned his head to discover a different pair of eyes on him…well, only technically, since they were glancing back and forth between a windshield and rearview mirror. They were nearly as dark as the long, straight black hair framing their owner’s face. 

“It’s an oxygenate; its molecules burn more completely with air,” Phoenix explained, drumming her fingernails on a steering wheel. “It doesn’t produce nearly as many carbon particles as gasoline. The less soot there is, the less color you can see in the light.”

“...Oh,” Casey blurted. That was all there really was to it. (Perhaps because he had to concentrate on sliding his glock back into his overcoat’s pocket-holster.)

Glancing to the right, he spotted Azalea in the passenger seat, eyes closed and arms loosely folded across her chest.

Perspective through car windows was always strange, but as far as Casey could tell, this vehicle wasn’t all that big. It was just wide enough for the trunk to qualify as an emergency-extra-seat. 

Caliban sat opposite of him, leaning against…whatever you were supposed to call the thing that supported the actual back row.

Closer to the trunk’s door, K.O. shifted on his knees. One hand supported Caliban’s leg, holding it just an inch over the floor, while the other pressed a wet rag against his exposed skin.

“It’s gonna take a couple months for this to completely heal, but you’ll be walking and running again in no time,” the fighter murmured, to which the cannibal nodded with palpable relief.

Dark stains bloomed through the fabric as K.O. scrubbed the chainsaw wound, but fluid wasn’t pouring out like earlier.

That metallic stench was wafting through the air yet again; Casey had to stop himself from gagging at the sight of Azalea’s vest, completely soaked in red, lying in a heap at the furthest corner of the trunk. K.O. leaned back, then casually tossed his rag onto it with an awful smack. 

“You’re cleaning that up when we get back home,” K.O. announced, raising an eyebrow at Caliban.

“What, no rock-paper-scissors?” Caliban replied with a smirk. 

“Nope.” K.O. snorted, smirking right back. He fished a roll of bandages out of his drawstring pack and wasted no time wrapping a clean, white shroud over the laceration. “You might want to try the lottery, though. Pretty fucking lucky that idiot didn’t hit any arteries.”

“Right? If he’d just been a little closer, I could’ve kicked him in the—” Caliban’s words transitioned into a squawk as K.O. cut him off, grabbing him by the leather collar to shake him back and forth. 

“I thought you were BLEEDING OUT BACK THERE! I TOLD you to LAY DOWN! But did you listen? NO! I turned my back for two seconds and then you were just GONE!” K.O. snapped. “I already have to help Murdock with a broken nose EVERY MONTH!” 

“‘Cause you’re the family’s medic!” Caliban protested, eyes rattling around his head. “That’s the other half of your job!”

“Yeah, and the medic is NOT the guy you need to give an aneurysm!”

“Guys, c’mon. I can always turn this car around,” Phoenix warned over her shoulder, though the combination of tiredness and slight amusement in her tone suggested otherwise.

K.O. sighed and released his hold—possibly because Snare had pounced up from Caliban’s lap, standing on his hind legs and flailing his paws against K.O.’s arm with uncanny similarity to a boxer’s stance.

(It didn’t seem all that effective, since Snare was a few dozen weight classes below K.O., but maybe K.O. just didn’t want him to feel discouraged.)

Soft, warm weight shifted by Casey’s side, and he glanced down to discover Scout, alert despite being all snuggled up. He watched as Snare eventually backed down and leaned against his owner’s chest, eyes filled with a near-human level of suspicion and curiosity.

“What about Mad?” Casey murmured, the words drifting out before his brain gave them permission. 

K.O. offered an incredulous snicker. “What about him?”

Casey sputtered. “You guys are just gonna leave him there?”

“Oh, damn! The same guy who came at us with a chainsaw didn’t have any other rides for tonight! Uber’s just been getting worse; he was depending on us!” Caliban quipped with an overly sarcastic smack to his own forehead.

He then raised a wry eyebrow in Casey’s direction, stroking Snare’s back. “Are you kidding? You really think that’s it for him? He’s been on Michael Myers timing for years now.”

“You should know that better than anyone,” Azalea piped up. 

Casey’s breath hitched in his throat as he peered back over to her. 

Her eyes were open now, drilling right through him. So similar to the look Caliban had given him back at the motel. The emotion churning around inside them…well, Casey had an inkling of what it was, but he really didn’t want to right now. 

He pointedly turned his focus away from her, having it settle on the windshield instead. 

The car was slowing down, approaching an otherwise empty intersection. Casey squinted, recognizing one of the street signs outside.

He cleared his throat. “Make a left turn here.” 

Oh, and the atmosphere in here just wasn’t tense enough already. 

Phoenix jerked the steering wheel at an angle, pulling over in less than a second.

“Why?” She asked, her voice low as she turned in her seat to peer at him. The other mobsters followed suite, stiff and staring. 

Part of Casey wanted to raise his hands in a defensive gesture. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Scout, holding him close.

Putting on his best pokerface, he explained: “I remember the last place I parked my car. Before Mad found me.”

He took as subtle a deep breath as he could manage. “We’re close to that place—take me there before you do anything else.” 

For a few seconds, the eyes were off of him. Caliban and Azalea exchanged cautious glances with one another, then with K.O. and Phoenix. 

“It’ll give you guys time to find a different route,” Casey continued. “I was on a job before all this—the call to my client is way overdue. I’ll be too busy with that to try following you.”

More silence. More sideways glancing. 

“I didn’t have any recording equipment back at wherever that shack was,” Casey added. “Any fingerprints you left are good as dust by now. I can’t prove anything. And…”

Casey shifted in place, furrowing his brow, having to stamp down the tremors in his hands. “And we made a deal. If you don’t break it, then I won’t have any reason to, either.” 

One thing he didn’t bother hiding was the displeasure in his voice. For God’s sake, the people surrounding him were contract-killers that he’d already been struggling to catch! He wasn’t supposed to be giving them an out like this!

For a long, agonizing few seconds, his mind’s eye flashed to an image of his parents—the very same people who had inspired him to find purpose in the law.

They’d be so ashamed of you, a voice in his head chided. It’d hurt them like no other if they knew what you were doing right now. 

It was a bad choice. Maybe even one of the worst choices he’d made this year. 

…But it wasn’t like he had much of another one. 

Another moment passed by before the tries began spinning again. 

That well-known, sometimes-satisfying-sometimes-grating rhythm of click-clicks broke the silence as the car was steered into the requested left turn. 

___

Twenty-six years ago…

Azalea crept up the staircase, shifting her weight with every step. Each breath she took was shallow, yet even. She wanted to run so badly, but she couldn’t afford to make too much noise right now. 

Soon enough, she was passing by her bedroom, halting before the door that stood a few feet to its side.

It felt so heavy as she pulled it open. Azalea knew it wasn’t, knew that her nerves were just acting against her right now. Still, she had to keep her movements slow. Just in case. 

She slipped through the threshold, then pushed it shut again before leaning against it. 

Caliban’s room, much like hers, was mostly barren. A bed took up one corner, and a warped dresser stood across from it. So much empty space all around them. That made some things so much harder sometimes. 

“Cal..?” Azalea called, careful to keep her voice low. “Don’t worry, it’s just me.”

There was no verbal response, but her ears caught shuffling from under the bed, accompanied by a shaky sigh. 

Azalea moved closer to sit down beside it. Another few seconds passed before she shifted onto her side, peering under the frame. 

There was Caliban, lying on his stomach, arms folded in front of him. His face had been buried in them, but now he looked back at her with worried eyes. 

“She’s out cold,” Azalea announced. 

“She’s gonna be up again sooner or later,” Caliban muttered.

That was true, of course, but neither of them could take little bits of peace like this for granted. 

“Not sure how much she took this time, but we should have at least a couple hours without her. That’s better than nothing, right?”

“...Yeah.” Caliban’s voice was still hesitant, but he started moving. It was an awkward position to unfurl from; he had to grit his teeth and crane his neck, the bed creaking against his movements. Azalea got up and stepped back to give him space. 

The blinds were twisted shut, but light was still trickling through. Only so much of it, since the sun was setting outside, but that turned out to be more than enough to cast a sort-of halo over the large bruise on his face. Just under his eye, to be exact, fresh and an angry shade of purple.

It would’ve matched the one on Azalea’s back—the one that’d formed after she’d “accidentally slipped and fallen on the edge of a chair”—but that was starting to heal, to turn a weird yellowish shade around the edges.

It wasn’t the first one he’d ever gotten, and unfortunately, both he and his sister knew it wouldn’t be the last, either.

(It also served as a motive for Azalea to try and sneak a bit of dish soap into a certain coffee cup sometime. Which wasn't a category for firsts either, thank you very much.)

The brief pause was broken as a long, low growl churned its way through Caliban’s stomach. He winced badly, then chewed his lip and started to glance at the door. 

“She—she put a new lock on the pantry,” Azalea revealed, having to force the words out. She hated being the bearer of bad news, but that was better than forcing him to walk into another potential disaster. 

Caliban’s shoulders slumped, brow furrowing with shock and eyes wide with despair. “W-What? Already?”

Azalea offered a rueful nod.

A weak, frightened murmur crept up through his throat. Caliban sat down on his lumpy mattress with a gravity unlike someone his age, raising his hands to clasp at his hair. 

“Hey, we found a way to trick the last one, didn’t we?” Azalea sat beside him and put a firm hand on his shoulder. “We can do it again.”

Caliban swallowed a lump in his throat, then nodded forcefully. “Yeah. Yeah, we can.  It’ll—it’ll just take some time, that’s all.”

It was hard to tell whether that was directed toward both of them or more toward himself. Azalea didn’t begrudge him if it was the latter.

“...I found something yesterday,” Azalea declared, standing back up and crossing the room. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Caliban tilted his head, curiosity attempting to worm its way through his worry as he got up to follow. 

A bi-fold closet stood a few feet away from the bed. Both doors squeaked along their tracks as Azalea pushed them open. Unless you counted empty boxes, there wasn’t much inside. 

For whatever reason, the walls in here were different from those in the rest of the house. They were composed of individual wooden panels instead of plaster.

Azalea reached out toward the closet’s center wall, carefully working her fingernails around the edges of one panel. 

It took a few seconds, but then, with a dull, shuffling click, the panel slid out of place, revealing a network of support beams. 

Azalea glanced back at Caliban, and she couldn’t help but smile at the way his eyes widened. She repeated the process a few more times until she’d formed an opening just wide enough for a person’s shoulders to fit through. 

And with that, she slipped inside, sitting down with her back against one section of drywall. She gestured for her brother to follow, and he did after a few seconds, mirroring her position. 

“I found this just yesterday. While you were out,” Azalea explained, thinking of a small forest that stood right at the edge of their house’s backyard. The same one Caliban would sometimes disappear into after school, twisting between the trees and running just for the sake of running. 

Sometimes she went with him—particularly on windy days, so petals would fall away from branches and land in her hair.

It was a sip of freedom, something to keep them out of the house, a way to pretend that they could have a chance to get away from all this. 

Azalea leaned over, reaching back out to grab at the panels again, quickly repeating her little procedure to get them all back in place. 

“It looks like they’re all pretty loose. Just a good balance in the frame, I guess,” she mentioned, easily fidgeting with the last one for emphasis.

Caliban prodded at it himself, squinting inquisitively as he pushed it into place, finally sealing the hole back up. 

Even in the relative darkness, Azalea could see the realization in his eyes. “I know those panels under the bed dig into your back,” she said softly, gently. “And it’s not good to have your joints all bunched up like that for so long.”

Despite being so skinny, as well as a year younger, Caliban was still physically bigger than his sister (as were most other people). It was easy to see him full-on towering over Azalea someday. 

A fact that was not made better by the regular lack of food in his stomach. Cafeteria lunches obviously helped, but they still cost money, and sometimes neither of the siblings could scrape enough together. But those efforts weren’t quite as pointless (or risky) as trying to get the correct portions in the kitchen downstairs.

Caliban glanced to the side with a sheepish nod. 

“So, I think…I think this could be a better place to hide. For when things get really bad,” Azalea concluded, her eyes starting to burn. 

Caliban nodded along. “And under the bed…that’s easy to check,” he added, blinking back that same stinging sensation. “She’d never think to look in here.”

“Yeah.” Azalea voice was weighed down by those thorns, dangerously close to breaking. But she still managed a smile as her brother leaned forward to hug her.

Somehow, she could even catch the slightest smile on his face, even if it was twitching with uncertainty. 

Even if it had to compete with another impatient, organic growl.

@sammys-magical-au @the-matpat-ever @lexusinsannus @lampsforsocks @yourannoyinglittlesistersteph

Maybe in another universe,

I would’ve truly had you as a brother.

Finally, I gave y’all something on this damn account/j. I’ve been posting elsewhere on another account but I’ll never forget my roots here. Anyways, now we’re picking up on a string stand, giving Casey a chance to give his own perspective. There’s a reason why he held Mads on such a high pedestal, on why deep inside his heart, the inner child of Casey wishes to hold his hand once more.

There’s a sense of fondness within the thick layer of hate inside his heart. Casey has always been so reckless since that’s how he was taught by him. He’s always been so compassionate because of him. The way he is now is not because of his parents, not Father Time, but him.

Memories of someone you once loves, despite having such hatred for them now, the memories still linger despite you wanting to have them dead. What more can your great day to change your mind? What more can they offer when they took someone away from you? It’s the fact that that fateful day, the day you felt like sinking deeper and deeper.

@crazy-obsessed-enby @wouldntyou-liketoknow @the-matpat-ever @iswmperson @lexusinsannus @sammys-magical-au

Was the day you never wanted to let go.

[cassandraclare]

The Whispering Room: James’ POV

Here it is finally — James’ POV of the Whispering Room scene from Chain of Gold. I wanted to wait until Chain of Iron was released to give more people a chance to read the book, and also because what we learn in COI does inform the scene. I hope you enjoy!

*art by Cassandra Jean

Cortana wove with her words, underlining each one with steel. She turned as her sword turned, and her body curved and moved like water or fire, like a river under an infinity of stars. It was beautiful—she was beautiful, but it was not a distant beauty. It was a beauty that lived and breathed and reached out with its hands to crush James’s chest and make him breathless. — Chain of Gold

James had felt a strange emotion when Daisy first took the stage at the Hell Ruelle. It was a mix of several feelings...

worry on her behalf, annoyance at Kellington, curiosity, and admiration for her bravery and poise. It was unfair of these Bohemians to force her to caper for them, and, he thought, a bit insulting to Shadowhunters in general. He supposed that Matthew had given them a rather unusual view of what the Nephilim were like in such circumstances.

And then she had begun to dance. And suddenly she was not Daisy, his old friend. She was Cordelia, whose name meant heart, whose every gesture was fire. Every earthly worry he’d had had been swept out of his mind. He was conscious only of Cordelia, whirling back and forth across the small stage. Cortana danced around her, shedding light like embers. The dull glow of the lamps illuminated her body, describing her every movement, her every curve as she danced. Her scarlet hair whipped around her in time to the music, and the golden light of the lamps in the Ruelle slipped across her skin, slow and hot, like beads of honey. The cadences of her voice, rising and falling, seemed to weave a cage of silken thread about her audience, and James was no exception.

Later, James would think it was odd that he had not compared her to Grace. Grace had never entered his mind at all. Cordelia danced, and by the end of her performance, James’s entire life had been disassembled and put back together in a new and different shape. He was conscious of Matthew, beside him, also staring as the crowd cheered, his sharp cheekbones flushed. He looked dazed; James couldn’t blame him.

Cordelia descended the stage and slipped through the crowd to come back to them, blushing at the looks and murmured comments she was drawing from the audience now. James could see the desire in the eyes that followed her. Everyone wanted her. He felt a dull fury. They had no right. They did not know Cordelia. She was more than just that dance.

When she reached them she let out a long breath of relief and smiled. She glowed with the exercise of dancing. Sweat beaded along her collarbones, shimmered between her breasts. Her eyes were bright as Cortana’s blade, strapped to her back.

“Bloody hell,” Matthew exclaimed.  “What was that?”

A look of uncertainty crossed Cordelia’s face. James said, “It was a fairy tale, Math,” and Matthew nodded. His dark green eyes searched Cordelia’s face, as if looking for the key to a locked room he had only just discovered.

Cordelia looked uncertain. James couldn’t bear that. She’d been magnificent; she should know it. But he couldn’t say that, of course. It would only make her self-conscious.

“Well done, Cordelia,” James said instead; when he unfolded his arms; his wrist hurt and he wondered if he’d been clenching his hands.

Cordelia. He hadn’t called her Daisy, and she looked a little surprised. It seemed inappropriate, somehow. Daisy was Lucie’s friend, the Merry Thieves’ compatriot; he found it a smaller name than she deserved. Cordelia, though—she had been a queen, hadn’t she? Queen Cordelia, daughter of Leir, ruler of Britain before the Romans had ever landed on those shores. Like Boadicea, a legendary warrior queen. A blazing white fire behind fathomless black eyes.

“Anna has disappeared with Hypatia,” James said, noting the empty settee, “so I would call your distraction a success.”

Cordelia’s lips twitched into a smile. “How long does a seduction usually last?”

“Depends if you do it properly,” Matthew said, with a wink. James felt it as a spark of relief, a bit of lightness amid the feeling that something heavy was sitting on his chest.

“Well, I hope for Hypatia’s sake Anna does it properly,” James said. He registered, with the reflexes of a parabatai, that Matthew had gone still next to him, and wondered what was wrong. “Yet for our sake, I hope she hurries it up.”

All hint of Matthew’s jocular tone from before was gone. “Both of you,” he said urgently. “Listen.”

Did he mean all the muttering about Shadowhunters? Was he only noticing it now? It had followed them since they came into the place. But when James followed Matthew’s gaze, he found Kellington staring with an expression of vexation, not at them but at the door. All questions were answered as through the door came Charles Fairchild, looking around him with a haughty expression. He looked like was about to raid the place; so much for whatever work Matthew and Anna had done for Downworlder-Shadowhunter relations here.

Matthew narrowed his eyes. “Charles,” he sighed. “By the Angel, what is he doing here?”

Charles was, James thought, probably looking for them. He was making his way through the crowd and gazing around him. Luckily for them, the crowd was not interested in letting him through, and he was moving very slowly.

“We should go,” James said. “But we can’t leave Anna.”

In one way, at least, Charles’s arrival was helpful; it threw a bucket of cold water on the roiling heat that had gripped James’s heart since Cordelia had begun her dance. Back to the matter at hand: a demon, a Pyxis, a plan.

“You two run and hide yourselves,” Matthew said, still keeping his eyes on his brother. “Charles will go off his head if he sees you here.”

“But what about you?” said Cordelia.

Matthew shrugged, but James could see the tension in his jaw and his shoulders. “He’s used to this kind of thing from me. I’ll deal with Charles.”

Not for the first time, James wished that his parabatai wasn’t in such a hurry to sacrifice his own reputation. He exchanged a long look with Matthew, but Matthew was sure, and determined, and his desire to rush into his own humiliation was an issue that would have to wait. Nodding, he turned and caught Cordelia’s hand with his own. “This way,” he said, and she nodded back in acknowledgement. As he pulled them into the crowd he heard Matthew’s voice calling, “Charles!” in a hearty tone of pleasant, if entirely false, welcome.

James didn’t know his way around the place, and the crowd made orientating himself even more difficult, but after some trial and error he and Cordelia managed to get behind Kellington and slip into a corridor leading away. This wasn’t safe in itself, since from the main chamber one would have a clear view down the entire corridor. In fact, they were temporarily more exposed than before, and James’s hope for the hallway to take a quick turn or to contain large statuary to hide behind was quickly dashed. He continued to hold onto Cordelia’s hand, not that he needed to; she seemed to know her way better than he did.

Partway down the corridor, James caught sight of an open door — its silver plaque labeling it the entrance to THE WHISPERING ROOM. Swiftly he drew Cordelia inside, out of sight. He slammed the door behind them, causing a loud noise, but he thought it couldn’t possibly be heard over the crowd in the main chamber. Only then did he release Cordelia’s hand and take stock of their surroundings.

The room was dimly lit, but not cold: a scented fire burned in the grate, filling the space with the smell of sandalwood and roses. It was a study, he guessed, based on the gigantic walnut desk against the wall and the bookshelves opposite, but it was too richly decorated to be solely a place for studious contemplation. Phoenix feathers and dragon scales danced across the gilded wallpaper; there were no windows, but the walls were hung with patterned tapestries, the floor covered with a rug so thick James felt his boots sink into it as he moved further into the room.

Cordelia had leaned her back against the wall next to the door. Her eyes were closed and she was taking deep, full breaths, calming herself down. Cortana gleamed gold over her shoulder; the firelight gleamed a deeper gold on her skin, which seemed to take and hold its warmth. James curled his fingers in against his palm.

He wanted to touch her. He half-turned away, pretending to study the books on the wall. Any other time, he would have been fascinated by the titles. Now they seemed distant, neither immediate nor imporant. He could have sworn he heard his own heart hammering. He said, “Where did you learn to dance like that?” surprising himself with the roughness of his own voice.

His gaze snapped back to Cordelia as she opened her eyes and gave a little shrug. There was something magical about the dress she wore: it followed the shape of her own body rather than the shape of corsetry or whalebone petticoats. It slid softly against her skin as she moved, just as her dark red hair tickled the bare skin of her throat, her shoulders. “I had a dance instructor in Paris. My mother believed that learning to dance aided in learning grace in battle.”

The word grace pierced James like an icicle. He could not quite picture Grace at the moment, it was true; could not quite envision her face. He had given Grace his heart — that was an immutable fact, something he knew as he knew that two plus two equaled four. But he had to admit that at the moment his heart did not feel given. It felt like a thrumming machine inside his chest, pumping blood and heat.

“That dance,” Cordelia added with a quirk of her soft mouth that struck James like a blow to the stomach, “was forbidden to be taught to unmarried ladies. But my dance instructor did not care.”

“Well,” James said, keeping his voice steady with practiced control, “thank the Angel you were there. Matthew and I could certainly not have pulled off that dance on our own.”

Cordelia turned away from him, the smile still on her face, as though she were keeping it secret from him. She trailed her hand along the top of Hypatia’s desk. At one end was a stack of papers held down by a large copper bowl of fruit, and she brought her hand up to trace its rim.

James may have been distracted beyond the capacity for distraction he’d known before, but he was still a Shadowhunter. “Be careful,” he said warningly. “I suspect that is faerie fruit. It has no effect on warlocks—no magical effect, at least. But on humans…”

Cordelia pulled her hand back as though stung. “Surely it does not harm you if you do not eat it.”

“Oh, it does not. But I have met those who have tasted it. The say the more you have of it, the more you want, and the more you ache when you can…have no more.”

Cordelia was looking at him now, and though it took a great summoning of courage, he returned her gaze. In her dark eyes the silver and blue flames of the fireplace danced. James could not catch his breath. He had never felt this before, this breathlessness. It was like pain, but with a sweet, sharp edge. Like licking honey from a knife. He said, in a low voice, “And yet. I have always thought…is not knowing what it tastes like just another form of torture? The torture of wondering?”

The door shook on his hinges suddenly, making a clatter that made both he and Cordelia jerk their heads around to look at it. The knob was starting to turn.

Cordelia paled. “We’re not meant to be in here —“

James’s world closed down to just this: Cordelia was here, she was with him, and she looked frightened. He would do anything to stop that look on her face. He caught her in his arms, and the relief was incredible — he had not realized how much he wanted to be touching her until he was. Until he was holding her, and her strength and warmth and softness were all pressed against him, and her face was so beautiful it hurt, and her lips were parted in surprise and without another thought he kissed them.

He could feel her sharp intake of breath with his hands, clasped together at her lower back. She gasped, but did not draw back, or away — he thought he would have died if she had — she leaned into him, her full lips opening under his. She was kissing him back. He tasted honey, smelled jasmine and smoke. His hand slid up her warm cheek and into the soft fall of her hair.

Time stopped.

Cordelia’s arms were around his neck. Her lush mouth opened a little against his, and the kiss deepened. He moved his hand to the back of her neck to bring her closer. Her teeth grazed his lower lip, and he couldn’t help it; he moaned, and felt her tremble against him.

Very far away, a voice chuckled and the door closed with a soft click. This whole thing had been intended as a ruse, he knew, for the benefit of whomever was trying to get into the Whispering Room. Probably some Ruelle attendees, Downworlders most likely, who had snuck off for a rendez-vous.

Ruse accomplished, then. With intense regret, James drew back from Cordelia. Her hand, warm and soft and wonderful, was against his neck; her fingers stroked his pale white scar. Her eyes were fixed at the level of his shoulder. He could hear himself say her name — Daisy, my Daisy — instead of responding, she whispered, “I think more people are coming.”

He knew it wasn’t true. He didn’t care. He knew what she was saying: that she was asking and giving permission at once. All James’ life, he had struggled for control: control over his sudden falls into shadow, control over the dark world he could see, that was invisible to everyone else. He had worked and fought and trained for control every day, and for the first time in as long as he could remember it deserted him.

The walls he had put up burned to the ground in an instant as he caught Cordelia to him. He groaned against her mouth, his hands slipping over the silk of her dress, the hot satin of her skin. He undid the strap that held Cortana, got rid of it somehow — carefully, he hoped — and let himself fall back into delirium.

He did not ask himself why he had never felt desire like this before. He could not. He was lost in the feel of her, the incline of her waist, the flare of her hips, the rise and fall of her chest as she gasped. They were kissing wildly, uncontrolled; they fetched up against the desk, Cordelia’s back to it.

Her body bent backward in an impossible arch, her hands going behind her to brace herself. Her eyes half-closed, her head fell back, revealing the bare column of her throat. He pressed his lips there, eliciting a gasp of surprised pleasure.

His hands trailed up the sleek material of her dress — he could feel the heat of her skin through it — from her waist to the neckline of her gown. His palms followed her curves until the tips of his fingers were pressing into the bare bronze skin just above the neckline of her dress. She was sleek and soft and hot all at the same time, like nothing else he’d ever touched. He heard her whimper; she was saying his name, and his heart beat in time with her words: James, James, Jamie please.

The please undid him; shrugging off his frock coat, he caught hold of her around the waist, lifting her until she was perched on the edge of the desk. The material of her dress bunched around her knees, her thighs, as she took hold of his shirt by the starched front and kissed him. His mouth drove against hers, hot and demanding, even as he clambered onto the desk after her. She reached up her arms for him and he sank down on top of her, bracing his weight with a hand above her head.

He paused, just for a moment, looking down at her. Her scarlet hair fanned out across the desk, her eyes glazed, her full lips red from kissing. He was cradled by her body, her legs on either side of his hips, her skirt rucked up nearly to her waist. She wrapped her long, bare legs around him and he shuddered. What was in him, what he wanted, was inchoate but insistant, a force he’d never known. A yearning like hot wires in his blood, the pain-pleasurable ache of unbearable wanting that drove him to kiss her again, kiss her harder. She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling at it as he kissed her breasts, flicking his tongue over the sensitive skin until she gave a low scream and clutched at him with desperate hands.

He sank down against her and kissed her, hot and deep and hard. She arched into the kiss, her breath coming in gasps. He felt her through the thinner material of his shirt: the heat of her, the swell of her breasts against his chest, her hands smoothing over his chest, his sides.

His hands aching to touch her in kind, to find out what she liked, what made her gasp, and do it again and again . . . Nothing had ever felt like this, nothing. He’d known desire before; so he remembered, so he had believed. It turned out he had stepped into a puddle and thought it was the sea. As Cordelia moved in his arms, as her lips, he realized there was a depth to desire he hadn’t even guessed at: that it was more than just desperation, but joy and need and wanting and being wanted back. It was a fever dream, his hands sliding up under the heavy satin of her skirts, the salt-sweet taste of her skin, the soft sounds of her pleasure as she urged him closer, urged him onward, the desk seeming to spin beneath them.

He heard, as if at a great distance, the sound of the door opening. He lifted his head, saw the slim fair-hared figure in the doorway. Ice washed through his veins. Cordelia stiffened, began to scramble to sit up. No, he thought, but he couldn’t stop her, couldn’t blame her. It — whatever it had been — was over.

He slid off the desk. Already the fever was vanishing, that feeling —the glorious freedom from the burden of his own will — receding. Grasping at his control, he drew it around himself,  reaching for his coat, turning to calmly meet the gaze of his parabatai.

“James?” Matthew said.

[cornertheculprit]

Actually, isn't the way the magatama functions an indication of phoenix being mildly psychic?

Like, I think all pearl says is that it "let's us see into people's hearts". But the way it does... Presenting evidence, finding contradictions. That's very lawyer, you know. Very Phoenix. And of course from a doylist perspective, it needs to be the same mechanics anyway. but in universe, wouldn't it make sense for phoenix to shape the way the magatama works unconsciously via latent spiritual ability? Maya seems pretty shocked when Phoenix later tells her what it does, so she didn't make it do that either.

Also might give some context to the appearance of black psycholocks. Given that we first see any after phoenix went through a huge deal of character development and arguably got better at reading people. Also they're not broken the same way the other ones are, possibly showing phoenixes change in methods in court, unconsciously applied to the magatama as well.

I might be misremembering what pearl says though, so I could be wrong. Anyway, sorry for the long ask but my friends will break off contact if I bother them about ace attorney any more. It had to go somewhere.

Love your blog and you takes!

NOOOO DON'T APOLOGIZE I LOVE TALKING ABOUT PHOENIX AND HIS WEIRD MILDLY PSYCHIC ABILITIES. ahem. anyway. pearl actually does name them as psyche-locks herself! here's the initial dialogue for it:

Phoenix: Aaack! What is that!?

Ini: ...?

Pearl: You can see it, can't you, Mr. Nick? You can see the "lock" on that person's heart.

Phoenix: Huh, what...?

Pearl: This is the power of the Magatama. Only you can see these "Psyche-Locks", Mr. Nick.

Phoenix: (Psyche-Locks, huh...)

Pearl: The more someone wants to hide their secret, the more locks you will see.

moreover, this is pearl's dialogue if phoenix fucks up too many times during the session:

Pearl: ...Mr. Nick... ...If you push yourself any more, your soul will shatter... ...Please calm down, collect your thoughts, and try again...

it's very clear that this power is actually pearl's, who charges the magatama with her energy and subsequently gives phoenix (and later, edgeworth) the ability to see them as well. and here's maya's explanation of why she doesn't know about the psyche-locks:

Maya: Hey, Nick, what is the Psyche-Lock thing?

Phoenix: Well, your magatama lets me see when people are keeping secrets. By breaking their mental "locks", I can find out what those secrets are.

Maya: Whaaaaat!? This Magatama has THAT kind of power!?

Phoenix: ... Maya, you're the one who gave me this Magatama last year...

Maya: ...Well, it's true that this Magatama is a prized Fey family heirloom, but... Pearly was the one that actually imbued it with spiritual powers, right? That's why I don't really know much about what it can do.

which raises the implication that the magatama is really just a tool—the power that it has is dependent on the person who charges it. i think this is also backed by what maya said when she first gave it to phoenix:

Maya: This is called a Magatama. It's a magical charm and it's always protected me. Give this to Pearly... And I'm sure she'll lend you her spiritual powers.

she says that it's always "protected" her, but seeing psyche-locks isn't exactly a form of protection, which in turn implies that whoever had charged the magatama before pearl did it with protection(?) in mind. maybe. i've always been a fan of the idea that the green magatama used to be misty fey's, which is why it used to be charged to "protect" maya, but that's a whole other story. ANYWAY!

i don't think the way the magatama functions is an indication of phoenix being mildly psychic, but i DO think something else about phoenix and the magatama points to that idea—the fact that phoenix, by the middle of trials & tribulations, doesn't need to be touching the magatama to see the psyche-locks. we see this happen when psyche-locks appear around jean armstrong despite the fact that armstrong had already stolen the magatama and phoenix wasn't interacting with it in any way, shape or form. this is something never mentioned by pearl nor experienced by edgeworth, when he was using it, and it DOES have a limited range (since phoenix couldn't see victor kudo's locks in vitamin square until he got the magatama back) but it's still something that happened.

it's not something ever really explored because phoenix keeps the magatama on him 24/7, but the fact that Literally Happened is something that fascinates me. could phoenix extend the range that he can be away from the magatama but still see the psyche-locks if he trained at it? i think he could. in fact, just given that he can already do things like hear mia even when she's not being channeled (for starters), i think that phoenix being able to forgo the magatama entirely and still being able to see the psyche-locks is an inevitability, not just a possibility. ESPECIALLY given that the fact that he found out that he could see the locks without the magatama was a total surprise to him. i just think that he'll never REALLY find it out because of his habit of keeping the magatama on him all the time. it's still interesting nonetheless!

[celestial-ringleader]

pssst here’s a free pass to talk more about your phoenix!gambit au 👀 his design is super cool and i am curious abt what you have figured out so far,,, ���

First of all thank you so much ;u;

Okay so to start off with, the basic idea was formed because I was reading over some stuff about the Phoenix Five event that happened a bit ago (and also talks about the Phoenix came up a few times in discord) and I was sort of chilling out and suddenly I got hit with the idea: what if Remy absorbed the Phoenix Force? And then it was all downhill from there.

(Big thanks to @esteicy-blog and @imperiuswrecked for hearing me out on this ajkbkvj)

This is gonna be a long post so I'm putting it under a read more

Design:

So to start with, I'm gonna first go through the outfit design because honestly that's always the fun part for me. I wanted to obviously reference the first Dark Phoenix arc but I also didn't want it to be copy-paste, so in terms of design/over all aesthetic I was taking a lot of inspiration from the OG Dark Phoenix outfit and a bit of Namor's Phoenix look, mostly for the gold detail and the red/black/gold color scheme. And for the outfit I went with for Remy it's sort of a mix of his classic look but also his look in Excalibur. (See below)

I looked at the other Phoenix outfit variants (and apparently there are some Phoenix Gambit designs out there???), but those didn't really inspire me that much?? I wanted him to look more regal while also fucking intimidating, so Phoenix Remy would have armor on while also looking Extra Slutty for good measure (plus some rubies to make him look Expensive).

So then we end up with this: (anatomy is weird here but this was just to get a full-body drawing down, also the coat sadly didn't make it to the drawing since I wanted to show off the gold but he does wear one usually.)

But anyways that's just design stuff and I barely got into the meat of the actual AU.

Overall Story Premise:

So as I was doing research into the Phoenix, I found out that apparently at one point it put itself in some kind of egg in the White Hot room (that's according to the wiki) and that sort of made me start thinking about Remy could've gotten it.

The gist of what I came up with after the last couple of days is that one day the X-Men/Avengers (which I'm not sure who all would be there, but it would definitely have Remy, Pietro, and Jean) are called to do some retrieval mission by investigating a crashed spaceship where they need to find an artifact for the Shi'ar. They aren't told exactly what it is nor what it looks like, only that it's important they get it and they will "know it when they see it".

To not make this post too long and spoil what I might write, basically they go to find it and split off. Remy finds himself in the hull of the ship (which has all the treasure in it so of course he starts looting) when he comes across what looks like a fancy egg-shaped jewel, and aside from feeling warm there's nothing really menacing about it. Remy reports in that he found a weird thing, but he doesn't think it's what they're looking for. Jean tells him to leave it since they shouldn't steal from the Shi'ar...which only makes Remy want it more.

(Here's a visual of what happens basically:)

Remy in fact doesn't leave it and just shoves it in his bag while he finds his way back to the team, but on the way there the wreckage caves in more around him and leaves him trapped. And since there's no other way to escape, he uses the egg (which makes him sad because he really did wanna keep it) but the second he charges it up, he unknowingly releases the Phoenix, which was laying dormant/trapped within the egg until Remy charged up the "potential energy" within it (which was really just the dormant Phoenix energy).

At first the Phoenix tries to go for Jean since she used to be a host, but when it recognizes Remy as being a mutant with incredible power (he's Omega-Level in this au, but his true power is largely dormant), it basically goes like "nah I like this one" and possesses him instead. Soon after that Remy passes out and is taken back to Earth (with a very worried Pietro carrying him as much as he can bc they're dating in this au bc I said so)

Assorted Ideas:

So after the whole thing on the ship weeks go by and no one really knows where the Phoenix is, only that it's out there and will probably try to find a host. Remy says he doesn't know what happened after the egg "hatched" and genuinely has no idea that he's become a host until the Phoenix reveals itself to him in the form of an apparition.

After that he just sort of keeps it quiet while he tries to learn to control it (after all he's learned to control his powers on his own, this can't be too hard right? yes. yes it can be that hard.) Pietro is the first to find out about it because he literally sees Remy sort of transform in front of him during Intimate Times, and that makes Remy freak out and makes him promise not to tell anyone else.

Later on, Remy accidentally hurts Pietro after lashing out (idk why they were probably arguing and Remy's already on edge so he gets angered easily) and since he burns him with cosmic fire, it takes much longer for Pietro to heal. However Pietro doesn't want anyone to find out or get the wrong idea about Remy so he keeps it hidden. Which doesn't last long when Wanda finds out and she immediately goes to beat Remy's ass only to discover the Phoenix Force within him (bc she can sense it and apparently Chaos Magic is one of the Phoenix's weaknesses). She lets him live when he explains that it was an accident, but she also goes like "I fought the Phoenix before, I'll do it again".

After that I'm not sure what happens, but I know it eventually leads to Remy being completely overtaken by the Phoenix and goes on a warpath to ""cleanse"" the universe while also being driven by his rage at the world and some of his (supposed) friends, but he's snapped out of it when Pietro gets close to him and gets him to calm down enough to gain control again. Eventually the Phoenix Force is literally pulled out of him with help from Wanda and Jean, but that whole process is painful and it nearly kills him but it ends up okay. (I'm not strong enough to kill main characters)

Anyways I hope this all makes sense since I was trying to take some notes plus discord convos and making it less incoherent and with less key smashes everywhere.

Thanks again for the ask! Glad you actually wanna hear about my ramblings and such. 🔥🔥🔥

[sebastianshaw]

Hey there @vvithteeth! So, this isn’t EXACTLY what you asked for the readlist to focus on, but I think it’s worth checking out all the same for a general sense of Emma’s history leading up to her current character!

 EVIL 80s EMMA She’s not good reference for who Emma is NOW, but a good look at what she used to be, and what she’s overcome. I think looking at Emma when she was at her worst, helps one appreciate her at her best. If you see what she had to rise above in herself, you understand the self that she’s fighting back, you have a better appreciation for the kinds of things she’s tempted towards---and the kinds of things she no longer does.  X-Men (1st series) #129-131 is her introduction, as she tries to recruit Kitty Pryde to her school before Xavier does. One of the most chilling moments, for me personally, is when she threatens to destroy Storm’s mind so that she will be “human only in physical form” And then Jean drops a house on her, which is why she’s not involved in the Dark Phoenix saga, as she was still recovering.  Emma continues trying to get Kitty and other kids into her clutches in  Uncanny X-Men (1st series) #180 and  New Mutants (1st series) #15-17, but in New Mutants (1st series) #38-40 she finally manages it by exploiting their current fucked-up state and having her student Empath use his powers to manipulate Magneto.  But when the kids decide to return to Xavier’s school, Emma allows them to do so without a fight, and just tells them that they’ll always have a place with her if they need it. Which seems nice, but then her thought balloons reveal that this is just so the kids won’t believe it when Magneto tells them she’s evil. Firestar #1-4: Whoa mama, Emma is at max abusive here. See, she desires to eliminate Selene, and to this end she trains a young mutant she names Firestar. She does so by manipulating the girl, isolating her, convincing her that she NEEDS Emma to help her control her powers or else she’s dangerous to others, and even KILLS HER PET HORSE. Emma is someone who says “I love children. Teaching is my life.” and she MEANS IT, she has a genuine call to teach and her love for her students is her driving force, but here we see how she USED to treat her students. Then put her against who she is now, it’s a huge contrast. Honestly, I don’t know why SOME WRITERS want to erase her growth by pretending she was Actually Good All Along but yeah, here’s Bad Emma. This is who she fights. This is what she has risen above.  EMMA’S BACKSTORY ISSUES Emma’s history is. . . kind of multiple choice. She tells one version in Generation X #24, but this doesn’t fit at all with the Emma Frost miniseries that came out from 2003 -2004, which also doesn’t exactly fit with “X-Men Origins: Emma Frost” single-issue backstory. I personally would read the “X-Men Origins” one and at least the beginning of the miniseries, specifically the parts that deal with her home life. The reason is that both of these show how unhealthy Emma’s home was growing up, and how that made her who she is. When I saw I think Emma is “wired” to be a villain, I don’t mean I think she was born like that, but as in, I think her environment trained her to become like that. It’s kind of like how a lot of personality disorders aren’t something a person is born with, but come from being in a shitty environment where certain behaviors will help you survive better, and then even once that situation is over, you can’t get rid of those behaviors because it’s how your brain is wired now. That’s how I read Emma---she came out of this toxic, duplicitous environment of manipulation and abuse where she and her siblings were set against each other, and that’s now her default for how she interacts with the world, even though she was originally just a sweet little nerd who only wanted to be a teacher. The “Origins” one features a generic Shitty Abuser Shaw and isn’t as good as the more drawn-out miniseries, as it focuses more on physical abuse (like her father suddenly slapping her) to get a point across that her family is toxic, rather than the more drawn-out miniseries, which I think works better for explaining Emma’s specific brand of. . .Emma-ness. But the bit where her mother tells her that her father is hardest on her because he likes her most of all, is really important I think, since that reflects her relationship later with the Hellions, which is also shown in this. Because Emma is cruel to the Hellions, even though she loves them, and in fact because she loved them. Her love for them and her agony over their deaths is what drives her to join the X-Men in the first place.  As for which origin story is true. . .I think the miniseries one is probably MOST true, as it’s the only one that Emma herself isn’t telling as a story. But as the friend who helped me assemble this list puts it, “ Think of any origin story of Emma's as "a sort of fairy tale, a parable," where it's the theme that matters, not the precise events or timeline “ 90s EMMA Emma spent most of the 90s teaching Generation X. I don’t remember a lot of stuff for specifically what I’m talking about with her, but here are a couple issues that strike me as significant. Uncanny X-Men (1st series) #311-314: In  Uncanny X-Men (1st series) #281-284, the Hellions were killed and Emma Frost was left in a coma, her body taken care of by the X-Men. This is when she wakes up, takes over Iceman’s body, and goes on a rampage thinking she’s the prisoner of the X-Men. When she finds out what happened to her Hellions, she collapses in despair and turns herself over to the X-Men. This is her turning point. This is when we found out Emma Frost had a soul. That she LOVED the Hellions. That they were not just tools. And there’s this one line in the yellow narrative boxes that really sticks out: “As the Hellfire Club’s White Queen, she spent the better part of her life traversing from one mind to another, violating the very essence of anyone she so chose. Losing herself in the memories of others. Altering, at times, the opinions of those who opposed her. This time is different. This time it is about survival. This time. . .it’s for the children.” The words are echoed when she agrees to join Krakoa's Quiet Council, after Charles and Erik tell her their plan and convince her it might just work. "One more time, then. For the children." Emma’s true love, in my opinion, isn’t Scott. Nor is it Namor. It’s teaching.  Emma becomes the teacher to Generation X, as mentioned, and in Generation X (1st series) #18-19, during the Onslaught crisis, she’s so terrified of losing them like she did the Hellions, that she snapped, took the kids to a safehouse in Canada, and put them under her telepathic control for their own safety. This is an Emma who has learned that abusing her students isn’t the right way, but still doesn’t respect their autonomy or consent even as she’s desperately trying to protect them, and has to learn from Monet (who is. . . .actually not Monet) that this isn’t the right way to do it either. Emma did not grow up with adult models who showed her how to love and care for a child, she has to figure it out herself, and it’s a rocky journey at times, even though she has the best of intentions. I think this is a good issue to show an Emma who is in the process of evolving. She’s getting better, but she still hasn’t got it “right” yet.  CURRENT-ERA EMMA Emma really becomes the Emma we know with Grant Morrison’s New X-Men in the early 2000s. This is where she starts affecting a British accent, calling everyone darling, and the delightfully witty Queen of Mean while also still a devoted teacher with trauma over losing her students. She always was witty and a little mean, but Morrison takes these traits up to 11 and gives Emma the foundation of what a lot of writers would build upon. It’s also when she begins her telepathic affair/seduction of Scott, which is a more than slightly problematic dynamic, as I’ve discussed. Also, this is when she got her now-famous diamond form.  We get a lot of lovely Emma nastiness in this series. New X-Men #128-139 all have lots of great moments for her where she’s just WICKED yet still on the side of the angels, and New X-Men Annual 2001 starts us off.  However, character-wise, I think what really comes out here is Emma going from blaming her past actions on substances (she tells Scott in the New X-Men Annual 2001 that she just probably out of her mind on drink and drugs all those times she was doing bad things) to being forced to face her past and herself for the first time when confronted by Jean & the Phoenix in New X-Men #139. It’s the first time we get a look at what Emma’s family and home life was like, as well as the first time she’s established as having a brother, but more than that is the emotion that gets brought in. This is also when Morrison decided to retcon the Hellfire Club as a strip joint (which I hate and also shows up in Emma’s “Origins” story) but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, Jean makes Emma face all her flaws and pain and nasty, most vulnerable parts of herself.  Emma is left mentally broken...then one page later, physically, shattered by a diamond bullet that we later find out was fired by none other than Esme, the Stepford Cuckoo whom Emma later says reminded her most of herself. There is definitely poetic symbolism there. As my friend put it “This cycle of her students dying and Emma losing it and trying again but never facing the roots of her issues goes on and on until her roots literally kill her, and Jean of all people resurrects her. Jean, who saw right through Emma, saw something there worth saving, and literally and metaphorically put her back together again.” The next place I’d go is Astonishing X-Men, which is the first time Emma and Kitty work together. Kitty HATES Emma at this point, because, as she points out, Emma is the villain in her origin story. And Emma KNOWS this. That’s why she WANTS Kitty there. She knew that Kitty would keep an eye on her, wouldn’t trust her, and that’s what Emma WANTS, because Emma doesn’t trust HERSELF. So this shows that Emma KNOWS her moral compass is a very flawed one, and that she WANTS to be better so consciously that she’s getting someone she knows doesn’t like or trust her to be around because she knows she’ll watch her like a HAWK. This also means Emma is admitting she can fail, and giving some control to someone else.  There’s. . . so much that happens from here. Utopia. Phoenix Five. The Terrigen Mists shit. Secret Empire. I feel like there are probably great Emma readlists out there that include these, but honestly I just kinda zoned out through a lot of it. These are some additional read lists for her I found: https://lornahs.tumblr.com/post/87230882649/where-to-start-reading-emma-frost-lets-start  https://www.reddit.com/r/comicbooks/comments/2bwwok/emma_frost_reading/  It’s definitely a LOT and I wish you the best of luck tackling it! Also, I wouldn’t feel you have to read EVERYTHING, or incorporate everything into your depiction. Pick and choose what you feel works best for your version!

[popculturebuffet]

New X-Men Xtrospective Part 1: E is For Extinction “They Will Need Us”

I am SO fucking excited for this one. As might not be obvious to ALL of my readers but should be obvious to some, I fucking love the X-Men. They are one of my favorite superhero teams period as are several of their spinoffs such as X-Factor (All versions), New Mutants, and Marauders. I love the wide cast, the hugely vast universe within the already vast and wonderful marvel universe, and the sheer amount of GREAT stories. I own all 11 movies, have several action figures, and two posters from Jonathan Hickman’s current and utterly dynamite run right above me right now as I work, as well as a marvel 80′s themed poster behind me that’s at least half x-men for good reason. I love this gang of mutants and I have not talked about them enough. 

I”ve done some X-Men stuff sure: I’ve talked about hickman’s time as head writer of the books a year in earlier this year, I did a few scattered reviews back when I did single issues of comics, and then we get to the one I beefed big time: covering ALL of X-Men evolution. While it’s a noble endeavor I freely admit to overexerting myself: I recapped the episodes way too closely, gave myself no real schedule and did so while I was already covering two shows a week at the time. My point is it was a good idea, but the timing was REALLY fucking bad and if I do it again, I intend to do it right and iwth a proper place in my now properly paced schedule. I also planned to do the movies which, unlike evolution, I have solid plans to do once I clear out some of my projects. Point is I burned bright and then exploded and took a whole projecet with me phoenix style. 

I had until this moment yet to do a really big x-men project, something digging into the comics, something that could help fans both of the comics and not get familiar with something really good, and help me dig into both the good and bad of something. I jsut needed the right start. 

Then Christmas gave me that spark, that project that gave me the idea for a butload more x-men content on here and was the perfect starting point for some. See my friend Marco lives in Honduras, and so since i couldn’t afford to send him anything for christmas in the mail, as i’m not exactly rich, I instead offered him three reviews of anything.l He still hasn’t taken up two of them, nor one I gave him for graduating college, but the first one was a doozy, something he hadn’t read due to not liking the art, which is fine as I have some art in comics I don’t like everyone has diffrent tastes, at least for the first arc, and something VITALLY important to x-men as a whole and that’s the backbone of hickman’s current run: the first arc of new x-men, e is for extinction. And given New X-Men is one of my faviorite comics of all time I not only lept on it.. but decided fuck it I’m covering the whole thing. So every so often on here from now until I finish, i’m going to be covering Grant Morrisons ground breaking, mind shattering, status quo destroying run on the children of the atom. This.. is going to be fucking awesome. Buckle up. 

New X-Men came about in 2001. Stop me if you heard this one: The X-Men, once marvel’s best selling title and one of i’ts most beloved, had been set adrift in a seal of editorial bullshit, bad writing, bad storylines and a stale continuity where not much could change or grow and things always reset to about the same place it was last week. If this sounds familiar it’s because it somehow happened AGAIN thanks to Ike Perlmutter’s bullshit, hence the current hickman run, but we’ll get into all of tha tsome other time. Point is as it was in 2018, so it was in 2001: The x-men were in bad straits and marvel reached out to a host of various creators to swing for the fences and find a new direction, something to bring sales and life back to the book. To my shock they actually took a LOT of diffrent pitches in before Morrisons won and from huge names: Geoff Johns, who had not yet returned to DC never to leave, Alex Ross, Keith Giffen.. all huge creative types. but in the end the best man won.

For those unfamiliar with him, Grant Morrison is a gloriously batshit scotsman with a long, storied and delightfully insane history in comics, mostly at DC before and after this comic. This is for good reason: DC scouted Morrison specifically because of his early work at 2000ad. See at the time Alan Moore had hit it really big with Swamp Thing, taking a d list, so so book and making it into an utter masterpiece and giving it thoroughly interesting mythology. Given it was a blockbuster hit that’s still widely loved and discussed, as it should be today, DC decided to repeat the strategy of asking British indie comics creators to come do the same to another property. This same experiment is why Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman exists, so.. yeah it was actually a great strategy and naturally Grant had their first big hit with Animal Man, a metafictional take on a b-list hero that made him a loveable family man, while also putting him through hell and playing with the medium and dc’s vast history, the last two being Morrison’s trademark from then on out.

 They’d next go on to reinvent one of my other faviorite teams: THE DOOM PATROL!  The patrol are a bunch of victims of strange accidents who got powers out of them that are basically curses... and Morrison solidified that concept, taking over after a weak run that ironically enough was trying to imitate the x-men’s success at the time. Instead Morrison just went all out with his weird shit for the first time and made them a team of broken but likeable people with weird powers fighting just the weirdest most incomprehensible shit, a run i’ll likely be digging into eventually along with the team as a whole. It’s also, along with Gerard Way’s recent run, the bedroock for the current and utterly masterful doom patrol series I need to catch up on. They also apparently once wrote a satrical comic starring and lik mocking hitler... a fact I somehow JUST learned but naturally doesn’t surprise me at all. 

Morrison’s career at dc, after doing some creator owned stuff there when Vertigo opened up, hit it’s peak in the late 90′s as they were given the go ahead to reinvent the Justice League, with the wildly successful and awesome JLA, another book I probably need to take a look at that put the big 7 back into the team.  And by now your probably getting the point of me covering his career pattern.. besides giving morrison the praise they deserve, and they’d have some really great runs after this.. and some terrible ones but no one’s perfect. My point is that at this point in their career Morrison’s greatest skill was taking something that had grown stagnant or been forgotten, blowing it up and reworking it into something glorious and new. Taking what worked, scraping away what didn’t and on the whole making something fucking glorious out of it. So here we are. The X-Men needed a new coat of paint and uncle grant had their lcd laced psycadelic paint bucket and brush shaped like a pidgeon at the ready. And for better, way better and admitely sometimes here and there worse,they changed the x-men for good. Some changes were rolled back out of spite, others finally got their chance after said rollback recently, and some were just outright thrown on the grown and smashed with a hammer. But for the most part Grant left a huge impact on the x-men and i’m here to show you why, warts and all. To me my x-men, this is new x-men.  Now naturally there’s even more exposition but i’ts more in what COULD’VE been. Originally while Wolverine, Cyclops, Jean Grey and Professor X were all part of the team the other two members of the slim roster for this run, Beast and Emma Frost.. weren’t. Originally Morrison was going to have Colossus and Moira Mactaggert, long time team ally, token human until very recently, and now thanks to hickman one of the most important x characters peirod and long before that a fan favorite of mine, on the team, with Moira taking over for beast. 

This.. didn’t pan out since Marvel apparently either didn’t give a shit about their plans or already had things in motion as the climax of the longtime legacy virus storyline killed both off. Colossus until Joss Whedon, bastard he may be, brought him back for his terrific Astonishing X-Men, and Moira SOMEHOW stayed dead until House/Powers of X. See this speaks to one of the big roadblocks morrison faced: Jonathan HIckman currently has absolute power and all his writers working in concert, a new way of doing things comic companies shold honestly copy en masse as it’s really working wonders. Grant.. was just one of many writers and one of three main x books the others being Chris Claremont’s XTREME X-MEN, basically “let the legend do what he wants since he can’t get freedom on the main book” and another writer on uncanny... before eventually chuck austen took over and I will tackle that horrible mess some other time. Point is while Morrison was setting the tone, costume style and making the big waves, they still didn’t have full power and thus had to play nice with eveyrone else.  So their next idea was Rogue, making mer more like her x-men evolution version.. except Chris wanted her, so that was out, though being a decent enough guy he willingly gave up Beast since the moira thing meant Morrison needed a science person. As for Colossus replacement, as it turned out a fan had suggested Grant do something with Emma Frost since Gen X was canceled and while Morrison had zero intention for it clearly Emma clicked with hthem and she was soon both a main part of the cast and one of their biggest contributions to X-Men as a whole.

As for what I think of the needed changes.. they ended up being for the best. I do like Moira... but Hank ended up being a much better fit for the team dynamic wise and power set wise, while Emma was the same. While Colossus, Rogue and Moira are all fantastic characters, I think what we ended up with was just a better mix overall. I DO think the team is incredibly white, but that’s a general x-men problem, even with having an assload of diverse and intresting characters, so it’s not entirely his fault. All in all it’s a fantastic roster: four of the x-men’s best, their leader in the field for the first time in forever, and a new and intresting wild card. IT’s a nice ballance of characters and we’ll get more into it as we go. Now all the expositions done, we can finally dive head first into new x-men. I hope you survivie the experince under the cut. 

After an utterly gorgeous and striking cover, the one used up top, we get one solid page to introduce us to Morrison’s mission statment, how  they feel and how good Frank Quitely’s art looks

I cropped it best i could for tumblr but this one image immidetly says a lot. Our heroes are just.. easily taking down this sentinel, an old model... the same one we’ve seen a dozen times. What were once the grim, possible destroyers of an entire race of beings in days of future past and devistating killing machines in the present.. had become stale easily defeated murder bots There had been noble attempts to really make the sentiinels work again like the horrifying omega sentinels, humans forcibly converted into sleeper agent killing machines, during operation: zero tolerance, but otherwise they were mostly just a prop for the x-men to knock down. And that.. really is morrison’s whole point. Lampshading and mocking the fact the x-men had grown stale, things hadn’t really progressed.. and that it was time to move on. But to Uncle Grant’s credit, they not only uses this as a mission statment but it’s plot relevant: this mission will both be explained soon and explains why Logan and Scott are out and about enough to end up where the plot will soon need them. It also helps, via the sight of the syndey opera house establish something Morrison made a staple of their run: the X-Men going global. While the x-men were never really NOT global post claremont, Morrisons run has them handling rescue missions and what not worldwide far more often than most runs before it sans Claremont, and really made it feel like they weren’t just another super team but a global force of good with a specific goal and mission. More on the global aspect next time, as that’s where it really comes in but I felt it was important to show it was there for minute one. 

So yeah before we move onto the first full scene of the run, let’s talk about the costumes. 

We’ll talk about Emma’s later since she’s not introduced to the story for a while but yeah. There’s a sharp, obvious and immediate change just in the outfits, which take after the movie’s more military look, having the x-men not only look more like a unit but more like a professional orginization. Someone to come and help when needed. While this would take on more siginifigance in a bit, we’ll get to it, it also fits Morrisions own views that the x-men were less of a traditional superhero team and more something different on the edges that fought things out there, sorta what like he did with doom patrol. And it’s honestly a valid interpretation as the x-men are often seen as outlaws and misfits by society for beingn well.. mutants. Not as trusted as the avengers. So having them adopt this look played into that: Having them look more professional and focused as The X-Men have a less blanket mission statement than the avenger.. but also mildly threatning. Something to alarm the humans. It’s an utterly brilliant look thrown best together by the big yellow x’s, still giving it a nice flash of color to show off and show this is still a comic and this is still damn colorful.. this just isn’t your AVERAGE supherhero comic or the x-men your used to. IT’s a real shame the only fox x-men movie to use it was fucking dark phoenix.. a film where it didn’t even fit as xavier was getting flashier and more reckless so why wouldn’t he have more garish and colorful and more traditional superhero outfits. They did look good in their variants in first class though. Props there. Point is this is a classic, utterly stunning look, and tha’ts coming from someone whose fine with goofy superhero outfits and perpetually bitter hawkeye is almost never allowed to wear his actual comic outift and is instead stuck with shades instead of you know.. a mask. Or anything resembling an actual good looking costume. This though this is how you do a less superheroy costume: practical and realistic, but still cool looking and comic book friendly. 

We cut to a mysterious lady, we’ll come to know her as Cassandra Nova and while I know her origin... i’m saving it for later as the comics themselves explain it eventually, and a simpering dolt she brought with her, Donald Trask, a distant relative of the creators of the sentinels who, via holograms she’s showing cro magnons slaughtring the neanderthal. Her point is that Mutants are going to do this and she’s clearly fearmongering him and trying to talk him into genocide: to wipe them out before they wipe out humanity. And it’s here we get one of hte most important plot points of Morrisons run and one of the most intresting: according to cassandra’s research Humanity will be no more in 4 generations. Mutankind is on it’s way to overtaking them at last.. i’ts still a few decades off.. but it’s coming. It’s sometihing that the whole decimation nonsense sadly snuffed.. and John Hickman has thankfully brought back. I’ll get to his run once i’ts complete in a few years, but point is it’s an utterly marvelous plot hook: Humanity, whose already attempted genocide a few times, is now in real danger of what their petty, racist, fearful attacks have been about: being replaced. It’s one of the central themes of the work the other two being “Just what IS mutantkind and what will it be”. WHat are they as a people? We’ll dig into these as we go but the threat of exctincion is the backbone of this arc... and will lead to something truly ghastly. 

It’s then we get our title page.. which nothing really to add it just looks really good and helps show off who are cast is and what they can do with striking simple art. 

And since we’re already talking the art of the book, let’s take a moment to discuss an intresting detail of this run: despite it’s short length there’s quite a few diffrent artist, who we’ll talk about of course as we get to each one. The most common and notable though is Frank Quitely. Frank Quitely is one of Morrison’s closest and best creative partners, having a unique, squishy art style.. i.e. the one my friend didn’t like which is why i’m covering this. And while I like the art style quite a bit, I do get why it’s not everyone’s cup of tea: His art is squashed, weird, and admitely some faces can be good god no incaranate. But it’s also why I like it: his characters feel unique, each body and figure feels like it was custom made and thus feels.. real. Like this is a person before you. And given comics can often surrender to having everybody look the damn same, this is nice. His faces may sometimes look similar but his bodies are where the action is. But while having a realistic feel his work also has a weird alien quality that perfectly fits Morrison, and thus his run on x-men. I will say while I love All-Star Superman, his art fits less there in the more hopeful silver agey story, so he’s not an artist for EVERY STORY OF EVERY TYPE.. but when it comes to sci fi weridness, he fits it like a glove so i’ts unsuprising he and morrison are practicaley soul mates, nor that his art sets the tone perfectly for the run: this is something new, diffrent and strange.. and what says x-men at it’s best more than that?

So after our opening titles we cut to the mansion where Hank is showing off his latest and greatest invention: Cerebra. Cerbebra is a massively upgraded version of Cerebro, aka Professor Xavier’s iconic helmet that allows him to track mutants to help them out.. and covertly backup their conconousness for his long game plan, but shhhh, don’t tell anyone yet that’s not going to be retconned in for a few decades. Though i’m damn certain if Morrison has heard about the current era of x-men and how it both builds on what he built, shatters the status quo and is incredibly weird, he’d be damn proud. As for how it’s diffrent Cerebra not only has a large dome around it but said dome allows the machine to amply Charles powers to a global reach. He can now see mutants all over the world anywhere in the world, something I didn’t realize wasn’t ALWAYS a thing because it seems so simple. It’s also likely to bring it more in line with the movies. And while marvel has done TERRIBLE with bringing things in from the movies or in line with them in recent years, i.e. making star lord more like his movie self while forgetting that’s how he already used to be in canon before later writers thankfully did hte better step of merging the two, Hawkeye’s outfit, Cap’s outfit or Nick Fury Jr.  But for every mistep there’s also been tons of times it’s worked out really well such as here, as well as bringing hulk into the avengers for the first time since the founding, making tony stark more like the mcu version and less like a nightmarish self righetous dicktator who rightfully gets beat up and called out a lot, making Scott Lang prominent since he became prominent in the MCU, Wakanda being a major force in the marvel universe as it always should have been and various titles that have popped up to tie into movies, often bringing back a team or property that hadn’t had a book in some time like Ant-Man, Black Panther, and Shang Chi just to name a few. It’s not always hawkeye looking all jeremy renner is what i’m saying.. though thankfully comics clint isn’t that uninteresting. Hopefully the series will change that. 

So yeah along with a bigger shinier cerebro we’re also introduced to a big change in Hank whose taken on his lion form rather than his classic gorilla with a weird haircut or his return to that except bald. Here he’s more like aslan in a human body and I.. love it. It looks great, helps sell hanks delima of being brilliant while looking like a beast and makes sense: he kickstarted what was likely his own secondary evolution by drinking the potion that made him bestial, so it only makes sense his body wouldn’t be all that stable even if it took years to change again. And even that makes sense as hank was breifly turned back to his original hairless ape mutation during x-factor, easily one of the books.. worse decisions honestly and one that louise simonson thankfully later undid. That probably bought him some time hence why it’s only mutating further now.  It also adds an intresting wrinkle which the run will explore further: how far does this go? Will he regress? and how much hank will be left? And how will society treat his new form? 

For now he’s actually extatic. While he’s going through hormonal changes, and giving out some excellent banter with Jean

Which also includes one of the greatest lines in comic book history, one that’s been in my head for decades and made me absolutely love henry mccoy. 

He’s just great is what i’m saying. As you can tell it’s stuff like this why i’m glad Moira fell through. While I love her.. Morrison’s hank is just a delight and one really questionable subplot aside, we’ll get to that, he’s one of the highlights of this run with an intresting internal struggle, and great chemistry with EVERYONE. And that is the main reason i’m glad Moira fell through as his history with everyone but Emma, who he still has a great raport with, means each interaction has weight. He’s close friends with both scott and jean and thus serves as their needed confidant, while still being able to buddy and banter iwth good old weapon x, and speak with his mentor charles as an equal. While I love moira... Beast just fits into the cast too perfectly and I 100% suspect Morrison was only using her because, while she’s awesome, Claremont wanted her and thus gladly snapped her up when he no longer had a science person. I’ll get into his Jean soon enough but she’s likewise fantastic and easily my faviorite version of the character.. not that until very recently there was much honest competition. 

So Cerebra fires up showing a massive cloud of mutants, showing just how much of a huge spike theirs been with Xavier wondering what it all means.. and Hank seeing a weird flare on the mointor for just a second with his special eyes. But since Xavier isn’t stupid and isn’t the kind of idiot who just dismisses it as a fulke, and since Scott and Logan are in the field, he decides to confrence call them in to see if they can go take a look. 

And naturally we get to see what their up to and get context for what the hell happened in the first page. Our heroes were on a rescue mission to save Ugly John, tha’ts what people called him, a three faced mutant who ends up passing out as they head out of the atmosphere for a second. Wolverine is regenerating and smoking out of his neck becaue he could still smoke back then before marvel decided “he’s setting a bad example”.. in a comic meant for teens and adults. 

I mean I get it on some level as the x-men cartoon was a huge thing in the 90′s and Ben Grimm is basically a giant children’s toy with the mind of a surly 40 year old jewish man from yancy street, but stilll it’s just.. why. I may not like smoking but it’s not like it was SPIDER-MAN saying

It’s a grown man.. whose not a sterling roll model and who Claremont went out of his way to have Logan point out his healing factor means it really dosen’t hurt him in the long run and when Kitty, an actual teenager, tried one of his cigars she choked. I know it’s a weird thing to get hung up on but while i’m all for keeping kids from smoking, this was a really clumsy way to try and hehlp that that made no sense and will never make any sense. 

One tangent later we find out that Cassandra was showing Trask a simulation on a flight to, unsuprisingly, south america, to a sentinel blacksite. Between covertly funding civil wars as they do, the US Goverment naturally founded an experimental sentinal project, and a second master mold during the production of the first line... when larry trask asks where it could possibly be well...

Subtly was not the trasks strong point.. or common sense... or.. not realizing their creations would dominate humanity too or not dying. 

Anyways we then cut back to the x-men, as their having a psychic zoom meeting with Charlie giving one of his patnted big speeches.. and like a lot of this comic it’s too damn good not to use 

The reason I couldn’t should be obvious: This one speech sums up the x-men, why their great and why their necessary in a nutshell: in a world full of prejucided morons.. there’s plenty of scared kids who NEED the x-men to protect and guide them, and with a surge in the mutant population, their needed now more than ever. We also get a good explanation in universe for the uniform change: Charles had them in the superhero outfits hoping humanity would accept them if they were packaged as something they know. Since that clearly hasn’t worked he’s trying new ways to reach out and thus going with a diffrent more rescue team approach to the uniforms. He assigns Wolvie and Cyke to go check out the flair as you’d expect and the meetings over. On the blackbird we get our first hint at a subplot as Logan noticed Cyclops couldn’t wait to get out of there, and is being a tad distant to his wife. He actually has reasons for being kind of cold for once instead of just bad writing as he just came back from being possed by apocalypse. Yeah that happened. So the experience has rattled our boy some what. More on that as we go. But Jean ducks the subject with hank but does breach the fact that Charles has been going kind of crazy with the spending, new uniforms and ambition lately. Hank explains it perfectly: After all the death, suffering and misery the x-men have endured lately, the aforementioned deaths I talked about that took Colossus and Moira off the roster, have lionzed Charles to make sure it was all worth something and look towards the future. 

But enough hope time for horror as Cassandra makes her first direct move, trying to take over Charles brain , make his body her own and use cerebra to kill lots and lots of mutants. We then get one of the best moments of Morrisons run with Charles response to a horrifying monster trying to take his brain

While it is shocking to find out Charles has a gun..it’s a grim but kind of understandable precaution. The guy once got fully taken over by a brood, assembling the New Mutants in part because the brood wanted to create more of i’ts kind with more super powers. You’d be paranoid too if some of your beloved students were brought together partly due to your good intentions and partly because a space monster wanted to make more space montsters out of helpless teens, and even horribly gaslighted one of them. We’ll get to that some day. Point is Charles brain is one of the greatest weapons on earth and if the wrong person got a hold of it, it’d be the end of said earth. Thankfully Charles does not need plan gun, as Jean yanks Cerebra off him but the sheer HATE Charles felt from Cassandra, the sheer power has rattled him.. and also told him she’s in Ecuador and his X-Men need to be warned NOW. It’s a great way to set up just HOW powerful Cassandra is.  Speaking of which as our first issue of the arc ends, we find out two things: Cass faked being int he government but really just used dead soldiers as prop.. and just what kind of sentinels are out there.. wild sentinels. Easily my faviorite variant of the old killing machines and one that’s barely used despite being really damn awesome. Their adaptive killing machines, designed to mutated just like their pray and take tech from around them, as a result they look like a jumble of guns and parts.. but not only does it give them a unique, cool look.. but it makes them ten times deadlier as instead of being big bricks of robots that while intimidating, the x-men know how to kill... their unpredictable variable killing machines. You can figure out how to kill one sure.. btu the next might be entirely diffrent. They are one of morrisons best creations and I hope someone uses the idea again.. aka hickman. Please use it jonathan I know your focused on nimrod but come on. 

And we end on one of the best lines of the entiire run as we close out the issue

Yeah it goes without saying but i’ll say it anyway; Morrison is really damn good with dialouge and being damn quotable. 

So we open with another great quote “When I got up today I didn’t expect to kill 20 million people”... and Cassandra being aware Wolverine and Cyclops are on their way and sending the Wild Sentinels to dispatch them. Also our heroes brought Ugly John along while while a dumb move, Wolvie does point out how dumb it was to divert to Ecuador with a civlian in tow.. after the plane crash of course. As for “wait what plane crash’, the sentinels attack and start picking it apart... and since letting them have such good tech is a terrible idea, Scotty blows up the damn plane. So to recap our heroes are stuck in ecuador, surrounded by murder machines, and oh look their there and knock off cyclops viser. Fantastic. So yeah our heroes are fucked. And naturally captured by the enemy.

The rest of the x-men are doing SLIGHTLY better. While beast makes a note for his girlfriend, more on that later on, Charles is in bed, half alive, explaning the rationale I gave for why he has the gun with Jean refusing to let him get back out of bed and you know.. put on the device that just nearly killed him. But when beast announces they lost contact with our boys.. yeah that ceased being an option. 

Back in the Ecuadorian Genocide Factory, Cassandra does the obvious and kills donald trask as his real purpose..was to stick around and be stupid for a bit while she copied his dna so she could have full control of her new murder toys.She soon uses them, having a horrifying death chamber slaughter john.. or at least flash fry him. Wolverine takes it how you’d expect and since the sentinels need to “perserve trask dna”.. they can’t fire on him without killing her. Scott escapes.. and in a heart wrenching scene mercy kills john.. before getting badass. 

To anyone who says Scott Summers is boring, unintersting, or a stupid asshole idiot head I present exhbit shut the fuck up. Morrison gets scott just right, deconstructing his emotional suppression, while showing him off as a dedicated, companionate man who gets the job done and who seconds after tearfully having to mercy kill an innocent mutant whose death was partially his fault, wastes no time making it painfully clear to the person responsible she WILL die if she tries that again. Logan however realizes she’s already won in some fashion as she’s grinning.. and yeah never a good sign when a genocidal madwoman is grinning like a loon.. and when we find out why.. it’s even less good>  We cut to Genosha. A lot of you probably know what happned to Genosha but in case you don’t know what it is it was once a horribly racist country that genetically enslaved mutants and used them for slave labor. It was freed, but still struggled to truly move on.. till Magneto showed up, took the country for himself and made it a home for all mutants. When we last saw him he once again tried to take over the world leading to Logan seemingly killing him. Right now though Emma Frost finally enters the scene teaching some mutants.. when a young one named Negasonic Teenage Warhead.. yes that one and yes she was entirely chosen for deadpool for her name, reveals, via precognition, that their all going to die.. right as the sentinels attack. 

Genosha.. is gone. In an eyeblink 16 million mutants are dead, a possible future gone, and one of their greatest leaders is no more. Yeah Magneto WAS alive.. but paralyzed so he could do nothing when his island was utterly slaughtered. Only a handful of mutants will be revealed to survive. Humanity had done a lot to mutants before .. but for once.. they’d succeeded in wiping a massive chunk out. What was an x-men location for DECADES at this point.. was now a smoldering crater. A what could of been that would hant the x-men ever after, even now into utopia it remains the darkest day in mutant history outside of hte decimation. It is a truly horrific moment.. and if the changes already hadn’t made it clear this is morrison saying “NO character is safe, nothing is safe, and nothing will be the same and I damn well mean that”. In one act of hate the world has changed. And it hasn’t finished changing yet. 

Issue Three opens hammering in things, as Jean and Beast are in the ruins of genosha, with Xavier having found ONE surivor among the rubble, and our heroes sturggling to find even them, though Jean eventually picks them up and uses her TK to sift through the rubble. 

They find Emma who emerges from a bunker in shock, clutching NTW... and not realizing she’s dead until later and revealing she now has diamond skin, her own secondary mutation. Secondary Mutation was a birlliant idea, new powers sprouting up within established mutants.. it’s just morrison barely used this great idea as did hardly anyone else. Only X-Men Blue ever really dug into it and those were artifical at that. IT’s a great idea..it’s just barely used and at most heavily implied to explain changes in powers like Jamie Madrox Multiple Personalities later on or Doug Ramsey’s vast increase in power. Disapointing. 

While Charles takes in the tragedy and the fact his old frienmie is dead, the x-men wonder what the fuck Cassandra is and what to do with her.. why did she kill 16 million people, and what the fuck is she. I mean I know, but as I said i’ll explain that when the story does.  IN the other room Beast tends to Emma who wants none of not fucking killing Cassandra.. and is utterly right. Bitchy, because i’ts Emma, but right: she killed 16 million people. Say what you want but while it may not be up to the x-men to kill her.. she shoudln’t be living much longer. She commited genocide. Emma decides fuck that and prepares to leave summoning a cab and making peace with being a glorious living fabrige egg. Emma did apparelty change in generation x.. but Morrison is responsible for returning her not only to being a bitch, but a gloriously delightful one And really I don’t think they reset her character entirely: she’s not the heartless monster she started out as: she has empathy, grace, and caring.. she just buries it under a lair of absolute bitch and after you know, surviving a fucking genocide who can blame her? And honestly.. I love their verison of her. She provides a nice contrast to the more idealistic, even logan, x-men and a nice contrarian voice in the room without being obnoxious and her style and sacrastic swagger makes her endlessly entertaning. Thanks to morrison she’s stuck around to this day and went from a pretty good character.. to a great one. And what makes her this way, or as jean puts it “such a bitch?”

With that settled, Hank explains what Cassandra is: a competing species. As he puts it sometimes evolution takes a quantum leap forward.. and Cassandra is the result. Thus she wants to wipe out the compettition and is so far above humanity, she dosen’t need them... especially since she knows what Hank now knows: humanity is at an end. As hank puts it we have an E Gene, one that basically shuts off a race.. and thus the x-men now know what we learned earlier and that cassandra wasn’t lying: in 4 generations there are no more humans and something has to repalce htem. And Cassandra wants it to be her. 

Before Logan can do what he does best, and asks why she looks like charles, Cassandra escapes, and Scott briliantly urges them to fight only on instict as she’s a telepath. A damn awesome fight insues including Cassandra donning Charles Psoonic battle armor, Scott being put in his black bug room and the general good looking chaos you’d expect from a superhero fight. While this goes on Emma has an ephinany and realizes she likes to teach, the x-men have a school.. and she shoudln’t give up on helping kids just because of what happened and turns around. 

Cassandra is near victory, slipping her way to Cerebra.. and planning to kill only one mind before getting to the millions she wnats, a horrifying slug manifesting around her.. only...

So the x-men accept this and cassandra rises.. seemingly saying “I am charles” Huh... and then charles uncaracteristiacally shoots her saying things must change

We’ll get to what all of that means next time as we close on Jean and Scott in bed. Scott explains why he’s been so distant as what I said earlier: fighting off apocalypse stripped away a lot of illusions about himself and he’s having a hard time walking back from that but Jean is willing to help.. but before they can resolve their  issues.. charles has an annoucnment to make and grant has one last whopper of a suprise to end his opening arc on, and just like genosha...it’s a game changer of titanic proportions

No longer is Xavier’s School hidden. Their walking into the light now and so is charles. Hope they surivive the experince. Obviously this move is brilliant: while it removes the veil of saftey the x-men had it also brings on tons of new possiblities and unlike secondary mutation, this one not only stuck but would impact the x-men for good: no longer would they hide and cower.. their mutant and proud.. and their here to stay.  E For Extinction is one of the best x-men stories period. Blisteringly paced, full of great character, great concepts and utterly terrifying and terrific moments that would impact the x-men all the way to present day. It’s beautifully drawn, well paced, and a masterwork. I highly recommend it and it’s a great kickoff to a great run. Shame the run couldn’t of ended on this kind of high but.. we’ll get to that. For now this is a masterclass in how to start a run and if you haven’t read it do so NEXT TIME ON NEW X-MEN: A bunch of weirdos try to harvest mutant organs, the x-men get a brain in a jar and a new teamate, and Scott maybe cheats on his wife. Until then, goodbye goodbye goodbye. 

[ask-them-bois]

Ancient Sounds 2/5

AS.pt1

Oliver took a deep, steadying breath, running his tongue over his lips as he waited. The chill of the ice rink slipped under his clothes and ghosted over his skin, making him shiver. He adjusted his stance, his bloodpumper thudding against his thoratic cage. He never felt blinder than when he was on the ice; the cold negated every scent, and at the moment the rink was dead quiet. His cane was sat on a bench outside the field.

Yet, with the anticipation turning his blood hot, he’d never felt more alive. The music started with a burst of fanfare over the speakers, and Oliver shot off across the ice. One moment he stood near the wall, the next he was gliding halfway across the rink. The music thrummed in his ears as he spun about and leaped like a ribbon dancer, coming down cleanly on a practiced, one-footed landing, only to bend back further than should be natural.

She laughed, unbridled glee shaking her apart as she threw her arms up, reaching for the invisible audience in the empty stands. She went with the momentum she’d built, flipping onto her hands. A twist, jump, and she was back on her feet, dashing forward and spinning. The music swelled as she reached behind herself and grabbed her leg.

She stopped in place and spun, spun, spun, one hand up, palm raised to the ceiling. As the music crashed into its climax she crouched and threw herself skyward once more, arms spread like she was flying, before she rolled forward into a flip and landed once more on her feet.

She couldn’t see it, but she could imagine her cape flowing out behind her, glimmering like fire as the warm colored glitter caught the spotlights. The gems and sequins on her uniform sparkled, setting her limbs aflame like the wings of a phoenix.

The music began to fade as they soared in circles, until the track stopped completely. They stopped, too, panting, and lit up at the scattered applause to their right.

“Well done, master Maddel, as always!” One of Oliver’s entourage called; the goldblood, from the sound of it. Oliver flashed her a charming smile and skated towards her voice, one hand out. Their fingers tapped the low wall around the rink and they grabbed it, coming to a stop.

“Thank you, darling, did you like that?” He purred, leaning his elbows on the wall.

“Yes, ma’am, that was spectacular.” Another troll chipped in.

“Thank you so much, my dear. It’s a little more basic than the dance I did earlier, but it won me a competition a few sweeps ago. Could one of you hand me a hydration cylinder, pretty please?” Oliver purred, her voice giggly and sweet. She heard a flurry of movement, then the cool metal of the soda can was pressed against her arm.

She took it with another sugary, “Thank you, darling!” and cracked the tab before taking a sip.

“When’s your next performance, master Maddel?” The goldblood asked.

“I’m afraid it won’t be for a while, my sweet, I’m all tied up in some other business at the moment.” Oliver told her forlornly, setting his soda down. “Speaking of, what time is it?”

“It’s just past midnight, sir.”

“Ah, then I’m afraid I need to get going, I’ve been practicing since the sun went down, and I have a video date with my precious morail I don’t want to be late for.”

“How will you video date if you can’t-” The goldblood began, only to be abruptly cut off; by the ‘smack’ sound, Oliver could guess someone had covered her mouth.

“Can’t see?” Oliver finished for her, before he chuckled, turning and skating for the nearby gate, “I don’t need eyes to hear my beloved’s words, do I?”

“N- no, ma’am, I suppose not.” The goldblood said meekly.

Oliver only chuckled again. The gate beeped, signaling he’d arrived next to it, and he pushed it open. Stepping out onto the rubbery ground, he carefully and somewhat awkwardly walked to the bench across from him. He sat, easily untying and removing the skates.

She flexed out her toes, relieved, and felt around. On the bench next to her laid her cane and purse, both of which she scooped up, along with her skates. “Good night, my loves!” She said cheerfully, shouldering her purse and headed for the locker rooms.

When they shouldered their way into their VIP locker room, they tapped their way towards the showers, stripping down as they went and dropping their purse and skates on a chair. A quick rinse, and they stepped out, grabbing a towel from the waiting pile.

He toweled off as he headed for his locker, scooping up his uniform as he went. He pressed his thumb to the scanner and it popped open, and Oliver traded their skates for their street clothes.

Binder, jumpsuit, cape, and white band were traded for bra, a band shirt, and skinny jeans. He tied an olive green band around his eyes before slipping a pair of pumps on his feet and brushing out his hair.

She sighed, relieved to be out of uniform, and pinched the collar of her shirt, pulling it up to her sniffnub and inhaling deeply. The shirt smelled like her morail’s cologne and detergent; probably because she’d stolen it from him. With a laugh, she grabbed her purse and cane and headed for the door again. She slipped out the rink’s front door, in time to hear the scuttlebuggy pull up.

“Good evening, master Maddel.” The driver said as they emerged from the buggy and walked around to open the door.

“Good evening, darling.” Oliver replied, hand out. The driver took his hand and helped him into the carriage, before shutting the door and walking back towards the front seats.

“Where to, sir?” The driver asked as they got in.

“Home.”

“Yes, sir.”

The scuttlebuggy started up and began to move, and Oliver opened his purse and dug out his palmhusk and a pair of earbuds. He slipped them into his ears and turned the screen on.

“Home screen.” The buds informed him, “Two new messages, four missed calls.” With practiced fingers, Oliver pulled up Trollian and pressed a button. The buds promptly began reading out the messages:

-HeavymetalMeowbeast began trolling SightlessFirebird!-

HM: HEY BABE!!!! HM: GUESS WHAT?!?! I FOUND SOMETHING I THINK YOURE GONNA LOVE!! MESSAGE ME BACK ASAP!! LOVE YOU!! <>

-HeavymetalMeowbeast is idle-

Oliver smiled softly, thumbing the speech-to-text option. They raised the palmhusk closer and began to speak.

SF: Hello, sugargrub~. What is it you want to tell me~?

They waited, and were not disappointed by the swift response, which the buds quickly read out:

HM: OKAY OKAY OKAY SO!!!! HM: YOU KNOW YOUR ANCESTOR, THE DEADSCAR DUDE?!?! FUCKING EPIC NAME BY THE WAY!!! ANYWAY, I DECIDED TO DO SOME DIGGING ABOUT MY OWN BLOODLINE AND YOULL NEVER FUCKING GUESS WHO MY ANCESTOR IS!!!!!!!

SF: Hmm~. You’re right, darling, I can’t guess~. Do tell, though~.

HM: HIS NAME IS DMITRI “THE HIEROPHANT” AKSHAI, AND HE WAS THE FUCKING FOUNDER OF THE BLACK HAND!!!!! HOW FLIP FUCKING COOL IS THAT?!?!?

SF: Very 7lip 7ucking cool~. Did you 7ind out anything else~?

Oliver smiled softly to herself; she knew her morail’s ancestry already, she’d just neglected to mention it to him. Why else would she have chosen him as a morail? As her second in command at the Black Hand? Well… that’s why she chose him at first, but he’d grown on her exponentially since then. Not that he needed to know that.

HM: YEAH I DID!! I FOUND SOME CONNECTIONS OF HIS!! GOOD NEWS FOR US, MOST OF THEM ARE ALREADY BACK!!! MAYBE WE CAN TALK TO THEM, SEE WHAT THEY KNOW??? OR, I GUESS YOUD HAVE TO, SINCE IM ON TOUR!! YOU DONT HAVE TO THO!!

SF: Well, it depends~. Who are his connections~?

HM: OKAY GET THIS!! I FOUND RECORDS OF NONE OTHER THAN HOUNDING, BLUEGILL, SOME GUY NAMED BRIGAN, A DUDE CALLED THE IMPERIAL ENFORCER, AND A DUDE NAMED BLADEPEN!!!! HOW FUCKING COOL OF A NAME IS THAT?!?! HM: ANYWAY, COULDNT FIND MUCH ON THE LAST TWO, THEY WERE BARELY MENTIONED IN THE RECORDS I FOUND!!! SOME KIND OF COVER UP??? NOT TOTALLY SURE!! HM: ANY OF THEM RING A DONGSHOUTER??

SF: Hm~… Yes, I believe several o7 those ring a dongshouter~. Well done, BB, I’ll dig around and see what I can 7ind~.

HM: OKAY!! WE STILL ON FOR DATE NIGHT LATER???

SF: Absolutely, my love~. <> You’ll see me in a 7ew hours~.

HM: LMAO, OKAY!!! PALE FOR YOU OLLY!! TTYL!! <>

-HeavymetalMeowbeast ceased trolling SightlessFirebird!-

Oliver purred, raising his head as he felt the scuttlebuggy come to a stop.

“We’re here, sir.” The driver said, parking the vehicle and getting out. Oliver nodded, gathering his things and getting out of the buggy with the driver’s help.

“Thank you, dear.” They told the driver, pressing a few bills into their hand before they tapped their way to their hivestem’s front doors.

He pulled a card from his purse and took a moment to locate the scanner, before pressing the card against it. The scanner beeped, and he heard the doors swish open in front of him. He headed for the vertical ascension box, thumbing the button.

His fingers drummed against the head of his cane as he waited, humming to himself. When the box pinged, signaling the doors had opened, he ducked inside. He felt for the panel and ran his fingers upwards, until he felt the correct number under his fingers and pressed it.

The doors shut, and the box began to rise. As she waited, Oliver clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, thinking. Finally, the ride ended, and the doors opened. Oliver stepped out, into her own hive.

Oliver’s hive was a vast, penthouse apartment near the top of the hivestem. From what he’d been told, it had a lovely view of the city on one side, and the mountains on the other. He had everything, from a large mealblock to a hot tub on the balcony, to an entire block converted into an aviary for his pets and lusus.

After dropping his purse on the loungeplank, he headed to the mealblock and dug leftovers out of his mealvault. Thin slices of sashimi, cooked just enough to sear a crust of spices along the edges, and a bowl of sugar-glazed scarabs.

Oliver hummed, carrying his dinner to his studio slash office, and set it down next to his husktop, which he boot up. Popping a scarab in his mouth, he picked up a small remote and clicked it. He heard a beep, and his audio-crate began playing music at a low volume; it was thundering, screeching heavy metal, with intense bass and drums. A moment later, Oliver’s morail’s voice started howling out lyrics.

Smiling to themself, Oliver heard their husktop beep to indicate it was on and ready. With the screen reader as a guide, they located the desktop Trollian and opened it.

-SightlessFirebird began trolling TheDecaying!-

SF: Hello, my lovely dear Brigan~! You do not know me, but I am a 7riend, in dire need of your assistance~. I need in7ormation~.

There was a pause, before the husktop pinged.

TD: Wh_ is Brigan?

Oliver frowned.

SF: You are, my dear~.

TD: I am wh_?

SF: You are Brigan~!

TD: I am?

Oliver sighed, beginning to wonder if this was a good idea.

SF: Yes, my love, and I want to know- have you ever heard of a man called the Hierophant~?

TD: Wh_ are y_u?

SF: I am a 7riend, as I said~. Do you know the Hierophant~?

There was another pause, much longer than the first. Oliver began to get concerned after several minutes ticked by; he’d nearly finished his plate of sashimi by the time his husktop pinged.

TD: I d_ n_t kn_w y_u. Th- magg_ts whisp-r y_u ar- n_t t_ b- trust-d. A blind bird dr-ss-d in flam-s will _nly b- c_nsum-d by what mak-s th-m pr-tty. Fir-s di- wh-n th-y ar- suff_cat-d. Th- Hi-r_phant fl-w _n wax wings, t__ cl_s- t_ th_ flint and st--l that lit y_ur f-ath-rs, and n_w h- burns.* *(I do not know you. The maggots whisper you are not to be trusted. A blind bird dressed in flames will only be consumed by what makes them pretty. Fires die when they are suffocated. The Hierophant flew on wax wings, too close to the flint and steel that lit your feathers, and now he burns.)

Oliver sat back, surprised, before he scowled.

SF: So you *did* know him~?

TD: Knew who?

Oliver took a deep breath, a frustrated growl rolling in her throat.

SF: Thank you for your help, Brigan~.

TD: G__dbye, Blind Ph_-nix.

-TheDecaying ceased trolling SightlessFirebird!-

-TheDecaying has blocked SightlessFirebird!-

That was a waste of time, Oliver thought bitterly, mentally scratching Brigan off their list. They tossed another sugar-scarab into their mouth and chewed on it ruefully, thinking.

“An evil god nestled somewhere in time, A bloody spider- no warnings, no signs. Judgement day and the rotten child arrives, Eventually, laid bare are his crimes.

The records went up in flames, no turning back, ‘Cause I just had to see, was the spider’s bite watching me? In the mist, the facts twist, and bones do snap, as I lay on your altar, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding.”

Oliver’s morail’s voice cut through their thoughts and they turned their head towards the radio, which was still playing one of their morail’s albums. Oliver knew that album; Spades of Revolution, their latest release.

“A bloody spider…” Oliver repeated aloud, tapping their claws on the desk, “And a rotten child…” A wicked smile crawled across their face and they turned back to the husktop.

Dismissing the failed conversation, Oliver pulled up a new chatroom.

-SightlessFirebird began trolling WacobaRanchOffical!-

SF: Hello, Mr. Bluegill~. My name is Oliver, and I am a huge 7an o7 your work~. I was wondering i7 I could ask you a 7ew questions~?

Oliver sat back and waited. Having cleared her bowl and plate, she picked them up and took them to the mealblock sink. She stopped by the aviary to feed her birds and lusus, giving them each a minute of attention- they’d get more later, before sunrise- before heading back to the office.

She tapped a button on the side of her mouse, but the screen reader only read back the message she’s sent. She frowned.

SF: Mr. Kappal~? Are you there~? I don’t mean to be a bother, my dear man, I’m just very curious about a 7ew things~.

Still, no response came. Oliver waited several minutes, which stretched onto hours. He went and showered, did his entire hair and skin treatment routine, and got changed into a comfy robe.

When he checked again, nothing, and the clock informed him it was nearly time for his video date with his morail. Nibbling on his lip, he sent a final message.

SF: Well, just get to me when you can, sir~! I hope to hear 7rom you soon~!

No response ever came.

Somewhere, far away, in a hive by the seaside, a husktop pinged three times over the span of several hours. Only one of the residents heard it.

But he couldn’t stop staring at the blood on his hands.

[1337wtfomgbbq]

IDENTITY

Name: Sean Backley

Gender: male

Birth Date: September 13th 1957

Species: wizard

Blood Status: Muggleborn

Sexuality: Gay

Nationality: Irish

Residence: Bogside, Derry, Northern Ireland

THE MAGE

Wand: Blackthorn, Dragon Heartstring, 11 inches, Springy 

Miscellaneous Magical Abilities:

Wandless Magic

Sean doesn't consider it something that he'll need to learn. He also lacks the focus.

Nonverbal Magic

They learned nonverbal spells in sixth year and it took Sean only three weeks to fully master it.

Spell Inventing

He invented a spell that makes you able to toss fireballs that will burst over the intended target like a molotov cocktail. 'Molotno Ignat' is the incantation, and you're supposed to twirl your wand until a fireball forms, before you toss it using your wand. It'll burst over the intended target.

Apparition

His mother didn't have the money for him to take the classes. He prefers flying anyways, and Ethan will usually offer to side-along apparate with him.

Boggart Form: His mother crying at her kitchen table, all alone.

Riddikulus Form: A firework explodes right in front of her face and she starts laughing. Sean took quite some time to come up with something to counter the boggart.

Amortentia: (What does he smell like?)

Broomstick polish, burning gasoline, dirt, the smell right after a firework explodes.

Amortentia: (What does he smell?)

Herbs, the smell of old books, broomstick polish, leather.

Specialized/Favourite Spells:

Bombarda

Reducto

Confringo

Episkey

Finestra

Impedimenta

Lumos

Stupefy

APPERANCE

Height: 6"0'

Weight: 167 lbs

Physique: On the lean side with broad shoulders

Hair Colour: blond

Hair Cut: short sides and back of the neck, while the top hair stays longer.

Eye Colour: dark brown

Skin Tone: pale

Body Modifications: Lost one of his lower front teeth during summer break of ‘72 during a brawl with british soldiers.

Inventory: Wand, both wizard and muggle money, pack of cigarettes, a lighter or matches.

Fashion: Mostly convers sneakers, jeans and whatever top he has on hand. His clothes are mostly darker colours and pretty much all hand me downs or from the local church, so they're all patched up and worn in some way or another.

School Uniform: Has his shirt often not put into his pants all the way, tie either untied or he took it off because he hates wearing ties. His uniform is second hand too.

Faceclaim/Voiceclaim: Timothy Olyphant

PERSONALITY

Attentive, Confident, Stubborn, Brave, Honest, Determined, Hot-headed, Cynical, Oppinionated, Protective, Creative.

ALLEGIANCES

Hogwarts House: Gryffindor, though he was a hat stall between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw.

Affiliations/Organizations:

The Backley Family, the IRA, the Derry gang, the gryffindor quidditch team, the Bellycastle Bats.

Professions:

Helped around his mothers shop all throughout his childhood and hogwarts years because his mom couldn't afford to hire someone at the time.

Legman and supporter of the IRA (1970-1981 )

Chaser of the Bellycastle Bats (1976-1981)

Class Proficiencies (O.W.L Grade):

HOGWARTS INFORMATION (1969-1976)

Astronomy: Poor

Charms: Acceptable

DADA: Outstanding

Herbology: Dreadfull

History of Magic: Troll

Potions: Exceeding Expectations

Transfiguration: Outstanding

Electives:

Ancient Runes (3rd): Exceeding Expectations

Care of Magical Creatures (3rd): Acceptable

Alchemy (6th): Outstanding

Dropped Subjects (6th year): Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy, History of Magic and Herbology.

Quidditch: Sean was Chaser on his house team since his second year, and captain from his 3rd year onward until his graduation. He was poached and later played for the Ballycastle Bats as a chaser.

He's a natural talent on the broom and with the game. His gameplay is pretty quick, almost rapid-fire, he's extremely strategic and can see moves of the opposition ahead of time, almost like a seer.

Favorite Professors:

Ivan Dreyfus

Professor Dreyfuß, who taught Ancient Runes and Alchemy in hogwarts, was the person that accompanied Sean, Liam and Odhran and their parents to diagon alley. Because of his missing father Sean latched onto Professor Dreyfuß as a father figure. They would often meet in Professor Dreyfuß' office and just talk, especially in his 6th and 7th year under the guise of Alchemy.

Minerva McGonagall

Sean had huge respect for his head of house and considers her, like his mother, as a woman more than worthy of all respect. He'll even call her Ma'am instead of Professor sometimes.

Later he even admitted that he's extremely thankfull for the fact that Professsor McGonagall didn't give up on him, as his only wish in life was to work for the IRA.

Seranius Kelman Uffer

DADA teacher in his fifth year was one that really knew what he was doing and managed to make the subject engaging and entertaining, he was strict but fair. Sean learned the most about the subject under him and Uffer overall reminded him of his local priest.

Least Favourite Professors:

Cuthbert Binns

Sean would start out the lesson by putting his robe onto his history book to use as a pillow. He's interested in reading up on magical history events during his off time but he gave up in the subject.

Horace Slughorn

Sean hates Slughorn with a passion and Slughorn trying to 'get him for his collection' didn't help his case. He still likes potions and is rather good at the subject, he just can't stand Slughorns overall personality.

Thurman Starling

It’s not really personal, Sean just doesn't know why they even have to take Astronomy in the first place.

RELATIONSHIPS

Mother: Maureen Backley (née Accling)

- Born April 11th 1934

- Maureen is a muggle who owns a convenience store in Londonderry and who worked with the IRA from the 60s to at least the mid 70s

- She met Sean's father in 1950 and they got married in 1953, merely two months before she got pregnant the first time.

- Her husbands death in 1966 hit her and the family rather hard and she relied on their local church and community quite heavily to guide her through those trying times. But it also caused her to be extremely close to her boys.

- Her youngest son Henry being killed on ‘Bloody Sunday’ 1972 marked the beginning of her turning her back on the IRA.

- 1974 Andrew walked out on his mother and brother as he refused to turn his back on the IRA.

FC: Paula Malcomson

Father: Robert Backley

- Born August 27th 1931

- He met Maureen in 1950 and they got married in 1953, mere weeks before Maureen got pregnant with their first child.

- He was killed in 1966 by members of the UVF, while he was out running an errand with sean.

FC: Thomas Kretschmann

Brother: Andrew Backley

- Andrew is three years older than Sean and shows no magical abilities, like his mother

- Born December 23rd 1954

- Comes wholely after his father

- It was his idea to go to the protest on 30th January 1972, though he fully puts the blame of Henry's death on the british soldiers

- Andrew walked out on his family in 1974 as he could feel them turning their backs on the IRA.

- He married sometime between 1974 and 1980, a woman who's family was involved with the Ulster Liberation Army.

- He asked Sean for help with an IRA attack in 1980, which caused Sean's death in march of 1981. Andrew said that Sean 'died for the cause' and his mother never spoke to him again.

FC: Brad Barron Renfro

Brother: Henry Backley

- Henry is five years younger than Sean and showed some magical abilities. Sean was sure Henry would get a letter to hogwarts too.

- Born August 14th 1962

- Henry was a really kind and hardworking kid. He was always excited to help his mom around the shop.

- He ideolized his brothers and always wanted to be with them, he listened to their various storys with avid interest.

- He was really excited when he was allowed to come with Maureen and Sean to Platform 9 3/4 and really wanted to go to hogwarts too.

- He was sadly killed on ‘Bloody Sunday’ 1972 at the age of ten.

FC: Ricky Schroder

Love Interests:

Bonny Lennox (they went out a few times between 71 and 72. Sean stopped accepting her offers and didn’t show any interest, romantic or otherwise, for her after bloody sunday. Bonny didn’t stop pursuing him until 73)

FC: Danica McKellar

Appart from Bonny he also dated a few girls in his year and beyond, but never longer than three weeks, including: Tillie Pertinger, Jenny Butler and Cary Dendron.

Aaron Molloy (A lot of kissing and groping during Sean’s gay panic 72 to 74)

FC: River Phoenix

Ethan Larken (They basically were always meant to be but took some time to get there. Sean knew for sure in 74 that he only wanted Ethan. They did the leg work to get together during 74 and 75, but took until almost 76 to get together. Sean never came out as gay, and they never made anything official but they were in a relationship 1975-1981, moved in together in 77.)

FC: Fred Savage

Best Friends: The Derry Gang, consisting of: Ethan Larken, Liam Bachram, Odhran Miller, Shain Aberdeen, Thomas Holton and Ryan Doxey. 

Ethan Larken, Aaron Molloy and Edith Towel are so close to them however that they could be considered members of their gang too. Ben Redgate was also on the quidditch team and even though they were two years appart in age Sean considered him a rather close freind.

Rival: The other quidditch teams, The Slytherin gang of their year around Charles Devin. 

Enemies: Like, the British  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Dormmates:

Shain Aberdeen

Ryan Doxey

Liam Bachram

Aaron Molloy

Pets: An owl he got at the beginning of his third year, which he called 'Alex'

Closest Friends: Ethan, Liam, Odhran and Aaron.

BACKGROUND/HISTORY

- His early life was shaped by the mounting conflict in Northern Ireland.

- His father was very involved with the IRA.

- Sean was raised strictly catholic causing him to repress his sexuality all throughout his life.

- He went to primary school with Liam and Odhran, who, coincidentally, life on the same street as Sean.

- His father was killed by a member of the UVF in 1966 as they were out running an errand. Sean saw the whole thing.

- During the August riots of 1969 Sean saw a young man get shot and later die.

Anything after that, concerning his time at Hogwarts I’ll start posting storys about on my blog. 

No, my blog won’t turn into this, it’ll still be a hot mess of whatever the fuck I like and incorrect clone wars quotes, no worries.

Template and inspo to finally post this OC by @lizzieparkerhphm

[herpronuonsarefemslash]

Teaser for “Hop, Skip, and a Jump”

A Bellamione fic that explores what happens when the Department of Mysteries duels end in Hermione taking Bellatrix down with a whip, which leaves an impression on Bella when she's sent back to Azkaban. Luna invents a longer-range time turner, Hermione is lonely after divorcing Ron, and the Black sisters were just legendary for getting up to gay nonsense... https://www.patreon.com/posts/48881466 Harry is thrashing in Remus grip, refusing to believe it and trying to dive through the Veil. Hermione takes in the other members of her merry band of child soldiers.

Ron's a mess. Black eye. Split lip. Bloody knuckles. Dark red staining the tips of his sweaty ginger hair where it dips against a cut on his forehead. Looks like a soccer hooligan after a riot. Made excellent use of that table leg when he lost his wand, though.Full marks.

Ginny displayed raw elemental force with wind, cold and lightning that her tiny body shouldn't have been able to contain and reflexes none of them could keep pace with.

Luna was bloody terrifying. She nearly killed a man with an origami dragon made out of interdepartmental memos. Hermione nearly threw up after her first real curse connected, after the first time that she did magic that truly harmed another human being. Yet Luna simply cocked her head and looked curiously at the dragon and was about to pet it when it dissolved.Creativity and lack of inhibitions are useful in a soldier, Hermione supposes.

Tonks is badly hurt, but she's breathing at least. What the fuck was that curse? Dumbledore has been letting her read up on Dark Arts, supervised, and she's never heard of those elements being combined. If there's a person spending their rainy Sundays with a notepad working out new ways to use dark arts, it's probably Bellatrix Lestrange.

A magically amplified voice rings throughout the room.

"I killed Sirius Black, I killed Sirius Black, I killed Sirius Black!"

Harry slips out of Remus' grip and then he's gone.

Fucking invisibility cloak. One of these days, I'm going to hang him with it. ----- Never used an Unforgivable Curse, have you, boy?" she chuckles.

The dark witch's hand is not far from her own wand. She's taunting Harry about having to mean it when he does dark magic. 

Pathos versus logos, one French scholar decided when studying the topic. Someone can do ordinary magic emotionlessly, acting out just an idea. Not dark magic. Dark spellwork takes raw emotion and blood magic and dark rites more so.

Which also brings her to the disturbing realization that Bellatrix is not nearly as broken as everyone thinks, and at the same time, she's so much more broken than anyone realized.She's never seen Harry this angry, or this torn up, and he can't summon a cruciatus for a woman who really deserves one. 

Bellatrix can let one drop from her lips like its nothing, ten seconds after telling a joke. She's not cold. She's not empty or numb or hollow. Bellatrix Black Lestrange is just too much. She's always boiling over.

She's not dangerous despite being insane because it's not a handicap. Bellatrix is dangerous because she can use her own insanity. Uses her instability as just one more weapon. To be able to do the things she does, to channel wildly different emotions on a moment's notice like that... ----- Hermione spots a bit of velvet rope on the ground, not far from one of the entrances.

"Accio rope," she whispers, calling it slowly into her hand.Bellatrix's fingers are curling around that clawed wand of hers. Any moment now, she's going to make use of the fact that Harry's standing there, barking out curses he doesn't understand the mechanics of, his lip trembling. She's going to kill him.

"Flagellum ingis!" Hermione shouts and the rope in her hand catches fire. Crimson, bloody-looking flames. What had been a few inches of fat velvet is now a thirty-foot coil of nasty-looking black leather. The frayed end becomes a hard metal handle. She swings and, by some miracle, connects. ----- Shacklebolt stares at her for a long time, like he doesn't believe her.

There's a knock on the door.

"Enter," he calls over his shoulder. It's Tonks, wobbling on crutches with an expandable sack under her arm. Her typically pink hair is a messy gray and her metamorphagus skills seem to be trying to shift her dislocated jaw back into shape, against the bracing charm the healers put on her.

"Tonks!"

"Wotcher, Hermione," she chuckles.

"Get it?" Kingsley asks.

"Kreacher wasn't happy about it, but yes."

She tips the sack upside down and drops a huge book on the table. It's bound in crimson silk and black lace. No title on the spine, instead two words. Tojous pur. Always pure. The motto of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. "Looks a bit like fancy knickers, don't it?" Tonks jokes. ----- When the Black Grimoire teleports itself into Hermione's lap, no one's laughing. Arthur Weasley goes white as a sheet and Remus's eyes flicker gold momentarily and she could swear she heard a canine's whine.

"Hermione," Remus says, his voice scratchy and small. "Please. That's..."

"Dangerous," Arthur fills in.

They're all looking at her like she's Darth Vader, suddenly. Like she has to be talked down. Like she's suddenly the most dangerous person in the room. She looks at the book. What spells are in this, anyway, that it being in her lap makes the entire Order of the Phoenix flinch?

"I don't want it!" she protests.

The book teleports itself again. Where it goes, none of them can figure out.

----- The book comes back again the night before the battle. She asks Tonks over to try to get rid of it. "S'not something to be afraid of, little devil," Tonks says. "Doesn't have to be." Little devil is Tonks' nickname for her, after finding a photo of Hermione gothed-out at age eleven, a few weeks before she got her letter. She's stopped using it around others. "I'd think you'd hate the Blacks," Hermione mumbles.Tonks sighs, shifting her skirts out of the way and sitting down on the bench beside her. Hogsmeade is empty. Cleared out so fast that everyone left almost everything. They've been eating like kings, and it helps. Tonks especially is thriving. Crazy bitch decided to put the witch-or-wizard debate to bed for all time by rejoining the war nine days after giving birth, slinging spells while leaking milk into her clothes. "I think that'd be like using a time turner to kill my grandparents," Tonks admits. She puffs at her hair, which goes pink, then blue, then green, then turns to something rather like glass. "Being a Black gave me this ability.” "Let's take a look, shall we?" Tonks squeezes her hand tight, and together they open the grimoire. "I'll keep you safe." ----- She's staggering out of the Great Hall. Bloody. Aching. Alive. Before she can find a banister to lean on, Tonks slams into her. Hermione wails. "Sorry," Tonks squeaks. "Just ribs," she grumbles. "What is it?" "Page two hundred seventeen. Knowing what that curse looks like? Saved my life. Remus' too." Hermione huffs."Next time you're trying to thank me, let's talk, all right?" The Grimoire appears in her trunk on the way back to Hogwarts to re-take her seventh year. This time, it won't leave, even when ordered to. ----- Everything is pain and exhaustion. But Rose is gorgeous. She's everything. Hermione fumbles for her wand, gathers the birth blood into the air and then whispers out an ancient curse with her lips pressed to her eldest's tiny, sticky head. Not all curses are meant to hurt the one at the center of them. The Mother's Curses are darker than night and because of the blood linking caster to target, far more powerful than ordinary spells. ------ They split after Hugo's born. It's more to do with her campaign for Minister, which she loses by a hair, than the 'neglect' of Hugo who she keeps so close she thinks that Molly would have blushed. As divorces go, it's bloodless. Pureblood-muggleborn marriages can be rocky, of course, and she produced heirs for the Weasley line. So from the traditionalist point of view, the muggle divorce and the Gringotts paperwork don't mean much. The same ceremony showed that their children's blood bears more of her magic than his. For that reason, or some other reason, Ron never bad-mouths her in public. She never moves to have their names changed to merely 'Granger'. She hears 'mudblood' whispered for the first time in a long while. ----- On one side of her desk, the plaque bears bold green letters that thrum with sorcery. Hermione Jean Granger, Minister of Magic On the other side, visible only in the presence of a Dumbledore's Army coin, she scratched a second marking in one of Tolkien's half-right, half-wrong scripts of Elvish. here sits a servant of the elves ----- "WHAT DO YOU TAKE ME FOR, A BLACK?" a woman shrieks outside her office. Hermione groans, dropping her fork back into her takeout container.Harry chuckles, glancing up from his case file. "Your damn fault," she mutters."You needed the help, old friend. Be a shame if paperwork killed you after all this." "It'd be the most evil thing that tried, so it makes sense." She flicks her wand at her office door. "In here, both of you!" she barks. ----- "Sarah?" Hermione asks, desperate to hear a human voice across the shuffling of papers. "Yes, ma'am?" "Something's been bugging me about...the incident." Missy stiffens. "What?" she asks, flipping another sheet face down."You said, what do you take me for, then added the word Black." There's a polite throat-clearing so familiar sounding that has Hermione scrambling for her wand and leveling it at a sixteen-year-old girl. "Right. Sorry," she mumbles. "Sounded a bit like..." "Umbridge," the girl laughs. "Professor Longbottom and Professor Abbot complain too." "I keep telling her that's going to get her jinxed," the boy next to her huffs. "Interrupting people who that lunatic tortured in mid-lecture rather than just raising her hand." "Shut up, Ballard." "Go on...uh...""Myn," the girl chirps, offering her hand. "Mynara Wallsworth." Hermione shakes it and then bows. "Enlighten us, wise one." "It's just that the Blacks are notorious. There's a bunch of scratches on the sixth-year Slytherin dorm's walls. Hard to tell with fading, but at least twenty. According to legend, it's one mark for each girl who got a hat trick." "A what?" "Each girl who snogged all three of the Black sisters during school."

[svprncva]

𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙴𝚁

𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙴: Alex 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙽𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚂: She/Her 𝙰𝙶𝙴: 26 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴𝚉𝙾𝙽𝙴: CDT (GMT-5) 𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙶𝙴𝚁𝚂: None

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁

𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙴: Sirius Black 𝙰𝙶𝙴: 21 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙳 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂: Pureblood ( begrudgingly ) 𝙳𝙴𝚂𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙵𝙰𝙲𝙴 𝙲𝙻𝙰𝙸𝙼: Samuel Larsen, Jordan Rodrigues, Sebastian de Souza 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙴𝙴𝚁 𝙿𝙰𝚃𝙷 & 𝙲𝚄𝚁𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝚃𝙸𝚃𝙻𝙴:           Sirius Black in a position of authority, can you believe it? He certainly couldn’t, not when the Cannons first approached him about accepting a coaching position. Sure, he had a brief stint as a beater on Gryffindor’s team, but a poor practice attendance record and a penchant for less-than-textbook sportsmanship on the pitch ensured that he didn’t last a season beyond his fourth year. He was by no means an authority on technique or strategy when the job was handed to him, though judging by the Cannons’s previous season, no one on the team seemed to have a grasp on such matters.            Vastly under-qualified, Sirius accepted the position as assistant coach and started the next week. After a single day on the pitch, he realized why they had come to him. They didn’t need another mastermind, they needed unity, and Sirius’s reputation for rallying the dead preceded him. If anyone could spark a flame from a dying ember, it’s Sirius Black. And if they need a morale booster to masquerade as a coach, he’s more than happy to wear orange.  𝚀𝚄𝙸𝙳𝙳𝙸𝚃𝙲𝙷 𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙴𝙶𝙸𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴: Chudley Cannons  𝚆𝙰𝚁 𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙴𝙶𝙸𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴: Order of the Phoenix  𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙰𝚁𝙲:           There are a thousand ways to sugar coat it, but quite frankly, life isn’t easy for Sirius at the moment. He’s always been cursed to be trapped between who he was and who he aspires to be, but since graduating from Hogwarts, each year has come with apathetic standardization of the world. Gone are the days where black was black and white was white. Now gray surrounds him, dogs his every step and haunts his dreams.             See, when he was younger, his moral compass was perfectly aligned. No, he wasn’t a saint, but it was easy enough to look around and figure out what he should be doing, thinking, saying. Anything that angered his family and made his friends grin was bound to be a step in the right direction, another leap towards becoming the man he always felt he could be. Redundancy solidified certain behaviors, but after he stepped foot off the Hogwarts Express for the final time, he was forced to realize that a life can’t be dictated by the reactions of other people, try as he may. Graduation meant it was time to carve out a place for himself in the world -- this time without real-time feedback from professors, friends, enemies. Sirius had the rest of his life to establish, and the freedom of choice began to take its toll after a year or two of liberties.             Never did Sirius expect freedom to be his downfall, but as drunken nights gave way to midday sunrises, he could feel himself sinking into the guilt of the stagnant. He’d spent the entirety of his teenage years in the pursuit of becoming a good man, and he spent the first few years of his adult life believing he had somehow achieved that goal. But the empty whiskey bottles and crumpled bed sheets read otherwise, and someone was wise enough to tell him that not everyone that happened to join the Order was inherently good. It jarred him, that conversation. War beckons good men to conduct bad deeds -- and at the end, when the victor has been declared, who is to say that the guilt of those deeds won’t outweigh their intent?            Extrinsic guidance ripped away, Sirius was forced to begin the arduous process of making his own mistakes, learning the weight of regret, the sleeplessness of second thoughts. It motivated him initially, but a lack of experience brought about failure. He applied to be an Auror and was promptly rejected. He worked at the Leaky for a fortnight before throwing in the literal towel; the regulars came with more baggage than there was room. He even tried to work as an auto mechanic in Muggle London only to quit after being told on the daily to fabricate problems for income. The entire world was open to him, but he has yet to find a place within it.             So when the Cannons offered him a coaching position, no matter how utterly absurd, Sirius accepted. He’d been recruited, told that there was a chance he could bring value to a team. He would never let it show, but he’s desperate to feel that sense of belonging he felt five years ago in the Common Room without a care in the world except for how to sneak in his next pack of smokes. After giving up his family and feeling friendships weaken amongst the war effort, he needs someplace -- someone -- to call home. And little does he know just how vulnerable that need makes him to the influence of the Insidio phenomenon. He’s staunchly against the mission of the Death Eaters, but he’s in search of open arms and with a high enough dose, he just may find them on the wrong side of the war. 

𝙸𝙽 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙸𝙴𝚆:

“'ELLO, HOWDY, HI - CAN I SPEAK TO YOU FOR A MOMENT? I JUST NEED A MOMENT OF YOUR TIME, HI, HELLO - HEY, I’M WITH THE QUIBBLER, YEAH! WOULD– GEEZ, WOULD YOU LIKE TO ANSWER A FEW QUESTIONS! IT’S FOR THE SPORTS COLUMN, ON PAGE 17, YOU CAN’T MISS IT!”

Sirius laughed as the overeager reporter stumbled up to him, seemingly tripping over invisible shoelaces. “The Quibbler, yeah? You’ve got about as good a reputation as my team,” he said. There was no need to elaborate on which team. His jumper was that awful shade of Cannon Orange, a brand unto itself. “Happy to give you a bit of content, though I fully expect to be front and center on the cover.” A quick smile, effortless if a bit tired. The Cannons had been grappling for pitch space recently, and that meant everyone’s schedule had to be... flexible, to say the least. He’d seen more sunrises than sunsets this week. 

The reported nodded and brushed off the lapels of his coat. For as much a mess as he appeared, Sirius should have expected the upcoming boom of another innocent-yet-abrasively-delivered question. Should have. Instead, his brows shot towards his hairline as a stranger shouted at him from point-black distance. “HOW COME YA ALWAYS HANGING AROUND HERE?! DO YA WORK HERE OR SOMETHIN’?”

“Something like that. The Cannons keep putting galleons in my vault at the very least,” he answered, consciously keeping his tone level. It’d always been easy for Sirius to become swept up in the tides of other people, especially those with louder personalities. If he weren’t careful (or exhausted), the interview would devolve from interrogation to screaming match. “Sirius Black, assistant coach of the Chudley Cannons. If you need a snazzy byline, feel free to call me Quidditch’s Savior.”

The reporter softened a bit and almost looked as if he were going to laugh. But then his quill touched parchment, his brow furrowed, and a second later another question errupted from his lips. “WHAT’S YOUR GOAL, THEN?! WHAT’RE YOU TRYIN’ TO DO? WHAT’S YOUR DYIN’ DREAM, PAL? WHAT’S THE POINT OF IT ALL?”

"Getting awfully philosophic for a sports column, aren’t we?” Again, Sirius’s voice was light, but something within him had seized upon hearing the question. What’s the point of it all? He’d asked himself that nearly every night for the past year, and he wasn’t any closer to finding an answer now than he was then. 

Quidditch wasn’t that deep, no need to go scurrying about the shadows. He’d keep things light. It was his job, after all. “I’m rebuilding the best team Quidditch has ever seen. Everyone’s counted the Cannons out for the season, and it hasn’t even started yet. I can’t wait for the first game when you all see what I’ve been seeing out on the pitch during practice. This year’s team has spirit to match skill, and we’ll be taking the cup this season.” A quick flutter of something like hope erupted within him. It was a fool’s hope, he knew that, everyone knew that, but it felt good to drown doubt with conviction. “That’s a promise, by the way.” 

Another flurry of the quill, another shifting of the reporter’s weight as if the world was forcing him off balance. Sirius slipped his fingers into his jeans and found himself rocking back onto his heels. He was about to walk away when the next question hit him like a bludger from a blindspot. “YA GOT ANYONE YOU’RE GOIN’ HOME TO? YOU HAPPY? YOU TAKEN? THEY FAMOUS? WHAT, A GUY CAN’T ASK A QUESTION?!”

Blind-sighted but laughing, Sirius clapped a hand against the reporter’s shoulder. “I’m not sure if you’re trying to start up a gossip column on the side or if you’re making an offer. Either way, color me flattered. But the answer depends on the night, and considering we’re on the record, I’d rather avoid giving you a straight answer.” He winked and let his hand fall back to his side. 

Across the field, a separate voice thundered: “Coach Black! Practice started ten minutes ago!” 

“That’s my cue,” Sirius said. “You know where to find me if you have any follow up questions, don’t be a stranger.” As Sirius walked away from the interview, the question unanswered nagged him: You happy? He swallowed it and stepped into the locker room. Maybe it was a good day to grab a broom and join his players on the pitch. 

𝙼𝙸𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙻𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙴𝙾𝚄𝚂:

PLAYLIST

PINTEREST

MOCK BLOG

AESTHETIC

BAD HABITS

GOOD HABITS

EXPRESSIONS OF LOVE

(LINKS TO COME AFTER ACCEPTANCES)

[masterofmagnetism]

my head is the room, and the room's filled with broken glass (oh, the pieces i can't put back)

“She’d never seen him make a mistake, never seen even for a second Erik Lehnsherr lose a scrap of the control he always seemed to keep a tight leash on.”

WHO: Erik Lehnsherr, Jean Grey @jeaniegreysummers​, and Lorna Dane @mistressxfmagnetism​ References to Kara Danvers, Alex Danvers, Lena Luthor, Scott Summers, Maddie Pryor, & Charles Xavier WHEN: 14 days before [redacted] WHERE: Genosha WHAT: A father-daughter sparring session goes terribly wrong.  One slip of the tongue brings a two-decade-long deception crashing down, leaving no one unscarred. In which Erik royally fucks up many many times, Lorna discovers the truth of what happened to her mother and stepfather, and Jean questions whether her trust has been well-placed.  WORD COUNT: 13.1k WARNINGS: Strap in: violence, gaslighting, manipulation, brainwashing, plane crashes, murder, PTSD, death mentions, trauma, infidelity, abuse, and egregious acts of hypocrisy.

ERIK: Peace was a fragile thing.

Sure, they'd won their island; won independence, freedom, safety, a breath of fresh air (well, fresh-ish; one could only ask for so much when New York City sat just a fifteen minute ferry ride away).  Genosha was growing nicely, people were settling in, and everything seemed to be going well.

Erik should be happy, but instead he found himself agitated and on edge.  Complacency was dangerous.  Faith in humanity's ability to leave them alone had always been hard to come by, and a few signed pieces of paper did little to ease his worries; the Native Americans had gotten their treaties, too, for all the good it did them. With humans, danger was always lurking somewhere on the horizon, and he refused to lower his guard.

Which is where the training came in.  Mutants couldn't understand their powers better without using them, without pushing their limits and seeing how far they could go.  Ric had gone from quaking buildings to dragging an island out of the sea.  Jean had the Phoenix at her disposal, sure, but even outside of it she was classed as an Omega-level telekinetic.  No upper limit.  Here, where it was safe, she needed to push what she could already do.  ( He needed to know how far she could be pushed. )  And Lorna... well, he'd seen her do far more than she was doing now at a much younger age. She could do more, be so much more.

A good father, a good leader, would help them find out just how far they could go.

The last set of projectiles successfully deflected, Erik retaliated against their joint attack with one of his own, reversing the magnetic fields around his daughters' feet to off-balance them as he sent a return volley of his own.

JEAN: The war was won. That’s what Jean kept repeating to herself, in the brief moments she had in peace and relative quiet. The war was won, and yet she hadn’t stopped for even a second, barely an instant, to look around at what they had accomplished. Her days and nights blended together as she attended to training and patients at Sara Memorial Hospital, Genosha growing up around her as she built their new healthcare system from the ground up. She was desperately out of her depth and she knew it, but the level of education most mutants could hope to attain was slim to none. The people who arrived in her department wanted to better themselves, and she would do everything she could to pass on her knowledge, soon finding that her abilities could be used in new and unique ways to aid her mission.

The Phoenix would protect her. She would protect her family, her country, her people. Jean knew that now, without a shadow of a doubt (maybe a small shadow). The Phoenix would protect her, but the minutia of creating this new life? That was down to Jean, and she had been neglecting her training up to this point. Luckily, she had one of the best teachers in the world on hand, and a fellow student just as eager to refine her abilities.

“Are we playing dirty, Erik?” Jean called out, an exhilarated smile on her face as she pushed out her hands, focusing on the atoms in the air around her and forcing them to steady so she could float above the ground. “I thought we were going for a warm up round, first.” Of course, if he was going to play hardball -- as she knew he would -- Jean wasn’t going to hold back. She looked over at Lorna, winking at her as she formed a telepathic link between them.

Think of it as comms, she thought at Lorna. How are we getting around this?

LORNA: Winning Genosha had felt like a dream, and for the first few weeks Lorna was waiting to wake up from it. Waiting for their victory to be snatched out from under them. The war was won, but how long had they been at war? She didn't know how to be at peace any more. She didn't trust that it would last. Even in times when she felt unbreakable and untouchable, she was angry. Angry at the thought that they would try. Because she was sure someone would.

Training with Jean and Erik was a good distraction from that. She had seen Erik do things she could imagine having the power to do, but she was sure that anything he could do, she could too. He'd simply had longer to train, she reasoned. She could become stronger, especially with the right teacher. And now, she finally had the time to learn.

"Erik doesn't know how to play fair," Lorna countered, pushing straight back against his magnetic fields. She'd found that they seemed to reflect each other in that way; the polarity of her powers mirrored his, but perfectly opposite. She couldn't completely undo it, but it held her steady for now.

Hearing Jean in her mind, she glanced over with a grin of her own. Distract him. Break his concentration and I can try reversing it on him. Try being the operative word. This was unfamiliar to her, but hell if she wouldn't mimic what she felt. Unless you've got a better plan?

ERIK: He grinned across the field at the two of them as they stabilized themselves. "No such thing as playing dirty, Jeannie. You play to win or you play to lose." Erik tilted his head, felt his powers branch out and sink into the ground beneath them.

"Besides, you two don't need a warm-up round. Not my girls." Even now, he could see by their shared glances, the two of them were scheming. No doubt courtesy of Jean's telepathy. He'd expected that, though.

Lorna's magnetism pressed at his own, a tug that required actual work not to cede to.

An idea took shape, and Erik smirked before wrapping his powers around a piece of scrap metal in Lorna's side of the bubble, creeping up from the ground. He could resist her pull. It couldn't, not without direction, and he gave it none, letting it sail toward his daughter and pick up speed.

JEAN: Scott kept looking at her, lately. She couldn’t track his gaze from behind the shades, but she’d never had to in order to feel his eyes on her. He kept looking at her, reaching out over the kitchen table as they sat reading or eating dinner, leaning against her side when they walked. He wanted her to talk about it, she knew. He wanted her to let it go, wanted her to stop crawling back into that space where she bottled everything up, shoved it into cardboard boxes barely contained in the back of her mind and pretended desperately that they were never there in the first place.

(It was always Charles who told her to control it. Erik was the one extending a hand, that sharp smile on his face, suggesting that she was a little too tense for her own good, that letting off just a little steam would help. It was always Erik that had faith she wouldn’t crack the world in half when that happened.)

The problem with letting go, though, was she needed something to let go of. Jean’s family -- her biological family, at least -- were gone, dead, buried. All of them were dust with the exception of Maddie, and Jean felt nothing. Unless Scott, Erik or Maddie told their friends, Jean wasn’t going to be the one to divulge her latest failing (and tragedy). She had other things to focus on.

There was always another battle to focus on.

They’d fought so hard for this that Jean was content to focus all she had on the here and now, in this moment of relative peace. (A small part of her mind wondered how Erik could slip off Lorna’s tongue so easily when even as a child herself, it had been preceded by hesitation, always ... Erik, always on the brink of something else.) “There are different ways to win, though,” she called back, sending a telepathic confirmation to Lorna regarding her advice. “Alex Danvers seems a little irritated at you for throwing her friend down an elevator shaft.”

It was teasing, of course. Hurting people was never something Jean revelled in, at least not when she was in her right mind, but … well, she had to admit there was something appealing in it. “But if we are playing to win, you have to know my dirty is a little different to yours.” Only a little, and there was far less distance between them than Jean had once thought, but where Erik used a little more physical means of intimidation, Jean was all mental. “I might not be able to use telepathy, but there are other ways to get into your head. Everyone’s got secrets, right?”

LORNA: The last year had been a turbulent one for Lorna in more ways than she could count. But a prominent one stood before her. Erik. Magneto. Her father. Lorna had known for a long time that her dad wasn't her dad. That Magneto was her father. But for a long time she'd rejected it, rejected him, in the way she'd felt rejected by him. Abandoned even. Those letters, coming just once a year, was not enough to make him her dad. But these past months... Lorna had nearly slipped up more than once, even if Erik rolled off the tongue easier than anything else still. But after everything that had happened... He was finally feeling like her dad.

And they were more alike than Lorna had ever realised. Lorna had been told most of her life how much she looked like her mother. How she took after her. But she had seen this year that those things that no one could place came from her father. Her anger, her stubborn sense of justice. Her instabilities. She saw them mirrored in him more than she'd like to admit. But it gave her insight into him beyond what one ought to have in just a year.

"Definitely," she added to Jean. Although she was insanely curious about what Jean was saying, Lorna knew that she had no time to listen. Jean was giving her an opportunity, she had to use it. She wanted to know about these secrets, but she didn't have a chance right now. Not if she wanted to win this fight. She pushed hard, reversing the pull of their magnetic fields until he was thrown off. Feeling the scrap metal sailing into her own field, Lorna glanced over her shoulder and using the momentum it had already gained, flung it towards Erik, hard and fast.

ERIK: There were pieces of him in all of his children. Not just genetically, not in the literal sense--Jean and Scott were his as surely as any of them, blood ties or not.  Each bore some glimmer of his best and worst qualities.

Lorna had his powers, of course. She had his drive to protect what was theirs, to pull no punches against enemies that would see them hurt or killed, his ruthlessness. There were other things, too, things he'd caught glimpses of here and there over the last few months; hints of the waves of manic focus and the subsequent crashes. They didn't talk about it, just like they didn't talk about Erik's drinking or Lorna's risk-taking or the million other unhealthy coping mechanisms they'd both collected.

Scott had his strategic mind, the sort that could fine-tune plans until they were elegant pieces of art rather than a simple series of hopeful steps. He had that charisma that drew people to follow him, into peace and war alike. He had the same distrust of authority figures, even the ones he cared for, after years of being abused at their hands, that creeping paranoia that colored Erik's thoughts more often than he cared to admit.

Jean had his fire--and he had Jean's, now, in the most literal of senses.  Jean, who had known him longer than any of the others. Whose care for those she loved was enough to drag them back from the grave, who welcomed Erik back with open arms even after he'd left in a way that the others had taken longer to do.  She'd been in his head, after all, one of only two people he trusted enough to let his guard down with; at least until the Phoenix. (It didn't make sense, he knew, because it was hers more than his, but it shushed that there was no need to worry her, no need for her to know all his secrets, and so the guards stayed up more often than not, these days.)

It was easy to get into their heads, because they were so much like his own. But he'd overlooked the all-too-simple detail that that connection went both ways.

Jean was right--she didn't need the telepathy to get in his head. She mentioned Alex Danvers, mentioned secrets, and had he been prepared for that sort of conversation, he might have been able to keep the expression of shock-guilt-annoyance off his face. But he wasn't, so he didn't, knocked off-balance by the non-sequitur.

How much did she know? That was the important question, and even though he got his face back in order quickly, his mind was slow to follow, branching out into questions and hypotheticals and what-ifs.

"I don't know what you--" he started, only to be cut off by a sudden push from Lorna, followed shortly thereafter by the piece of scrap he'd tossed in her direction. He cursed, and managed to bring up a small shield. It wasn't enough to stop the impact, sending him flying off his feet.

Erik grunted as he hit the ground, mind moved on from the topic of Jean and Kara to the fight. Adrenaline sang in his veins, and Erik rolled to flash both of them a grin before reaching out with his powers as he'd experimented with a few times while the Sentinels were a threat, curving the light ( electromagnetism was his ) that should bounce from him to their eyes up and away.

A disappearing act.

"Time to think bigger."

JEAN: There was so much of the world that Charles and Erik respectively had prepared her for. Charles taught her empathy, compassion, built on an innate, natural desire to help people that Jean had been fostering since she was a child, that was threatened when Annie bled out on that pavement and when she spent her teenage years facing off against hatred and discrimination. Erik taught her something sharper, bringing out that other side, the side that was desperately angry at what her family was facing. Jean saw the way people glared at Hank on the street. She heard the thoughts that went through her parents’ minds when they looked at Scott. She knew what every single person thought about mutants within the city’s boundaries, and it was enough to drive her insane -- if she hadn’t had Erik.

It was Erik who taught her how to breathe, how to recentre herself, how to trust in her own instincts. Mutant abilities, he said, were their birthright, their culture, the only legacy they were allowed to keep. They were protective mechanisms and the way for them to propel their people into the future. Being mutant meant being powerful, and for so long Jean had been terrified of that power. Erik never was. He never faltered. He never thought to hide her away, never told her to dampen those flames.

In many ways, as ironic as it was to admit, the skills and qualities Erik had taught her were more likely to attract the Phoenix in the first place rather than anything else. He was a part of her, even if there were years when they both pretended they were nothing other than mutants on opposite sides of a civil rights movement, employing completely contradictory tactics to get what they deserved.

Now, Lorna got that opportunity to learn. She got the opportunity to teach. Jean knew Lorna long before the truth was revealed about her parenthood. The young girl was already leading mutants underground, navigating borders and laws, putting herself at risk to defend those most vulnerable. It wasn’t Erik who made her that way -- it was all Lorna. Spending time with two of the people she loved most was as close to paradise as she could get.

(Death, she told herself, was inevitable. It would happen to all. Her parents, her siblings, her nieces and nephews -- they would just come back. Sara hadn’t, not yet, but it was all a matter of time. The Phoenix wouldn’t let her suffer.)

Erik faded from view, and Jean closed her eyes immediately, focusing on a lesson he had taught her once more. The atoms in the structures around her -- the ground he was standing on, the air that moved around him, the breath leaving his lungs -- moved and interacted, painting a telekinetic picture of exactly where he was standing. Two metres to the left, three in front, she sent to Lorna, but he’s moving quickly.

Her focus maintained until a niggle in the back of her head made it waver ever so slightly. The look on his face when she mentioned secrets … it was likely to be a trick of the light (surely that would be his justification) but Jean and psychology always ran closely together.

“Are we hiding today, Erik?” she called out. “I thought we were all about transparency these days.” (Half teasing, half serious -- the perfect balance, Jean thought, even as she could feel in her chest something would come of it she wasn’t anticipating. She was telepathic, not psychic.)

LORNA: Lorna envied Jean in some respects. While Lorna had been left with almost nothing from Erik, no guidance or support to speak of, Jean had been half raised by him. Jean had had what Lorna had yearned for from her father, even when her longing turned to resentment. And it was evident now with how easily Jean could affect the usually stoic Magneto, with just a few words, knowing just how to distract him so that Lorna's attack would land. Lorna just hoped that Jean didn't feel that flash of jealousy in her. It wasn't Jean's fault after all. And now wasn't the time, she had to focus.

Especially as Erik disappeared. Lorna's eyes widened in surprise. I didn't know that was possible. Her thoughts immediately jumped to the possibilities; anything Erik did, surely she could do to some extent. Lorna took Jean's advice on Erik's location and reached out mentally, letting the world around her fade into one of magnetic fields. Looking for Erik's patterns, for the disturbances. She couldn't focus on what Jean was saying, letting the conversation happen around her for now. Instead, she picked up the scrap metal around them again and flung it at Erik.

ERIK: Appearances were often deceiving. It was a cliche for a reason--90 years of life had proven it true time and time again. People pretended to be things they weren't, situations were rarely so clean-cut as they appeared, and your senses could be made to betray you a million different ways. Most people focused on what they saw in front of them, plain as day, and let that control their actions. But there was so much more to focus on, especially in a fight. Neither Jean nor Lorna let his disappearing act throw them off-guard; Jean closed her eyes to focus on her telekinesis instead, near-instantly, and after a moment of visible surprise, Lorna was stretching her hands out and feeling at the world that thrummed around the two of them constantly, that web of magnetic fields and electricity that Erik hadn't properly seen until the Phoenix.

He was moving fast, trying to stay ahead of their senses as best he could, and so he didn't have a qualm about speaking when they were focused on so much more than the source of his voice. "I am transparent, Jean, or are you not paying attention?" he tossed back cheekily.

Another toss of scrap metal in his direction, and this time he was ready for it. His focus on keeping himself hidden dropped, energy instead directed toward freezing the projectiles in their path like he had on a beach in Cuba a lifetime ago. It had been harder, then, but this came as easily as breathing.

"Well done, Lorna," he praised, because controlling as many different things as she had been with any degree of accuracy was difficult and she'd done so beautifully. He waved a hand, and the scrap began to liquify into bands of silvery metal around him, falling into orbit around him at its center. "You're still thinking small, though. Scrap is easy for your opponent to see, easy to predict. We're surrounded by bigger metal, in buildings and the ground and the sky that you can use without anyone seeing it coming."

He'll regret his next words for the rest of his life. He'll regret them the heartbeat after they leave his lips, in fact, but they come out anyway. He'd try to blame it on the Phoenix, later, blame it for a looser tongue, for focusing him too much on the fight and not enough on the conversation.

But it was all him. Getting lost in the fight was easy, and he didn't realize how little focus was on his words rather than the metal swirling around him until the damage was already done.

"We're surrounded by buildings, and drowned ships in the bottom of the harbor, and drones and satellites and a hundred other things above our heads, anymore. In a fight, use them. What's buried, what's hidden, what's aloft. I've dragged a submarine out of the sea, you've pulled a plane out of the sky, I know you're capable of more than flinging scrap metal."

He realized a second later what he'd said, but it was far too late by then to suck the words back inside.

JEAN: This was what it was all for, Jean thought to herself as she looked over at Lorna, her sister, watching the exhilarated smile on her face and seeing how she moved and adjusted to the fight. It was so easy for them to think themselves invincible, at least when they first developed their powers. Jean was the only child in school who could rip the gym from its foundations, who could hear exactly what her crush thought about her, who could manipulate teachers’ opinions with the click of her fingers if she wanted. When she was among the others in the Institute, she realised how much technique came with being in the big leagues -- and Lorna was by far a major player. This was the purpose of Genosha: a place for them to grow and develop in their gene given abilities, somewhere they could learn and teach and feel the world around them in ways only mutants could.

“I pay attention to everything, Erik,” Jean called back. “It’s just what I comment on that you know of.” The lessons that he was giving Lorna now were the same ones as he had only started when Jean was so much younger. While others prophesied control, boxing her emotions, Erik always encouraged her to let go (perhaps if she listened to him more, she would be a different woman now. Maybe if he had stayed, she wouldn’t feel this way). “Feel the environment, Lorna,” she said. “You’re a part of it, it responds to you.” If there was anyone who could think outside the box it was Lorna, who was quick witted and sharp in a way few other people were.

Of course, it didn’t take a quick wit to catch onto the implications of what Erik said. Even Jean, who had no knowledge of what he was referring to (a fight they’d faced together, perhaps, without her -- an idea that pulled unnaturally towards jealousy, even as a grown woman) could read it all over Erik’s face. It was unintentional, a slip of the tongue.

She’d seen Erik on the opposite side of a battlefield, watched him as he lost soldiers and families alike. She felt his grief, his guilt, his pain -- heard him talk about it, counselled him through it, bonded with him because of it.

She’d never seen him trip up like this. She’d never seen him make a mistake, never seen even for a second Erik Lehnsherr lose a scrap of the control he always seemed to keep a tight leash on.

“Erik,” she said, her focus disappearing entirely, the world settling down around her, the fight cold and forgotten. “What are you talking about?”

LORNA: She needed to think bigger. To pull from everything around her. The world was made of metal, she could control it all. Part of Lorna wanted to snap at Erik that maybe she'd be better, more advanced, if she'd had a teacher. If she hadn't spent her entire childhood hiding her powers and her adolescence being self-taught. But she bit her tongue, nodding instead. Taking Jean's advice, her mind began to try and rework how it viewed the room, try to see another angle. Until Erik caused the fight to come crashing to a halt.

Lorna half stuttered to a stop, all focus on Erik's use of their shared powerset, and how she might use that, gone. Instead, his words echoed in her brain, louder and louder until it felt overwhelming. ...you've pulled a plane out of the sky...you've pulled a plane out of the sky...you've pulled a plane out of the sky... She went deathly still, eyes locked on her father, her hands glowing without her even meaning to. To say Lorna hadn't been on many planes was... both true and untrue. Her dad--her mother's husband--had been a pilot, and up until the age of three, Lorna commonly travelled by plane with her parents. After the engine malfunction sent his plane crashing to the ground, leaving her the only survivor thanks to her powers manifesting, Lorna had hardly stepped foot on a plane. She'd only been in one crash. Only seen one plane crash. No. No way. The engines had malfunctioned. Lorna's powers just protected her.

"What are you talking about?" There was no room for taking it back, no acceptance of excuses in her voice. Erik wasn't making a grand statement of what she could do, he said she had done it. "Erik." It occurred to her briefly that he might be making it up, but for one thing she didn't believe he was that callous or cruel. For another, his own shock spoke otherwise. (And lastly, though she wanted to ignore it, something niggled inside her. Deep within her mind, she knew he was telling the truth.)

Lorna turned on Jean. "Do you know what he's talking about?" she demanded, half accusing and half begging for answers. But Jean seemed as lost as she was.

ERIK: The moment seemed to stretch on forever, the three of them standing frozen in silence. His daughters staring at him in shock--and anger, judging by the slow green glow appearing at Lorna's fingertips. There would be no convincing either of them that he'd misspoken. No way to take the words back, to pretend like he'd said or meant anything other than precisely what he had. Maybe one of them, one-on-one, he would be able to sway. But not both.

Damn it all.

The moment stretched taut, and then they were demanding answers almost in unison, and Lorna was turning on Jean, and Erik sidestepped and cleared his throat, watching the two of them carefully. Erik was rarely on the defensive. Even more rarely with his own children.

"Jean doesn't know, Lorna," he said, snapping their attention back to him. "It was a long time ago. She was a child, still.” Erik looked between Lorna and Jean, took a half-step forward and then lingered there, unwilling or unable to coax himself closer. "You know what I'm talking about, Lorna," he said quietly. "You don't remember it. You were too young." He took another half-step closer. "It wasn't your fault. I need you to know that."

JEAN: There were parts of Jean that Erik would always understand more than almost anyone else. There were parts of Erik that Jean didn’t need telepathy to understand on a fundamental level, to empathise with and connect them together. Some of those parts were good -- their determination, their curiosity, their desperate pursuit of knowledge, their dedication to family and mutantkind. Other parts …

Well, other parts were this. Other parts involved Jean, mere minutes after seeing her parents’ blood soaking into the carpet, looking down at a traumatised teenager and deciding that the best course of action was to make her forget. Derry was dangerous. She was angry, she was desperate, she missed her father and her aunts and uncles and everyone she’d ever known. She was, arguably, better off not knowing what happened that day, better off passing all the trauma onto Jean and living her life as best she could with a family who always wanted kids, a family who Jean knew would treat her well --

But that didn’t mean what Jean did was the right thing. It was easiest, perhaps. It was the most simple solution. It was the best one for Jean, instead of being looked at as a murderer by one of the last blood relatives (no, not blood) she had left. That’s what it came down to, in the end. The decision she made along with Maddie, the decision she made to the sound of Scott’s silence, was to clean up one of her own mistakes, to make it easier to live with.

Is that what Erik did here? Was that the legacy she was doomed to repeat, and Lorna as well?

Erik corrected Lorna quickly, and Jean blinked. He protected her, she knew that. He protected all of them. His daughters were his life, and she’d long been considered in that group. Protecting your family meant doing what was right for them, didn’t it?

(Jean loved Scott more than life, and she dragged him from the grave after he died fighting for a cause he believed in. She adored Maddie, and she never put voice to the fact that she doubted her sister was even real, that she still believed even now she was someone else entirely, someone she lost long ago. Jean loved people. She protected them. But what she did to them … it wasn’t right.)

It wasn’t your fault. It was the same thing he said to her when she approached him about her family, when she told him of the massacre that had occurred. It was the same thing she would say to Rachel, if the roles were reversed -- taking the responsibility onto her own shoulders, even if it was a lie. It wasn’t a lie, Erik said, and this time, when it came to Lorna, Jean believed it without a doubt.

She was only a child. A plane from the sky. (Jean thought of the nightmares that haunted her husband, then, of a parachute strapped to his back and propellers in flames and his brother screaming, clutched to his chest as they tumbled through a field, their parents long gone above them.)

“I think we need more information, Erik,” Jean said quietly, finally, the inside of her cheek tasting of blood on her tongue. “Just … tell us what you mean. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, right?”

LORNA: Jean didn't know. Even before Erik said anything, Lorna could see that. She trusted Jean implicitly. More than she trusted Erik some days (although she'd never really know if it was just that part of her that had felt rejected talking or an actual gut feeling that led her to question him). But Jean didn't know, and Erik wanted to protect her from Lorna's potential misguided anger. Lorna wasn't angry yet. She was confused, wary, but not yet angry. Erik's hesitant walking towards them and beginnings of an explanation, however, were making her think that was about to change very quickly.

You know what I'm talking about. Lorna's mouth twisted slightly as she summoned the words. She so rarely spoke about it. "The crash that killed my parents. The engines malfunctioned. My powers protected me." Erik had found her before emergency crews, brought her to her aunt and uncle. Too traumatic for memories was what the doctors had told her, what they'd told her aunt and uncle when she hadn't remembered any of it. It was her mind protecting itself. She'd been so confused. But Erik didn't say that... "No. I didn't remember it even as a kid." She did remember the aftermath though, even now. The grief, the loneliness she felt. The funeral. But not the crash.

She had to know. Because if it wasn't an engine malfunction... If it had been her... Why? Most mutants powers didn't trigger until they were teenagers, unless they were needed. Lorna had assumed it was her powers saving her that triggered them early. But she couldn't have brought down the plane if that were true.

She had to know. Her eyes turned to her sister.

"Jean. Show me. Even if I don't remember, the memories are there somewhere, right? Can you show me? I need to know what happened." She looked back at Erik. "Maybe it will help me understand what I can do," she added, daring him to argue.

ERIK: It wasn't anyone's fault, right? Erik huffed, shaking his head and scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Oh, no, it was someone's fault. But certainly not Lorna's."

Erik nodded slowly as Lorna mentioned the crash, though what she was saying wasn't the truth. It's what she'd been told, what she'd been led to believe. She would know that was a lie, soon enough, but Erik could still do damage control. Keep her from getting the full story, because some things were better left buried.

Lorna asked Jean to pull out her memories, and Erik's response was near-immediate. "No. Teasing them out by force could be retraumatizing," he said, crossing to stand next to them. "I can tell you what happened. Show you my memories of that day. If it brings the memories forward on its own, that's one thing, but Jean should not have to go digging up things that were buried."

He turned to Jean, and let his mental walls come down a bit. He knew she'd feel the anxiety, the frustration, and hoped that she didn't care to follow it to its source as to why he didn't want her in Lorna's head. "Let me show her."

JEAN: It was far from the first -- or the last, undoubtedly -- time Jean had been caught in the middle of a family dispute. The X-Men were closer than anything Jean had experienced before, but they were still volatile kids who had no idea how to be a part of something, and that came with challenges. She spent the majority of her teenage years smoothing over disagreements between the boys, and it seemed as if that legacy was continuing now -- only this time, it wasn’t petty disputes over what girl they were dating or how long they took in the shower. This time, it was something ground shaking, something that made a pit drop in her stomach and had her mind fading into silence for the first time in as long as she could remember.

(It hadn’t been that long. Her mind had been silent since she found her parents bleeding out in the carpet. Try as she might to distract, she hadn’t found something yet. Maybe this was the universe answering her prayers in the most masochistic way it could. It seemed fitting, given her history.)

“Memories are never completely gone,” she agreed, but then Erik was speaking and he had a point too (he always had a point. He always had a fucking point. That was how he got out from under everything, wasn’t it? Their last conversation about Kara, that day on the Raft, the hundreds of missing days they hadn’t discussed since they happened). She turned to look at Erik, meeting his eyes for a long moment before letting out a sigh. “Fine,” she said. “But if either of you start to splinter in any way, I’m done, and I don’t care how angry you are at me. These memories are only being shown if they come naturally. I’m not messing with heads.” After all, Jean was more inclined to break than heal, these days.

She looked over at Lorna, gaining her consent silently once more, and then touched a hand to Erik and Lorna’s forehead, closing her eyes, focusing on allowing the memories to filter through from father to daughter, using her as the bridge.

ERIK: Erik will be happy if he never has to set foot in fucking Tennessee ever again. The music grates on his nerves more often than not, the accents grate worse, and while he doesn't have anything against a good mountain, he does have something against the idiots who built roads two steps from a 700-foot drop.

He's on one such road, in the middle of nowhere with the radio of his car crackling in and out despite his best maneuvering of the antenna, when he feels it. He's not sure what it is, but it may as well be a flare to his senses in a sea of nothing but trees and the muted thrum of iron and copper in the mountains beneath his tires. A sharp flash of energy that actually steals his attention away from the road for a moment, because it feels almost like a blast from himself. What the hell--? Not very much sleuthing is necessary, though, because in the next few moments, a plane that had been frittering at the edges of his sense in the clouds above comes quite literally crashing down into the forest perhaps two kilometers away.

A rescue team will take hours to get out here, at least. He can fly (or close enough), and he's not one to leave well enough alone, and a little niggling at his conscience sounds feels suspiciously like Charles’ expectant stare, so he lifts his car clean off the road and carries it across the sea of trees until he can navigate it down to settle in a small clearing a few hundred meters from the crash. He's out of the car and making his way toward the plane in moments, shirt pulled up over his nose against the smoke. He stumbles across the first body with the bulk of the scattered wreckage, a face that strikes him as familiar making him pause and stop to wipe the blood from her face. "Suzanna?" He reaches for a pulse, and nothing meets his fingers, so he moves on to where he sees the bottom of the plane and the seating on its side.

Then he hears the crying, and sees a young girl with hair greener than the trees around them sitting unharmed in the wreckage. He's drawn to her, almost like a--oh. She was the flash.

LORNA: Lorna didn't really want to accept Jean's terms, but there was no arguing. She nodded to Jean, closed her eyes, and let Jean connect her mind to Erik's memories.

Lorna watched Erik's memory, somehow both separate from him and in his mind and feeling what he felt. Was this what telepaths felt constantly? Maybe not so intensely for one person as this though. But still, she felt the irritation from Erik as he drove, then the shock to his senses that Lorna recognised. She'd felt that before, but in reverse; when Erik used his powers, especially if he was close. Then the plane fell, and Lorna's heart clenched in her chest. It was familiar but she still couldn't remember it. As if there was something preventing her from accessing that, like it was shouting from behind glass.

Lorna tensed as they got closer, and the unstable feeling she couldn't shake intensified. Part of her didn't want to see this. She'd hated planes for years, but she'd never had nightmares of this night. The doctors her aunt made her see had said it was her brain repressing the memory (just like Erik said). She had insisted on knowing, had to know if what Erik said was true about the plane. Had to know why she'd made it crash. But this wasn't those answers. This was just the destruction she'd caused.

Even in memory, the smoke irritates her lungs and her eyes. She followed Erik's memory, right beside him until they both saw her. No. No no no. Lorna didn't want to see this. This wasn't what she was looking for. Her mother, injured and bloody. More than injured. Dead. Lorna felt it like a stab through the heart, and she's sure it's strong enough for Jean and Erik to feel through their shared connection too. Lorna knew she'd lost her mother that night, but looking at this wreckage and knowing what Erik felt... she knew she'd done this. She'd killed her mom. And her dad. Where was he?

Before Lorna could look for him, she heard the crying. Her crying. Unharmed, she looked dazed and frightened. Confused. And she can feel it in Erik's memories, as well as in all the metal around her--calling out like only metal she'd manipulated did-- that she'd done this.

"That's enough," she snapped, easier to indulge her anger than any of the other feelings. Some of which she didn't know if she could name. They were feelings she'd had in her mind for years, but brought to the front. "This doesn't show me how I did anything or why. I want to see my memory."

ERIK: Just like that, they were snapped out of the memories, Erik's focus landing squarely back in the present just in time to hear Lorna's frustrated demands.

His own remembered grief from finding Suzanna melded with Lorna's response to seeing her mother dead; her anger was nudging at his own, her concern.

Her questions.

Erik shook his head immediately. "No. Lorna, those memories got buried for a reason. Your powers manifested early, you brought the plane down on accident, I found you. There's no need to go combing back through buried memories for something that will only make you more upset. It's for your own good, Lorna."

He looked to Jean, and there was something like fear edging into his mind, and he knew she could probably feel it if she was paying attention. "You said you wouldn't force out any memories. If that didn't bring them out for her, you'd have to dig them out yourself. Tell her you won't."

LORNA: They might have been buried, but they were closer than they'd ever been. Lorna knew she knew those woods, knew that that smell was familiar, even if she couldn't place it with a memory. And it would never leave her alone if she gave up now. Even as it was, she was upset and on edge (she killed them. She downed the plane and killed them) but not knowing wasn't going to help.

"I wasn't asking your permission," she snapped at Erik. He'd been there, he'd known this entire time what she did. Had he taken her straight from there to her aunt and uncle? Left her like she was a stranger he didn't care about? He'd known she had powers, that they were out of her control and he left her. Was she even angry right now? If she was, it felt hollow and that scared her too. What she felt more than anything was cracked. Twisted. And muted, like something was trying to get out but it was stuck.

She turned to Jean. "Please. I need to know." The tremor in her voice was slight, but there, as was the one in her hands. She didn't want to say what she said next, but she had to convince Jean somehow. "I'll find someone else to do it if you won't."

JEAN: History repeated itself. Jean knew that all too well. Every battle she faced, every loss she suffered, it didn’t come by itself. No experience was ever truly unique, and she used that to relate to the people around her, used it to come closer to them even when she was underground for years before, used it to remind them that she was human too (even if she wasn’t so certain of that fact, these days). History repeated itself, and she almost knew what would happen long before she acted as the conduit for this memory, for emotions that were as turbulent as they were intense.

They were the same, Lorna and Erik. They felt things more strongly than most, felt them in a way Jean could scarcely put into words, and she adored them for it. Her family were dead, and a part of her died with them, but standing here between Erik and Lorna, two people she loved desperately, she could almost forget all of that. She could almost convince herself she was still breathing, that her lungs weren’t made of lead.

They were the same as each other, and they were the same as someone else, too. The memory uncurled, the recognition settling deep in her gut. They were the same as Jean and Charles.

(This is for the best, Jean. The last thing you want is to hurt someone. Trust me. Let me in.)

That’s how she knew what it looked like. That’s how she knew.

For years, she’d focused on telekinesis. She’d locked the part of her mind off that could traverse through neurones, could pull apart memories and traumas, the part that could hurt and heal in equal measure. She used the power that could wound physically, but not in a way that would last (sometimes death was better than the alternative). For years, Jean pretended she wasn’t an Omega level telepath, denied her training, and Charles … well, he’d never fought back against it. He’d focused his efforts instead on Betsy, or Emma, because playing with an atom bomb never ended well.

Maybe she would’ve missed the signature if she didn’t know how it felt to have that block in her mind, that empty spot -- maybe she would’ve missed it if she didn’t love a man whose consciousness was a patchwork quilt. Maybe she would’ve missed it if she didn’t know it all along.

No. No, she didn’t know it all along. She would’ve told Lorna if she did. She would’ve--

Would you? a voice asked. Did you talk to Kara Zor-El, Jean Grey? Did you ask her?

Jean swallowed thickly, lowering her hands from Erik and Lorna’s temples. Erik was looking at her, she could feel his gaze on her side of her face, but she was focused on Lorna.

Dangerous. Volatile. Better off not knowing. They’d both been told the same things -- and Jean found hot tears pricking at the corners of her eyes that she managed to blink away just in time.

“She’ll find someone else,” Jean said, turning only half to Erik. Someone like Sinister -- someone like Emma. “It’s deep,” she explained to Lorna. “Trauma must--”

She reached for her again, focusing her abilities, and that’s when her gut feeling was confirmed. That’s when she knew.

The block was intentional. The block was familiar, calculated -- exactly the same as what she had performed on Derry, Maddie’s hand clutched in hers, sweat pooling in their palms.

Jean stepped back, gaze shooting between father and daughter. “Someone altered the memory,” she said.

You could fix that.

No. No she couldn’t.

You’re powerful enough. Why do you hold yourself back?

She was a battering ram in a china shop. She would rip Lorna’s mind apart.

Is that the reason?

“I can’t get it,” Jean said. “I won’t risk you by trying any more.”

ERIK: Lorna was insistent, but right now, it wasn't her that he needed to convince. It was Jean.

Jean, who was avoiding looking at him straight on. Whose jaw was working, whose eyes were glimmering with unshed tears that she blinked away before they could fall, whose sentences came hesitant and incomplete.

Jean knew about the block, and he knew that she knew even before she finally said that the memory had been altered.

And she still couldn't look him in the eye.

But she said no. Erik tasted bitter relief on his tongue, and turned to look at Lorna. "Let it go, Lorna, please. Everything there is in the past. Leave it there."

LORNA: Lorna implored Jean with her eyes as she seemed to consider it, needing to know why these memories were so buried. Why she felt like they were clamouring to get out but slipping backwards? What had her mind pushed away? Was she so broken? Perhaps she didn't need to stand at the gates of hell to be twisted. She'd been called unstable before--even had it used to defend her once--and she hated it. She didn't like feeling like the ground underneath her was unsteady, like she was falling with no way to slow herself.

Jean seemed to understand, finally. And Lorna wasn't making an idle threat; she'd find someone. Someone would help her. She'd just much rather it was Jean. She trusted Jean, implicitly and unwaveringly, with her life and with her mind. With her memories and everything that she'd kept private or hidden from the world. Jean would leave that alone, just dive to this moment. Find out what was banging inside her to be released.

Someone altered the memory.

No. Lorna frowned. No way. There was no one who could have done that. She'd never remembered this moment. Ever. Her aunt and uncle had always said so, her medical records from the aftermath had always said so. She had no memory of it, no nightmares, no nothing. She asked for her mommy and daddy because she didn't understand where they'd gone, so genuinely and consistently that they'd surmised that she wasn't faking either. No one could have had a chance to tamper with her memories between when the crash had happened and when Erik had found her and left her with her remaining family.

No one.

Except.

Unless.

No.

Lorna's eyes narrowed.

He wouldn't. Not the man who had famously worn a metal helmet that kept out telepaths, who Lorna knew did not permit them in his head without his knowledge and consent. He wouldn't mess with her head as a child like this. Would he?

Lorna stared at the face of her father, inspecting his reaction to Jean's statement. She watched the relief when Jean refused to dig past this block.

There was the anger she'd expected to feel before. Igniting in her chest, twisting in her heart like the dagger she'd felt seeing her mother dead (killed).

"Jean. You can." She ripped her eyes away from Erik, letting the anger stay on him. "Please. I trust you. Whatever happens is on me. But I need to know." She looked to Erik. "Someone altered my memories. Shouldn't I know why?"

ERIK: Lorna always was expressive. Erik watched her face twist from pleading and doubtful, to confused, and then her gaze landed on him and something hardened between her eyebrows and in the set of her jaw and he knew she was putting pieces together.

And she was getting angry.

Nowhere near as angry as she would be if she saw the memories, though, and he was still certain that he'd done the right thing in burying them--not just for himself, but for her. Seeing her mother's body had triggered a strong enough response. Seeing the whole event? Out of the question.

But Jean was considering it, under Lorna's pleading gaze, and Erik's expression hardened. "Jean," he said, and his voice and expression went from desperate, pleading father to the sort of hyper-calm that settled right before a fight. "Do not drag those memories out. I'm not asking, I'm telling you. Do not. I forbid it."

That didn't sound like father Erik, but general Erik. King Erik.

JEAN: Whatever happens is on me. Her sister said that, a lifetime ago — long before Jean was a married woman, long before she was even part of the X-Men, back when her mutation had only just come to the surface and their parents worried themselves into a black hole trying to prevent their daughter from ripping the city apart. Jean had one of her migraines, and the house was shaking. Tears were streaming down her face, her parents were praying in the basement, her brothers were screaming, and Sara just walked into Jean’s bedroom, sat down beside her, and said, whatever happens, that’s on me. I’m choosing to be here.

Sara died for that choice. Jean didn’t kill her, at least not directly, but it was her fault that she was dead. People claimed to want to take the risk, but that was only until the adverse effects came around, only when things turned tragic, and with Jean ... well, tragedy was something of a given.

“You say that now,” Jean said, keeping hold of Lorna’s hands, “but if something goes wrong here, now, you won’t be around anymore. It’s not a physical harm I cause, Lorna, it’s so much worse than that. You’d never come back. You might want to take that risk now, but you’ll thank me for stopping you later.”

(She sounded like Charles. She sounded like Charles and for the first time, for a reason she couldn’t exactly pinpoint, the concept of that familiarity made her sick to her stomach.)

Erik said her name, and it stopped Jean from saying anymore. It stopped her dead in her tracks, because the icy level headedness he was demonstrating now … well, she had seen it before. The U.N. Those memories from Cuba. Every time she faced him as a teenager, and he pushed her to be the best she could be.

Or the worst.

Jean’s hair began to stand on end. She felt a flicker in her mind, knew instinctively her eyes must have flashed with fire. He thinks he can forbid us, came a curling whisper.

“No one tells me to stop anymore, Erik,” she said, calmly, even as her arms cracked with glowing amber. “Especially not you.”

And with the force of the Phoenix behind her, Jean reached for Lorna and cracked the memory apart.

LORNA: Lorna was about to open her mouth to argue, to insist against what Jean had said. But before she could, Erik stepped in. In a voice she had rarely heard from him, but one she knew instinctively. And one she immediately hated in this context. In a fight, a war, that voice was important. Someone needed to take charge. But here? The war was meant to be over, and her memories should not be a battlefield. And it seemed Jean reacted just as negatively to his command. Lorna barely had a chance to close her eyes as Jean reached for her and broke the seal on the memory.

Lorna was sleeping, curled up across two seats in main cabin of the small passenger plane. They were flying home after one of her daddy's jobs, and Lorna was more than used to falling asleep anywhere like this. But tonight, she was woken up by shouting. Fierce arguing, coming from the front of the plane.

Lorna hated the shouting. Just as she woke up, she felt the plane dip and her mom screaming something about killing them before it righted again. "Stop!" she cried. "STOP!" She started sobbing, hating when they fought. They fought all the time, and her mommy was always so quiet after. Her daddy got so angry.

In the cockpit, Arnold Dane had decided that right now was the time to confront his wife about what he had learnt; she had cheated on him. Here, where she couldn't run away from the conversation. It had quickly turned to a screaming match that had now woken the brat he now knew wasn't actually his daughter.

"Now you've woken Lorna!"

"Go make the brat shut up then!"

Her mommy came down to the back, looking both frightened and angry. "Be quiet, Lorna!" she hissed. But Lorna shook her head.

"Stop fighting! STOP. STOP!" With the last cry, there was a creaking noise and green light. Lorna, too upset to notice, kept shouting to stop. But her mother could only look on in horror and terror as her daughter lit up green. Lorna squeezed her eyes shut and screamed one last STOP.

Then there was an incredible sound. A tearing, creaking, scream of a noise, like the world was coming apart around her. And it was. The metal of the plane ripped itself apart in the air, the engines cutting off mid flight and the wings beginning to detach as the now flightless plane dropped like a stone. Lorna screamed again, terrified this time, but when she opened her eyes, she was on the ground. Hiccupping from the crying, but unharmed.

And now lost. She couldn't see her mommy or her daddy, only wreckage that she knew was the plane. Smoke filled the air, hurting her eyes and lungs, making seeing and breathing harder. Lorna began to cry again, but this time it was far quieter. No longer the screaming of a child, howling to be listened to, but the unstoppable tears of one who was lost and afraid with no one to help her.

She tried to stand up, to go find her mommy or daddy, but her legs wouldn’t move. Not because they were hurt, but her whole body seemed to not want to go anywhere. Too afraid, too shocked, too overwhelmed by everything. All she could do was cry and wait. She didn’t have to wait long. The sound of a car approaching reached her, and then soon after that, a man appeared. She watched as he found her mom, bending down and then standing up. Lorna knew then, though she didn’t know how, that her mom wasn’t coming back. She let out a quiet wail of despair, wanting nothing more than her mommy to comfort her.

The man turned to her, and Lorna was startled by the pull she felt. It was like the feeling she felt when the green lights started, like how magnets attracted each other. He came towards her and Lorna let him pick her up, clinging to him. She didn’t know why, but he made her feel safe. Safer than she’d felt on the plane when her parents were arguing. Than when her daddy shouted and raised his fists.

As if summoned by her thoughts, there was movement from the rubble. Bleeding and dazed, but still alive and mostly uninjured, Arnold Dane pushed himself from the wreckage he’d landed in. Lorna, seeing him and knowing how angry he'd be, clung tighter to the stranger. She always hated when her dad was angry. He was scary when he was angry. The stranger felt safer.

ERIK: Arnold Dane stood, looking dazed until his eyes settle on Lorna and Erik, and then his expression turned hateful. "So you're the freak bastard my wife fucked." Erik's arm tightened around Lorna, and he cupped a hand over one of her ears, pressing the other against his chest. Her arms tightened around him, too, and he knew she was afraid not of a stranger like she should be, but the man she thought was her father. Had he ever hurt her?

"That would be me," he confirmed coldly. "Which must make you the abusive swine she was trying to get away from."

Arnold sneered. "She wasn't trying to get away from anything. She knew I was the best she was gonna get. Came back every time I called, like a good bitch. She wouldn't have been able to take care of the brat without me and she knew it."

Erik shifted Lorna on his hip, glanced at Suzanna in the rubble, and then back at Arnold, expression frigid. "I should've killed you for her as a parting gift three years ago. She was insistent that you were doing better. I knew better, but she was so sure. The things love does to you. G-d knows you didn't deserve it from her." The metal of the rubble around them was buzzing, his anger charging the air. Erik tucked his head down against the girl's--his daughter's--and told her to keep her eyes closed.

And then, with a wave of his hand, pieces of shrapnel sharpened into needles. A clench of his fist sent them through the man's limbs and drove them into the ground, like a butterfly pinned under a microscope. Erik ignored the screaming, silencing it with a piece of metal over the man's mouth a moment later, and set Lorna carefully on a flat part of the rubble. He offered her a warm smile. "You stay right here, hm? I'll be right back. I promise."

Three minutes later, Erik was scooping Lorna back up into his arms, that same warm smile on his lips and a new splotch of blood on his jeans. "Come here, darling. Let's get you somewhere safe."

LORNA: She didn't understand a lot of the words her dad was using. But she recognised them as ones he'd hurled at her mom before. Ones that made her mommy flinch and shout back. Ones that Lorna didn't like. And clearly the stranger didn't like it either, because he covered her ears, pressing her head against his chest until the words became muffled and all she could hear was the beating of his heart in his chest. Rhythmic and steady, nothing like the racing of her own as she sniffled and tried to stop crying.

From where she was held, she could see her mother laying lifeless, and rather than calming down, soon Lorna was shaking. Trembling against the stranger. She didn't hear what he said to her dad, nor what her dad was sneering back. Nothing until the stranger urged her to shut her eyes. But even with her eyes closed and her ears covered, she heard the screaming. She felt the metal moving, like a sixth sense now blown open wide and sensitive, and felt it pierce something that screamed.

She was sat down, and Lorna kept her eyes closed at first. But she was curious. Too curious. She opened them just a bit, peering through her eyelashes, and watching as the man made sure her daddy was never going to yell at her or hurt her again. When he turned back, Lorna squeezed her eyes shut quickly, pretending she hadn't seen the images that burned into her retina. Nor heard the sounds that echoed in her ears. She didn't know why, but even still she trusted this man. Maybe it was the pulling in her to him. Or maybe it was that he protected her. He scared her too, but he protected her. But she let him pick her up, nodding as he promised to take her to safety.

Somewhere safe, apparently turned out to be what looked to Lorna like a doctor's office the next day. "Where are we?" she asked the man--Erik, she knew now. "Am I going home?"

ERIK: Erik had been plagued with the guilt of killing his own mother since he was 14. He wouldn't allow Lorna to live with that guilt. To know that she'd downed the plane and killed her mother, that her powers had saved her life but not Suzanna. And he didn't want her to remember Arnold, either--better to let her think there was just an accident. Nothing she could've done. It was for her own protection. And he didn't want to introduce himself to his daughter as the murderer of her stepfather. The memories needed to be wiped, buried, deleted.

Charles could do it. Whether he would was a different consideration, and Erik couldn't be sure the answer was yes. He didn't need the weight of Charles' disappointment on him for asking, or worse yet for seeing what Erik had done in the first place. Jean was too young. Emma Frost was absolutely out of the question. So Erik had reached out to some of the old network and heard of this man. Discreet and damn good at what he did, as far as his reputation went, and that was enough. Needed to be enough.

"Soon. We're just stopping for a quick check-up, alright?"

The telepath walked in, and Erik shook his hand, introduced himself, and explained the situation in quiet terms to the man, smiling over at Lorna every so often. Erik laid out very clearly defined limits on what he wanted wiped, the man agreed, money changed hands, and then the telepath was pulling up a chair to sit in front of Lorna, Erik standing off to the side between them, watching closely. Protective.

"Hello, Lorna," the man said with a smile, and something in his gaze  was shimmering. Soothing. "Erik here was just telling me all you went through yesterday. How stressful that must have been, far too stressful for a young girl like you. I want you to relax for me--there's a dear. Just listen to me..."

The telepath pressed forward into her mind, and the last thing she saw was Erik watching over his shoulder, brow knit with concern.

LORNA: The memories ended there, with them being wiped from her mind, buried deep inside. As Lorna came back to the present, stumbling back away from Erik, she realised absently that that clawing feeling was gone. These memories were released from their box, and they were no longer crying to get out. But now she had to deal with it.

Her cheeks were wet, tears fallen when she wasn't aware. The metal around her creaked--much as it done in her memories--responding to her anger, her shock, her horror. She'd killed her own mother. She remembered more things more clearly now than just the crash too. Her 'father'--Arnold--had scared her more than she'd ever remembered before now. It was as though when certain memories were blocked, her mind allowed others, connected to them, to fade too. Lorna shook like a leaf, her mind running a thousand miles an hour. "You. You took my memories!" With barely a thought in her head, or a twitch of her hand, metal hurtled towards Erik to pin him to the wall. It was the easiest thing to grab onto, her anger at what Erik had done to her, rather than face what she had done to her own family. What he had hidden from her.

JEAN: You need to learn how to cast the thoughts out, Jean. Charles’ voice came back to her now, smooth and comforting and always so deeply in control, even when Jean felt as if she was going to scream as the world shook around them. Anything that isn’t yours, just let it pass by. Take some of the feeling, but you can’t take it all. No one person can hold the world’s pain alone.

No one person could hold all the pain. No one person could hold that much grief, or that much suffering, or that many secrets. No one person could hold all the cards, and yet here they were, once again, Erik pulling the rug out from someone he claimed to love.

(No. He loved Lorna. He loved her so desperately he built a country for her, protected him from himself in the most painful way a parent could. His absence had never been for his own benefit, Jean knew that, she’d seen the aching before Lorna came into their lives. She knew Erik, knew him better than almost anyone else. She was his daughter.)

But he just kept surprising her. He kept surprising her, and it was never with anything good. The memories of what happened with Kara, those flames in her eyes, her demanding that Jean stayed out, were still fresh and burning in her mind. The memories of the tears streaming down Lorna’s face, her shaking hands, they wouldn’t leave anytime soon. They wouldn’t vanish as quickly as Erik wanted them to.

He wouldn’t be able to talk her out of this one -- and yet, when Lorna reacted, Jean stepped in just as quickly. She waved her hands, forming a telekinetic shield that prevented the metal from wrapping around Erik’s arms, from escalating the situation further than she knew her sister would want, when she was calmer (they always ran so hot). “Lorna, that’s enough,” she said. “Erik, just--”

Shut up? What the hell did she say to someone who made fire burn in her chest and a cold pit drop into her stomach at the same damn time? What Erik had done, what he had altered, wasn’t all that different from what Jean and Maddie had done with Derry, the decision that she made for the greater good in spite of the grey it caused on her husband’s face. Who was Jean to judge, when faced with a similar situation she made the same decision?

“We have fought and died for this home,” Jean said instead, her voice strong and confident and not wavering nearly as much as her resolve (or her mind, which jumped from place to place). “If you think I’m going to let father and daughter tear each other to shreds on its soil you have another thing coming. Erik made a choice. It was a choice that you may not agree with -- God knows I’m not sure if I do -- but the decisions we make aren’t always the best. Sometimes we make mistakes. I am not going to let you do this, Lorna. You don’t want to do this.”

ERIK: The memories slipped away, leaving in their wake exactly what Erik had known would happen. Exactly what he'd warned against. Exactly the reason he'd buried them in the first place, and exactly why he'd forbidden Jean to try setting them loose.

Lorna's face was wet with tears, shivers of shock wracking through her body, and every parental instinct Erik made him want to wrap his arms around her shoulders and let her sob into his chest until she settled. But he didn't need to be a telepath to know that would be absolutely unwelcome; Lorna's emotions had the metal around them trembling, the same way it did when Erik's temper was at a breaking point, and he knew what was coming in the moment before it happened.

Except that the metal never quite touched him, because Jean threw up the defense that he himself wasn't going to raise. But she still wasn't looking at him. Whatever she had to say to him was aborted quickly, redirected to Lorna, and Erik felt a lash of anger curl through him. What would she have had him do? Had Arnold walked away from that plane crash alive, Lorna would have ended up in his hands again, or Erik would've been forced to reveal himself to the courts to fight it. And how was he to let her live with the guilt that had lived in his mind for over 70 years if he had a way to stop it?

A way that had been perfectly effective until Jean cracked it open. Anger sang at his fingertips, but for once, for once, Erik held his tongue, watching his daughters in deceptively stoic silence.

LORNA: She wasn't going to kill him. Not really. Probably not. She just wanted him immobile, stuck where she wanted him, so he couldn't get away. So he couldn't avoid this. Later, she'd almost certainly be more grateful to Jean, once she realised how out of control her powers were at that time. It had been a long time since she'd lost control like this, but it was to be expected. Her mind was trying to deal with a traumatic event it had never fully processed. It was no longer equipped for those memories, perhaps never was. So Jean was right to stop her. That didn't mean Lorna liked it right now.

"Enough? I haven't even done anything to him yet."

Damn Jean and her words. She had never needed her powers to get in Lorna's head, to convince her. She knew Lorna too well for that, and right now she knew what to say to get Lorna to back off. We fought and died for this home. It struck a nerve, but it worked. And she was right. Lorna didn't want to kill Erik. Especially not after learning what happened with her mother.

You killed her. You killed her. Youkilledheryoukilledheryoukilledher.

Lorna let out a cry of frustration, far more directed inward than at either of the people in the room. She couldn't get her mind to stop racing, tumbling over itself as it spun in circles and tore her apart. With a flick of her hand, she pulled the metal from Erik, throwing it to the floor and letting it spin away to the far wall. She wanted to break, to cry, to try and figure out how to even begin to process all the things she had seen. She wanted someone to hold her and tell her it would be okay, even if they didn't know if it was true. But she was so angry too. So angry that all of this had been taken away from her. Angry at herself for losing control. Angry that Erik had fought her trying to see this. Scared that she could hurt him and Jean.

"I..." She had no words. Nothing came to her. She swallowed hard, stepping back, away from them both.

JEAN: She wanted to be on Lorna’s side. More than anything, Jean knew the pain that came with being alone -- with feeling as if there was no one who understood the turmoil that was ravaging through your mind, that was changing things so irreparably you could never go back to who you were before. She knew what that felt like, and she always promised that she’d try to prevent other people from suffering the same emotions if she could, that she would prove to them they weren’t alone, that they had a friend, that they could work together. After all, Erik could stand up for himself -- was stronger than even Jean gave him credit for so many years ago -- and he would want her to defend his daughter, if she could.

But she couldn’t. Not entirely, at least. She could understand where she was coming from, could empathise, but condemning Erik’s actions were impossible when she had made the same decision less than a few weeks before -- a decision that had the last remaining member of her family outside of Genosha struggling to remember where she came from, no idea of who she truly was.

“Lorna,” Jean said. She couldn’t be on Lorna’s side completely, and she could feel their bond stretching. She could see her physically step back, could hear the pain in her thoughts. “Don’t do this.” Don’t leave. That was the worst thing a person could do when they were in pain, but it was what they defaulted to every damn time. “We’re here for you. Don’t walk away now, please.”

ERIK: Erik knew anger better than he knew anything else. Better than love, better than pain, better than fear, he knew anger. Like a shadow that never left his side. Charles had told him all those years ago on the lawn of the Institute that there was more to him than pain and anger, that he could be good.

But Charles had been wrong about a lot of things. Shaw, for all that Erik hated the man, had been right. About humans, about the world, about Erik. He'd won the day, won the safety he'd always said he wanted for his family and his people, and yet the anger, the fire in his veins hadn't cooled. It'd gotten worse.

( All his children fell to fire, eventually. It was only a matter of time. )

Lorna's anger was electric, ozone on the tongue, but she was crying out and backing away, and Erik wasn't holding his tongue, anymore--now it was lead. He wanted to reach out and stop her. To echo Jean, to tell her everything would be alright and tell her to stay.

Magda had looked horrified, just like this. Had backed away, just like this, one foot behind the other until she ran, and Erik could see how this was going to end already. Nothing new under the sun. He could beg her to stay, but he would beg and she would leave like she had, and the thought of begging and failing yet again made him sick.

Maybe it'd be better, if she left. Erik had a way of destroying the lives of all of his family, one way or another, eventually, a one-man wrecking ball despite all his love. Despite trying. She'd reappeared in his life and he'd dragged her straight into a war, put her on the frontlines and watched her plunge her hands into the mess with pride. She'd been better off with her aunt and uncle, that much was increasingly clear, and Erik wasn't sorry for what he'd done in the memories.

He was sorry he'd been selfish enough to let her come to him.

So he didn't reach out for her, despite the itch to wrap her in his arms and protect her (she needed protection from him, not from him). He didn't apologize, because it would've rang hollow. And he didn't ask her to stay, like Jean did, because he'd stopped asking people to stay by his side after Cuba. Because he was not a good man, he was a dangerous one.

Lorna backed away, one foot behind the other until she ran, and Erik stood there with a blank expression and watched her go.

[doomonfilm]

Results : The 93rd Academy Award Film Nominations (2021)

After weeks and weeks of speculation, rumination over nominees, streaming service deep dives, high-priced rentals and brain-bending predictions, the moment of truth has finally arrived.  This year, despite the ceremonies being split between the Dolby Theater in Hollywood and Union Station in downtown Los Angeles, the presentation was wonderfully cohesive.  Several stars stepped up to preface each award, present the nominees and name the winners, and in-between these moments, Questlove had my dream gig as Academy Awards DJ.  For one of the first public forays in a world creeping closer to a post-COVID-19 reality, the show came off exceptionally smooth and well-presented. 

Cicely Tyson, Ian Holm, Max Von Sydow, Cloris Leachman, Yaphet Koto and many more were recognized in light of their respective passings in 2020 courtesy of Angela Bassett and a moving Stevie Wonder selection, As.  Tyler Perry and the Motion Picture & Television Fund each received the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award for their long-established efforts, especially those during the COIVD-19 pandemic.  Announcements were made for a Steven Spielberg-directed update of West Side Story, the long-delayed In The Heights and Summer of Soul, the directorial debut of Questlove (who also provided his DJ services for the evening).  The show even had a couple of hilarious moments, including Daniel Kaluuya embarrassing his mother on national TV and a quiz show turned censor’s nightmare involving Questlove, Lil’ Rel Howery, Andra Day, Kaluuya and Glenn Close.  Several of the evening’s awards also allowed for stars and crew to voice their opinions, concerns and wishes about cultural ills, the lack of inclusion and how we should treat our fellow man.

While we all look forward to seeing what surprises each Academy Awards ceremony holds, what we really come for are the awards.  This year, I put in the work more than ever, and even I found myself surprised by some of the evening’s outcomes.  Here are my thoughts on the evening and the winners.

Best Picture

Winner : Nomadland Prediction : Minari

While I’m not surprised that Nomadland took the top award of the night, I am a bit sad that Minari ended up having to walk away almost empty-handed in light of this, especially seeing that Another Round took the Best International Feature award.  Hopefully Minari can find an audience in light of this snub, but despite how bitter I sound, I am happy for the success that Nomadland has found this award’s season. 

Best Director

Winner : Chloé Zhao, Nomadland Prediction : Chloé Zhao, Nomadland

Chloé Zhao has been the belle of the ball this award’s season, and her successful run culminated in a strong showing at this year’s Academy Awards ceremony.  With her next venture being a step into the MCU via The Eternals, let’s see if she can bring her sensibility (and award-winning credibility) into the world of the popcorn flick. 

Best Actor

Winner : Anthony Hopkins, The Father Prediction : Chadwick Boseman, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom

As Joaquin Phoenix said so prophetically prior to handing out this award (and I loosely quote), “it’s a shame that only one person can win”.  That being said, as great as Anthony Hopkins was in The Father, it’s amazing to me that this award did not go to Chadwick Boseman.  Some might say that giving it to him posthumously would not be sincere, but cards on the table, Boseman gave a powerhouse performance that deserved continued recognition right up to the top award.  The Academy Awards has a long history of “interesting” choices, and this is one of the most memorable to date.

Best Actress

Winner : Frances McDormand, Nomadland Prediction : Viola Davis, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom

After Andra Day upset the balance at the Golden Globes, I had my doubts that the formidable Frances McDormand would garner any awards for Nomadland, despite her stellar track record.  Viola Davis looked like the frontrunner headed into the night, as she was poised to make Oscar history, which further narrowed McDormand's chances.  Once Nomadland won Best Picture, however, it seemed like the wave had shifted, and sure enough, the statue went to McDormand.  This was a monster of a cateogry, and her win was certainly a well-deserved one. 

Best Supporting Actor

Winner : Daniel Kaluuya, Judas and the Black Messiah Prediction : Lakeith Stanfield, Judas and the Black Messiah

In one of the most controversial categories leading into the evening, Daniel Kaluuya and Lakeith Stanfield found themselves battling one another in the Best Supporting Actor category, which raised the question of whether or not Judas and the Black Messiah even had a lead.  This was further muddied by what seemed like a sure-thing victory for Chadwick Boseman in the Best Actor category (which ended up being quite the surprise category, to say the least).  With Kaluuya having the momentum coming into the night via a series of previous wins for his role as Fred Hampton, his win on the night was not a surprise victory, and his presence definitely helped make the show a memorable one.

Best Supporting Actress

Winner : Yuh-Jung Youn, Minari Prediction : Yuh-Jung Youn, Minari

In what ended up being my favorite moment of the night, Yuh-Jung Youn helped save Minari from a wholly disappointing showing with her formidable victory in the Best Supporting Actress category.  Her acceptance speech was what the Oscar ceremony is all about, with her sincerity and appreciation being massively sincere, including a wonderful acknowledgement of getting to meet award presenter Brad Pitt.

Original Screenplay

Winner : Promising Young Woman Prediction : Promising Young Woman

Had Promising Young Woman walked away empty-handed, it would have been a pure travesty.  Its subject matter, however, not to mention its unforgiving approach, made it a tough choice for any of the top awards outside of Best Original Screenplay, but in my opinion, it is exactly those same aspects that made it the shoo-in win for this category.  Hollywood has a long way to go before it can be honest about the type of people it supports, but giving a film like this one a spotlight can help make that a reality. 

Adapted Screenplay

Winner : The Father Prediction : The Father

As one of the last films I ended up seeing in my pre-Academy Awards research, I was very curious to see how The Father would end up in regard to successes, and this was one of the categories that felt like a sure thing.  The passion and time spent on this play turned screenplay is evident for anyone who has seen this incredibly moving film, and while its other award of the night was definitely a shockwave of a closer, this award was certainly well-deserved and possibly expected.

Animated Feature

Winner : Soul Prediction : Soul

If there were a sure thing for the evening, this was the category.  Soul was the heavy favorite going into the night, and it did what it set out to do, which was win over everyone who had the pleasure of seeing it, including members of the Academy.

Production Design

Winner : Mank Prediction : News of the World

My curiosity of what kind of showing that Mank would have on the evening kept me in anticipation leading into the show, and while it didn’t garner any of the big awards, I am happy that the work put into capturing a bygone era was rewarded via its technical awards.  This one came as a surprise to me, but it was certainly not a bad choice.

Costume Design

Winner : Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom Prediction : Emma

This award not only stood as a show of inclusion (something that the Academy has had to be aware of in the recent past), but a harbinger of possible results in the top acting awards.  Anytime that a film like Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom starts cleaning up in the tech spots, I start to look at it like a sort of consolation prize, and after the film’s leads not receiving awards for Best Actor or Best Actress, it seemed that this practice is still in effect.

Cinematography

Winner : Erik Messerschmidt, Mank Prediction : Erik Messerschmidt, Mank

As mentioned before, the aspect of Mank that really stood out to me was how David Fincher made his film feel authentically of the era it presents to us.  This immersion was created with the visuals and the sound, but with Sound of Metal being such a standout film centered around auditory stimulus, Mank felt like a longshot for that, but a sure shot for Best Cinematography.

Editing

Winner : Sound of Metal Prediction : The Trial of the Chicago 7

Sound of Metal had a very impressive night, and while it won the award everyone expected it to, seeing it win the Best Editing award as well only stands as a testament to how well put together the film is (no pun intended).

Makeup and Hairstyling

Winner :  Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom Prediction : Pinocchio 

As mentioned in my Best Costume Design thoughts, while this award was well-deserved, it felt like a possible setup for a letdown later on in the evening,  It’s tough to think of an award in terms of what it may mean for a future loss, but that’s the way the award show cookie crumbles.

Sound

Winner : Sound of Metal Prediction : Sound of Metal

If Soul didn’t exist, then this award would’ve been the one that felt like the most obvious choice.  Capturing the world of deafness in film is not only incredibly difficult, but daring as well, as audio is one of the key aspects to creating the immersion needed to appreciate a film, but the sound design of this film brought us into a world many of us may never experience directly, and for that, it deserves to be awarded.

Visual Effects

Winner : Tenet Prediction : Love and Monsters

Tenet couldn’t go empty-handed this awards season, and with much of the competition being on a different cinematic and studio level (outside of Disney’s Mulan), Tenet certainly had the highest profile.  It is cool, however, to see a film (and director) so dedicated to practical and in-camera effects win the highest award in the game.

Score

Winner : Soul Prediction : Mank

In what continuously became the most hilarious occurrence to me from award show to award show, Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross once again found themselves playing second banana to Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross.  While I have no issues with Soul winning this award, I think time may find that Mank’s incredibly period-authentic original score was overlooked in its brilliance.

Song

Winner : Fight for You (Judas and the Black Messiah) Prediction : Fight for You (Judas and the Black Messiah)

After a disappointing snub at the Golden Globes, it felt like H.E.R. my find herself walking away empty-handed for her standout work in the creation of Fight For You.  The song is not only a strong performance and recording by its own merit, but it captures the spirit and essence of Judas and the Black Messiah in a way that the other nominees fall short of. 

Documentary Feature

Winner : My Octopus Teacher Prediction : Collective

While a compelling film, I find myself baffled at the continued victories that My Octopus Teacher has racked up for the year.  Despite my lack of connection to it, it is impossible to ignore how deep and vast the film’s connection to the populous at large has been, and with an Oscar under its belt (along with the numerous other statues it has collected), it stands to likely grow a bigger and more supportive fanbase. 

International Feature

Winner : Another Round (Denmark) Prediction : Better Days (Hong Kong)

Not only was Minari robbed of wins in both the Best Picture and Best International Feature category, but the film that did win the Best International Feature category felt like a bit of a superficial choice.  With a film about bullying, a film about the failures of the healthcare system and a film about the lack of humanity during war all in the running (and all pitch-perfect films, to boot), a film about a group of entitled alcoholics being a poor influence to kids became leader of the pack.  Categories like this one are a chance to broaden American awareness of international art and culture, but this award feels like one of the bigger missteps of the evening.

Animated Short

Winner : If Anything Happens I Love You Prediction : Genius Loci

While Genius Loci was the more moving piece to me, If Anything Happens I Love You is certainly a film with a nuanced and artistic approach to an American epidemic that is public shootings (a school shooting, in this case).  While my heart feels the loss of this choice, my head is happy that such a moving and heartfelt film may get the chance to touch the lives of a broader audience.

Documentary Short

Winner : Colette Prediction : Do Not Split

First and foremost, all respect to Colette for the story it tells and the spotlight it puts on both its titular figure and the way that people of multiple generations dance around facing the Holocaust head on.  All that being said, Do Not Split was way too important of a film to go unawarded, especially in light of rising violence against members of the Asian-American community.

Live-Action Short

Winner : Two Distant Strangers Prediction : Two Distant Strangers

Definitely one of the categories that got the winner absolutely right.  Sadly, the film becomes more and more relevant with each passing day, with several Police-based shootings having taken place since the George Floyd trail conclusion.  Bravo to Joey Bada$$ and company for making such a brave and bold piece of art.

I ended up predicting of 9 the 23 films correct, which is not nearly as good in comparison to how confident I felt going into the night.  There were lots of surprises throughout the evening, especially in the final stretch, and I’m sure these decisions will be debated heavily for the next few weeks.  Luckily, we’ve got ourselves plenty of months to start taking in the 2021 releases, and with two-thirds of the year left to look forward to, it’ll be fun when we all reconvene to do this again in 2022.

[sapphossidechick]

i’m rereading these as i send them to you, and afsgdhj it’s so bad

Chapter 3: We head into the beautiful — Woah!

The next morning, we were packing like never before. I’ve never actually packed before, so I’m telling the truth. I’ve been here pretty much my whole life, but you already knew that. Livia had stayed with the fifth cohort, which did make her cohort pretty mad, but that’s what you get for throwing your camper out into the dirt. From time to time, someone would come in and tell us that they hoped we lived, or that they’ll miss us, or even just hi. Eventually, Phoenix came in.

“Hey, guys. Are you ready?” I asked.

“Physically, yes. But mentally, no. I’ve just never left camp before,” confieded Phoenix as she swept a braid behind her shoulder. I’d only seen yesterday’s hairstyle on her, which was her hair down, but I liked this one better. By the way, if you ever start to cringe from embarrassment from time to time, just keep in mind that there might be even more embarrassing things yet to come. I’m just sayin’. Anyways, she was a kick butt girl, and I didn’t think she was scared of anything. I guess we do learn something new everyday.

“Anyway,” said Livia, breaking the silence. “We should probably get going.”

I  nodded and swung my bag over my shoulder. It was a light backpack filled with only my purple camp t-shirt, jeans, a first aid kit, food, and water.

“Are you guys packed?” I asked. They both nodded.

“Alright. Do you need lunch before we go?” I asked, just to make sure nobody was hungry in the first five minutes.

But they shook their heads.

As we headed down the main road, Jayni pulled us over.

“Be careful, guys. It’s dangerous out there.” We nodded. “And remember to call for help when you need it, okay?”

I gave her a thumbs-up. She smiled at us, then walked away muttering in Spanish the way she always does when she’s nervous. Because I’d been at camp with her so long, I have picked up some Spanish from Jayni. I caught a few words like “Trap”, and “Death”. I really hoped those didn’t apply to us. As we continued on the walk, we got a couple of waves, but a lot more muttering, as though everyone was saying, “If they don’t survive, who’s gonna take their jobs? I want his/her job.”

I never thought that the outside world was so dangerous to make even Jayni scared. What was so bad out there? When we finally reached the gates, I had to look back. I couldn’t leave my only home without seeing it one last time.

“Bye, Camp Jupiter,” I whispered under my breath.

Then I charged out into the real world.

It was beautiful for about a millisecond. As we looked around in awe, a blur of metal came whizzing by. It honked at us, and we got off the pavement just in time. Strange, I thought. I don’t remember that being there. All of a sudden, the mortals seemed to have constructed a very popular road right in front of Camp Jupiter. You’re probably wondering why our camp is named after a planet. Well, what if a planet is named after a Roman god? Jupiter is the Roman name for Zeus, but that’s his Greek aspect, so we don’t see him very much. Phoenix, Livia, and I sat flat on our rumps and watched the cars pass by. Phoenix stood up and brushed off her ‘2009 Build-a-Thon, Cedar Rapids, Iowa’ t-shirt. Her jeans now had a grass stain on them.

“We’ll have to find a way across this road,” she told us.

Above us, the sun was in the middle of the sky. It was a stereotypical California day, with a gentle breeze.

“There!” she exclaimed.

Right ahead of us, about twenty yards, an old woman was crossing the street with two younger children who might’ve been her grandchildren. They seemed to be staring at us. One of the kids beckoned us forward. I was a bit skeptical about following some old grandma, but Phoenix said, “They know where we need to go. We should follow them.” When we got to the crosswalk, the old lady was across the street, on our side.

“Children,” she said, addressing us. “The quest you face is dangerous. I appear as a mortal for you, because a goddess would attract attention. I am Juno. I will help you best I can, though I fear this might disrupt Jupiter a bit. He prefers I only help with a quest very rarely, and yet you’d be the second group of demigods I helped this century. Your friend Livia knows where to go. I have enlisted many other gods to help you as well. To name a few, Neptune, Minerva, Diana, etc. Just remember me if you achieve victory. Let me be the first one you sacrifice to. Or else I have a way to make things a bit more interesting.” We nodded, saluted a couple of times, and then averted our eyes as she became a goddess supernova.

“Okay guys. We need to follow Reyna’s tracks. Juno said something about Livia knowing the way, right?” I asked.

Livia nodded.

“Lead the way I told her.” She looked at me like I was crazy.

“You don’t see it?”

“See what?”

“The line.”

“What line?”

“The single line in front of you!”

I shook my head.  What was she talking about?

“In the grass, there is a faint line of flowers,” she explained. “So that means we should follow it. The plants are obviously trying to point us somewhere.”

I looked at Phoenix. I wasn’t sure if this was a good idea. What if this was a trap? But I didn’t have time to say anything before Livia took off following the flowers. “Wait up!” I called.

But she was either too far ahead, or she ignored me.

“Livia! Wait!” yelled Phoenix.

Finally, she stopped. I looked at Phoenix like how come she listens to you? She smirked at me.

“Guys, the path won’t be here forever. We need to go now!”

Livia turned and kept running. It took all my energy to keep up with her. After awhile, she stopped.

“What’s wrong?”I asked.

“The flowers just stopped here. She must be close by. Either that, or the flowers are just not growing fast enough.”

Phoenix shrugged.

“How long do you estimate it will take for the flowers to regrow?” she asked.

Livia checked her watch.

“Maybe an hour, maybe a minute, maybe a day. But honestly, I think it’ll take about forty-five minutes.”

As we sat down, I pulled out some water, and we all drank a little bit. Always stay hydrated, kids! Sorry, just had to get that message out. From now on I won’t be weird. Just kidding. Everything in my life is weird. Anyway, after about half an hour, the flowers appeared again. Livia got up and took off, but the water seemed to give me a boost of power. Was Neptune helping me? I didn’t care, but I thanked him, and kept running. We came to a clearing with a couple of houses. We ran down the path. We passed a house where a car was parked. A redhead got out of the large SUV and spotted us. She said something to the person inside, then made a beeline straight for us. Her purple eyes bore into me like she could see into my soul. I almost ran into Livia when she stopped. The girl ran toward us.

“Umm… hi,” I said, stupidly.

“Hello. I’m Julia Carter. What are you doing here?”

oooooo i’m so into this story! it’s not bad it honestly just needs a little editing, the plot so far is interesting and i can’t wait to see what happens next

[aidanchaser]

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Everyone Lives AU

Table of Contents beta’d by @ageofzero @magic713m @ccboomer @aubsenroute @somebodyswatson

Chapter Four The Seven Potters

Cedric Diggory closed the door to the Potters’ parlour and let out a slow breath. He was nervous about what they were about to do, certainly, but he also knew that he was as prepared as he could be.

He dumped his bundle of clothes onto a chair and unfastened the collar of his dress robes. It really had been a lovely wedding, and he hoped the photos he had taken for Mrs. Tonks would come out alright. He also hoped that this next part wouldn’t ruin the day for Tonks and Remus.

Cedric started to pull his dress robes off but paused when he realised there were quite a few portraits on the walls. He was surprised by how old some of the paintings looked, some perhaps as old as Hogwarts tapestries.

“Er —” he made eye contact with a young woman with a round face and purple, glittering robes, “ — do you mind?”

She laughed. Though her face was rather plain, her laughter was strikingly beautiful. “I suppose we’ll go to the living room. I imagine most of the bedrooms are being used for a similar purpose?”

“Sorry,” Cedric apologised. He wasn’t the only one who would be changing out of his dress robes. Each of the wedding guests would be getting ready for their flight from Styncon Garden.

As soon as the frames were empty, Cedric pulled off his dress robes and changed into a much more comfortable t-shirt and jeans.

He glanced around the Potters’ parlour, taking in the worn chairs and neat bookshelves. Scattered between the books were trinkets from around the world and photographs like the ones that adorned the Potters’ fireplace mantles. There were even a few wands on display, tucked between a book on Disguise Potions and a photograph of James, Lily, and baby Harry. Cedric squinted at the worn etchings on the golden plate beneath the wands. He couldn’t make out all the names, just an Iolanthe and Hardwin Potter, but some of the dates went back to the 1200s.

The parlour itself seemed well-used, with worn furniture and stacks of books on tables. The books that had been pulled from the shelf were reference material for dueling spells and Healing magic. While this fact did not surprise Cedric, it was not exactly comforting.

The Diggory family home had just the one room for receiving guests. Cedric, who had only known the Potters to be kind and humble, had been surprised by their home’s grandeur on his first visit. He supposed this home was what came from generations of adding onto a family home; he certainly preferred it to the Blacks’ home in Grimmauld Place, which seemed more like a shrine to a bygone era than a living, growing thing.

Cedric pulled on a red hoodie with a bit of a struggle. It was tight around his shoulders, but that was only temporary. He would fit into it soon enough.

Finally, Cedric shoved his dress robes into a bag and returned to the living room that the others were gathering in. He was glad to find that he was not the last to get changed. Most of the other guests were still changing out of their dress robes.

Harry was already there, seated on top of his trunk, and James and Arthur stood behind the sofa, where Proudfoot was stretched out, and Picksie pulled a blanket over him. Sirius knelt beside Proudfoot, wand leveled at his head.

“I still think we should wipe his memory,” Sirius said.

“The Ministry will know and be able to undo it,” Arthur warned.

“Great. More work for them.”

“And what do you think the Ministry’s going to do if they can see from the Trace that an Obliviate Charm went off on our property?” asked James. “You might be alright going to Azkaban for jinxing an Auror, but I’m not interested in joining you. I think we should count ourselves lucky we didn’t have to put much work into getting him drunk.”

Cedric, too, was glad it had been easy to get Proudfoot so incapacitated. He had heard that Proudfoot and Tonks had fallen out some time last year, and Thicknesse must have expected Proudfoot to be on his best behaviour while assigned to guard Tonks’ wedding. That plan had clearly backfired.

Before leaving the Ministry that morning, Cedric had received a stern lecture from Rufus Scrimgeour. The Minister for Magic made it clear in no uncertain terms that while he may be attending Tonks’ wedding as a guest, he was still an Auror and he should still behave like he was on duty. Cedric had understood that to mean he was still reporting on the Potters’ and any contact they may have with the Order. So he and Tonks had set their stories straight before the wedding had begun:

They would tell Robards that they had stayed late celebrating, Proudfoot had passed out, and everyone had parted ways at the end of the festivities. They would tell their superiors that they certainly had not noticed the Potters making any preparations to leave, and what a shock it was to hear that they had disappeared.

The only part of the lie Cedric was still unsure about was how he would tell it to his boyfriend, Christian Thelborne.

A cabinet in the kitchen banged closed, followed by Moody’s prosthetic leg and cane banging against the wooden floor as he followed Lily into the living room. Lily carried a cauldron full of what looked like bubbling mud into the sitting room. She set it on the coffee table and looked over Proudfoot. “I don’t think he’ll die of alcohol poisoning if we leave him like this,” she said, but she didn’t look sure.

“He’ll be fine,” Moody grunted. “Are the newlyweds ready yet?”

“Don’t rush them,” Sirius said loudly. “It’s their first night together.”

“Next time,” Tonks shouted through the door to the study, “you get to wear the dress with two dozen laces up the back and paint your face in ten layers of makeup!”

Sirius laughed; Moody did not.

Harry, who had been sitting quietly on his trunk, suddenly straightened as Ron and Hermione came downstairs, wearing casual clothes and jackets that didn’t quite fit. His eyes narrowed at them, then he looked at Cedric with the same puzzled expression. When Fred and George emerged from James and Lily’s room in similar, ill-fitting clothing, he glared at the cauldron Lily had set on the table.

“No,” Harry said. At his sharp tone, Hedwig squawked irritably in her cage.

Cedric was impressed that Harry had cottoned on so quickly, but he was not surprised that Harry was upset. He would have felt similarly if his friends had decided to impersonate him in order to get Voldemort’s attention.

“What’s the matter, Harry?” asked James.

“You said there’d be a guard, like when we went to Grimmauld Place — not Polyjuice Potion.”

“You don’t have to take any,” said Lily, as she Summoned five goblets from the kitchen.

“Why do they have to be me? Why don’t we all just be you or Ron or Cedric?”

The study door opened, and Tonks appeared, dressed just like the others; Lupin stood behind her, wedding dress draped over his arm.

“But I’ve been practicing!” Tonks said. Her short, pink cut turned into Harry’s dark, messy hair, and her brown eyes became bright green. A lighting-bolt shaped scar split across her forehead. She had transformed into Harry perfectly, except for his specs.

“Pretty good, eh?” she said, and Harry frowned.

“I don’t sound like that. And I’m taller than that.”

“You do and you’re not,” Fred laughed. “Now I agree, I’d rather impersonate Cedric, tall, strong and handsome, just in case it all went wrong, but old Voldy didn’t pick Ced for his arch nemesis, did he?”

“The Death Eaters will be looking for you, lad,” said Mad-Eye, “and if we give them seven of you, splitting them up’s the only chance we got.”

“How do we even know there will be Death Eaters?” said Harry. “There weren’t last time we left like this.”

“We don’t have time for this, Harry,” said James. “We did our best to make it seem like we were moving you just before your birthday, but we can’t trust it all went as planned. Using these decoys was Regulus’ idea, and frankly, it’s brilliant.”

“Not brilliant enough for him to risk being here,” Harry grumbled, though even Harry had to know it wasn’t a very good excuse.

Harry and Cedric knew better than anyone why Regulus couldn’t be there. Regulus Black was not in the Order of the Phoenix — on Dumbledore’s orders. It was only recently that Cedric had realised those orders were because Voldemort could not know that Regulus had had a chance to tell Dumbledore about Horcruxes. It was in their best interest that Voldemort believe Regulus was acting alone in the hunt for Horcruxes, even though Cedric, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville — and to an extent, Ginny — were now involved in this hunt. Cedric could only hope it would all be over before Voldemort figured out just how much they had accomplished.

Cedric knew that Harry had found something at Hogwarts before Dumbledore’s funeral, but they had not had a chance to discuss it in any detail. He hoped that when the Potters were safe at the Burrow, he and Harry would finally have a chance to talk.

“You need my hair for the Polyjuice Potion to work,” Harry said, “and I’m not giving it to you.”

“Oh, please, Harry,” Hermione sighed. “We can easily —”

But it was Picksie who suddenly waved her hand and Harry winced as bits of his hair floated from his head and into the cauldron. He scowled as the thick, brown potion churned and smoked until it had transformed into glistening gold.

Harry’s scowl vanished suddenly. “Wait —”

Lily was already using her wand to fill the goblets with the Polyjuice Potion. “We’re past time for waiting, Harry. Hand your father your glasses, and give your trunk and Hedwig to Picksie.”

“Just hold on a moment.” He got up and dug through his trunk, finally retrieving a pair of socks. “I should have enough Felix for everyone who’s got to be me to take a sip, which should last us until we get where we’re going, right?”

“Harry,” James said, “you don’t have to —”

“When else should I use it?”

Lily handed goblets to Ron, Hermione, Cedric, Fred, and George. “It’s a really generous offer, Harry, but I don’t know if it would be safe to mix doses of Felix Felicis and Polyjuice Potion.”

“Then you take it. Everyone who’s not me gets a sip. It’s the only way I’m going along with this plan.”

“I mean, there’s nothing to stop us from tying you to my motorcycle and taking off regardless,” Sirius said, but he took the Potion from Harry. He took a sip and passed the vial to James.

“Merlin, the last thing we need is a more reckless version of James and Sirius,” Lupin sighed, but he, too, took a small sip when James passed him the vial.

Cedric would not have minded a sip of Felix Felicis, but he trusted that Lily knew what she was talking about and downed his goblet of Polyjuice without complaint. It wasn’t as terrible as its ingredients suggested; in fact, Cedric found it rather warm and pleasant, as far as potions went. The feeling that washed over him was similar to being dipped in a tepid bath, not unlike the Disillusionment Charm that Christian had cast over him back on his first assignment in London. The potion seemed to melt over him, and while he did not feel himself get any shorter, his frame seemed to shrink in on itself, and the clothes that had been snug now fit perfectly as his broad shoulders took on Harry’s thinner frame.

“Finally,” Moody grunted as everyone took their given potion. “Everyone get your glasses on.”

James Duplicated Harry’s glasses until everyone had a pair.

“Tonks,” Moody said, “you’re with me.”

“Like old times, Mad-Eye,” she said, and turned to Lupin. “Kiss for good luck?”

Lupin frowned. “With that face —”

“What if I wanted a kiss for good luck?” Sirius asked, a question that perhaps might not have been voiced without the influence of Felix.

Tonks gave Sirius a kiss on the cheek.

“Harry —”

A pair of Harrys nearby said, “Yes?” at the same time as Harry.

Moody ignored the Weasley twins. “Harry, you’re with Hagrid.”

Harry stood and folded his arms over his chest. “Why can’t I go with Mum or Dad?”

“Because Voldemort will expect you to be with me,” Moody said, “and if he figures out he’s been had by Tonks, he’ll go for your parents next. Most jinxes will bounce off Hagrid, so you should be safest with him —”

“I don’t care.”

“This isn’t the time to argue, Harry,” said Lily.

“If you’d just asked me instead of —”

Moody continued as if Harry hadn’t spoken. “Sirius, you’re giving Hagrid your motorcycle, right? He’s a bit heavy for a broom.”

“Yeah,” Sirius got to his feet. “Did you find me a broom? Mine’s a bit old for this run.”

“You’ll be with Ronald. Arthur, you said you had brooms —”

“Under the tables outside,” said Arthur. “At least, Fred and George were supposed to make sure —”

“Two Cleansweeps and a Comet ready for service,” one of them answered.

“Did you take my Comet?” Ron asked. “You could have asked —”

“And Hagrid?” Moody asked.

“Got two thestrals tied up in th’ grove, just need ter get ‘em.” Hagrid went outside.

“Who’s going with Mum and Dad?” Harry asked.

“Diggory’s with James,” said Moody, “and George with Lily.”

“George can go with Hagrid. I’ll go with Mum.”

“These pairs were decided in order to keep everyone as safe as possible,” James said. “We’ve got to trust that Moody knows what he’s doing.”

Lily stroked Harry’s hair. “I know it isn’t easy, but we need you to do as you’re asked. You’ll be safe with Hagrid, and I’ll be safe with George.”

Harry did not look convinced, but did not protest any further. “Fine, but I want Dad to take my Firebolt then.”

“Sure you don’t want your mum to have it?” George asked as he looked over the Firebolt with a bit of envy in his eyes.

“We’re taking one of Hagrid’s thestrals,” Lily said. “I’ve had quite enough of brooms, personally.”

“Yeah, but have you had enough of a Firebolt?” Fred asked, but Mr. Weasley put his hand on Fred’s shoulder and Fred quickly shut his mouth.

“We’re already behind schedule,” Moody grunted. “Let’s get going.”

The Potters were slowest to head outside. James’ hand lingered on the back of the sofa. Lily adjusted the coasters on the coffee table to make sure they were in a neat stack. Picksie fluffed the pillow on the armchair. Harry glanced around the room as if he were looking for something he had forgotten to pack, but there was nothing else to take, nothing else to be done but say goodbye.

Cedric followed Moody into the garden and let the Potters take a moment alone in the house. There was no knowing what sort of home they would come back to when the war was over and Voldemort was dead. Cedric hoped that whatever spells had been cast to protect the house would last as long as they needed to, but without people living in the house and maintaining the charms, it was a rather empty hope. The Potters had to know that.

Out in the garden, Fred swung his leg over a broom — at least, Cedric assumed it was Fred. Everyone may have looked like Harry, but Cedric knew who each of them was meant to be paired with. Fred looked confident on the broom with his father, while George felt nervously for the thestral that Hagrid had given him.

When Cedric had followed Harry to the Ministry of Magic last year, he had not been able to see the thestral that had taken them there. However, after a year working as an Auror and fighting alongside the Order, he had run into more than his fair share of death. Now, Cedric could see the skeletal frame of the horse-like creature, with tight, scaly skin stretched over bone, and a beak-like snout that nipped at George’s shoulder.

“We could trade?” George suggested to Fred, who only laughed at the idea.

The second thestral went to Hermione and Lupin. Hermione allowed Lupin to help her onto its back before climbing on himself. Lupin moved with a confidence that suggested he could see the creature as well. Two wars must have given Lupin plenty of chances to see death.

Sirius showed Hagrid how to work the motorcycle, while Ron waited, broom in hand. He looked nervous, and Cedric couldn’t blame him. Tonks bounced anxiously on a broom with Mad-Eye, who grumbled about the Potters taking so long.

Cedric fidgeted with his wand. Growing up, he had heard stories of the war against the Death Eaters and Voldemort, but he had never expected that someday he would become a part of it. He wondered what it must have been like for James and Lily, who has always known that Harry would grow up and have to fight. They must have imagined going into hiding again a dozen times. Cedric had only known the prophecy since last summer, when Harry had told him the truth in the orchard not far down the path, but Lily and James had known for Harry’s entire life. Cedric could not imagine carrying that burden.

As Harry, James, and Lily emerged from the house, Hermione asked “Where’s Picksie?”

“She’s Apparating our trunks and other things to our final destination,” said James, “to help us fly light. She’ll just have to time it right, get everything out when Harry’s far enough away that the Trace won’t pick up on her magic.”

“Sure would have been easier to have waited until you were seventeen,” said Ron.

“Only if you want to face a dozen Death Eaters and Voldemort himself,” Moody grunted. “With any luck, that false trail worked, and the skies are clear tonight. Everyone ready?”

Lily climbed onto the thestral beside George, Harry reluctantly got into the sidecar of Sirius’ motorcycle with Hagrid astride the bike, and Cedric joined James on the Firebolt.

“Wand at the ready?” James asked.

“Yeah.” Cedric tightened one hand around the broom and the other around his wand. With any luck, he wouldn’t need it.

But despite the assistance of Felix Felicis, luck was scarce these days.

As they shot into the air and broke through the barriers that had shielded Styncon Garden for years, Cedric only had enough time to admire how well the Firebolt handled before they were greeted by a waiting crowd of Death Eaters. There were at least two dozen, cloaked and hooded, surrounding the fourteen fliers. The starry night sky erupted in a clash of curses.

Cedric cast a Shield Charm as quickly as he could over him and James, and he successfully blocked a curse from the left, but he could not make his charm surround them completely. A spark from the opposite direction shot past Cedric’s ear, and might have struck truer if it had not been for James’ quick reflexes. It was not just the Firebolt that handled well; James was an excellent flier.

“How did they know?” Cedric shouted as he threw a curse back at the hooded figure who had nearly hit him. His Stunner struck the figure in the chest, and the Death Eater tumbled from their broom to their death below.

James swerved again and it was all Cedric could do to keep from being thrown. “I certainly didn’t tell them,” he said over his shoulder, and then they dropped into a steep dive, swooping beneath a team of three hooded Death Eaters headed straight for them.

Cedric looked around, trying to get a count on their numbers. They had not even had a chance at escape; some thirty Death Eaters had somehow learned that the Potters were leaving tonight.

Cedric cast another Shield Charm to protect both him and James from a pair of curses as James veered them west, towards Kingsley’s home. He glanced back and watched the other members of the Order disperse through the night sky. One of the thestrals disappeared into a cloud, and another pair on a broom turned south. Everyone had a different destination assigned to them, and they would take Portkeys to the Burrow when it was all said and done. This meant that the Death Eaters, too, were forced to split up and chase them. He wished that he and James could try to help their friends, but this was their best chance at success: divide and conquer.

The four Death Eaters that had split from the pack to chase Cedric and James did not slow their barrage of curses. Cedric cast a Shield Charm, which burst with white light as a curse struck it. Cedric could see no one else from the Order. They were on their own.

His stomach lurched as James spun the Firebolt in a tight corkscrew. Cedric clung to the handle and shot off a wild burst of flame. He got lucky with the shot — he wondered if it was natural luck or if he was benefiting from James’ dose of Felix Felicis — and one of the Death Eaters’ robes caught on fire. The cloaked figure pulled away, hastily beating out the flames.

“Nice shot!” James said. “Now hang on!”

Cedric had been hanging on, but the warning made him grip the broom tighter. James, after their tight dive, had decided the next best course of action was to fly straight up. Cedric fell backwards. He kept his grip, tight as ever, but there was nothing for his feet to connect with. He was left dangling by the end of the broom, floundering for a two-handed grip without dropping his wand.

Something hot and sharp cut into Cedric’s ankle. He felt blood soak into his jeans and looked down for the source of the curse. Even though the two Death Eaters steadily climbing after him and James were hooded, Cedric knew exactly who that curse belonged to. It was the same pain he had felt in the Department of Mysteries, when Pyrites had tortured him in order to convince Harry to give up the prophecy.

Before Cedric could fire a return curse, James’ steep ascent turned into another sharp dive. Cedric had a brief moment of weightlessness to right his body and make sure the broom was beneath him, before they shot towards the ground.

Cedric, chilled from the ascent and disoriented from the sudden changes in direction, had difficulty keeping his aim true. His first explosive curse landed beneath the Death Eaters, but his second hit the space between them, knocking them apart and knocking their hoods off as they rolled from the force of the blow.

Cedric has spent hours studying lists of known and suspected Death Eaters during his Auror training this past year. He knew these men on sight.

Pyrites and Travers recovered from the blast and resumed their chase, but luckily the Firebolt was faster. Cedric dared to feel relieved even as he blocked a curse. The gap between them and their pursuers was widening.

His only warning was James’ sudden yell. From a cloud nearby, a hooded figure shot straight towards them. Cedric shouted, “Depulso!” hoping to knock the Death Eater away, but the cloaked figure swerved out of the way easily. As the figure raised their wand, Cedric began casting a Shield Charm, though he knew the charm would mean nothing if the Death Eater chose to use the Killing Curse.

Despite all the luck they’d had so far, Cedric saw a green spark illuminate the tip of the Death Eater’s wand. His heart stopped and he opened his mouth to yell for James to move out of the way, but he was drowned out by a roar and a deep voice shouting Harry’s name.

From out of a nearby cloud shot Hagrid on Sirius’ bike. Harry was standing in the sidecar, reaching over to the handlebars, and directing the motorcycle right into the Death Eater, who tumbled beneath the vehicle. His curse passed harmlessly over James’ shoulder.

“That’s him!” shouted Pyrities. His voice carried well on the wind. “That’s the real one!” And he and Travers veered away from Cedric and James. Travers headed after Hagrid and Harry, and Pyrites vanished into a cloud.

“Harry, what did you just do?” James shouted.

“Saved your life!” Harry shouted, and fired a Stunning Jinx at Travers, who yelled and swerved off course to avoid being struck. “Didn’t we just put him in Azkaban a month ago?”

“I guess he got out,” Cedric said. He really hated being associated with the Ministry sometimes. There were advantages to working in the Auror Department, but the general incompetence of the Ministry was not one of them. This was something he had complained to Christian about frequently, and even though Christian had recently been appointed Chief Captain of the Hit Wizards, nothing in the Magical Department of Law Enforcement had really changed. Cedric worried that the flaws in the Ministry were much deeper than administrative issues.

Hagrid wrested the handlebars back from Harry and pushed Harry into the sidecar. “Yeh stay there, where yer safe.” Then he veered to the south, and James followed.

“We’re expected at Kingsley’s,” Cedric shouted into James’ ear.

James didn’t answer. He stayed on Harry and Hagrid’s tail.

“James, we can’t —”

“Didn’t you hear Pyrites?” James said. “They know! Harry might as well have painted it over his head in golden sparks with a stunt like that. I’m going to get us close and you’re going to trade places with him.”

Cedric’s stomach did a brand new series of somersaults, just at the thought of climbing from the Firebolt and onto Sirius’ motorbike from hundreds of feet in the air. But he knew that James was right. After what had just happened, they needed to find a way to protect Harry.

James chased Hagrid and Harry while Cedric continued blasting Death Eaters away from them. The Death Eaters had paused their assault of curses, but continued to tail them. That alone unnerved Cedric more than anything else. He had a feeling that he knew what they were waiting for — who they were waiting for.

James pulled the broom up next to the sidecar. Cedric swung his legs over to one side of the broom and gripped the handle with both of his hands.

“What’re yeh doin’?” Hagrid shouted at them.

“Changing the plan!” Cedric shouted. “James, get me a bit higher.”

Cedric was not sure that it would be much safer, but he knew that he would feel more comfortable if he could drop down to Harry’s sidecar, rather than push himself off of the Firebolt.

“Cedric, don’t —” but Harry cried out in pain before he could finish. No spell had been fired, but Harry’s hand clutched at his scar.

Cedric had no warning as James swerved suddenly. Cedric’s grip failed and he dropped from the broom. A green spark passed through the space Cedric had been sitting. It was not the stroke of luck Cedric would have chosen. He reached out, hoping to connect with the bike, but he did not. His hand only grazed the metal frame of the sidecar as he fell, wind whistling in his ears, and the twinkling lights of the houses below growing brighter.

And then something jerked on the back of Cedric’s hoodie. He was yanked upwards. He reached his hand up and it connected with Harry’s. He locked his hand around Harry’s wrist and Harry did the same for him.

“We’re nearly there!” Hagrid shouted.

Harry tried pulling Cedric up but another Killing Curse shot past Harry’s ear and Harry pressed himself low against the sidecar. Cedric figured he had at least one hand free for dueling.

He raised his wand in the direction the curse had come from and froze. There, wand drawn and flying through the sky on some strange, inky black cloud, was Voldemort, flesh pale as freshly fallen snow and eyes red as rubies. Cedric felt helpless, dangling from a motorcycle while Voldemort flew towards him, aided by some unknown magic.

Hagrid shouted and steered the bike into a nosedive. Cedric managed to throw a Blasting Curse in Voldemort’s direction as Harry used gravity to pull Cedric into the sidecar. It was a tight squeeze with the two of them, but they had enough room to keep their wands out.

Cedric had a moment to feel relieved that he wasn’t going to crash into the ground when there was a loud bang and the engine of the motorbike began to spark. The nosedive became an uncontrollable spiral.

Cedric had no way to know where Voldemort was nor where James was. He only knew that they were falling and if he did not find a way to right the bike, they would crash, regardless of whether Voldemort managed to curse them.

“You’re mine, Potter!” a high, raspy voice shouted over the wind.

Cedric pressed Harry against the bike and fired Stunning Jinxes wildly into the night sky. Harry pushed against him, shouting at him to let him up. Then Harry’s protests turned into shouts of pain. Harry’s chest grew hot beneath Cedric’s arm and Harry clutched at his scar.

Voldemort’s high, raspy voice carried on the wind. “Avada —”

Even as Harry screamed in pain, he lifted his wand and fired a fount of golden flame at Voldemort.

There was a loud crack and Voldemort shrieked loudly.

“No!” Voldemort’s cried. “Your wand! Selwyn give me your wand!”

“Hang on!” Hagrid shouted.

A jet of flame burst from the engine, propelling the bike out of the dive. They flew forward at breakneck speed, and Harry still screamed beneath Cedric. Cedric had not seen any curse strike Harry, but something was causing him pain and something was still burning Harry’s chest. Cedric wanted to know what it was, wanted to help, but a red spark flew past his ear, striking Hagrid in the back. Hagrid did not flinch, but Cedric cast a Shield Charm over himself and Harry. Neither of them had the blood of giants, tough enough to resist Stunning Spells.

He strained to maintain his Charm as three more spells bounced off of Cedric’s shield in flashes of light and discordant crashes. The fourth, though, broke through as easily as if his Shield had been made of glass. The white hot light struck Cedric in the chest and he felt blood bubble up in his throat.

Voldemort flew towards them. Cedric did not need to hear the words on Voldemort’s lips to know Voldemort’s intention. He could see it in Voldemort's gleaming red eyes.

There was an explosion overhead and a scream. Voldemort raised his wand — then the sounds and sights of the battle vanished abruptly.

They had done it. They had crossed through the barrier.

The front tire of the bike struck the earth and the vehicle flipped, throwing Cedric, Harry, and Hagrid into the mud. Cedric tumbled, and he felt the glasses James had Duplicated for him back at Styncon Garden snap into pieces. The glass cut into his cheek, and he was fairly certain that every part of his body would be black and blue, but at least he managed to hold onto his wand.

When his body came to a stop, he considered laying there, waiting for someone else to find him, but a yell caught his attention.

Cedric sat up, groaning as he did, and pointed his wand at the figure falling from the sky. “Arresto Momentum!”

James’ fall slowed, thanks to Cedric’s quick spell, and James stumbled into the mud beside Cedric.

“Harry —” James said.

“Who’s out there?” someone shouted.

Cedric turned and saw Ted Tonks come running out of the small house. Andromeda was not far behind him. A third figure stood in the doorway, backlit, face difficult to make out.

“Is that Harry?” Andromeda asked.

Cedric pushed himself to his feet. “I’m not Harry. But he and Hagrid can’t be far.”

The waist-high reeds made it difficult for them to see Harry and Hagrid, but they used the burning motorbike as both a light source and marker to search the garden.

“I’ve got Hagrid here!” James shouted, and Andromeda ran towards him.

Cedric coughed a mouthful of blood into his hand and wiped it on his jeans as he continued his search. He followed a path of flattened weeds and found Harry at the end of it.

It would have been far less worrisome to find Harry unconscious and unmoving in the grass. Instead, Harry shook and gasped painfully for breath. He was not speaking, but something like whispers issued from his mouth and Cedric wondered if he was getting his first glimpse of what Voldemort truly possessing Harry looked like.

But he didn’t have time to worry about what was happening — he needed to find a way to stop it and bring Harry back. Cedric put his hand on Harry’s chest to feel Harry’s heartbeat and instead found Harry warm with fever, a fever that grew warmer as he moved his hand closer to Harry’s pocket. With a wave of his wand, he slashed open Harry’s t-shirt.

Inside his hoodie was a silver tiara in the shape of an eagle’s wings. The tiara had seared through Harry’s t-shirt and burned his chest. Against his better judgement, Cedric tried to pull the tiara away. It burned his fingertips, but even as he ignored the pain and held his grip, the tiara refused to budge.

“What the bloody hell have you done, Harry?” Cedric asked.

He did the only thing he could think of. He cast the Severing Charm on Harry. It would leave a scar, but Cedric knew of no other way to remove this strange object that was continuing to burn itself into Harry.

He yanked the tiara away and tossed it aside, glad it had not decided to cling to his hand the same way it had to Harry. He quickly Healed the crescent-shaped wound left by his Severing Charm and a pink layer of new flesh knitted together over the wound.

Sweat had begun to form on Harry’s brow and he was still shaking. If that object was cursed…

Cedric opened his mouth to shout for someone to help him move Harry, but instead, Cedric coughed up another handful of blood. He cursed under his breath and tried again.

“I’ve got Harry here!” he said, as loud as he could.

He heard movement in the reeds, and though he knew it was just James, he readied his wand. The barriers around the Tonks’ property should have protected them, but he could not help being worried that it had gone wrong, just as their plan to move Harry early had gone wrong.

Cedric’s paranoia was unnecessary. James and Ted Tonks burst through the reeds and knelt by Harry’s side. Cedric backed away to let them examine Harry more thoroughly. His hand brushed against the tiara, and he was surprised to find that it was already cool.

Cedric picked the tiara up and examined it again. He noticed the inscription along the band.

Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.

The motto of Ravenclaw House. He swallowed down a lump of blood. When Harry had told Cedric that he had found something in Hogwarts, Cedric had expected a lead on a Horcrux, not one of the Horcruxes.

Cedric could already feel his clothes growing tight as the Polyjuice Potion wore off, so he pulled off his jacket and wrapped the small tiara inside the fleece lining. He wasn’t about to carry this diadem with his bare hands, and he certainly didn’t want James and Ted to see it.

While James and Ted lifted Harry out of the mud, Cedric considered the short list of things that could destroy a Horcrux. He had learned through his research at Grimmauld Place that the only things that could destroy a Horcrux were about as dangerous and cursed as Horcruxes themselves. He did not look forward to trying to get his hands on something as deadly as basilisk venom or cockatrice blood.

Cedric coughed again, this time into his elbow. As he stumbled across the garden after James and Ted, he was surprised by how unstable the ground was beneath his feet. He slipped in the mud and nearly dropped the Horcrux.

“Alright, son?” Ted Tonks asked, as James shouldered the rest of Harry’s weight and carried Harry inside.

Cedric nodded and managed to grab the door frame before he fell over.

“You took a nasty fall through the barriers. James said you were ambushed.”

“They knew,” Cedric managed to say before he had to cough up more blood. He held onto the door frame, determined to stay on his feet. He had the Horcrux, and he had to be responsible for what happened to it. No one knew what it was beside him and Harry, and if Harry was not able to hold onto it, then it fell to Cedric. He had to make sure nothing happened to it. “Someone must have told them…”

“Cedric, you don’t sound alright. Let me take a look at you.”

Cedric stumbled again, but this time, he stumbled into someone. It wasn’t Ted Tonks who caught him. Cedric looked up into the face of Regulus Black. He didn’t know why Regulus was here or how, but he did know that Regulus knew about Horcruxes. Regulus could be trusted.

Cedric dropped his hoodie into Regulus’s hands, coughed again, and collapsed.

[queenofimagines]

Request: “Hey, can I request a MacGyver imagine where he and the reader/oc were in a relationship but decided to break up because of his job, but they just can't get away from each other”

Warnings: none

You and Mac loved each other as much as any person could love another, but you and he both lived busy lives. He was always being called away on missions while you were always working in the lab with Bozer when he coul stop by. You happened to be one of the people the Phoenix Foundation often lended our to other branches of the government, which meant that you were often pulled away for weeks at a time. Your constant traveling coupled with Mac’s many missions lead you both to agree to call it quits, no matter how much you didn’t want to.

It had been weeks since you and Mac broke up and even though you had both decided to stay friends, both of you found yourselves visiting each other much more than any normal friend would. He would often stop by your apartment or the lab to “go over mission stuff” as he liked to say, although it would usually end with you guys getting burgers and fries and talking about anything but the mission. It also didn’t help that Matty had started to bring assign you to go on missions and unofficially made you part of the team. You knew what she was doing and you were pretty sure Mac did too. When you guys broke up everyone was devistated, believing that you guys were truly meant to be. You understood, you thought that too, but maybe it just wasn’t the right time.

“Ready to go?” Mac asked as you had finished packing up the last of your things. He offered to give you a ride from your apartment to the airport for your next mission.

“Almost, I just need one more thing.” You said, turning around to find just the thing you were looking for in Mac’s hand.

“You left them at my house last time you came over.”

“Oh! I’ve been looking for them everywhere! You know I can’t live without my headphones.” Mac laughed. He did know. He remembered all those mornings at his place after you had stayed over when you would gather your things for work and desperately find your headphones that you were sure you’d lost. You always left them on the kitchen counter right next to the coffee machine. Ironically, you placed them their so you wouldn’t forget.

Mac missed that. He missed you. He missed the little things about your relationship. He missed holding your hand when you and the team met up at his place after missions and taking naps with you and having sunday brunches at fancy places that neither of you really liked just so you could spend time together and be stupid. But work got in the way, like it always does for him, and he felt a little defeated at the thought that he probably wouldn’t have anything outside of his work.

“Okay! I’m ready.” You said, breaking Mac out of his thoughts. You were smiling at him. That mission dollar smile he loved so much. He smiled back and helped you pack your things into the car.

The entire ride to the airport was silent. You weren’t sure what was going through Mac’s head. You just knew he was a little off. You, however, wanted to reach over and brush your thing over his forhead to smooth out the wrinkles that appeared when he furrowed his eyebrows, a tell tale sign that he’s upset. But you couldn’t do that, you guys weren’t dating anymore and you were afraid that doing something so familiar would be too personal so you decided against it. You also decided that the feelings you had for Mac were too dangerous. There was a reason you and Mac broke up and you were sure he was certain about the outcome, so you needed to spend as much time away from now on as possible.

The mission was a success but you turned down the nonverbal invitation to Mac’s place. The whole team tried to convince you to come and you wanted to, god how you did, but you didn’t know if you could stand pretending like you didn’t love the love of your life. So you said something about how you were tired and we’re just going to go home for a shower and then go to bed.

Mac new you were lying. He always did. But he let you go at first, not wanting to make a scene in front of the team. He also knew that you wouldn’t be going to bed. You always had so much energy after missions regardless of whether you slept on the plane back or not and he knew that you would probably find some activity to do in your apartment before going to bed.

He had the usual night in with the team but everyone could tell something was up. Mac was unusually quiet and extra fidgety.

“Just go man.” Bozer told Mac.

“I live here?” Mac replied, obviously confused at the sudden change in topic.

“No go to Y/N. It’s obviously bugging you that she’s not here so go get her, Romeo.”

“We broke up remember? I can’t just go after her anymore.”

“Mac,” Matty piped up. “I know you guys broke up for work reasons but what you guys have is a once in a lifetime opportunity. You both love each other, we can all see it. Don’t let something as silly as work get in the way of that.” Mac was still unconvinced, but after seeing the hope in his friend’s faces he decided to go after you.

He was nervous. Very much so. He was sure that you didn’t want to be with him after the breakup, especially since you had both agreed it would be for the better and despite your clumsiness and dumbassary you pulled on a day to day basis, you were practical, and didn’t often act on emotions like he had.

He arrived at your apartment in record time, the whole way hyping himself up to tell you that he loved and that you never should have broken up. He stood outside your door, wiping his palms on his jeans and taking deep breaths to try and calm his racing heart. He knocked once. Then twice. Then three times. No answer. He took that as a sign to leave, maybe you really were asleep, and began to walk away but stopped dead in his tracks when he heard your voice.

“Mac? What’re you doing here?” You asked. Your voice was soft and gentle, aware that most of your neighbors were probably asleep. He turned around and took in your appearance. You were dressed in sleep shorts and his old MIT t-shirt. You were drying your hair having just gotten out of the shower.

He couldn’t help it as he stepped closer, pulling you into him and kissing you like he had wanted to for so long. He gently pushed you into your apartment, making sure to close the door first before pressing you against a small table in your hallway.

You responded right away, missing the familiar feeling of his lips on yours. You pulled him closer by his shirt, trying to eliminate any space that remained inbetween you two. After some time you pulled away. Delighted but confused at the recent event.

“Mac-”

“I know. We broke up. But I love you, Y/N. It was a mistake and we shouldn’t have let work get in the way but I can’t keep looking at you and not being able to hold you and kiss you. I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay with this anymore. I love you, please let me love you again.” His eyes pleaded for you to understand, to feel the same.

“I love you too.” With those three simple words Mac kissed you again, this time more desperate than before. He gently pulled you off the table and placed you on your feet before guiding you to your bedroom where you and he would be for the rest of the night.