#one day there will be a version of me that exists without an ear infection i just know it

[stinkrascal]

my ears hurt :( 1 billion points hammer damage to the american healthcare system

[cheriekos]

Hiiiii, this is a snippet of a SuperBat Hanahaki AU I wrote up - it’s a bit weird and I don’t really know if I’ll go forward with this. It’s in Poison Ivy’s POV (lmao don’t ask me how I got here) and I LOVE this but I think I would have to go with a different version of the story I want to write if I keep this. So I’m posting this here for posterity and whatnot and I’ll probably re-write aspects of this into an existing project later. This has been lightly edited and is not beta’d. Enjoy!

Ivy doesn't get a lot of visitors. She gets plenty of wayward children and adrenaline-seeking teenagers that really liked to push the limits on her patience and graciousness. However, that plea deal she made with the city kept her a short, short fucking leash. And despite how easy it is to flick her wrist, send thorns and vines and venom towards intruders and disrespectful punks - she likes having the greenhouse. She likes keeping Robinson Park evergreen and yes, her sordid, traitorous heart was kept alight when she saw the young kids of Gotham gently step over tree roots and gaze in awe at her azaleas. That all being said - she's not quite a people person. And most people aren't approaching her unless they have a masochistic streak running through them. 

"Ivy," grunts out the too familiar voice.

Ivy has a running theory that the Batman was, indeed, one of those people with said masochistic streak.

"Whatever mystery you're solving, I have no part in it," Ivy drawls, gently misting a particularly sad looking plant. She frowns. "You can check with your little Oracle - I'm sure she can scrounge up the camera footage somewhere. I've only been in my greenhouse." 

"I'm here on business."

"And I just told you - I had no part of that business," Ivy says, sharper. The plant - the Passions Vine, maypop, Passiflora incarnata - begins to bloom anew beneath her fingertips. "You can't implicate me in anything."

"I wasn't planning on it," He says, with a strange lilt to his voice. Her ears twitch.

She turns, only slightly, in order to look at him. He's as imposing as ever, more of a shroud of inky darkness than a man. The white of his lenses and the faint curve of his pale jaw the only real visible parts of him in the dim greenhouse, especially in the shadows where he liked to linger. It's a familiar sight, which gives her a faint burst of nostalgia. How disgusting. 

"Here on business, but not here to drag me off to Arkham?" She hums. "Color me intrigued. Do make it quick, though, you're interrupting my bedtime routine."

He only grunts. Ivy rolls her eyes, wondering how earth she found herself at the beck and call of this wretched creature. He finally steps under the blinking overhead light, awash in an orange glow. Without a word, he raises an upturned fist. When she arches a brow, he slowly unfurls his palm. 

Three petals. Yellow, slim, long - flecked with blood. Helianthus annuus. 

"Sunflower petals," Ivy remarks. Her eyes dart up to him. "But you already knew that."

"Yes," He says simply.

"Well, what do you need me for then?" Ivy asks, disdain coloring her tone. 

"These were collected from an individual who appeared to have an upper respiratory infection," He says. "All the symptoms of a standard viral infection were present - sneezing, coughing, congestion. After five days of a normal course of cold medicine, symptoms began to evolve that indicated a lower respiratory infection. After three days of worsening symptoms -"

"Get to the point." 

"The individual eventually coughed up these petals."

"...Excuse me?"

"The individual coughed up -"

"I heard you right the first time," Ivy puts her hand up.  "But what in the world could cause that to happen?" 

He curls his palm again, arm disappearing underneath his cape once more. "That is why I'm here."

Ivy blinks. "You thought I would know something about lower respiratory infections?"

"I assumed that, perhaps, in your tenure as an ecological terrorist, that this is a phenomenon you may have come across." He says, dryly. 

"I can't tell if you're trying to be funny or not."

He just hums. "Can you tell me anything about this?" 

Ivy stares, one part dumbfounded, and another part itching with the familiar sensation that comes with a near encyclopedic knowledge of plants and the urge to know and be right. How dreadful that the remnants of a competitive, perfectionist PhD student still lived within her bones somewhere. 

"One moment," She says, and turns on her heel.

He waits, patient, like one of the city's many faithful gargoyles. She sits on a sturdy leaf with a little thank you and calls other vines to bring her old books out to her workshop table. She flips through a folder with old articles on diseases and infections, but that path is not fruitful. She skims a textbook, a section on herbal medicine and quickly shoves it away with a dissatisfied as another set of vines brings out her laptop and lab instruments.

Her eyes shoot to him. "Come here." 

He moves, like shadow, like a piece of the night come alive. He hovers by the edge of the table, a curious tilt to his head. If she had any little bit of affection left, she would consider it adorable - he seemed like one of the many fruit bats that tried to nibble at her gardens. 

"The petals." She holds out a glass microscope dish. 

He shifts, then stops abruptly; there's an odd strain to his already grim face. If she hadn't known any better, she would've guessed he was hesitating. But the moment passes; he gently places the petals in her dish.

She adjusts the microscope, taking note of the regular aspects of the petals - protrusions she notes that are pollen tubes, the very odd cell structures - and briefly examines the blood specks. When she lingers too long on that aspect, her impromptu lab partner grunts disapprovingly.

"Do you have a problem?" Ivy asks, not taking her eyes off the microscope.

"Are they any irregularities with these petals?"

Ivy taps a green finger against the table. "Well, since you mentioned it - yes."

With a great of amount of self-convincing, she vacates her spot and gestures to the microscope. She can't tell what his eyes are doing under the mask but the air around him seems to fill with a general distrust. He looks into the microscope anyways; while he does, she motions for a come to pluck a petal off her own sunflower.

"Thank you for your service," She says to the little petal, and puts it into another dish. "The sunflower is a dicot, which means there are a number of expected cells within its makeup."

She switches the bloody petals for the standard one.

"Parenchyma cells, epidermal cells, xylem and phloem," Ivy waves her hand. "Things you would've learned in your elementary science class." 

"However?" He prompts. 

"However," She slides the bloody petals back in. "There is a mutation within these cell structures." 

"Elaborate."

"Don't make a fuss, I'm getting there," Ivy says, as if speaking to an impatient toddler. "Patience is a virtue, you know." 

Once more, he grunts. 

"Do you see the spiraling vessel next to the xylem? They look almost identical. The difference, however -"

"This one is filled with blood." 

"Not quite like a photosynthetic plant to absorb blood." 

"What does this indicate?"

"Right now? Nothing," Ivy turns to her laptops and begins a new file dedicated to this particular sunflower petal. "I don't have a definite answer for you on what this is or what it means - or why your little friend is coughing up petals."

He grunts - one of the ones that clearly signals his dissatisfaction. "How soon can we know what exactly this is?"

"You'll know when I know - which is whenever I feel like it."

"This could be life threatening, Ivy," He says, urgency in his tone. She could scoff; everything was so urgent with him. Now or never. Save the city, save the world and all that bullshit. "I'd advise you to not waste time."

"Yeah?" Ivy puts her chin in the palm of her hand. "I'd advise you to take that stick out your ass."

"Ivy -" He stops abruptly. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out in a world-weary kind of way that makes him seem less like a statuesque figure of nightmares - and something more like an old man. She blinks. 

"What would it take for you to...prioritize this?"

Let me out and let me raze the world in order to stare anew - and then that stupid, awful little voice that sounds suspiciously like Dr. Leland's comes in to grab her gently and say 'what can you change in front of you, right now?'

"Harley is out, but she's not allowed within Robinson Park," Ivy says. "Change the details of her pardon."

"You know I can't do that -"

"Bullshit," Ivy hisses, hands slamming against the table - and she feels it. The edges of her vision going green, how the smell of the poison in the very stems of the plants around her are present, how she could send the thorns of rose flying at his throat. How hungry her fly-eaters were for blood. It would be so easy. So easy. 

"Aw, sugarplum, just think of all the good things when the green gets too big! The smell of roses, lavender, or um...um - I dunno much about flowers. Or maybe me! I'm as comfortin' as a daisy, aren't I?" 

She breathes out. Slowly.

It would be easy. Getting freedom was not.

"That's all I ask," Ivy says, voice strained. "Just - let me see her. Somehow." 

He stands so still. It's irritating. She despises this - how desperate she feels, all the power he has, and the embarrassment of it all. There was a time when she would send him flying to the rafters, wrapped in her vines. The poisons, the toxins, the pollens - all of her knowledge and power dedicated to trying to knock down the immovable force that was the Batman. And now here she was. Bargaining with him in order to see the woman she loved. Pitiful. 

He shifts. His hand hovers in the air between them and she feels an edge of paranoia curl at the back of her mind. But then his hand settles, lightly, with his fingertips gently brushing her hand. It's...surprisingly gentle.

"I will see what I can do," He says. "

For a moment, Ivy thinks she can see his eyes. Behind the glare of those lenses, she thinks there's a human somewhere, underneath all of this. It makes something curl uncomfortably in her gut. But as soon as the moment has come, it is gone - and his hand is back beneath his cape. He's just a figure, a piece of the night, and the blight upon her existence. Familiar. 

She doesn't say thank you. She already doesn't like how much of her current existence is in due part to his relentless crusade against violence - and the repeating, endless cycle of it. She doesn't want to admit that within the many hands trying to pull her away from her endless spiral downwards, his was amongst them.

She just juts her chin out, vines curling around her shoulders. "Scram, Bats. I've got work to do."

For once, he decides to take the normal way out. She watches, intently, as he makes his way to the greenhouse door, and without so much as a look back her way, disappears into the night. When she finally turns away, back to her work bench, the blood specked petals are gone. 

[mercury-waters]

so here's the first 1,000 words of my little experiment, rewriting A Study In Scarlet to take place in cyberpunk future-Chicago:

New Chicago is the kind of city that gets into your guts. Like hookworm. The silt of the sea, the lights perilously perched at the water’s edge as the waves lap at the mildewing apartments of the Scaffs and floods the temporary shelters of the Undertow. It’s a tough place to live, but everywhere’s tough now. New Chicago won’t hold your hand, but it won’t lie to you, either, and these days that’s in short supply.

I guess that’s why I came back.

I had no illusions that being a battle medic for the Conglomerate was going to earn me a life of leisure and luxury when I signed up. It was just that medicine, my only true calling, was the stuff of scanners and computer readouts now. All the major hospitals employed CATvance scanners to diagnose everything from the common cold to Ion disease. Even if I had dreamed of the glorious, tumultuous life of a paramedic (I didn’t), they’d gone the same way as the dodo when Conglomerate lawyers figured out that putting emergency medicine in the hands of bots would save them billions in malpractice lawsuits.

At the end of the day, anyone serious about the real practice of medicine signed up when the Conglomerate put out the call. Thousands of jobs in real, bone-setting, infection-fighting, hot-blooded medicine, needed on the frontline out West where the edge of the Federation of American States met the burgeoning power of the Diné Empire. I spent two years in the ranks of the 66th Light Infantry Battalion, where there were no CATvance scanners, no thermobots, no Surg-o-matics, and you could barely requisition a pack of plaster bandages without getting your ass lit up by your superior officer.

That is, until a Diné Sun-gun shot me clean through the shoulder. When it’s you, bleeding out in the dirt of the Lesser Plains, you wish you had the damn Surg-o-matics, because their needles don’t shake like the hands of mind-rended teenage soldiers.

The Conglomerate sent me home, half-stitched and addled with river virus from the stinking banks of the Mississippi. I spent the next six weeks in a hospital, though I remember little of it. When I woke, they told me I had been discharged, had me sign a military NDA with my good hand, and sent me back out into the world with a weekly allowance only big enough for a room at the seediest motel I could find and a half-glass of gin before bed to keep the nightmares at bay.

I lived like that for six months. I spent my nights in restless sleep, and my days sitting on the balcony, blearily looking out into the world I’d given my right hand to defend. I thought about leaving — I knew there were smaller settlements out there, places where you could still breathe without a purifier, even. But New Chicago gets into you. Like fucking hookworm. It won’t lie to you — it will whisper in your ear at night, saying, what I have is what you deserve. You belong here. You and the dirt of my gutters are made of the same stuff.

It was right.

I was contemplating this problem — half a fifth deep — at a moonshine bar in Motor Row, just above the Scaffs, when I ran into an old acquaintance.

Ford looked too nice to be there, that was for sure. His clothes didn’t smell like gin, for one, and he sported an Ocular, a kind of monocle-like implant issued to doctors at high-ranking Conglomerate hospitals. He sat down and ordered a drink before he recognized me.

“Jon?”

I winced when he said my name. Ford had known the version of me that existed a decade prior, fresh-faced and idealist, an exceptionally gifted member of the last graduating class of the Conglomerate Institute’s School of Medicine, after which the whole degree was discontinued in favor of a small certificate program. The Ford that knew me then didn’t know me now.

“Jon Watsin?”

I plastered a smile onto my face, ignoring how twisting in my barstool made my shoulder twinge. “Ford — I thought I recognized you.”

“Jon! I thought you’d gone out to the — what are you doing here?” He searched me, his Ocularly-improved eye whizzing around my person, no doubt diagnosing my arm, my blood-alcohol level, and my profound halitosis all in one.

“I could ask you the same thing. Bit of a dive, for someone who’s clearly doing well for himself.”

Ford smiled, almost guiltily. “Well…”

“In fact…” I had been sharp in medical school, once, but months of sickness and isolation had taken it out of me. Still, though, I knew a sore thumb when I saw one. “Looking like that, I’m surprised you weren’t robbed on the way here.”

“I’ve just done the right work for the right people, Jon.”

“Damn,” I swore under my breath. “You’re harvesting for them, aren’t you?”

Healthcare in New Chicago was a simple affair. Pay your monthly fee to the Conglomerate, the gov-corp that cropped up in the city in the failing corners of the Federation, and the hospitals would serve you. Not for free, mind you, but even dying’s expensive these days. Fail to keep up your Conglomerate subscription, however, and you could only gain access to Federation clinics. Good for an antibiotic or an STI test, but not much else.

That left a gap. And gaps are filled with — what else? — organized crime.

Around here, it was the Hope Cartel, as in the Hope Family, as in the Hope Diamond. Need a new kidney? Dialysis? A bone marrow transplant? You could get it, for a price, in a Hope Cartel chop shop, a Frankenstein’s laboratory probably in the back of an auto yard or abandoned warehouse. But the cartel needed parts. And that’s where people like Ford came in.

“Relax,” Ford assured me, speaking quietly so as not to be overheard. It wouldn’t matter, though — if Ford was a cartel supplier, he’d be virtually untouchable, even in the dark alleys of Motor Row. “I’m Head Coroner at St. Lucy’s. What I take, nobody ever knows is missing.”

Well, that was a comfort.

I raised the glass of gin to my lips again, allowing the bitter liquid to ease the consternation that had lodged itself in my mind. “I’m not judging, Ford. There’s no angels in New Chicago.”

“There certainly aren’t,” Ford said sympathetically. “While we’re on the topic, want to tell me how you got your wings clipped?”

[allylikethecat]

Hey! Only just saw your response to the ask I sent yesterday (the one about thinking of rereading all ur fics). You mentioned wondering which was my favourite and it might have just been a throwaway comment but I am DYING to talk about it so I’m sending this ask anyway. It’s going to be a long one I apologise.

I feel like my favourite atm has to be All the Kings Horses just because it feels so REAL and I have formed an attachment to the characters already. I adore how they’re all portrayed. But also it’s so clear that you know the world so well it’s so easy to be drawn into it.

Also on that note- do you ever think you’d write something to like publish? Not like a fanfic just something you’ve created ig? I mean it’s clear you definitely could if you wanted. (Also I mean twilight wouldn’t exist without a Gerad Way fanfic writer haha)

But back to your fics I feel like I also have an attachment to a lot of the stories in the infection verse. The first story of yours that I read was the one where he scratches his eye so I guess that one always has to be partially my favourite, the ear infection one that followed too.

BUT I also really love ducklings and it’s sooo good at the moment so that might be my second favourite maybe ??

Who knows. Anyway that’s all I was going to say, I apologise for the long ask if you made it this far :)

Oh my gosh seeing this ask has absolutely made my entire day!! Thank you so much for sending this my way, it was 100% not a throw away comment, I love hearing which of my fics are resonating with people, it's a great way for me to see what's working and what's not working in my writing since I strive to improve with each project / chapter! I also LOVE talking about fic, whether it's my fic or someone else's fic, so the opportunity to do so is always welcome!! Also never apologize for sending a long ask! Literally makes my entire day!! I'm also about to write you one back that is just as long if not longer so buckle up I apologize in advance I got excited lol.

I'm SO HAPPY to hear that you're enjoying All the King's Horses!! Currently, that is my absolute favorite fic that I'm working on and I know it's a very specific, niche AU so the fact that people are giving it a chance (and enjoying it!!) makes me so happy and so extremely grateful. I love that version of the gang so much - because it is an AU where they are not a band, I feel like I've really gotten to play around with how everyone fits together and knows one another which has been so fun! I'm excited to introduce a few more figures from IRL into the All the King's Horses universe! I also just... love horses and equestrian sports so much that it's like combining my two majors obsessions / interests and it makes my heart SO HAPPY.

In terms of actually traditionally publishing some kind of original fiction some day... that would be an absolute dream. I do have a collection of original projects that I've been working on in addition to my fanfiction, but nothing that I feel is "good enough" or that I'm ready to try and share with the world in that way. I'm seriously so flattered that you think my writing is good enough to even consider pursing traditional publishing with original work 🩵 maybe one day! For now I will be continuing to make Fictional!Matty suffer in various ways 😂

AHHH I'm so happy to hear that the Eye Infection Fic is the one that pulled you in!! I also have a huge soft spot for the Infection verse (which is why we keep revisiting that version of Fictional!Matty and Fictional!George) and I have had so much fun piecing together their world and also trying to make sure there aren't any major continuity errors since it was just supposed to be a stand alone one shot when I started haha

I'm also glad you are enjoying Ducklings!! I know that's another niche trope that people either LOVE or actively avoid so thank you for giving that one a chance as well! It's kind snowballed into a monster but I think I have some direction with it now, and I'm excited for all of Fictional!Matty's secrets to be revealed!

Once again, never apologize for sending a long ask!! Thank YOU for taking the time to not only read my fics but to type up this commentary on them! I am truly going like this !!!! and am just so, so, so grateful for the support and kindness of readers like you!! I never thought that I would be engaging with anyone on Tumblr about my fic, and instead have found myself part of such a lovely little community here. Thank you so much again and I hope you had a lovely weekend and that you have a great upcoming week!

❤️Ally

[grailfinders]

Fate and Phantasms #97: Nightingale

Today on Fate and Phantasms, we’re making everyone’s favorite medical practitioner and biting enthusiast, Florence Nightingale! The good Ms. Flo is the most skilled nurse in Chaldea, with a variety of techniques to deal with disease and ill health on and off the battlefield. She’s not afraid to use them, so try not to get sick.

Check out her build breakdown below the cut, or her character sheet over here!

Next up: RUN! It’s a creature legally distinct from Godzilla!

Race and Background

Nightingale’s a Human, and the variant version gives her +1 Wisdom and Charisma, as well as Insight proficiency and the Crossbow Expert feat. Some settings allow for pistols, but some don’t, and we’re playing it safe here. That feat means you can attack multiple times in a turn with a crossbow, attack within melee range without disadvantage, and if you’re holding a crossbow in your off hand and another weapon in your main hand, you can attack with the weapon as an action and the crossbow as a bonus action.

Nightingale might be a nurse, but she spent most of her time patching up wounds in the army, and the Soldier background gives her proficiency with Athletics and Intimidation, both things she pretty good at.

Ability Scores

Make sure your Wisdom is as high as possible for the best medicine checks and spellcasting. Make your Dexterity the second highest to multiclassing, damage, and to keep your AC up (that’s not exactly heavy armor). Your Charisma is next, you can be “persuasive” when you want to be. And by that I mean you’re terrifying. You may be pretty lucid, but you’re still a berserker; that means you’re hard to take down, and that means your Constitution should be next. Your Strength is pretty low. We don’t need it, but you’re still a berserker, so we’re dropping Intelligence instead. You don’t really care about topics other than medicine, so it’s not like you’ll be using it that much.

Class Levels

1. Cleric 1: Shockingly, the nurse is a Cleric. However, you know the best way to avoid infections to kill anything that could infect you, which definitely makes you more of a War cleric than a life one. As a war cleric, you start out proficient in martial weapons, which means we don’t have to jump through hoops to get your hand crossbow like we did with Shirou’s weapon. You’re also a War Priest, meaning a number of times per day equal to your wisdom modifier you can attack as a bonus action after attacking with your main action. This means you can still have two attacks per turn without having to dual wield like your feat wants you to.

You also learn Spells that you can cast and prepare using your Wisdom. You also get Domain Spells, which always count as prepared and you don’t have to spend prep time getting, like Divine Favor and Shield of Faith. The former makes your gun run a little hotter with radiant damage for up to a minute, and the latter gives a creature extra combat awareness, boosting their AC for up to 10 minutes.

You can also prepare spells outside your domain; healing spells are an obvious choice, but you should also check out Detect Poison and Disease and Purify food and Drink to make sure you have some antidotes on you.

Finally, you also get cantrips. Guidance adds 1d4 to an ability score, so long as they follow your directions for fluids and bedrest. Mending puts two things back together (it’s intended for nonliving things, but I’m sure it works fine on limbs too). Spare the Dying is what you’re actually supposed to use when people’s limbs come off, stabilizing creatures at 0 hp so they don’t have to worry about death saves.

2. Cleric 2: Second level clerics can Channel Divinity, either Turning Undead to make those that fail a wisdom save of DC 8 plus your wisdom modifier plus your proficiency, or making a Guided Strike, adding 10 to your attack roll. Some times the most effective way to end a disease is to end the person it’s afflicting.

3. Cleric 3: At third level you get second level spells, like Magic Weapon and Spiritual Weapon. Despite the similar names, the former improves your existing weapon a bit and makes it magical to avoid resistances, and the latter makes a brand new weapon that you control as a bonus action each turn. Along with your domain spells, you also get the performance enhancing drug Enhance Ability, the tranquilizer Hold Person, and more Protection from Poison.

4. Cleric 4: Use your first Ability Score Improvement to become a Healer. Now when you stabilize a creature using a healer’s kit they regain 1 HP, and you can spend a use of a healers kit to heal a creature for 1d6+4 HP, plus an extra amount of HP equal to their maximum number of hit dice. This healing can only be done once per short rest for each creature. Doctors gonna doctor.

Also grab Thaumaturgy so your Angel’s Yell can carry further.

5. Fighter 1: Bouncing over to fighter gives you a fighting style, like Unarmed Fighting, which gives you unarmed attacks that deal bludgeoning damage, but more so if you’re not holding your crossbow at the same time. Guns are nice, but sometimes you’ll have to get physical. You also gain a Second Wind, letting you heal yourself as a bonus action. This means you can save your regular materials for your party members.

6. Fighter 2: Second level fighters get an Action Surge, making it a lot easier to heal and shoot people at the same time once per short rest by adding an extra action to your turn.

7. Fighter 3: Grab the Banneret as your subclass to gain a Rallying Cry. Now using your Second Wind also heals your party members for a little bit as well! It’s not much compared to healing spells, but sometimes you run out of slots.

8. Cleric 5: Back in cleric now, your Turn Undead becomes Destroy Undead, instantly killing any undead monsters with a CR of less than 1/2 when they fail their save. You also get third level spells like Crusader’s Mantle and Spirit Guardians. The former causes everyone’s guns to run hot with radiant damage even if they’re using a sword, and the latter summons a couple angelic guards to protect your patients. If you find yourself in a lot of close-quarters combat, you can also use Spirit Shroud for some extra enemy control and damage.

9. Cleric 6: At sixth level you can Channel Divinity twice per short rest, and gain an new option to do so. You can bestow your War God’s Blessing on nearby creatures, spending your reaction to add 10 to their attack roll.

10 Cleric 7: Seventh level clerics get fourth level spells, like your domain spells Freedom of Movement and Stoneskin. The former helps you gnaw off your arm like a rabid coyote to escape capture, and the latter gives you all the relevant benefits of raging without stopping you from casting spells. By that, I mean it gives a creature resistance to nonmagical physical damage types. But you’ll have plenty of competition for your concentration, because you can also cast Aura of Life and Aura of Purity this level. One gives creatures in it resistance to necrotic damage and instantly revives non-hostile creatures who’ve been downed, and the other prevents diseases, weakens poisons, and empowers your party against most status effects.

11. Cleric 8: At this level, you can finally use an ASI to improve an ability score, bumping up your Wisdom for better healing and more bonus action attacks. Your Destroy Undead also bumps up to CR 1, and your Divine Strike makes your weapon attacks a little stronger once per turn. Turns out guns are stronger than crossbows, who knew?

12. Cleric 9: Ninth level clerics get fifth level spells. Flame Strike can be one of those neat little bottle-shaped grenades, and you also get Hold Monster for an even stronger tranquilizer. Beyond that and some healing spells, there isn’t really much at fifth level that screams Nightingale to me, but feel free to play it by ear.

13. Cleric 10: At tenth level you can use Divine Intervention to ask God for a bit of assistance in keeping your dumbass party alive. You can use this once per long rest, but also have to wait a week after it succeeds. Since you’re a full level of spells behind regular spellcasters right now, calling in a favor from time to time might come in handy.

You also pick up your last cantrip; Toll the Dead is another solid way to finish off diseased or injured enemies before they can spread whatever’s affecting them to the party, dealing more damage to creatures who are missing HP.

14. Cleric 11: Eleventh level clerics get sixth level spells, and like last time there’s not much specifically at this level that caught my eye. But that’s only if you’re playing the character religiously close to canon, and you probably shouldn’t be if you want to jive with the rest of the party. Or maybe you’re all playing expies of other characters, idk live your life.

15. Cleric 12: Use this ASI to bump up your Dexterity for better gunplay and AC.

16. Cleric 13: Now you have seventh level spells, and unlike the last few levels, there’s spell outside of your usual healing you might want to check out. Temple of the Gods. lets you build your own temple within a cube of 120′. It lasts 24 hours per cast, but casting it once per day for a year in the same spot makes it permanent. Inside the temple, extraplanar entities can be kept out of it if they fail a charisma save, and they also get 1d4 subtracted from their attacks, checks, and saves while inside. The temple is immune to divinations spells, and the temple also boosts the power of healing spells cast inside of it. Great for giving your keep it’s own medical wing.

17. Cleric 14: Fourteenth level clerics have a Destroy Undead that affects creatures of CR 3 or lower, and their Divine Strike becomes a little more powerful as well. You just learned how to build hospitals from nothing, not every level can be a massive leap forward.

18. Cleric 15: You pick up eighth level spells this level. By this level, most spells are a bit too flashy to fit into Nightingale’s toolkit, but Holy Aura still manages to do it. Creatures within 30′ of you glow, and get advantage on all saves. On top of that, attacking creatures have disadvantage, and fiends and undead have to make a constitution save or become blinded for the duration of the spell.

19. Cleric 16: Use your last ASI to bump up your Constitution for more HP and better concentration saves.

20. Cleric 17: At seventeenth level, your Destroy Undead gets even stronger, you get ninth level spells, and most importantly, you become an Avatar of Battle, granting you a permanent resistance to nonmagical weapons. Effectively, you’re always raging, but still have access to your spells.

Pros:

You’re something of a tough nut to crack, especially for a healer. You’ve got quite a bit of health for a cleric, ways to heal yourself and the party at the same time, and a sort of permanent rage damage resistance going on at the end of it.

Despite being a healer, you’re also pretty skilled in ranged combat, with plenty of ways to add more damage to your crossbow bolts. You might not have multiple attacks like most fighters, but you make your shots count. This also means you don’t have to be quite as deep in combat as your standard “mace and shield” cleric.

The healer feat and your Rallying Cry give you access to nonmagical healing. This is most likely to be a niche skill, but sometimes you’ll have to deal with anti-magic zones or low-magic settings, in which case you’ll still be able to shine.

Cons:

Despite us putting several levels and feats into making your crossbow good, you’ll still always have to deal with the fact that it’s nowhere near as strong as a fighter’s would be. It’s fine for emergencies, but you probably won’t be the standout damage dealer of the group.

Bumping over to fighter for a couple levels also prevents you from getting the Cleric capstone, and they have a really good one. Guaranteed divine intervention is nothing to sneeze at.

You don’t really wear armor, and you don’t get anything like monks or barbarians do to offset that fact, so if you’re playing to character your AC is abysmal. Like I said earlier though, feel free to put on a breastplate or something, there’s no wrong way to play D&D. Except for in person, and not wearing a mask.

[thranduilsperkybutt]

Gif source:  Darcy  |  Medicine (Unknown)

Imagine falling incredibly ill and being bedridden for several weeks. When you're first well enough to receive visitors again, Mr. Darcy visits you, clearly very worried, and ends up proposing. (1995 version)

---------  Request for anon  ---------

It had taken weeks for the confusion to subside, and between the bloodletting for the rampant infection, and the physician’s worries that your humours might not come into balance before the fever took you, the outlook began tilting towards the worst. It was a miracle, when the fever finally broke, but you were barely coherent enough to even register a presence at your bedside days after. Holding your hand, begging you to keep fighting, even your recovery threatened relapse into a spike of your fever, and the few who remained at your bedside feared the threat to their own health.

None, perhaps, were as affected as the man who stands before you now, finally given permission for visitors by the physician who claimed you were, “through the worst of it.”

“Mister Darcy,” your voice still sounds hoarse to your own ears, and the weak attempt you make at somewhat sitting up is feeble with the exhaustion that lingers even now. He moves closer, around the side of the bed, as you offer a tired smile, “I’m told I owe my recovery to you, sir.”

“No,” he breathes, an indescribable look in his eye, “you owe me nothing.”

“According to my father, that’s far from true,” you whisper, saving your strength as best you can, “or, did you not personally send another physician to my aid upon hearing the first’s grim diagnosis, when my family could not afford it?” He remains silent, brow furrowed troublesomely, so you take the moment to press further, and hope if your question proves too prying, that it may be excused in your state, “Might I be so bold as to ask what compelled such kindness?”

Kneeling aside the bed, it shocks you as he gently takes your hand with his own to press his forehead lightly to the back of it, jaw clenching as he swims through thick words, before finally settling upon, “I admit my kindness is in equal parts selfishness, for the thought of losing you forever has destroyed me, body and soul, these past weeks.” His eyes cast a worry upon you that you’ve never seen in him, as he takes a shuddering breath, “I shouldn’t implore upon you, as you’ve just started to regain your strength, but, madam, I cannot go on another day without knowing you feel as I do.”

You wet your chapped lips, before asking, needing to know explicitly if he’s saying what you think he is, “And how would that be, Mister Darcy?”

"I am in an agony,” he confesses, jaw set as he presses further, “which only you may relieve with but one word. Existing even a moment past this without you is unfathomable to me. Consent to be my wife, and I will be at peace.”

[amillioninprizes]

Some thoughts on Veronica Mars, fan service, and noir

I’ve been on winter break and at home with a nasty combo cold-ear infection-stomach virus the past couple of weeks, and as so often happens when I don’t have much going on, my thoughts have turned to ruminating over the steaming pile of excrement that was season 4 of Veronica Mars. Why yes, almost six months and one cancellation notice later and I’m still complaining about it--as I told someone on Twitter, it was so stupid that it’s going to take years to unpack.

This particular rant is brought to you by a common refrain seen in both professional critics’ and S4 supporters’ reviews of S4: the movie was schlocky fan service, while S4 is TRUE NOIR. I’m here to argue that neither of those things are true, and that in the grand scheme of things trying to definitively call Veronica Mars noir or not isn’t the best qualitative judgement of the series.

A note on “fanservice”

Something that’s been very strange to me in the critical discussion around S4 is that the fan-funded movie has been retconned as a fanservicey failure. This is weird because it did get a positive Rotten Tomatoes score, actually turned a profit despite the unorthodox distribution model, and was overall well-received by fans except for maybe the 5 Piz lovers out there (he absolutely did not deserve better you guys; he works at This American Life and lives in Brooklyn, he’ll be fine).

A lot of the things pointed to in the movie as fan service actually weren’t. In every interview about the movie and S4, RT and KB always talk about how they started with the image of Veronica punching Madison at the high school reunion and worked from there. The problem is that almost no one had been asking for that. If they had bothered to read any online discourse about the show (and we know RT definitely does), they would know that fans are actually somewhat sympathetic to Madison--after all, she was the intended recipient of the drugged drink Veronica received at Shelly Pomeroy’s party, plus growing up in a family that she wasn’t meant to be a member of must have negatively impacted her. When the preview scene of Veronica encountering Madison at the reunion welcome table was released, Veronica didn’t come off sympathetically. In a similar vein, as much as I liked Corny as a side character in the original series, I didn’t need him to come back for that random scene at the reunion. Nor was anyone asking for an out-of-nowhere James Franco cameo (which given what we know about him now is super gross in hindsight).

So why was the movie well-received by fans? Veronica was in character after an unevenly written and performed S3, and she was back in Neptune, doing what (and who; Ay-yo!) she was meant to do. So while the mystery was subpar (and what Rob Thomas mystery isn’t?), the character side of the story made sense and was satisfying. I wouldn’t call that fan service so much as good writing. Plus, what is even the point of wasting time, money, and effort on making a tv show or movie if it’s going to actively alienate the audience?

S4: more trauma porn than true noir

Admittedly, I’m not exactly the world’s foremost scholar on film noir (in my opinion, the height of cinema is teen romcoms c. 1995-2005), but I do feel I have enough pop cultural knowledge to have a working understanding of what film noir is, and as internet folk would say, S4 ain’t it chief. Sure, S4 was bleak subject matter wise, but that does not automatically equal noir. HappilyShanghaied, who does have a film studies background, wrote a pretty excellent post about why that is shortly after S4 dropped that I could not improve upon, so I will just leave it here. 

In addition to this analysis, I would also point out that S4 was lacking in a unique visual style common to noir films, especially compared to the original television series and the movie. The original series made use of green, blue, and yellow filters to fulfill a high school version of the noir aesthetic (quick shoutout to Cheshirecatstrut’s color theory posts for more on what we thought this meant before it turned out that Rob Thomas did not actually intend to imbue meaning into any of this), while the movie adopted a more mature muted blue-grey palette. S4, however, was more or less shot like a conventional drama and was brightly lit, perhaps signifying Rob Thomas’s apparent plans to turn the show into a conventional procedural.

The movie: more than fan service 

If anything, the movie was more noir than S4. Take Gia’s storyline for instance. While Veronica was off obtaining elite degrees, Gia spent 9 years in a virtual cage being forced into a sexual relationship without her total consent (because that’s the only storyline women can have on this show), and then set herself up to be murdered at the very moment she could potentially break free. That’s pretty fucking grim.

Then there is the whole police corruption storyline, which is a hallmark of noir fiction. The glimpses we get of the Neptune sheriff’s department point to a larger conspiracy at play than just crooked cops; Sachs lost his life trying to expose it and Keith was gravely injured. This was the story I was excited for future installments of Veronica Mars to address, especially given its relevance to today’s politics. Unfortunately, this thread was entirely dropped in S4, where the police department (because, as Rob Thomas revealed in interviews but not onscreen, Neptune has incorporated) is merely overwhelmed by the scope of the bombing case rather than outright corrupt. (Side note but Marcia Langdon was also a more complex and morally grey character when introduced in the second book than she was on screen in S4. Another wasted opportunity).

Noir is also marked by a sense of inevitability or doom as a result of greater forces at play. An example of this in the movie is Weevil’s storyline. After building a life and family for himself, he ultimately ends up rejoining the PCHer gang he left as a teenager due to a misunderstanding based on his race and appearance and the assumptions authority figures make about him because of those things. No matter what he does, he is still limited by an unjust and racist society. Contrast this with the final explosion in S4; it’s not inevitable, just based on Veronica’s incompetence. Rob Thomas claims that he tried to create a sense of doom to LoVe’s relationship between the OOC Leo storyline and the last minute barriers before the wedding, but those aspects just served to make the story unnecessarily convoluted.

What is noir anyway? Was Veronica Mars ever noir? Does it matter?

But this is all assuming there is a set template for noir anyway. This New Yorker essay points out that trying to definitively establish a set of rules for noir is difficult and that the classic noir films were more a product of midcentury artistic and political movements than a defined genre. The noir filmmakers working at the time would not have described their work as such. The kicker of this essay is the final sentence: “But the film noir is historically determined by particular circumstances; that’s why latter-day attempts at film noir, or so-called neo-noirs, almost all feel like exercises in nostalgia.” I found this particularly amusing because as Rob Thomas infamously proclaimed in his S4 era interviews, he wanted to completely dispense with nostalgia going forward. Rob Thomas and S4 supporters have said that Logan needed to die because noir protagonists can’t have stable relationships; but, if there isn’t a defined set of rules other than “an element of crime”, then was it strictly necessary? Hell, writing a hardboiled detective who does have a stable relationship and maybe even a family could have been an interesting subversion of genre expectations. Unfortunately, Rob Thomas isn’t that imaginative.

There’s also the issue that noir and hardboiled detective fiction aren’t interchangeable genres. This article lays out that idea that they aren’t the same because noir is ultimately about doomed losers; in contrast, detective fiction, while dark, contains a moral center and has an ending where a sense of justice is achieved. An interview with author Megan Abbott makes a similar argument; she states that in hardboiled detective fiction, “At the end, everything is a mess, people have died, but the hero has done the right thing or close to it, and order has, to a certain extent, been restored.” Based on the descriptions laid out here, I would argue that in its original format Veronica Mars far better fit the detective fiction model; while she wasn’t always right, she was never a loser, and she solved the mystery. S1-3 all had relatively hopeful, if not totally happy, endings, but you never see anyone complaining that they weren’t noir enough; if anything, they were more emotionally complex than the ending of S4, where Logan’s death is essentially meaningless. One could make the argument that S4 did push Veronica towards a more noir characterization by the definition of these articles by making her more incompetent and meaner than she was in previous installments, but that is a fundamental change in character, which is not coherent writing.

And that is ultimately why S4 was so poorly received by longtime fans and why there will be no more installments of Veronica Mars anytime soon (at least on Hulu). Even if S4 had been noir (or at least shot like one), the serious issues with plotting, characterization, and lack of adherence to prior canon that this season exhibited would still exist. Defending the poor writing choices made in S4 with “it’s noir!” does not mask them or automatically heighten the quality of the product. Perhaps ironically, in ineptly trying to be noir in S4, Rob Thomas likely prematurely ended Veronica Mars by failing his creation and fans with lazy storytelling.

[morningsound15]

Bechloe and Salem witch trials for the au game please. Thanks!

I had one idea for this but then completely switched it after like 3 parts so here’s that second version:

(please excuse my exaggerations about how the Salem witch trials went down it’s for narrative not factual purposes i know it’s not right)

(also please excuse the fact that this is approximately 1 year late!! i’ve been, how shall we say, Going Through It)

1.)

Chloe Beale is the daughter of the most famous and well-respected Deacon in Salem, Massachusetts. Her father’s status means that she is held accountable for her actions in a way few other women of her time are. Ever since she tottered her first stumbling steps, she has had a list of duties — not chores so much as necessities. There are certain responsibilities she must complete, certain behaviors from which she must demur, certain reputable people she is expected to socialize with, and certain disreputable people she is expected to avoid as if they carry certain death on their person, ready to infect should she happen to wander just a step too close. “Pray remember, daughter,” her father would whisper with his hand vice-like digging into her shoulder, “do not allow womanish fribbles to lead you to distraction. Your actions reveal my judgment, and the sanctity of the Congregation. You will not be an embarrassment.”

And she has not been an embarrassment. Though she is a girl just shy of twenty, her moral fortitude — her piousness — is unmatched, nearly unparalleled. She spent so many hours of her girlhood kneeling on the floor of their house that her knees were oft rubbed raw, red and smarting like she had been punished. But it was not earthly punishment, rather penance. “Christ knows how many Devils there are in his Church, and where they walk.” Her father’s eyes would glint, sharp steel. “Corruptio optimi est pessima.”

“Corruptio optimi est pessima,” Chloe would repeat with solemnity, head bowed low towards the ground. She could barely feel the stinging in her joints anymore. The blessing of God’s love was more than enough to evacuate the worst of her ailments.

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2.)

Chloe has run into only 2 problems with her father and the Church since her childhood. The first is her lack of marital prospects. Being a woman of nearly twenty and still unmarried is not ideal, and she can expect a near daily barrage from both of her parents to accept the offer of one of nearly a half dozen men who have already asked for her hand. Luckily, as none of the prospects have been irrefutable (Barnabas Allen was odious — and Catholic on top of it; Benajah Applebaum’s family was both too poor and too Jewish to be a viable option; and rumor had it that Jesse Swanson had asked 3 girls to marry him within the same year, which did not bode well for his faithfulness), Chloe has managed to dodge answering any of them. She knows her situation cannot last much longer, however. It’s only a matter of time before her father brings her a husband she cannot refuse.

The second problem involves her choice of companionship. Chloe does not have many close friendships — she never had the desire — and until very recently, has spent most of her free time (those hours when she is not in prayer nor doing her household duties nor delivering alms to the poor) in the company of one young lady: Aubrey Posen, the daughter of respected Captain Jeremiah Posen and Chloe’s closest confidant since infancy. Their parents happily approve of their continued association. The Beales are a family of status and power and influence, the Posens of money and respectability and ties to England. Chloe knows that her father hopes, through the Posens, Chloe may meet a suitably pious husband (perhaps even an English Lord, or a businessman with a respectable if not excessive fortune).

Aubrey is a reputable, respectable companion.

Rebecca Mitchell, suspected practitioner of dark magics and the wicked pagan arts, is not.

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3.)

Rebeca Mitchell is not a witch. Chloe knows that she isn’t. Or at least, she believes that she cannot be. Rebecca — or Beca, as she insists Chloe call her — is a quiet, thoughtful woman. She has no family, no station, nothing to speak of except a small homestead she operates alone. She tends a small garden in the back of her property — right at the boundary of the dense wooded forest that surrounds their small town — where she grows her own herbs and food. She is prone to night-time walks, particularly under bright skies and full moons. It is for this reason that some of the residents of the town of Salem suspect that she is a witch. A woman residing alone, without the livelihood of a husband or father sustaining her, who is sometimes seen walking about on her own on bright, cloudless nights, is not a woman to be trusted.

Beca, curiously, seems oblivious to how she is perceived. Chloe finds this facet of her personality fascinating. Her entire personality is fascinating. For their friendship only exists because Beca has so little regard for conventions — the only young woman Chloe has ever met who exhibits such blatant disregard for what the Church considers upright. Beca is the one who initiated their meeting, their ensuing conversation, and the numerous occasions they have had to casually, ‘accidentally’ run into each other since. In the street, when Chloe is on her way to the market; in the fields through the first thicket of woods where they retreat on warm Saturday mornings in the spring, dew staining the hems of their skirts as they trek through unruly terrain; in the strawberry patch behind Old Man Elias’ cattle field every Tuesday in the summer, picking side-by-side and sneaking plump fruit swollen with juice that stains fingers and lips and chins alike. Beca has not been to Chloe’s home and Chloe has not been to hers. They forgo all talk of family, obligations, and the several dozen reasons they have that should mandate they immediately and unequivocally cease all further interactions.

(Of course, they do not cease their interactions. If anything, they only grow in both frequency and length.)

So you see, Chloe knows Beca cannot be a witch, because witches have no friends, no love; they work in darkness, and madness, magic and manipulation. Chloe has not been cursed, she has not suffered fainting spells, witnessed ghostly apparitions, or been forced to do the Devil’s bidding. She has not been sent into fits of convulsion or hysteria.

Beca cannot be a witch because Chloe is unaffected, and witches do not allow their acquaintances to go unaffected. Though they continue to see each other and Beca continues to have ample opportunity to bewitch her, corrupt her, she does nothing — nothing except smile when she says Chloe’s name, her head tipped low in deference. Nothing except pluck wild flowers from the field on the days they can manage to sneak away together; ties them into a bouquet with blades of long, cutting grass. Nothing except press her lips to Chloe’s cheek, close to her ear, breathless and warm as she whispers her farewells.

Beca cannot be a witch, because witches are evil, and vile, and inhuman. They are beasts, creatures of malice, followers of Satan himself. They cannot love, and they are unloveable.

(Beca cannot be a witch, because Chloe loves her, and she cannot bear the thought that it may not be reciprocated.)

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4.)

The first words Chloe says upon entering Beca’s homestead are: “This does not look like a witch’s home.” She winces, already regretting the tactlessness of her conversation.

Beca merely scoffs. “Witches,” she sneers. “You spend too much of your time listening to your father. He is filling your head with lies and frivolities.”

The house is small, just one room. A table with a single chair in the center, a small fireplace built into the wall furthest from the door, a small cot tucked in the corner. Beca perches herself on the single chair, leaving Chloe no other choice but to stand or sit upon the bed.

She sits, and says, “I do not think witches are frivolous.”

“They are not real. If not frivolity, what else could they be?”

Chloe picks at the thin bedspread beneath her fingers. She does not answer. Beca had not been looking for an answer anyway. Instead, Chloe lifts her head, and asks the question that has been at the forefront of her mind for the past several months, as long as their acquaintance has been growing.

“Why did you approach me?” Chloe asks the still room.

“Pardon?”

“We did not grow up together. I never knew of you, except the things whispered by others.”

Beca laughs. “You mean gossip.”

“Gossip, yes. But worrying gossip all the same.” A pause, then. Chloe tips her head. Beca’s attention is on her hands folded in her lap, and she sits very still. “We never had reason to meet. Yet you crafted a reason.”

“And you believe that was… suspicious.”

It is not quite a question. Still, Chloe evades. “My father thinks your interest in me is corrupt.”

Beca’s head jerks up. Her eyes seem to blaze. “Corrupt?”

“He does not trust you.”

Beca’s spine is stiff in her chair. “I have been accused of nothing.”

“He is suspicious of everyone,” Chloe attempts to demur, worried she’s said something inappropriate, something shocking and distressing, worried she’s shattered the tenuous serenity they’ve managed to found together over the past half-year. “It is nothing serious.”

But Beca is unswayed. “It is serious if it’s stopping us from seeing each other.”

“I’m here now, am I not? He has not stopped us.”

“You’re twitching like a newborn pup, you can hardly sit still.” Chloe flushes bright and stills her hands. Beca continues to stare at her, expression unreadable. “Why are you here, Chloe?”

It’s a question to which she does not have an answer. The simple truth — that Beca had invited her, and Chloe had been curious enough to accept her invitation — is far too mundane. She knows if she were to propose it to Beca now, she would be caught immediately in her fabrication. But she cannot explain the reasoning behind her actions. She seems to have so little reason, these days.

She stands from the bed and walks to the other side of the house. Beca watches her and does not move to follow. Chloe gazes out the front window with unseeing eyes, her hands twisting themselves into the fabric of her dress, her jaw working over unspoken words. Finally, she says, “I cannot seem to help it.” She turns back around, feeling miles away. “It’s as if… wherever you go, I feel compelled to follow.”

Chloe hears Beca swallow loudly. She takes a breath, as if stealing herself, and looks up to the ceiling. “I heard you singing.” Chloe frowns, not understanding. Beca glances at her and then glances away. “That is why I approached you.”

Chloe cannot help but laugh, but Beca does not laugh with her. The smile slips from Chloe’s face, and she frowns. “Is that true?”

“I used to hear you sing in services. When my parents died I stopped going to church, and I couldn’t hear you anymore. But then you started cutting through the woods, on your way home from schooling, and… The first few times it was merely an accident, but… your voice is so beautiful. I’ve never heard anything like it. And you sing when you walk alone. I thought… I thought your songs were kind, and I wondered if you were, too.”

“You followed me?”

Beca turns a lovely, delicate pink. “I know it is strange of me to admit this to you now, to have spied on you without your knowledge. I apologize, it was not my intention. It’s as if… something came over me. A possession, a madness. I… I felt I had to know you. I was gripped by a force I cannot comprehend, and I was powerless but to obey.” Beca’s blush darkens, and she turns her head. Her hands are fisted in the front of her skirts, and she tugs on the coarse fabric restlessly. “I sound foolish.”

“You do not sound foolish,” Chloe whispers, her own eyes bright. “I… I know the feeling.” She takes a tentative step forward and raises trembling hand to Beca’s cheek. Her thumb brushes, Beca’s eyelids flutter, and something tugs in Chloe’s stomach. “It’s like a bewitching.”

Beca’s eyes snap open. “I have not bewitched you,” she says quickly.

Chloe laughs. “Nor I, you. I could not even if I wanted.”

“Chloe,” Beca’s voice remains serious, “listen to me: I have not bewitched you.” There’s something to the weight of Beca’s gaze, something that makes Chloe pause. She does not move. There is an electricity between them; the air crackles, charged like the sky before a summer storm.

“Okay,” Chloe whispers, her eyes locked to Beca’s. She cannot look away.

The kiss Beca presses to her lips is soft and unexpected. Chloe has never been kissed, has never even desired the feeling. She always imagined an unpleasant, wet, uncomfortable experience, trembling against the stiff body of some faceless man with rough hands and rougher skin.

But Beca’s skin is soft; her body yields when Chloe falls into it. Her hands are sure and focused as they trace her neck, wind into her hair, push her dress off her shoulders, but they are not rough and incessant; they guide her gently onto the cot. Her lips leave fire in their wake as they skirt Chloe’s cheek and down her chest. Her tongue traces Chloe’s breasts, sneaks a sinful path up bare thighs.

Beca’s fingers slip inside of her. Her breath is hot on Chloe’s lips and her eyes seem to burn straight through her. Chloe gasps like the breath has been stolen from her chest and trembles like she’s going to shake apart.

“Convulsions,” Chloe say breathlessly, her chest heaving. She is entirely exposed to the world in front of another person — another woman, no less — and has just committed a cardinal, lustful, adulterous sin. She feels nothing but rapture. “Is this how it feels to be cursed by a witch?”

“You think too much of witches.”

“I cannot help it. What we just did… it was supernatural.”

Beca laughs and rolls onto her stomach. She throws an arm over Chloe’s hips, presses kisses to Chloe’s bare shoulder, and Chloe shivers from the pleasure of it. “You believe it was dark magic?” Beca murmurs teasingly into her skin, her fingers tickling Chloe’s ribs.

“M-magic, perhaps,” Chloe, flushed and panting and skin slick, is nearly gasping, “but not dark. Nothing that feels like this can be evil.”

“I think I’ve fallen in love with you.” Chloe swears her heart stutters to a stop and hangs, still in the moment before painfully restarting. “Is that even possible? Is it… am I too bold in my pronouncement?”

“No,” Chloe whispers back at her. “Not too bold. I think I have fallen in love with you, too.”

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5.)

She leaves Beca the next morning with a swift kiss and flushing cheeks. Beca beams at her as Chloe slips away from her, sneaking off through the woods and towards her own homestead.

She holds her breath as she sneaks inside and tries to make as little noise as possible. The ground beneath her feet is solid but smooth, and her shoes glide over it nearly soundless. Her mother and sister might still be asleep — she is unsure of the precise hour — or else they’ve already gone to market. Father must surely be in service already. If he was in a hurry he might have even left without noticing her glaring absence. Chloe sends up a short prayer to the Almighty that that is the case.

But of course, she is not so lucky. She never has been.

“Where have you been?”

Chloe freezes mid-step, her heart already turning to ice. She swallows thickly and turns slowly. Her father is seated in the kitchen, his hat upon his knee and his face empty save for a few dark shadows. “F-father,” Chloe straightens her spine, does her best not to tug at the skirt of her dress. “I was just… calling on Mrs. Hawthorne. You know she has two little ones both ill with diphtheria.” Her father stands and makes his way slowly towards her. Chloe holds her ground and continues speaking, as calmly as possible. “They haven’t been resting, so I went to see what little relief I could provi—”

Smack. The back of his hand connects with her cheek and Chloe stumbles, nearly crashing to the ground. She grips at her smarting cheek and turns her fearful gaze up at her father. He stands over her, fully glowering, now. “You lie,” he snarls at her, and it’s all Chloe can do to shake her head.

“I… no. I’m not lying. I haven’t been—”

“You did not come home last night. Tell me, harlot — in which young man’s bed did you spend your wicked night?”

“There is no man, father, I promise—”

“Captain Posen spotted you with Rebecca Mitchell yesterday.” Chloe falls silent, and curses her fair complexion and the way it so easily draws a blush. “Is that who you were with?” His words sound near-murderous.

Chloe shakes her head again, but he only seems to grow larger in front of her. He towers above her, a fire gleaming in his eyes. “You spent your night cavorting with that witch?”

“She is not a witch, Father! She is kind, and generous, and she loves me.”

He looks down at her with unbridled disgust and spits at the ground by her feet. “No one can love you.”

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By the time she makes it to Beca’s home, she’s already too late. The door stands ajar, creaking on its hinges in the early-afternoon breeze. Chloe doesn’t even bother trudging through the gate to peer inside; she knows with a certain inevitable heaviness that there is nothing there for her to find.

She follows the sounds of revelry all the way through the outskirts of the village, picking her way in some sort of daze through empty streets and past dark cabins. The sounds grow louder and Chloe stumbles towards them like a moth to a flame.

When she gets to the center of town she feels the world crash back into consciousness. What looks to be the entire town has gathered near the steps of the church. Parents with small children perched upon their shoulders, housewives and mothers still with aprons tied around their waists from working in the kitchen. Chloe pushes her way through them all, ignoring the looks and hissed words tossed her way.

Her father’s voice trickles through the crowd towards her, and Chloe hones in on it and stumbles, breathless. “The Devil is using this woman to lead astray the youths of our village with her little sorceries. With her black magic she has controlled the mind and possessed the body of many young women from our good Congregation, forcing them to submit to her vile evilness. She threatens the sanctity, the chastity of our daughters! For her crimes she has been arrested, and now will face the Judgment of the Vengeful and Almighty Lord.”

“No! Father, no, please, you can’t—”

“I can and I will!” He grabs Chloe’s face in his hands, squeezing her tight. His eyes are wild, mad and unseeing. Chloe wants to recoil from him, pull herself from his grasp, but his grip is too strong. His fingers leave bruises along her neck, her jaw, and she bites her tongue hard enough to taste blood to stop from whimpering from the pain. “We are God’s chosen people,” he whispers, his words meant only for her, “but we have fallen from His grace. He sends us these witches as a temptation, a scourge on our town. In order to return to His favor we must eradicate the disease.”

“No.”

He shoves her away from him, turning back to the swarming masses. “For her crimes, she has been arrested. And for her crimes, she will burn!”

There’s a roar of agreement from the crowd. Chloe fights back a wail. She can see Aubrey off to the side of the frenzied mass, her face pale and her jaw trembling. She meets Chloe’s gaze with eyes full of tears and turns away almost at once, like she can’t bear to watch.

Chloe fumbles upright, her feet and hands scrabbling in the mud. Her dress must be a hideous sight now but she hardly cares, can barely spare a thought for the ruined fabric. Beca is tied to a pyre in front of her, her head tipped back, her eyes closed to the sky. Chloe feels tar in her stomach. Her feet sink into the ground like the earth itself is grabbing hold of her, refusing to let her go.

She cries out, “No. NO!” But her screams are drowned out by the roaring of the crowd. Her father lowers his torch towards the pyre, and Chloe rips her head away, already ill, unable to look. The wood catches with a sickening crackle, and the jeers only grow louder. Chloe barrels away from the scene like she’s the one at risk of being burnt. She stumbles from the town square on legs that cannot support her, crashing blind through unfriendly bodies until she finally breaks free. The pathways are dark and twisting, and she allows her feet to carry her without thought to her destination.

She crashes through the door to the empty house. It is dark inside, and cold; there should be a fire burning in the hearth but there is no one left to tend it. A wooden plate sits on the table with a half-eaten loaf still perched upon it. Chloe thinks they must have grabbed her while she was unawares.

She feels next to nothing. She would cry, she thinks, were there any breath left inside of her. Instead she stumbles forward, tripping over her own feet, and falls face-first into the hard cot. She shivers violently but does not move to pull the quilt over her trembling body. She wraps her arms around her stomach and does not move and hopes, hopes that she’ll stop breathing.

.

.

.

.

+1.)

She awakens in Beca’s bed many hours later. The sun has long set; the world is in darkness now, and will remain as such likely for a few hours longer.

Beca’s house is dark. Of course it is. She was the only inhabitant, and now she’s—

The door is unlocked. It always is. Beca once told her she had nothing to fear from the outside world. If only she had known…

The moon outside is full. It illuminates the world, casting long and twisting shadows upon the ground. Chloe shivers as she peers out at them, for reasons she can’t quite explain.

The shadows are moving. Chloe blinks and rubs at her eyes, sure she must be seeing things, but— There. Right by the forest, where the path meets the trees, there’s… a figure, shrouded in black. And it seems to be creeping this way.

Chloe fumbles, her back slamming against the wall behind her. She clutches Beca’s bedroll to her heaving chest, her mouth frozen open in a silent scream. A demon is approaching, or perhaps a dark spirit; there is something wicked out in the woods, something haunting. It claimed Beca’s life earlier today and now it is here to claim hers. She’s set up residence in a dead woman’s home and the Devil is not pleased with her for it. He’s come to take her, to pull her soul from her body, to bewitch and entangle her in the dark magics.

She fumbles, her hands trembling so badly they can barely hold the flint and steel. She strikes once, twice, thrice, each movement more desperate than the one before. Finally, on her fifth attempt, a spark flies onto the candle by the bed. It catches fire, and Chloe can see inside once more.

She whips her attention back to the window, her eyes searching, her heart pounding heavy and pressing in her chest. She’s breathing hard, already in a panic, and she feels light-headed. But there is movement neither outside nor in. Chloe rubs at her eyes but it does little to calm her nerves.

“A trick of the light,” she mutters to herself. “A trick of the light and the illusion of a dream. That is all it was. No specter or ghoul, just… just my imagination.”

A shadow passes over the door, and finally, Chloe screams.

The door crashes open with a loud bang, and Chloe screams again, higher this time and louder, a wrenching shrill that tears at her throat and burns at her lungs and the figure races into the house, its taloned claws reaching for her face, and Chloe twists away from the horror and kicks out as hard as she can.

Her heel connects with something soft and pliant, and the demon buckles with a soft “Ooph,” like the breath has been torn from its lungs. It collapses onto the ground wheezing, and its hood falls from atop its gruesome head, and

“Beca?”

“You struck me.”

“I… I thought you were a demon.”

“No demon, just a foolish woman hoping to silence your screams before they drew the whole village to us.”

Chloe stares down at her, her mouth wide open. “I thought you had died.”

Beca shakes her head, clambering slowly to her feet. “I seem to have dodged death twice today.” She rubs at her middle, still wincing. “Was your father part-donkey? You kick like a mule.”

Chloe can’t believe this is happening. She can’t believe it. She saw Beca die this afternoon. Or… well, she saw her father light the woman on fire. That’s not exactly something you can just walk away from. The only explanation could be— “You… you are a witch,” Chloe says, breathless.

Beca winces like she’s been struck again. “Please, Chloe, hold your tongue,” she hisses. “And put that light out. If any of the nearby homesteads discover—”

“H-how did you survive? I… I saw… They lit a fire under you.” Beca ignores her, turning to a large trunk at the foot of the bed. Chloe frowns. “What are you doing?”

Beca is rummaging through her belongings, throwing together everything she can carry into one canvass sack. “I cannot stay, Chloe. You know that as well as I. They’ll have my head, next. The fact I escaped today was luck; nothing more than that.”

“I… But I saw you.”

“You saw nothing.”

“They set you aflame, yet you did not burn.”

“A trick of the light, that’s all.”

Chloe grabs her by the arm and wrenches her around. “Do not imply that I am mad, Beca. I am not my father; I am not the men of this village — I am not prone to wild, feverish bouts of anger and accusation. I do not mean to accuse you, only to confirm what I already know.”

Beca stares at her, eyes cold and expression unreadable. “And what is it you think you know?”

“You’re a witch. There is no other way you could have survived that fire were it not for—”

“For what?” Beca snaps. “God’s intervention? A pact with the Devil, with goblins and ghouls?”

“For magic.” Chloe breathes the word like a prayer, and it pauses Beca.

She swallows. “Would it matter? If I was a witch?”

“Are you working on behalf of the Devil?”

Beca scoffs. “No. How ridiculous.”

“If you were one of Satan’s minions would you be inclined to tell me?”

“If I were one of Satan’s minions I would already have your soul in hand, would I not? It matters little which power I serve.”

Chloe takes a moment to think. She quirks her head. “Can you guarantee that you will not get caught? That the next town you find yourself in will not chase you from its borders with pitchforks and flames?”

Beca swallows again and says, quieter and more seriously, “No. That is not a guarantee I can provide. When I leave here tonight, there is a very good chance I will be dead in months. We will not see each other again.”

Chloe takes a deep breath. “Can you teach me to be a witch, too?”

Beca’s eyes grow impossibly wide. “You—”

“If I wish to learn magics, are you able to teach me?”

“I… yes. Yes, I can teach you.”

Chloe finally takes Beca’s hand in hers. “Then let us go, quickly; before they think to search for you.”

They dash off together into the night, Chloe’s dress flapping behind her in the wind and Beca’s dress, a little singed ‘round the edges, catches on twigs and branches and the debris of the forest floor.

The moon is full in the sky, the air is crisp and clear, and their feet move so swiftly across the ground that Chloe swears they must be flying.

[theangrypokemaniac]

Since no one cares about Alola I can therefore say what I want.

Team Rocket's Pokémon are all worthless toss. That's such a surprise from this oafish writing team.

Remember when Jessie and James had two each, to offer variety? Permitting them even that is too much focus nowadays.

We don't what anything interesting going on, thank you. Repetition is what we and they deserve.

Arbok, Weezing, Lickitung and Victreebel are spinning in their graves.

Stufful was missing for three years and she displayed not the slightest pang of concern until its belated invention. Given her temper she ought to have torn the island apart searching for her baby, but no.

Not bothered about Bewear. It shouldn't really be in this list as it didn't belong to them, although catching has no value anymore.

A bit thick are we? Or conforming to the usual parental standards?

Well, she's sufficiently neglectful that she let it out of her sight long enough for it to be crushed under a tree, then was too idle to come to the rescue. In consequence he was obliged to wait days until one of Lusamine's lackeys arrived.

She's 'Mama Bear' though, isn't she?

It's based on a red panda, is partly the colour of a black bear and as strong as a grizzly, but all that is a mere cover for its true nature as a Bear-Face Ham.

The modern pretence is that everyone's a vegetarian (are they balls), and Ursa Major lives on fruit, not, you know, flesh.

Just because it there's no hibernating in the tropics doesn't mean it can get by without a salmon now and again.

The name is stupid, since a red panda is not a bear. A play on words isn't clever if based on what it isn't.

They should've called her 'Pandamonia', or 'Pandour', which is a brutal soldier.

It is at least redeemed by battering the klepto cockroach into the next dimension. Good on 'er.

Mind you, this is Alola, a cesspit of incest, so it's probably some sick arrangement, like Bewear being slipped the length by that previously unmentioned Oakie-Dokie clone.

He's the spit of Jimmy Savile, thus every depravity is on the table.

Where's Stufful's dad? He buggered off too?

What kind of name is 'Stufful'? What's it made from, 'stifle' and 'suffocation'? 'Stuffed'?

Thanks for that. Whenever I see its ovine face I'm reminded of taxidermy.

Were Ursa Minor and Bewear described as mother and son, or were they 'friends'?

A series of games involving breeding and the 'anime' is too squeamish to even imply animals live in families.

I don't care either way for Stufful, but I'd like it better if its mouth wasn't a camel toe.

I understand it's a sea creature, and the contents of the oceans are their own brand of peculiarity, but looks like a limbless, undead spaniel plagued with extra teats. Its 'ears' resemble distended mammeries.

Hey, remember that interesting, original Pokémon James had called Victreebel? Let's do it again! And again! AND AGAIN!

Victreebel is a venus fly trap: an anomaly in nature as a carnivorous plant. It makes sense that the Pokémon version would be a bit more full-on in catching a meal.

New law: Team Rocket are required to collect monsters as ugly as themselves.

Hurting James was its personality quirk, particularly to it, fitting its nature, its 'thing'. It was never meant as a template for most of what he caught in the future.

Something is funny if it happens once, and can be now and again if done with a least a little flair.

Nothing repeated as a constant leaden thud is remotely amusing, but this is an unknown fact to Nintendo bone heads. They think certain events are utterly hilarious in themselves and require no finesse in application.

They have a checklist of moments obligatory to each episode, which explains the plodding lifelessness. Tick 'em off to keep the fans from being ticked off. All we supposedly care about is each gong struck, not how we got there.

At least Victreebel used to vary its behaviour:

Occasionally it even did as told without any chomping preamble.

It didn't do the exact same action every single time it was involved!

Mostly it swallowed James.

How long was it once Victreebel was chucked out on its leafy arse before Cacnea arrived?

Oh look, it's a Grass Pokémon and attacks James!

Sometimes it ate Jessie.

Carnivine got in on the action before Cacnea's run was even up: kick 'em when they're down why don't yer?

Oh look, it's a Grass Pokémon and attacks James!

Now we have Mareanie. Wasn't there a few in between? No, shush, they don't exist anymore.

Every bloody time it came out, it turned round and punctured him.

Every bloody time.

Ah, it's not a Grass Pokémon. That makes it totally new!

Oh yes, it's the complete opposite of Victreebel. It's Poison instead. Not like it at all.

Every bloody time it came out, it'd gnaw his head off.

Every bloody time.

That's endearing.

Oh but it is! It's just showing him love!

As that makes it alright!

If a muscular man squeezed his girlfriend so tightly he cracked her ribs, is that 'sweet' because he 'meant well' but his feelings overwhelmed him? Or is it A.B.H.?

Every bloody time it comes out, it injects James's head with toxin until it swells up into purple pustule of disease.

Every bloody time.

I never took Victreebel's assault as affection. To me they were real attempts to devour James, especially with the accompanying frenzied screech. Interpreting that as a positive emotion is bizarre to me.

At soon as James found it wedged in a Breeding Centre cage and opened the door it grabbed him, which appeared to be Victreebel lashing out in anger for what'd happened in the intervening period.

What Mareanie does is worse than the other three put together. At least they delivered mere bite marks or pinpricks, but it infects James!

Whole episodes of this programme have involved a Pokémon falling foul of Poison Powder and being on the verge of death, with all done to preserve it until Ash hunted down the cure, but now it's a big laugh, apparently.

Not one character ever has the wits about them to carry an Antidote, otherwise the writers wouldn't be able to fall back on the tired old race-against-time scenario, which is no such thing as we know they won't die.

Is it likely that James is always going to end up picking a violent Pokémon, of all the individuals of a race, of all the lifeforms in the universe?

Aren't his allowed to come with their own personality, or is there a set pattern they must follow, and when caught they absorb it, for fear they might be memorable?

Mind you, it's interesting the reactions these abuses provoke:

Victreebel eats James: Aw, it's so kyewt!

Cacnea impales James: Aw, it's so kyewt!

Carnivine chews James: Aw, it's so kyewt!

Mareanie poisons James: Aw, it's so kyewt!

Meowth claws James: Aw, it's so kyewt!

Jessie beats James: Aw, it's so kyewt!

Jessibelle whips James: EEVUL BITCH!!!

Mimikyu should be opposed for breaking it's own world.

To us, Pikachu is the most famous Pokémon, belonging to Ash, the protagonist, and the franchise's mascot.

To them, Pikachu is just another middling Pokémon hundreds of young Trainers catch, and holds no greater value.

It's blatantly a reference to Pikachu's real-life status, acknowledging itself as fiction. No Pokémon would hold the same significance for this design to work but him.

Otherwise why would Mimikyu, when it has the choice of every Pokémon that exists, and, if meant to be a believable world, every Pokémon we don't know exists, choose Pikachu to ape? Why wouldn't it pick a Legendary?

Alola Pikachu is looking off colour.

It's not even this specific Mimikyu, it's the entire species!

What, they work to a hive mind, incapable of individual tastes and opinions?

Do they all hate Pikachu too, even though the entire mouse population of Alola has been rounded up by that loon and trapped in a valley, or were we lumbered with the lone demented obsessive with a severe complex?

Is it well jel that Pikachu's a real one, whereas it can only manage to knock up a bog-standard costume with a face daubed by a chimp paralytic from scrumpy?

Well stop imitating it then! Invent your own design!

Oh come on. The animators can't even do that, hence its creation. You can hardly expect it to display inspiration if born from its absence.

I wonder if it hates Raichu. And Pichu. And Plusle and Minun. And the rest of the Pikachu derivatives, although it is one.

(As an aside, I don't know why Raichu, Marowak and Exeggutor were redrawn for this era, but not Pikachu, Cubone and Exeggcute. Why does the sweaty climate affect only evolutions?) 

Here's an idea: make Shiny Mimikyu have a different get up, not colour.

You can have that free, Game Freak. I'm too lenient with yer.

Presumably, Mimikyu hatches (already dead?) in all its eye-bleeding nastiness, and instinctively reaches for the discarded yellow bedsheet and pack of crayons that just so happens to be nearby, and the scissors to make the peep holes.

Them inbreds know how to litter.

Flippers?

Nah, it's probably hooks.

How is it born aware of a Pikachu's face, and why is it compelled to copy them?

Knowledge of his own ugliness is innate, thus he must cover his nakedness before it lays waste to the forest inhabitants.

Yet if you breed 'em, it emerges wearing it, like the cloth formed from left-over albumen and stained with yolk!

What's it reaching with? Paws?

Mittens?

Oh, and there was a deceased specimen in the series, so it's either a ghost, and nothing but bedsheet, or a zombie, and it's repulsive carcass has upped the ante by putrifying.

Even its name doesn't fit. Apart from the unsightly spelling, what's 'Mimikyu' about? It's not mimicking me.

Mimikyu? It should be Mimikchu!

And you know what? Even Nintendo agree their own inventions aren't good enough, because they made return almost impossible.

They hate these more than they do even the pre-Unova Pokémon, most of whom were condemned to a dark existence within the iron corridors of H.Q. and haven't been seen since.

• Growlie is such a beloved figure in James's life he's been involved all of twice.

• Dustox got pensioned off.

• James was practically bullied into gifting Cacnea to that cloying bitch Gardenia.

• Whilst he still tecnically owns Chimecho, it's as lost to him as any of them.

Remember Seviper, Yanmega, Carnivine and Mime Junior?

Hell, remember Woobat, Yamask, Frillish and Amoonguss?

Or Gourgeist and Inkay?

Of course, since the makers appear to have the Reverse-Midas Touch, Team Rocket still took that useless, wincing lump Wobbuffet to Galar instead of dumping it over the sea. Apparently we're stuck with it forever.

Arbok, Lickitung, Weezing and Victreebel got shafted, but THAT survives?

Yes? That's more the writers do. In current canon these Pokémon never lived at all. Dead memories in the haze.

[fight-surrender]

Howlin’ Forever Chapter 3: Into the Woods

Rating: Teen and Up

Word count: 2583

Read on AO3

Summary: “Dog-Simon must catch my scent because he’s instantly awake and on his feet. His head is down, hackles are up and the snarl that ensues from his mouth is most certainly lupine. His eyes are Simon’s blue, but there is no humanity or recognition in them. Only malice.”

Time for Baz to find a werewolf. 

(I did put a readmore cut in here on my desktop, I’m terribly sorry to clog your feed if it doesn’t transfer to mobile.) Thanks as always to my amazing friends, @carryonsimoncarryonbaz​, @vkelleyart​ @penpanoply​ for their unwavering support and encouragement and beta reading and omg @penpanoply​ made me this cover art which is fucking gorgeous and brilliant and perfect. <3 <3

        _________________________________________________

                                       Ch 3: Into the Woods

                                   You and me have a disease,                                   You affect me, you infect me,                                   I'm afflicted, you're addicted,                                      You and me, you and me

                                  - “Infected” by Bad Religion

 Baz:

Panting, I scramble to the window. The night seems to be holding its breath, silently waiting as a quiet splash draws my eyes to the moat. The merwolves are eerily calm, almost reverent, as they bear witness to the hulking bronze figure that cuts through the water. The creature emerges from the moat, shaking off moonlit water droplets. He howls again, sending my heart into a renewed frenzy. The wolf then turns and runs into the forest.

I wipe my hands across my face, then rake them through my hair.

What should I do? What should I do?

Should I go after him? Leave him be? Where is he going? Does he even know?

The drawbridge is closed. I’m too frazzled to manage a spell to get around it. Sleep isn’t an option tonight. My eye catches on the pile of books Malfoy sent over. At least Hogwarts still has a fully stocked library, not the Children’s Garden of Verses we have here at Watford. I take a copy of “Magical Beasts and Where to Find Them,” a bag of salt and vinegar crisps and settle onto my bed to try and focus on the pages.

***

  Sunrise turns the room pink as I realize I’ve been reading the same paragraph for half an hour. I have no idea what it says. The only information I’ve retained from this exercise is that the full moon phase can last up to about four days. The transformation seems to last longer in the newly Turned. Also, there is a potion called Wolfsbane that helps lessen the effects of the Lycanthropy.

A heavy thunk, followed by the clatter of gears indicates the drawbridge is coming down.

I snap the book shut with one hand and stand up.

Time to find a werewolf.

 ***

 It’s a good thing it’s the weekend. I certainly wouldn’t miss class to hike through the woods after this imbecile. Branches slap my face as I stomp along, following Snow’s tracks. He’s left an obvious trail of broken limbs, scratched soil and huge footprints. My vampire senses come in handy as well. His scent is different in this form. He still smells like smoke, but now there’s a wildness, a smell of petrichor and moss with hints of musk.

My mind is a swirl of thoughts, but I can’t settle on any single one. Simon, the Chosen One, Watford’s golden boy is now a monster. Technically, he’s not allowed to exist. Neither am I, for that matter, I’m well versed in keeping my secret. The question is what’s Simon going to do with this information? He’s so damned good, he could very well just turn himself in to the mage as soon as he resumes his human form. I’ll be damned to hell twice over before I let him throw his life away like that. I will stop him, even if I have to put a collar on him and chain him to the bed. (That actually sounds appealing, regardless of his reaction to his new condition.)

Simon’s scent gets stronger as I approach a dried creek bed. I slow down, treading lightly across scattered stones and debris, trying not to make a sound. An angry squirrel chitters at me from a branch above my head. If I had the time or inclination, I’d drain him out of spite. At least squirrel blood tastes better than rat.

I stop short as I come around a boulder, on the other side is the hulking form of Simon Snow. Rather, the were version of him. His breath is till heaving, but he seems to be asleep. During the frenzied events of last night, I hadn’t a chance to really get a look at him.  He’s huge, probably the size of a Shetland pony. He doesn’t exactly look wolfish, his muzzle is not so pointed, his ears flop down. He looks like, well he looks like an overgrown, shaggy, bronze-furred Golden Retriever. For snakes sake, of course Simon Snow would turn into a Golden; cheerful, loyal, lovely dogs that they are. He’s too good to even be a proper monster. Crowley. I roll my eyes and shake my head in wonder.

Dog-Simon must catch my scent because he’s instantly awake and on his feet. His head is down, hackles are up and the snarl that ensues from his mouth is most certainly lupine. His eyes are Simon’s blue, but there is no humanity or recognition in them. Only malice. Not quite so Golden-esque then.

Before I can pull my wand from my sleeve, he lunges at me, but immediately falls to the ground. He growls again and turns to bite at something behind him. I step back to a safer distance and see that the beast’s foot is caught in some kind of debris. Snow flails and thrashes, but eventually collapses, exhausted, panting.

I try to approach him, now that he’s tired, and am met once again with that malevolent, dead stare and a mouth full of giant teeth. And, I might add, horrific dog breath.  I back away into the forest to think. That thing, it is Simon. I can’t exactly leave him out here for the next three days, but how can I spell him free and somewhere safe until he goes back to human form? There are dog training spells, but what would “atta boy” do to the human part of his brain? I suppose I could spell him to sleep, but how do I get him back to our room? I don’t have the magic to transport him.

What if I could get him to trust me? Physically, he’s a giant pet dog. What’s the best way to train a dog? Positive reinforcement: Food. What’s the way to Simon Snow’s heart? Food.  

I turn and run back to Watford. It’s time to call in a favor with Cook Pritchard.

 ***

 Thank magic no one is around when I haul the giant wicker picnic basket Cook Pritchard loaded up for me across the great lawn. She gave me enough food for an army. The woman was well chuffed that I was having a picnic with “friends.” She acted as if I hadn’t any friends.  “Well that’s lovely, Basilton, so nice to see you coming out of your shell.” Cook even tucked a small bottle of dandelion wine into the basket, “to help break the ice.” She actually winked at me. I wanted to implode.

I have friends. Sure, half of them are family, but still. You only need one or two friends, anything more isn’t worth the effort.

I carry the basket through the wood. I feel like I’m on my way to a goth Victorian picnic. I stop periodically to drain a few squirrels, just for spite.  The resident dryad side eyes me as I pass her thicket. I ignore her.

“What do you seek, blood eater?” She hisses. Twirling her ridiculous umbrella. Butterflies swirl lazily around her mossy hair.

“None of your business.” I reply.

“Your pistil is a wolf.” She remarks.

“He’s not my anything.” I snarl, “And he’s not a wolf, he’s a Golden Retriever.”

“The Chosen One is an abomination,” she presses. “The children of the moon must die.”

I light a fire in my palm. “Is that so?” I drop my voice to a menace, “maybe I should take out this whole forest in the process.”

“Do what you must. The forest will regrow. He cannot live.” She calls my bluff.

“You know what? You can fuck off.” I say, frustrated.

She opens her mouth to speak, but I raise my hand. “Enough. We’re done here.” I sling the giant basket over my shoulder and stomp away.

I’ll be staked before I take advice from a woodland creature holding a parasol. Snow has as much of a right to live as I do. More so, he’s not dead. Fuck the dryad.

I finally make it back to the creek bed. Dog-Simon looks vaguely defeated, laying on his side, his back leg stretched behind him. I can see a length of rusty wire wrapped around his foot. He’s awake, wary eyes never leaving mine, a low growl rumbles in his chest.

I settle myself on the ground a safe distance away. I’m wearing my school-issue green Watford football trackie bottoms and sweatshirt. Coach Mac will probably not appreciate werewolf damage to the practice uniform. My trainers are caked with mud. I sigh. The things I do for love.

The basket creaks as I open it. The sound makes Snow get up and retreat as far as the wire around his leg will let him. His tail is down, ears back; he’s panting lightly.

I pull out the bottle of dandelion wine and take a swig, to calm my nerves. It’s bitter, with a faint floral overtone, and just enough bite to warm my chest. I take a deep breath and survey the contents of my picnic. The basket is overflowing with roast beef sandwiches, sour cherry scones, roast chicken, bacon butties, jellies, and inexplicably a layered trifle. She must have magicked it all in there.

It’s just me and the dog, and I missed breakfast, so I help myself to a roast beef sandwich. Snow’s ears tip forward and he sits down. Sniffing the air.

I toss a bit of my sandwich at him, he scrambles away with a surprised bark. Almost immediately, he cautiously noses forward, sniffing at the roast beef. He sits down again, without eating it and resumes watching me, panting. His teeth are huge.

“For fucks sake, Simon, it’s not like it’s poisoned.”

The dog’s ears perk up and he cocks his head at me. His mouth is closed, brows almost furrowed in concentration.

“Go on then lad,” I press, “roast beef is your favorite.” I remind myself to breathe.

Snow resumes panting, but lowers his nose again at the food. He nudges it, then takes an experimental bite. Apparently satisfied that the offering wasn’t going to kill him, the great dog swallows the rest. Licking his lips, he retreats to his original position, as far away from Baz as he can get.

I toss half a sandwich into his orbit.

“There you go Snow, I know you can’t walk away from half a sandwich.”

Once again Dog-Simon sits, cocks his head and looks at me. I’m probably imagining it, but his eyelids almost seem to squeeze a bit, in concentration. He cautiously walks my way, never taking his eyes off me, and eats the sandwich half in one bite. This time he doesn’t shy away, he sits, panting again and watches me.

I toss him the other half of the sandwich, which he catches in the air and eats with more gusto. He’s watching me again, this time I get a weak tail wag.

I unwrap the roast chicken and throw the whole thing at him. It lands with an unceremonious plop, a leg breaking free. Simon stands and practically inhales the whole thing. His tail is wagging faster now.

We go on like this for the duration of the afternoon. I’m slowly inching closer, I can almost touch his muzzle now. He seems more relaxed, the panting has stopped. His ears are forward, tail wagging freely. His eyes have gone softer, from ice to sky.

I reach into the basket for a sour cherry scone, I’ve been saving these for this moment. I scoot even closer, holding it in my hand this time. He’s so close, he could easily rip my throat out. It’s not often I have to worry about someone ripping out my throat. It’s refreshing, really. I suppose there are worse ways to die.

“Simon, we’re going to have to work together to figure this mess out. If there is any part of you that can hear me, let me help you. I mean, I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, but…” My voice tapers off. Why would he trust me? Crowley, I’ve done nothing but torment him for the last 6 years.

A gentle breeze ruffles the golden leaves above me. “We be of one blood, ye and I.” I murmur. A warm rush of surprise washes over me. Where the fuck did that even come from? Kipling was a powerful magician, but is that even a spell? Leave it to me to channel my favorite childhood book in times of duress.

I take a breath and hold out the scone. Simon noses forward, sniffs, and carefully takes the scone from my hand. He doesn’t move away. I keep my eyes on him as I slowly reach for the basket and remove another scone. I hold it in my hand, when he takes it, I reach out with my other hand and run it behind his ear, rubbing along his jaw. He stiffens, but continues to eat the scone. “These are your favourite,” I whisper, scratching behind his ear, rubbing slowly along his neck and shoulder. Eventually, I find myself out of scones and scratching his stomach, while his tongue lolls and he scratches his back leg lazily.

I take a break because my hands are cramping from all the petting. I really hope he doesn’t remember any of this. I shake my hands and look at the grime under my nails. I’m going to need a manicure.

Simon stands and gives a mighty shake from his nose to his feathered, rudder-like tail. He utters a sharp bark, like he’s decided something, then proceeds to try and climb into my lap, his huge pink tongue lapping my face.

“Merlin and Morgana, you giant thumping git, get off. I push him away, but not too far. He knocks me to the ground and licks my whole face. For snakes sake, you’re disgusting, I get to my feet wiping saliva off my chin and trying not to smile. Simon’s tail is wagging so hard his whole body is wiggling and he’s rubbing along my side, trying to get me to scratch his back. I oblige for a moment.

“Snow, stop, let’s get your leg untangled.”  He stands so quietly as I extricate his leg from the wire, that I can’t help but wonder if he understood me.

Once freed, Simon plants his giant paws on my shoulders and smears the side of my face with his tongue once more. “Blimey, Snow.” I step back and the great dog’s feet once more hit the ground. He zooms away, coming to a skidding stop, returns to my side and bows his front legs down, rear up, tail wagging madly.

I lean down and take his huge face in my hands, scratching gently below his jaw. “Come along, you delightful moron, let’s go home.”

I turn and make my way through the forest. The late afternoon sun dappling the trail with rich golden light. Dust motes dancing in the beams. Simon scampers ahead, darting back every few minutes to make sure I’m still following.

I breathe in the rich loamy scent of these ancient woods and let it out slowly. For once, my mind is quiet. Simon is back at my side, nosing at my hand. I absentmindedly rub his velvet ear. I stop and let this foreign emotion wash over me. I let myself relax, for just this moment, I am content.

[sharinluna]

MLQC Chapter 16 Translation Part 1

Translation of excerpts from chapter 16.

This is not a full translation, only some parts. It’s more like a abbreviation/summary/paraphrasing of some parts of the story. Do not ask me to translate more or reveal more plots in the story.

The translation is based on KR version text. I’m not a professional translator and get things wrong. So do not regard this as the actual canon story.

I used Yōurán as the name of MC because that is the unofficial default MC’s name in CN version.

DO NOT COPY, QUOTE, REPOST OR REBLOG THIS ANYWHERE. Links are okay but I don’t want this post to spread too much in other communities or websites.

16-1

???: As you all know, Hades’s return-to-zero plan has started.

16-3

It has been 10 days since Gavin was gone. I looked down at my bracelet feeling pain and sorrow. He said he’d come back, I had to believe him.

The news was talking about the latest influenza outbreak. The symptoms were similar to a regular flu, coughing, high fever and lethargy. It couldn’t be cured by any existing antibiotics. No one died yet, but the number of the infected was increasing every day. Every laboratory in the nation was researching about this, but there was no solution yet. The virus spread faster than anything we’ve seen before. 

I wore my cotton mask before I went out.

When I went to the office building I heard the security guards talking.

Guard: Did you hear about that guy? He caught the flu this morning. He couldn’t even recognize his wife.

I felt anxiety in my heart growing. He didn’t even recognize his wife… how could this be a symptom of a regular flu? It occurred to me that I could inquire someone about the disease.

As I entered the hospital my suspicion that this was not a regular flu grew more. I met doctor Song(the female doctor from chapter 13), after the Evol rampage was solved, she went back to curing patients.

Yōurán: Dr. Song, I wanted to inquire about the recent flu epidemic…

Dr. Song: I was about to call you. There are some strange things, and I wanted to check that I’m not being paranoid… This flu is unlike anything we’ve seen before.

Yōurán: I thought so too, and I just heard something that might back your claim. Among the infected, there are hardly any children or old people. Usually they get sick first because they have weaker immune systems. But this time, it’s the opposite, the flu only targets healthy, young people.

Dr. Song: Yes, and I found out that there are no evolvers among the sick. I think…. the virus is selecting certain genes.

Yōurán: So you’re saying that the virus is targeting healthy non-evolvers on purpose.

Was this another scheme from Black Swan. They’ve targeted evolvers before, now they’re targeting non-evolvers?

16-6

I was walking home. The usually busy streets were empty and many shops were closed down. I felt dismal. Could I ever look up to the sky with light feelings?

The TV screen in the building lighted up.

News: Professor Lucien’s research lab has announced a press conference about the latest influenza.

I stopped right there. I haven’t thought of Lucien for a long time. Since that day, he disappeared from my life. He moved away from next door and didn’t answer any of my calls.

I asked myself many times whether I despised him, and the answer was “no”. The world was not black and white, and I didn’t want to judge him with just one idea of what was right and wrong.

I just didn’t want to think about him again, but every word from the screen etched to my ears. He is part of the Black Swan, and since this virus is likely related to Black Swan… I can’t deny that he is part of all this.

Yōurán: I could just send Willow… or anyone else to report about this conference…

I don’t know what I was trying to avoid. Was I afraid of the answer that would come from him? Was I afraid to find out that the flu outbreak had something to do with him, because I would get emotional? Or… was I simply afraid to see him again?

I closed my eyes and made up my mind. I had to attend this conference.

Footsteps could be heard and the reporters gathered up front to hear what Lucien had to say. Just then, his eyes met me standing among the reporters. I turned around and lowered my head. My heart was beating like crazy. A few seconds later, I gathered courage to glance at him, he was talking to his assistant like he hadn’t seen me.

I needed to get a grip. I made my decision to come here. I was not going to cower in fear. After taking a few deep breathes I held my camera up to start shooting.

16-7

Lucien: Hello. Thank you all for coming. I would like to announce that we are working on a new remedy that will cure the influenza.

Audience A: Professor, my father has the flu, and he’s trying to volunteer for human experimentation. Please refuse him!

I took out my voicepen to record his words and realized that it was actually Lucien’s silver pen. I shoved that thing back into my pocket. I must have brought it instead in my hurry.

Yōurán: Why now…. this… of all things…

I was too busy feeling sorry about myself to notice that Lucien startled for the shortest second.

Lucien: First of all, I would like to offer condolences for your father, but I’m afraid that I can’t grant your wish. Furthermore, I want more people to offer themselves for this drug testing.

Audience A: But… what if my father dies?

Lucien: All scientific progress is founded on sacrifices, that includes trial-and-error of bodily harms and deaths. All of which I think are necessary.

Audience A: So you’re expecting people to submit themselves to this testing that is potentially fatal?

More people began to voice their complaints. But Lucien faced them without even a blink. I suppose for him, this was a rational solution to the problem. I felt resentment rising slowly in my chest. 

I’d heard enough. I got up to leave, but someone grabbed my wrist.

Reporter C: Hey, aren’t you the producer of the Miracle Finder? Professor Lucien is a consultant in that show!

Reporter B: Does that mean that you were already aware of his human subject research?

Yōurán: I was just here for the report. Please focus on the conference.

I tried to get away. I sincerely regretted coming here. But I was surrounded by reporters. Questions flew at me from everywhere.

Reporter C: As a producer and his coworker, what’s your opinion about Professor Lucien’s thoughts?

Reporter D: Does Miracle Finder agree with Professor Lucien’s human experimentation?

I looked at Lucien, unsure what to answer. He was looking at me like he was seeing a very entertaining scuffle. The corner of his mouth was even twitching.

I felt anger boiling inside me. I was angry at him, and I was also angry at myself.

Yōurán: Apologies. But this is not something that I can answer. My relationship with Professor Lucien is purely for business, and Miracle Finder will find a new consultant. I ask that you focus on the conference at hand. Please excuse me.

After I was done talking and made to leave, I heard his familiar voice.

Lucien: Does Producer Yōurán(he’s referring to her very formally, almost like a stranger) not agree with the direction of this experiment?

My heart felt like bursting out. I didn’t think that I could face him. I pictured many times how we would meet each other again, but I hadn’t thought that we would meet like this.

Yōurán: No, I don’t.

Lucien: Then why are you trying to leave when the conference is not even over. If there is something you don’t agree, then say it.

His tone was nonchalant, but I could sense fury that the others couldn’t catch.

I closed my eyes and clenched my fists, then turned around and faced him. This was the first time that I saw him face to face since his reveal as Ares.

Yōurán: I want to ask Professor Lucien a question. Earlier you mentioned that sacrifices are necessary. Specifically what kind of sacrifices are needed?

A smile crossed his eyes. He was silent for a moment, then slowly opened his lips.

Lucien: Death, in the sense of physiological meaning.

Yōurán: So you’re saying that it’s normal to demand people to sacrifice their lives for the advancement of society?

Lucien: Yes. I agree wholly to that statement.

The reporters were shooting their films at us enthusiastically. Apparently, the war of words between us was more interesting than the remedy for the flu.

Lucien: This reminds me of the famous trolley problem. No matter what you choose, you face an ethical dilemma. But the truth is, many people fall behind as society progresses, in the form of death or others. It is the law of the universe that the weak ones fall back and the strong ones survive and reproduce. That is the only way that the human race survives continuously.

He enunciated each world clearly as he met my eye. I felt utterly foolish. What was I thinking, that I could change his views which he held onto no matter what?

Yōurán: In your eyes, is human life so insignificant?

He took a step towards me. It seemed that his eyes held some kind of enmity.

Lucien: Then, what is not insignificant in this world?

I gathered up my courage and stood up straighter and said:

Yōurán: All life forms have a right to be respected. Every one of us are doing their best to survive. You may think that’s nothing, but look at the patients in the hospital. They may be comatose, but their consciousness are fighting to stay alive. The children in the orphanages, beggars in streets, they are trying their best to live on. Their will to keep on living is their right. You have no right to deprive people of this.

Silence could be heard. Lucien looked down at me with inquiry and arrogance.

Lucien: Well said. But you are only voicing the minority. Ever since prehistoric times, the human race have slaughtered and sacrificed the weak. Some of those deaths contributed nothing to the society. “Equality” is not the principle of society. Humans have competed with each other to stay in the higher place of hierarchy for survival. If it’s for progress, we don’t even need consent for such sacrifices.

I thought of that day before when he said the same things coldly like this. That it was all for the better future. Is this really the future he wanted?

I asked him something that I wanted to ask for a long time.

Yōurán: What if… you had to sacrifice yourself? Would you still do it?

He nodded without hesitation, it even seemed like he was smiling.

Lucien: Yes. For the advancement of society as a whole, I will gladly make that sacrifice.

Yōurán: What if you had to sacrifice someone precious to you?

Without thinking, that question came out from my lips. I stared at him. I didn’t know what I was hoping for. I knew the answer already.

He kept staring at me without answering. The subtle movement of the corner of his lips seemed to mock my asinine question. Time passed. He still didn’t answer.

What was I doing here? I knew what his answer would be anyway.

There was a time when I thought, if I ever met him again, I would argue with him and voice all my opinions. But I now realized how futile that was. What was the point? He was not the Lucien that I used to know anymore.

Yōurán: I wish you all luck in your research, Professor. However, I cannot agree with your values. Ever. To me, there are more important things than survival.

I closed my eyes to hide my hurt and disappointment, and turned around and walked away. I could hear the shutters of the cameras. Next day there will be numerous headlines about our verbal match, but I didn’t want to care anything about that now.

16-11

I sat down on the bench trying to calm my wildly beating heart. I looked back at the direction of the conference room, and I realized once again that Lucien and I were on opposing sides.

Yōurán: And you already know that. Why are you still concerned…? Let’s just go home…

I gathered my things and realized that I left my pen behind.

Yōurán: Well.. the owner of the pen is still there… if the staff pick it up they will give it to him…

I tried to convince myself to leave with this logic.

Ten minutes later I put my head inside the conference room.

Yōurán: I guess everyone’s gone now…

After I checked that no one was there, I walked hesitantly in. Soon I found the pen on the floor and picked it up.

Yōurán: Found it!

???: What are you doing there?

I startled and hit my head on the podium. It really hurt and I had to drop the pen to grasp my head. Then pen rolled and stopped at the front of black shoes. Long slender fingers picked it up.

Lucien: You came back for this?

His eyes looking down at me held mischief. I gathered myself before approaching him.

Yōurán: Yes. Is something the matter?

He handed the pen out to me.

Lucien: Don’t ever lose it again.

His voice reminded me of that warm late spring day from such a long time ago, but my heart grew colder and colder. I knew shouldn’t have come back here.

I didn’t take the pen from his hand and retraced my steps.

Yōurán: I don’t need it anymore. Besides, it wasn’t mine from the start. The pen should go back to its owner now.

There was no change in his facial expression, but his eyes narrowed slightly. He took the pen in his pocket.

Lucien: You owe me something else besides the pen.

Yōurán: …what?

Lucien approached me and blocked my way.

Lucien: Today I found out that I was resigned from Miracle Finder without notice. Is it too much to demand an explanation?

Yōurán: I’m sure such things don’t matter to you anymore, Professor.

Lucien: It matters for my reputation.

His tone was light, like he was playing with me. The audacity of him!

Yōurán: This is not fair!

Lucien: I thought you already knew that about me.

He’d already stepped closer to me. I felt pressured.

Lucien: All I want to know is why.

Yōurán: You don’t have to waste your valuable time honoring my humble show with your overbearing presence. (She is sarcastically talking to him as if he’s some royalty. That since he’s so high and mighty he shouldn’t concern himself with the likes of her.)

Lucien: What if I want to continue to be on your show?

Anger raged inside me again. I closed my eyes to contain my emotions and said quickly.

Yōurán: You lost your right because you have different values. My show, Miracle Finder, is about intrinsic values of justice and philanthropy.

Why was he not saying anything? When I opened my eyes he had let me go and was walking away from me.

Lucien: Good thinking. I understand.

Yōurán: Wait! I have something I want to ask you. The recent flu outbreak, did you have anything do to with it?

Please, please tell me that you had nothing to do with it.

Lucien: Yes.

I felt something sinking at my chest.

Yōurán: Y, yes, I see…

Lucien: It seems that you’re disappointed in me. What were you planning to do if you confirmed your suspicions?

He was emitting out a dangerous atmosphere. I stepped away from him until I reached the end of the stage.

Lucien: Did your concept of what is right and just, give you what you wanted? Is this what you think is more important than survival? I want to ask you, will you sacrifice someone precious to you to hold on to your beliefs?

My back reached the cold hard wall. Lucien had already put his hand on the wall beside my face.

Lucien: I see you’re hesitating. Should I take that as a yes?

Before I could answer, a bright light blinded my eyes. In an instant a strong force pulled me forward and I was in his arms. Next moment, a ray of golden beam struck the place where I’ve just been. He hugged me tighter into his chest, his hands shielding my head.

He looked out the window. His eyes held a murderous stare. Was I mistaken when I thought I saw in his eyes fear that he would lose something precious to him…? But that look vanished quickly, as if I had imagined it.

I tried to get away from his arms, but he held on tight.

Yōurán: Lucien…

Lucien: Don’t talk…

It felt like things between us had gone back to the way they were before. When he was still Lucien. Like then, he was protecting me from danger. I felt warm in my heart.

I stepped back and saw a hole that was paved on the wall.

Yōurán: Are you okay? Thanks for saving me…

Lucien: It was only for your safety, nothing more.

Yōurán: You saved me… because you need me alive in your plan?

Lucien: Of course, I never engage in useless actions.

I knew it. Back then, the Black Swan goons said they needed me alive for their scheme. So all this time he must have protected me for the same reasons…

I felt tired. I just wanted to get away from here.

Lucien: You still haven’t answered my question.

I looked at his eyes but couldn’t fathom anything about him. Maybe this was for the best. I laughed dejectedly and looked into his eyes.

Yōurán: I didn’t. And I won’t.

My eyes were getting teary but I kept them wide open.

Yōurán: Even if I were smart enough to know all the secrets and knowledge with my precognition, even if I were powerful enough to move all mountains, without love, those are meaningless to me.

Yōurán: The truth of this world is cruel and painful. But even when the light is gone from people’s lives, I will hold on to my own light. No matter how impossible it is, no matter how dark everything else is, no matter how foolish I may be. I won’t give up.

Yōurán: Someone who used to be very precious to me taught me that. I will never give up.

As I turned around I let the tears flow freely. I will never shed tears in front of him again.

-------------------------------------------

Okay, I had to stop here because this was being too long.

I had so much fun translating Lucien and MC in the press conference. What I love about their dynamics is that Lucien and MC both hold on firmly to their beliefs but they still care for each other deep down.

Lucien as an extreme Darwinist won’t bat an eyelash as he sacrifices many “weak” people for the “strong” people to survive, but when asked about whether he would sacrifice MC, he refuses to answer.

MC will continue to defy Lucien and fight against him but when asked whether she would “sacrifice” him, she refuses to answer.

They are fighting each other ferociously and they are both determined to defeat the other, but none of their swords will land a fatal blow to each other.

Who will win in this battle? Well the answer is obvious :)

I’ll come up with part 2 when I feel like it.

[violetsmoak]

Philtatos [7/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47630773

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of the Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire–for Tim. Though overwhelmed by the sudden attention being paid to him, Tim sets to work trying to solve the case, before Jason succumbs to madness. In the meantime, Jason discovers that there’s more than godlike powers at work here, as well as a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Beta Reader: None at the moment.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #fate #fatal flaw #oracle #reincarnation #secrets #undying love

First Chapter

Author's Note(s): Sorry for the delay guys. Between trying to find a place to live, and dealing with a family member with Alzheimers, the past day or so has kind of sucked. But I did finally get some time to myself to finish this chapter, so I hope you enjoy! 

Much of the dialog and imagery of Jason’s flashback is based on actual lines from The Iliad and Madeline Miller's novel The Song of Achilles. If you're looking to cry, read the latter to the end.

________________________________________________________________

Tim stares at the screen of his tablet, reading the information but none of it registering. He’s been at this too long.

Crime scene photos from the GCPD’s system and coroners reports from half a dozen murder-suicides that took place throughout the city in the past week, each one more brutal than the last. One guy took a meat pounder to his girlfriend’s head; another a fire poker to his husband’s face.

I wish I could get out there and investigate the scenes myself.

He’s been effectively benched and it’s starting to give him cabin fever, even though he knows it’s important to stay with Jason right now.

Bruce took off to Amsterdam about an hour again; like Tim, he prefers to retrace crimes from their origin. It’s how they find clues the cops miss. Dick’s doing the same right now in Gotham, revisiting all the crime scenes with Duke by his side in case his retrocognition can help them any. He has no idea where Steph is tonight, but if Barbara’s radio silence is any indicator, they’re probably working something big together.

Jason’s been sitting beside him on the couch in the study, three separate books open on his lap and a notepad where he’s jotting down various comparisons of the information.

(Because “I’m not defacing a first edition version of Les Métamorphoses, especially not one with etchings by Picasso, Tim. It’s just not done.”)

The first hour he managed to keep absorbed in his task, but Tim’s noticed him stopping more often between annotations, rubbing at a spot on his neck or over the spot in his shoulder where he was shot.

Whenever he notices Tim looking, they both immediately look away and go back to work; but after another period of research—getting shorter and shorter after each pause—Jason’s back to twitching and looking guilty.

He’s going to have his neck rubbed raw in another hour.

Despite the fact the whole thing was Tim’s idea, it’s harder to remain unaffected about the need for physical contact than he thought. And Jason notices pretty fast that Tim isn’t as at ease with the ‘treatment’ plan as he’s been insinuating.

He thought Jason putting his arm around his shoulders earlier was mostly to bother Dick, whose attempts at protectiveness had just made the situation more awkward. But when Jason does it again later, unthinkingly draping himself around Tim’s shoulder, Tim can’t help going stiff as a board.

Jason pulls away immediately, as if he’s been burned. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s…fine.”

“Stop lying, obviously you’re not,” Jason answers, shifting to the other edge of the couch to put at least three feet between them. “You don’t have to force yourself to do this. I can get through it without you.”

Tim sets aside his tablet. “Because that worked out so well the first time you tried it.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter. I’m more than capable of figuring out how to get through this without using your skin as a security blanket.” He pauses. “That came out so much disturbing than I intended.”

“How was it ever not going to sound disturbing?” Tim wonders, and then sighs. “Look, I don’t mind. The longer you stay in a healthy headspace, the more time we have to find a cure.”

“Yeah, but if you’re so friggen uncomfortable with it—”

“I’m not!”

“Bullshit.”

“No, really, it’s fine. It’s my choice.”

“Yeah, say that without flinching and maybe I’ll believe you,” Jason mutters, shoulders slumping. “If you’re going to freeze up every time I go near your personal bubble, screw it. Like I don’t feel like enough of a creep…”

Tim can see how much he hates this, the fact that he’s making Tim uncomfortable—the fact that making Tim uncomfortable upsets him at all. He’s never cared before; it’s always been a kind of unofficial hobby.

But now that his brain and hormones are becoming compromised, it’s more important to him than ever not to cross boundaries. Or at least what he perceives as boundaries.

Tim bows his head.

He’s been managing his feelings about all this by remaining clinical, dividing him from the particulars of the situation the way he’s always done. It’s the sort of thing that works on hard cases, the kind involving little kids or serial murders. He forgot that it doesn’t work so well when dealing with people.

Communication, he remembers Steph chiding him during one argument. Honesty.

Nodding to himself, Tim forces himself to appear relaxed.

“It’s not like that. I just—I’ve never been really good at all the…” He waves his hand, searching for the words, “…physical intimacy stuff.”

Jason blinks, not having expected that. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Tim shifts. “I know it’s hard to tell when I’m next to Dick or Steph or someone who…”

“Who has personal space issues?”

“Yeah. But with them I’ve gotten used to it. But with you, you’ve never exactly…”

“Put hands on you except to lay you out flat on the floor?” Jason suggests, and then turns red. “I mean beating the crap out of you! Not the other thing that…! Fuck, he wasn’t kidding about the innuendo thing, was he?”

“Oh, I don’t know. If not for everything going on, I’m pretty sure you’d still be making jokes to make everyone uncomfortable,” Tim muses, his own ears warm at the accidental image Jason’s words provided.

Jason tilts his head to one side, and then nods. “Fair.”

They smirk at each other for a moment. Then something thoughtful passes across Jason’s face.

“What?”

“When you say physical intimacy,” Jason starts slowly, “d’you mean just occupying someone else’s personal space, or…?”

He trails off, and it takes a few seconds before Tim interprets the meaning. His cheeks may actually be on fire right now. “Uh…”

“You’re kidding.”

“Well, the first one’s always kind of an issue,” Tim mumbles, looking away, “so I don’t really—like I said, I’m not used to anyone wanting to get close to me, let alone actually trying it. Which always made everything kind of awkward.”

“And the second thing?”

“…that made it awkward, too.”

“So, you haven’t—? Like, not even with Blondie?”

There’s incredulity there, but no judgment, which is somewhat of a relief; he’s too used to other guys looking like he should have his man card revoked for not pouncing on a gorgeous girl like Steph.

As if anyone would ever get away with pouncing without getting a brick to the face.

But Jason seems genuinely curious, which makes Tim want to try to answer.

“No?” Tim winces at the uncertainty in the word and glances up to make sure there’s still no judgment on Jason’s face. “Not because—not because I didn’t—or she wasn’t—we fooled around, but never—she’d already done the whole unwanted pregnancy thing. We wanted to be careful and wait until we were both sure we wanted to. And then she died, then came back because she wasn’t really dead, and we broke up. But it was a long time ago, and then we never got another opportunity because—well, there was Bruce dying and not dying, and other people dying, and then losing Robin, and just…” He lets his words trail as he realizes he’s been babbling. “Sorry. Babbling.”

Jason makes a dismissive gesture. “Nah, it’s cute.”

There’s a moment where they both process his words, and then Jason’s rubbing at his neck and Tim’s coughing because he thinks he might have choked on his tongue.

“I’m going to…” Jason stands, starts rummaging through his pockets, and then jerks his head toward the balcony, “Smoke break.”

“Right,” Tim answers, carefully neutral.

Tim doesn’t complain about the smoking, even though he hates it. Jason’s under enough stress right now, if the nicotine helps calm him even a little a bit, Tim can put up with it for the short-term.

Not like he’s going to be around once we fix all this.

He lets Jason make his escape and for the first time since the conversation began, takes a full breath.

It’s just Eros’ blood. He doesn’t actually think that.

The truth doesn’t make his heart stop fluttering.

“Fuck,” he mutters, letting his face fall into his hand; he rubs at his face in frustration.

“Wallowing in your failure as usual, Drake?”

He jumps and then shoots a glare across the room at the pint-sized bane of his existence.

“Why aren’t you out terrorizing the streets of Gotham?”

“I’m here to ensure the present status quo endures and neither you nor Todd end up compromised,” Damian retorts. Then Tim blinks, the kid smirks at him. “I’m babysitting you two morons.”

“Well my life just hit another low…”

“I have also been doing research of my own to pass the time, since my talents are being ignored in favor of mundane surveillance tasks,” the boy continues. “I was intrigued at Todd’s apparent symptoms of xenoglossia and decided to peruse the security footage to see what might have precipitated it.”

“…And?”

“It wasn’t until you arrived that it started. He called you philtatos. It means ‘most beloved’.”

Tim tries not to choke. “How do you know that?”

“Anyone who has read the Iliad in the original Greek could tell you that,” Damian drawls.

“Well, excuse me, I had an education meant for this millennium.” Tim tries not to croak, running his hands through his hair in frustrations. The strands are stringy today and he tries to remember when he washed it last was; probably before Jason was brought to the manor.

“Odd that he’d call you that, though,” Damian continues. “He has that habit of assigning the most absurd monikers to anyone within a ten-foot radius. It’s not exactly the type of thing he would say. And to you of all people.”

Tim frowns, ignoring the insult. “You think it’s a symptom of the infection?”

“Perhaps. The term itself, or the tongue in question. In case you were curious, which I doubt since unless it involves a computer your interest becomes depressingly cursory, the language Todd was mumbling in while drooling on your shoulder was Archaia Makedonike.”

“English, brat.”

“Ancient Macedonian, you classless twit. The language itself was prevalent in the Hellenistic period before giving way to its superior successor, Koine, when it was brought by the military forces of Alexander the Great.”

“Conqueror of the known world at the time—why am I not surprised you’re so well-versed.”

“Tt. Of course I am. As a child, Mother brought me on a journey to follow in his footsteps along what was once his Empire.”

You’re still a child, Tim doesn’t say, because he just doesn’t have the energy for the inevitable resulting fight. “Sounds like quality family bonding time.”

“It was meant to show me all that could be achieved in a short lifetime,” Damian sniffs. “And what could be lost just as easily.”

“Because he died young?”

“Not only that, but because of his rather questionable decisions. Like pouring a considerable amount of his treasury into a funeral monument for one of his generals. He was so besotted with the man he died less than a year later. It’s disgraceful.”

“Right, because caring about someone is a bad thing.”

“It is possible to care without being ruled by one’s emotions.”

“Yeah, you’re such an excellent example of that,” Tim deadpans. At Damian’s glare, he makes a defensive gesture with his hand. “What do you want me to say? People do weird stuff for the people they care about.”

Damian narrows his eyes. “Evidently.”

He continues to watch Tim in a way he’s not entirely sure he likes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“It sounds like you’ve got something to say.”

Jason chooses that moment to return, although he halts in the door when he notices the way Tim and Damian are glaring at one another. “Am I walking in on something here?”

“I was simply demonstrating Drake’s continued ignorance in several arenas,” Damian replies, and pushes past Jason. “I’ve wasted enough of my day pandering to your nonsense. Shout if you need help.” His gaze lingers on Jason with disgust. “Or possibly a firehose.”

“Was that demon-speak for ‘make good choices’?” Tim calls after him and noticing Jason’s bemused expression offers a half shrug. “He will do great things.”

“See, I knew all that getting on his case was just your way of showing you like him,” Jason teases and settles back on the couch. Much closer to Tim this time, body angled toward him; he can smell leather and the acrid smell of cigarettes.

He forces a grin, “Tell no one.”

“Lips are sealed,” Jason replies, abruptly stretching out and tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

The gesture would normally make Tim want to melt, to bend closer to Jason as well; at first it does, but the reason for it remains starkly in his mind, and instead his skin crawls.

The study suddenly seems too small, too close, magnified by Jason’s focus on him.

Need a distraction.

“There’s a lot of CCTV footage to go through,” he says, clearing his throat and standing quickly. He ambles over to the desk to grab Bruce’s laptop, holding up to Jason. “Feel like going through half?”

“Not particularly, but only because that’s the most boring job ever.”

“And reading scholarly articles dissecting the exact syntax of some ancient play isn’t?”

“Don’t act like if it was Klingon or something you wouldn’t have a field day.”

But Jason accepts the computer, putting his books and notes to one side. Tim exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

They sit in silence again for a while, one that’s somehow more tense than earlier. Tim’s stomach keeps leaping, waiting for the next time Jason needs to reach out to him, simultaneously craving and dreading it.

So it’s no surprise that he physically jolts when Jason suddenly announces, “I think I’ve got something.”

“What?” he asks quickly, hoping his reaction wasn’t that noticeable. He moves to peek over Jason’s shoulder, considering a timestamped video of an Upper East Side apartment. There’s a crowd gathered outside as paramedics load two covered stretchers into an ambulance.

“Right there.” Jason points at a grainy image in the upper left corner, almost obscured by the lighting. “See this woman?”

Tim studies the image of the woman in a leather jacket and skin-tight pants. “Yeah?”

“That’s Carrie Cutter.”

“Carrie…” Tim consults his mental rolodex. “Carrie Cutter as in Cupid?”

“Yep.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. I’m pretty familiar with anyone Roy might have had beef with down in his corner of the world. You know, just in case.”

Which is a smart thing to do, really, considering old enemies always have a tendency to return when they’re least expected.

And just…great. Because Carrie Cutter, along with being crazy to the point of earning honorary Arkham status, also happens to be a genetically enhanced special-ops soldier that knows how not to be found. If she’s got her hands on divine weapons somehow, it’s going to make apprehending her much more of a challenge.

Especially those weapons. If any of us get tagged with those, we’re done. I’ve been around when the Family gets turned against each other, and it’s never pretty.

The memory of Joker’s macabre dinner party still makes him gag reflexively.

Tim leans forward, balancing his weight on the desk with his palms, and studies the image again. “Could be a coincidence.”

“Has anything about all this felt coincidental to you?”

“Touché.” Tim shakes his head. “Damn. So, Cupid stole Cupid’s bow and arrows?”

What even is my life anymore?

“And the MO makes sense now, if you think about it,” Jason points out; he absently starts to rub the back of Tim’s hand with his thumb. Tim swallows and fights the conflicting urge to jerk his hand away or lean further into Jason’s space. “She has that whole crazed ‘if-I-can’t-be-happy-no-one-can’ thing going on. If she’s got Eros’ diviners, she could accomplish whatever she wants pretty easily.”

“Does she still have that obsession with Green Arrow?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Maybe we should let Oliver know she’s heading his way.”

“Or not.”

“Jason!”

“No, seriously, hear me out, this isn’t me hating on Queen.”

“Sure…”

“Look at the pattern of robberies and deaths—if she’s headed out west, she’s taking the long way and at a slow stroll. There are tons of direct flights from Amsterdam to Star City. She could be there in like a day if that’s her goal, but she’s moving so slowly—based on the places she’s hit, and how long it takes her to get there, I’d say she’s driving.” He traces a line from Europe to the East Coast. “And possibly taking a boat. Not the Carnival way, either. I know people like to go incognito sometimes, but even that’s Bruce levels of paranoid.”

“And he once rode a goat truck across the border of Qurac…”

“Also, there are more direct routes from here to the West Coast.”

“So why come to Gotham at all,” Tim says, and steeples his fingers. “Either she’s taking her time for a reason, or she was never heading for Star City.”

“Then what does she want?”

“And how has she dropped so completely off the radar since she got here?”

Jason shrugs and leans back, stretching his arms and yawning; his arm brushes against Tim’s shoulder on its way down.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Tim asks quickly, wishing his voice didn’t sound like it was squeaking.

“Like sleep or power naps? Because I’ve had a lot of those.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “If you don’t get some rest we’ll have more to worry about than accidental innuendos. You should get some sleep.”

“The irony of you telling anyone that…”

“I’ve never had to fight off an Olympian bloodborne disease.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly comfortable falling asleep right now. I keep seeing weird shit.”

“Like what?”

“I…can’t even remember. The whole thing just gives me a bad feeling.”

“You want to stay in my room?” This time it’s Jason who jumps and shoots Tim a panicked look. “Not like that! I just figured; it’s got all my stuff there. People sometimes take comfort in objects, and I just figured maybe being surrounded by my stuff would help. And I somehow don’t see you as the teddy bear type.”

Jason barks out a surprised laugh. “Hey, leave Paddington out of this!”

“You didn’t actually have a stuffed toy named Paddington!”

“Not just a stuffed toy, I’ll have you know, it was actually a Paddington Bear,” Jason retorts. “My mother used to read the stories to me, and she found him in a second-hand shop the Christmas before she…” Jason trails off, the levity in his face smoothing into careful blankness. “Anyway. I pretended like I was too old for stuff like that, but I was just happy she was lucid enough to even do Christmas that year.”

Tim can’t help the way his eyes soften at the story. He’s never heard Jason say anything about his life before Bruce, at least nothing personal.

Jason seems to notice the scrutiny, because he looks away. “Anyway. Not important. But we can try that whole…staying in your room thing. It would be nice to catch some Zs.”

They pack up their things and head down the hall to Tim’s room; all the while, Tim is trying to figure out what possessed him to suggest this. It’s true, comfort objects are a thing, but he could just as easily have brought a whole bunch of his stuff to Jason’s room for the same effect.

Except Jason doesn’t go near his room unless he’s unconscious and Bruce puts him there to recover.

He flicks on the light as Jason brushes past. “I haven’t been here in a while, so Alfred’s probably changed the sheets and everything. Good to go if you want to sleep.”

“And, uh…you’ll stay, right?”

“Yeah,” Tim replies softly. “At least until you fall asleep, then I have to take care of a few things. Alfred will probably nag me to eat and shower and changes clothes or something.”

And I need to make a trip home to have a conversation with my unwanted houseguest.

“Oh, the horror,” Jason says neutrally, though he starts rubbing at the back of his neck again, irritating the already red skin there.

Tim reaches over automatically and moves his hand away. A week ago, doing that would have probably gotten him punched; now Jason simply lets him, his body unconsciously leaning toward him.

“Listen, if you wake up and I’m not in here, don’t freak out. I’m probably in the kitchen being force-fed grits or something. And if I’m not, just call me and I’ll find you. We can even FaceTime while you wait.”

“Whatever,” Jason says, trying to sound nonchalant. He plops himself down on Tim’s bed, then frowns down at the bedsheet. “Holy shit this is soft.”

“It should be, it’s got a thread count of a thousand.”

“Spoiled ass rich boy,” Jason mutters, lying back on the bed. A surprised and pleased expression appears on his face. “Okay you know what? Forget obsessing over you, I want your bedroom set.”

This time it’s Tim who gives a surprised laugh.

⁂

“I will not be humiliated before my army.”

The lord marshal’s face resembles a misshapen beat, fury twisting his features; the skin beneath his nose is raw from the scented oils he’s been using to block the acrid scent of the funeral pyres. Jason has mostly become familiar with the odor by now—smoke and burning flesh and blood.

“What humiliation is there in appeasing the gods?” he counters and is surprised his voice remains so calm and measured; Tim is a reassuring presence at his back.

“Returning Chryses’ daughter is tantamount to the theft of my rightly taken trophy,” the king of men snarls. “Find me a replacement and I may consider it, but I will not be the only man among us without a prize.”

The quiet among the men is pointed, saturated with disagreement; even the obstinate man’s brother does not stand with him on the dais where kings and their liegemen have gathered. But Jason knows no one will step forward to say anything.

Only me, as usual.

“Son of Atreus, you know as well as anyone that we take our prizes from lawful combat. There’s ample opportunity to replace the girl, or even her worth in gold, three and four times over. All of us who stand here are kings and the vassals of kings, and we don’t owe you compensation when it was you who angered the gods in the first place.”

By taking the girl whose life I was trying to save just to screw me over, I would add.

A few of the men nod at his words; in the background, the moaning cries of the dying fill the air, a cacophony that has haunted the shore for ten days since the plague hit.

“Show your men that you’re as humble in nature as you are proficient in battle, and make amends.” He doubts the pig will notice the insult there. “End this plague before more die.”

Fury contracts the other man’s pupils to fine dots. “You will learn your place, boy. Just because divine blood runs through your veins and your mother raised you to believe you are special does not mean you might speak to me as an equal.” Jason bristles but is immediately cut off again. “Silence! I have no interest in whatever clever words your puppet master would have you speak.”

The blunt insult instead of flowery political doublespeak is surprising enough to still the words on his lips. He senses when Tim stiffens; they both know that last was directed at him.

“If I hear further suggestions that I give up my property without receiving something of like value in exchange, then I will sacrifice the man who suggests it, along with Chryses’ bitch daughter to appease the gods. Perhaps you might volunteer, Peliades,” the lord marshal concludes.

“I’m not afraid of speaking up when it’s needed,” Jason growls, “and we all know you can’t afford to sacrifice me.”

“Listen to the arrogance! It is the same you have displayed from the moment you arrived here. I believe it to be high time you face consequence for your heedless words.”

“Consequence,” Jason echoes, calm; Tim shifts closer, knowing that his outward composure is a sign of danger. The men around them shift as well, some of them whispering; more than one man’s fingers twitch toward their sword. “It’s you who should think of consequence.”

“Careful,” Tim cautions in his ear, breath hot across his neck as he comes to step beside him. He has to keep from rubbing at the area with his thumb.

“Is that a threat?” the king of men demands.

“An observation. How much longer do you think these men will last, without me to lead them into battle? How many times have I been the one who turned the tides of defeat to victory, while you remained in the back ranks?”

Now the whispering is louder, angrier; voices of dissent and outrage.

“I am High King!” the older lord roars. “Every man here knelt before me when we came to these shores or swore oaths to the gods to follow my command. Even your beloved Menoitiades whom you shield as if he is your wife.” Tim clenches his fists but carefully doesn’t meet Jason’s eyes; acknowledgement of one another now will only prove the argument. “You are the only one that always considered yourself above such things.”

Jason is furious. Green like the cold sea edges around his vision, and it would be so easy to leap across the three-foot gap and snap the bastard’s neck. He could do it before anyone else might react, and he’s fast enough to get away before anyone retaliates.

But Tim isn’t.

Tim who remains tense, shoulders set and whose fingers make a minute twitching motion against his side, silently beseeching Jason to keep his calm.

It doesn’t work.

“I have nothing to prove to you, or any who swore oaths to you,” Jason snarls through gritted teeth. “The horse-tamers have never threatened my home, have never stolen our stock or torched our fields. I chose to be here, to sail to this wretched city and help your half-wit brother regain a woman who likely doesn’t wish to be reclaimed.”

More murmuring; it’s a sentiment no one has wanted to voice.

“Have a care with your words, boy; not all gods who listen are favorable to you.”

“And what would you know of the gods? I’m closer to their ilk than you ever will be, without the scandal that troubles your bloodline. If anyone should have these men’s fealty, it’s not you. Perhaps you should be the one who bends knee in appeasement.”

The crowd is outright clamoring now, supporters and enemies alike shouting over one another. The older man’s eyes widen in triumph. “You think yourself better than me? Or than the men I command?”

“No, they are my equals. You’re the dog-faced son of a bitch that isn’t fit to clean the boots of the men you profess to lead into battle.”

Exclamations of disbelief.

“That’s enough!” Tim hisses, jabbing him with an elbow.

“Yes, listen to your keeper, Peliades. He seeks to save you from being named a traitor to this army, and suffering punishment for it. Though I think we are beyond the point of playing this off as country bumpkin ignorance to custom. Your war prizes are forfeit; I will take them under tutorship until you come to your senses and offer submission to me.”

Jason’s muscles pull taut in incandescent anger. “You have no right to do that!”

“I have every right, especially since you are so keen to take mine. In fact, I demand the first woman you took as spoil at Ilion—fetch me Briseis’ daughter. She will replace the woman the gods wish me to return.”

“If you touch her, you forgo your victory in this war. I will take my ships and return to my land.”

“Flee, then, if your heart urges you! I have no fear of you—of all the kings the son of Kronos nurtures, you are the one I hate the most. Go with your ships, run with your tail between your legs. But I will have the woman before you go.”

Jason’s hand goes to his sword, but Tim’s hand is on his then.

“Leave it,” he whispers, frantic. “There are greater punishments than death. Let’s regroup and find a solution to this away from prying eyes.”

Jason knows he’s right. The men around them are filled with shock and disapproval, but none of the cowards will support him if he strikes down the king of men.

And so instead of slicing the ignorant prick’s kneecaps out from under him, Jason simply spits at his feet.

“You’re a coward with the face of a dog but the heart of a deer. You’ve never had the courage to arm for battle along with the men you boast to lead because you fear death. You’re faithless, taking the property of those who speak contrary to you, preferring to rule over a kingdom of nobodies. Your words today doom you and your men to disgraceful ends.” He glares at all the men gathered there simply watching. “I won’t fight alongside this army any longer, and without me, you’ll all fall, ground beneath the feet of the man-killing prince. The day will come when you send your toadies to me to beg, and you’ll kneel before me crying for forgiveness, but I’ll give you nothing but laughter as you bleed in the dust before me. You will all die in ignominy for what the son of Atreus does today.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and stalks away.

Tim follows, as do the rest of the men sworn to him.

“I’ll kill him,” Jason fumes under his breath when they are far enough away not to be heard. “I would have if you hadn’t stopped me.”

“I know. And then you would have been struck down, which I couldn’t allow,” Tim soothes. “Be patient. I’ll think of a plan, you know I always do.”

“And in the meantime, that sack of pig shit will take Hippodamea and vent his frustrations toward me on her,” Jason growls.

“If he rapes her, he violates the life of one who is under your gods given protection. His men and the gods will turn on him if he does. After that display, he’s not going to court anymore of their disapproval. She will be safe until you bend knee to him.”

“Which won’t happen.”

“There are more important things than your pride,” Tim reminds him, a bit of reprimand in his tone. “Don’t lower yourself to his level, to the level of men, when you are as a god.”

Jason blinks, and turns to Tim. “That’s it.”

“What?”

“I’ll go to my mother.”

Tim’s face pales. “No!”

“Why not? And it better not be because you think she hates you.”

“She does hate me, but that’s besides the point. I just…have a bad feeling. The silver-footed are like the sea—unmerciful and uncaring who they harm in their storm. That path leads to death, I think.”

“Yes. His.”

Tim is silent and continues to look worried.

“I don’t need your permission to do this,” Jason tells him, a little sour that he doesn’t have his support on this matter.

Something like hurt flickers across his face, but then Tim’s expression goes carefully blank. “I would never presume to tell you what to do.”

“That’s not what everyone on this gods forsaken beach thinks!”

“Since when have you ever cared what people think?”

“You can’t stop me doing this,” Jason snaps.

Tim looks sad now. “I know.”

He turns to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to prepare Hippodamea for what’s to come. Somehow I doubt you will be able to feign sympathy long enough to shoulder that burden,” he replies coldly, and stalks away.

Jason watches him go, his righteous anger continuing to simmer, until it occurs to him that Tim is actually quite angry with him. Some of the bite goes out of his rage, and worry creeps through his body.

“No, wait,” he starts, hurrying after him. “Don’t go—”

“—Tim!”

Jason sits upright in bed, arm outstretched as if to make a grab for a hand or arm, only to grasp air.

A maelstrom of different emotions cloud his mind, blocking his awareness of the room around him for several long seconds while he fights for his bearings. Anger and hurt and guilt and fear, all tied up with longing, playing on repeat in his head.

He has the strangest compulsion to make amends for something and he doesn’t remember what.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, pulling his hand back close to his body, elbow to chest, hand pressing against his shoulder. The skin radiates heat through the cotton of his t-shirt, warmer than his normal body temperature; probably from the wound.

He is alone, surrounded by pillows and a comforter that should smell like Tim but don’t (because Alfred washed them, so they’re new), in a room that feels somehow too big (which it shouldn’t, it’s the same size as the other rooms, as his room that he never goes into if he can help it. It’s bigger than the holding cell was).

A glance at the digital clock reads two in the morning. Prime patrol time, and more importantly, four hours since he put his head down. He’s pretty sure that’s the most sleep he’s had in a week, even if it was cut short by another of those maddening dream sequences that vanish from his memory in direct relation to how awake he becomes.

Where’s Tim?

He swings his feet over the edge of the bed, ready to go looking for him in the house, before remembering what he said before he fell asleep.

Don’t freak out.

Right. No problem. Tim’s just off somewhere having a human moment, which is just as well. He probably needs a break from Jason. Jason knows he needs a break from Tim—from everyone really. He can’t remember the last time he was in someone’s constant presence.

This is a good thing, he tells himself as he glances around the room, absently picking at the dry skin on the side of his thumb. He didn’t really look around when he first walked in. His brain was still trying to process the concept of Tim being the one to suggest his room as being the best place for Jason to relax.

And the surprise that he was actually right.

Tim is everywhere in these walls—video game posters and obscure pop culture refences—and furniture. There are candid photographs of him and his friends—Jason scowls at one of him and the Super Clone standing way too close together—and half-finished projects of wire and circuit. Clothes and books are strewn across the floor and—

“Christ, kid, you’re a goddamned slob.”

He never really took note of that quirk of Tim’s before, probably because they never really hung out. His knowledge of the kid’s lifestyle was limited to his own notions of what spoiled rich boys were like, and the general observation that his replacement ran on coffee and energy drinks.

His thumb is bleeding now from his continued picking, and he wipes it angrily on his pants, standing up. He needs a distraction. Otherwise, he’s going to go looking for Tim, or blow up his phone with calls until he picks up. He needs to prove to himself that he still has some control—test how long he can manage on his own, or at least test how long it takes between Tim leaving him alone and the anxious thoughts to set in.

He’s coming back. He wanted me to be here, or he wouldn’t have suggested it.

Jason just has to be patient.

Which…yeah, that was an issue even before this fixation crap.

“Screw this, I’m not just sitting here,” he grumbles, and starts wandering around the room, sorting clothes and tools and whatever other detritus has gathered on the floor. Cleaning is both mindless and immersive, something to do with his hands instead of scratch bloody welts into his skin.

And yet, he still drops everything when his phone vibrates.

“Tim?” he asks in the same breath that he unlocks the phone.

“Sorry.” Barbara actually sounds apologetic. “Just me.”

Disappointment hits him like a punch to the face. “No, yeah, it’s fine.”

“How are you holding up?”

Of course she knows what’s going on, too.

“Spectacular,” he says dryly, running a hand through his hair. “Can we maybe can the sympathy? I’m getting enough of that over here as it is. And you never call just to check in.”

There’s a beat, and then Barbara speaks again, still in her own voice, but more businesslike. “I may have found something.”

He likes that about her. She doesn’t get upset when called out on something, nor does she spend time on bullshit.

How the hell she dated Dick so long will forever be a mystery.

“What?” he asks, studying a strip of picture booth photos of Steph and Tim; the typical assortment of funny faces, pressed close together. Jason frowns, tugging absently at his hair.

“I’m not sure it’s anything, yet,” Barbara cautions, “but it’s almost certainly related to your situation.”

“And how’s that?”

“Because it involves Carrie Cutter.”

Jason straightens up. “What?”

“As soon as you and Tim established that Cupid was involved—both Cupids, I guess—I set up a search algorithm to track her whereabouts for the past month or so.” Of course she’s been monitoring everything from her little command center; this goddamn family and their surveillance… “It’s a bit too neat, someone with her modus operandi just bumping into the real Cupid.”

“And we don’t do coincidence.”

“Exactly.”

“So, she had to be sent there by someone or something. Specifically, to steal from Eros.”

“Yeah. Still working on who, though,” Barbara agrees. “That’s not the most interesting part, though.”

Jason’s scalp is beginning to burn from the distracted tugging, but he doesn’t stop. The pain is punishing, keeps him focussed on Barbara’s voice, and not the urge to hang up on her to call Tim. “Lay it on me.”

“I’ve got newspaper reports from the village of Delphi in Greece with a woman of her description killed a blind twelve-year-old two weeks ago. Sliced her throat with one of her arrowheads and walked away, took out anyone that tried to stop her.”

“Fuck.” Jason almost bites his tongue.

Carrie Cutter’s always been a murderer, but from what he knows of her from Roy, she never hurt a kid. His fingers itch with the need to punch something; he yanks his fingers out of his hair, several strands coming away with it, and slams his fist down on Tim’s desk. It creaks at the force.

“You okay?”

“Better than she’s going to be,” he replies tightly. “What else?”

“You heard me say Delphi, right?”

There’s a pause, like she’s letting him process, which he’s glad for; he did miss that the first time. Jason thinks the news over again, remembering bits and pieces memorized from National Geographic when he was a kid.

“Delphi,” he repeats. “Like the Oracle of Delphi Delphi?”

“Exactly.”

His back goes even more rigid. “Isn’t it common in a lot of myths that people who can see the future tend to be blind?”

“Good memory.”

“So we’re thinking the kid was a seer.”

“I’m thinking the kid was the actual Oracle of Delphi.”

Jason whistles. “But there hasn’t been one of those in hundreds of years, right?”

“Not since Theodosius I closed the temple when the Pythia gave him some bad news. Five years later, he was dead, and the Visigoths had captured Rome, and after that it wasn’t safe to be an oracle. But secret societies have been started over less.”

“Still, how would someone like Carrie Cutter know or even be interested in looking up some secret oracle? Even for Queen, she’s small-time.”

“Still working on that part.”

“And if she did talk to the oracle beforehand, what did the kid tell her that made her kill her?”

“Unfortunately, there was no tech anywhere around to pick up on that. Not even tourists taking cellphone videos.”

“Fuck.”

“But lucky for us, we have someone that can sort of see ghosts.”

Jason’s eyes widen. “Duke.”

“Exactly,” Barbara says, and sounds smug, like she’s just managed a checkmate against fate or circumstance or something. “As soon as he’s done with Dick, I’m sending him on quick trip to Greece. He’ll get a kick out of the plane, I think.”

Jason winces.

It won’t be easy for the newest member of the family to watch a kid being murdered, all for Jason. Worse is the fact he’s a hundred percent sure Duke’s seen worse.

Instead of voicing that thought, however, he says, “Keep me updated.”

“Will do.”

There’s a heavy silence.

“Do you want me to stay on the line?” Barbara asks after a moment. “Until Tim gets back.”

Jason’s first instinct is a snappish retort, a denial that he needs her pity.

But his hand has found its way back into his hair, tearing at the strands as he anxiously waits for the younger man to return and for all he knows, it could be anywhere from ten minutes to ten hours before he sees him again.

He shivers at the thought.

That…would be bad.

And so he clears his throat and tells Barbara in a gruff voice, “Yeah. Okay."

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

[theswiftarmy]

#19 - 6000 Headphones, 12 Mobile Phones, SOO Many Shoes, And An Earworm Inside The Biebs’ Head

What better way to fight a war than with love?  And what better way to rule the world than with love?  Because how do you fight back against love?  How do you?  What’s that lawn sign?  Love trumps hate—Or, what did Taylor say?  Hater’s gonna hate (hate x3), is my math right on that?  How many times does Taylor say the word hate in Shake It Off?  Or, if you live in the south, Gators gonna gait….  Get it?  Because there are gators always walking around in the south and the word gait is another word for how a person walks, although, I don’t know if it can be applied to an alligator walking around because I’m pretty sure they crawl instead of walk.  Although, perhaps one might describe alligators as slithering around like snakes, then again, if you ask a snake, they’ll be like… WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?  Alligators don’t slither, don’t even try to steal my mode of mobility, they saunter, and maybe alligators do saunter about.  But, let’s just pretend alligators gait, because it rhymes with haters gonna hate.  There’s a lot of pretending going on in this story.  Just remember that, play pretend and you’ll follow along just fine.

           Stay with me here for a quick second and a hot minute before I get back to the story—suppose that this Elvis sound were real, obviously it’s not because it’s just a story and not real, remember we’re just playing pretend, unless… it IS real and I’m coincidentally writing fiction about something that DOES happens to be real, I just don’t happen to know that it is real, I suppose there’s always that highly unlikely scenario—but just for a moment, let your imagination run wild and really think about it.  Back in the day when Rock and Roll first came into existence it changed the world, or so I’ve been told, it changed everyone who encountered it, again, not from personal experience, just what I’ve been told, the groove made you move, brought people together in a new and different way.  It’s hard to know what that experience was like if you didn’t live through it, especially since it’s all part of our society and history nowadays.  But, there was a time before it existed when no one even knew something like it could exist, and then ears at the time were infected with infectious melodies that they couldn’t get enough of, they hungered for more of this new and incredible musical genre, of course it wouldn’t be the last time a new genre was created and ears hungered for more.

But an interesting side effect of it all was that it created cultural icons, as the new genres continue to do.  It created idols, you know, like those with the first name of Billy, it created nice days for white weddings, and to start again.  And of course, these days there’s a new Billie in idol town, but I’ll get to why I bring her up later on.

Early rock stars and pop icons became immortalized, living on long after death, they’re gods and goddesses, a new era of decorated war heros or royals, as Lorde so eloquently put it, the weapon of choice a microphone or a guitar, or maybe both, or sometimes a keyboard, or a plethora of other instruments, insert instrument of choice here, maybe even a ukulele!  Mostly, though, early on the rock and roll army was a guitarmy.

These rock gods and goddesses all image and no human being, especially true of those who are no longer with us, the human being may be gone, but the image lives on, and we still look up to those who can sing and dance and gel their hair back in slick new ways.  Fantastic fashion abound, and the preferred weapons around, like I said, musical instruments, maybe some guitars, and guitar solos the ammunition.  Some would argue, not me, but some would say that’s what has gone wrong in our modern society, we mourn the loss of great guitar solos from these songs at the top of the charts.  

Could one correlate a graph with a rise in violence directly inversely correlated with solos in rock music?  Maybe.  But anyone can correlate anything if you tried hard enough, which is the point here, like fictionally connecting modern day Billy Porter in Taylor Swift’s music video for You Need To Calm Down, to back in the day Bill Porter, the sound engineer with the golden ear that recorded with Elvis in The Sixties.  But it does seem as though the guitar solo has been quietly replaced, those wailing solos instead becoming a bank of samples on which most music is now based.  Samples upon samples spliced in and layered over top of loops and mashed together with other samples and loops, but where did the samples originate?  So many musicians use samples in music without knowing anything about their origin.  It’s the wild west of sampling.  Anything that sounds good can be put in a beat or a hook.  And of course top it off with “The Drop”.  Ah yes, The Drop—the silence before a storm of melody, and perhaps that silence is what does it, what makes you anticipate the hook, what makes you addicted to the noise.  It sucks you in, and holds your ears hostage, note after note after note.  Making it so hard to turn the song off, we simply can’t get enough of the stuff.

           Suppose the sound were real though, go all in with suspension of disbelief, and samples upon samples of it were layered into songs you listen to, some of your favorite songs of all time, the ones you can’t get enough of and press repeat again, and again, exposing your ears over and over to the sound… Changing your brainwaves and playing with your mind and emotions… each new track artists put out an even more potent version to pull fans in, the only choice the fans have is to follow, unable to break away from the influence of our favorite icons and idols as we hang on their every word.  I mean, is it so absurd?  We continue to break streaming records, sell out stadiums, and fans are willing to fight for the right for their favorite artist to part ways with a record label, if you were an artist or a band, and in the market for fans, wouldn’t you sign up for it too?  What’s the harm in a little bit of sugar and spice to make everything already nice… Well, even more so, maybe twice or thrice that spice?  

And is it really all that hard to believe?  How many times have you pushed the back button on a song and listened to it again, a third time, a fifth time in a row?  How many times have you done something you wouldn’t normally have done because of a song?  How many times have you turned yourself around because a song changed your mood or mind, or your heart, asked someone to dance, or texted someone you probably wouldn’t have texted because of a tune you heard playing out on the town, or while shopping, or a song playing in a movie or TV show—how many times was just hearing the slightest snippet of a certain song taken as a sign and changed the course of your entire life?  I’m willing to bet more than a few of you out there just raised your hand.

Oak Felder finished making another point, “…but all that is lost to history and now pop stars are using it to control their fans.”

“Lure them in with love.”  Ariana said smiling.  “I mean, it works!”

“This is like, really blowing my mind right now.”  Scooter said.  “This just keeps getting even crazier!  It’s like, be careful what music you listen to because you have no idea what might happen to your mind…”

Scott reminded Scooter.  “And especially in Justin’s case, yeah—because his mind could be wiped if he hears the wrong song while he’s earwormed.”

Oak looked over at Pop, “Well, hold on to your seat, Scooter, because I found something else noteworthy!  We took Ariana’s suggestion to Shazam the sound, and—though I didn’t exactly do that—while we were analyzing it last night I did extract the sonic footprint of it, and Pop here was able to cross reference the footprint against the Shazam database in its entirety.”

“Yeah?”  Scooter responded, bracing for something extremely mind numbing.

“It seems as though Scott’s mystery Porter Pyramid noise, AKA ‘The Elvis Egg’ sound, may be in a lot more music than we thought.  It seems to show up across the Shazam library as small bits and pieces, or as these small pieces of music are more commonly referred to as, samples.”

“Wait, you mean sampling?”  Justin said, sitting again beside Ariana Grande but this time in a small but fun looking and colorfully designed IKEA-esk chair right beside the oversized beanbag chair, since Ariana had already called perpetual fivesies on the bean chair Justin had to find a new seat from the last time the group was in the studio.  Fivesies, for those not in the loop mean you have a claim to your seat after getting up, but that claim lasts for no more and no less than five minutes.  Although some people don’t always adhere to the rule, I won’t name names, but you know who you are.  Was that ten years ago?  Yes.  Am I still bitter?  That was my seat and you know it—Whatever, I’m allowed to be upset, how could anyone reading this possibly know what it’s like to have something that used to be yours suddenly in the possession of someone else.  It was mine, and then all of a sudden someone else is sitting on it, and wouldn’t let me have what was rightfully mine—even after I called fivesies!  It’s frustrating when someone takes something that was yours.  I mean, Taylor gets it, she called Fivesies on her back catalog of recordings and someone else, I won’t name names, totally took it from her.  Sorry, I digress, I’ll get back to the story—I’m in one of those writer’s moods, if you couldn’t tell.

Oak responded very matter-of-factly.  “That’s right Justin, sampling.  You know it as beats, grooves, drum breaks, horn sounds, and guitar riffs, just to name a few examples.  Most listeners have no idea that the original source of the sounds isn’t a direct recording, but a mashed up copy of a copy of a copy, sometimes many times over.”

“So, does that mean there are bad samples in music?” Ariana said swooping in and stealing the response directed at Justin—maybe you should have called fivesies on the convo, Justin.

Scooter scooted into the conversation too, taking some response time as well, being that it was there for the taking, like how Taylor’s masters were, so why not?  Why buy a vowel when you can buy an entire sentence in the form of a question, “What, like, you’re telling me that music is infected?  How?  Is it all music?”

That was three questions Scooter; you were only supposed to have asked one, you only bought one question, not three.

“No, not all music.  Just certain samples—“ Pop Wansel replied very Goldblum-y.  It was his turn to be Jeff.  Everyone gets to be Jeff Goldblum at least once and you can’t call fivesies on being Jeff Goldblum, only Jeff himself can do that.

Oak leaned forward in his Spaceship command chair.  “What’s the most sampled song of all time?  Does anyone know?”

“Umm…”  They all unknowingly blinked their eyes in the same cadence of the Capitol Records light and shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders, Justin’s cats moved their tails back and forth as they sat sleepily on the laps of two humans in the room, I’m not at liberty to disclose which two laps the cats sat upon, but they sat on two laps.  No fivesies were called, cats don’t need fivesies, they just sit wherever they please.

“No one knows the answer?  Well, the year was 1969.  A funk soul band named The Winstons released a single called ‘Color Him Father’.  The B side of that record contained a funked up version of a gospel song named ‘Amen, Brother’.  Now, of course, Color Him Father would win a Grammy for best R and B song after hitting number seven on the Billboard hot 100 charts, but the B side to that record?  Well, no one really paid it much attention for years… Eventually it would become the most sampled drum break in all music, it’s called the ‘Amen Break’.  It was first added to a compilation named Ultimate Breaks and Beats, which was popular with Hip Hop producers and DJs during the early days of Hip Hop.  The breakthrough hit Straight Outta Compton by N.W.A. most likely propelled it into the mainstream, Straight Outta Compton contained a slowed down looped version of the Amen Break in its entirety, although it was used on other songs at the time as well.  I believe the first track to sample it was I Desire by Salt-N-Pepa.  Eventually it was broken apart, spliced up, and bits and piece of it were used in thousands of songs.”

“So, are you saying sampling is bad?”  The lawyer asked, his red pen poised and ready to make a new note on his notepad.

“No.  Oh, of course not.  There are a lot of great songs that contain samples, but as with any tool, or invention, it’s in the way that you use it, like Eric Clapton says.  Same is true with any sign, or symbol, or any product of a culture, or subculture, it’s the way you use it, or more importantly, what meaning becomes attached.  Musically speaking, it’s about what hooks on to those catchy hooks.  Brands are a whole other ballgame and a conversation for another time—Sometimes just by wearing a certain brand, or putting a sticker on the bumper of your car, you can say a lot about what you stand for, without using any words at all.  Without going really deep into the meaning of life, for whatever reason we humans have a way of creating things that represent the good in the world, the bad in the world, and additionally, the indifferent—or one point of view over another—like I said, conversation for another time.  But the meanings shift, something that had absolutely no real meaning can become a symbol of power, or a movement.  A heart symbol could say love, but it could be a declaration of war depending on the context and who sends it to you.  How many individuals took a knee before Colin Kaepernick did?  Did the gesture of taking a knee change in its meaning after Colin did it?  How about when Nike made a deal with Colin, how did that change the meaning of the Nike symbol?  I’m going to let you think about the answers to those questions.  Music, brands, gestures, bumper stickers are simply what they are, but in the context of society and culture in a specific place and time the meaning can be so much more.  Music isn’t just music, it’s so much more.  Every person will tell you his or her personal attachment to any song, and it can be a shared experience, or a singular one.  I’m sure we can all think of a song that takes us back in time, and maybe it’s a memory you share with millions, or an experience only you know about.  Humans have a tendency not to start out making anything to be a symbol of a moment, that usually happens later on, we make things, usually with the best of intentions, but sometimes just because it’s something that we are passionate about, what starts out as innocent, or cool, or just something to do, can become a beacon of hope, in the right hands, or a nightmare down the road should it fall into the wrong hands.  The future of anything can’t be predicted.  Rock and Roll had a start with a small group of musicians who probably didn’t even know it was Rock and Roll at the time, and that it would eventually spread through the entire world.  The Amen Break started with one single drummer Gregory C. Coleman, and later would be used in thousands of songs.”

“And that’s causing this war with the Swifities?  The war with Taylor?”  An Arianator asked.

“We aren’t at war with Taylor…” Oak replied, his tone of voice turning very serious, “We’re at war with an unfortunate scenario.  Taylor isn’t fighting a war because she wants to, she’s fighting it because she needs to.  It’s not her fault, she’s a victim of circumstance... as so many other innocent people on this planet have been and continue to be.”

Scott grabbed his share of the conversation as well, “Trouble’s gonna follow where she goes…”

Oak took it back, “Trouble follows us all, we are all victims of circumstance.  And we’re all fighting wars made of personal battles.  Just some of us more than others.”

“She’s a victim of her own music holding her hostage, like how I’m a victim of this earworm in my head.”  Justin said solemnly.

Ariana turned to Justin sitting beside her, “Since you don’t want to talk about what happened, I may be out of place by saying this, and I hate to have to say this Justin, but if you hadn’t broken up with Selena like twenty times, you might not have her earworm in your head right now.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”  Justin said back.

Ariana stifled a growl of frustration with her hands, turning her attention to Oak instead.  “So we’re fighting to free Taylor from her old masters?  Or specifically, from that egg sound—from samples used… We’re fighting for her, not against her?”  Ariana asked for clarification.  She reached for her phone in her pocket and gave it a squeeze.  With the masters tracks back in Taylor’s hands, she now held the only recording of the easter egg track should they need it.  She decided to keep its existence a secret.  If they found out they may take it from her.  For a minute she felt a rush of power wash over her, like some energy from the past or another dimension was trying to come to her and take over.  The power pulsed through her for a brief moment, chills down her spine, before she was able to push back against whatever it was creating the rush inside her.

“As long as I still get to own her.” Scooter said, “I mean, own her old masters, sorry, that’s what I meant.  A deal is a deal and I bought them fair and square.”

Everyone glowered at Scooter.

“What?  I mean, after this is all over of course.”

Everyone continued to glower.

“Why am I the bad guy in this?”

Flower power was big in the 60s, but in these modern times glower power is where it is at.

“Okay FINE, once this is over I’ll work with her to figure out a way for her to buy back her masters, or something.”

Glower power for the win.

Scooter uncrossed his fingers from behind his back.  You sly devil you.

“The Elvis egg sound isn’t good or bad in itself, just like The Amen Break isn’t good or bad, Rock and Roll and Hip Hop are music, but to paraphrase Clapton, it’s in the way that she’s using it.  See the egg sound in itself makes you feel trippy; Which makes sense, it’s from the 60s.  The Elvis egg sound is from the start of the decade, and the Amen Break is from the end of the decade.  The egg sound makes you feel good.  But, as we’ve come to learn, when it interacts with specific sound samples, such as The Amen Break—that’s when you get… Well, it seems you get side effects.  But those side effects used in a specific manner, like what was done to Justin here, can be used as a weapon—” Oak told them as much as they needed to know.  It’s a bit like when scientists first invented the atom bomb, too much knowledge about something with that much power can be dangerous.  Musical genres have more power and are more influential than anyone could possibly fathom.  “It’s a weapon of war.”  He said plainly.

“That’s where the earworm came from.  You combine specific samples together… and anything is possible.  It can be used to push viral content, or addict and hook fans, or you can disarm your opponents, make them unable to fight back.”  Pop clarified for the ears in the room.  “When you combine new and old samples, things get really tricky.  Take, umm… Old Town Road, for example, that song took off seemingly overnight, but why?”

“Well it obviously took off because of me when I shared it on social media for all my Beliebers.”  Justin said. He tried to sing the song and do the dance… “Gonna take my love to the love love road to love love, I needed to lose you to love me… “  He stopped trying and sat there lost inside his head again.

“That’s not quite how it goes, but I’m fascinated by the mashup of music going on in your head.  Does anyone else want to comment on the song, does anyone know the origin of the track used behind the vocals?”  Oak asked.

“Didn’t he just find it online, Soundcloud, or YouTube or something, and then… Lay down his vocals over it?”  One of the Arianators offered.

“No, I think he bought it from a beats site for 30 bucks.  Wait, let me Google it.  Okay, it says here ‘The hook was originally purchased for $30 on BeatStars, a rap-focused beats marketplace.’ That’s cool.”  The other Arianator replied back.

           Oak stepped in, his voice soothing and constructive, “Well, so the original sample in Old Town Road is actually a Nine Inch Nails song named 34 Ghosts IV.  And it was placed over a trap beat and posted online for sale by a Dutch teenager Kiowa Roukema, who also goes by ‘Young Kio’.  Now, when you consider the entire Old Town Road song together in final form you have various tracks recorded at various times and places using various microphones and instruments, and other recording equipment including effects processors and such.  Each individual sound recording and sample was layered on top of one another, even the original sound sample from Nine Inch Nails had already been mastered, yet it was mastered again when it was posted for sale as a beat, and then mastered another time when Lil Nas X posted his version online, then the remix was mastered yet again.  It’s like Scooter said, an omlette of eggs.  If any piece of it contains the egg sound, you have a very complex variation of the original sounds that has been manipulated and mangled many times over with every sub master, the same has happened over the years with The Amen Break.  For all we know the Amen Break could be in that song, as there isn’t a clear source of every sample used to make the trap beat.  It’s a potent mix that when played into someone’s ear can have some very strange effects—”

           “Love love… To love love… I needed to lose you to love me… Dammit Selena!  Get out of my head!”  Justin erupted cutting off the conversation.  “It’s GETTING WORSE!”  He shouted then kneeled down on the floor holding his head between his hands he hummed Selena Gomez’s song Lose You To Love Me, softly at first, then yelled out, “GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”  He started to cry, just for a few tears, before wiping them away and sprawling out on the floor looking up at the ceiling fan.  His tears of anguish continued, flowing from his eyes and running down his cheeks.  “I give up.” He said quietly, his lower lip quivering.  “I can’t stop hearing it.  It’s just there on repeat—over and over again.  I just give up.  I want it to stop.  Make it stop.  I can’t take it anymore!  I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!  SELINA GOMEZ MAKE IT STOP!!!  I WANT OUT OF THIS!  I DON’T WANT YOU IN MY HEAD ANYMORE!!!”

“Oak you gotta help him.  Can’t you do anything?”  Ariana begged rushing to Justin’s side.

           Oak looked over at Pop.  They nodded to one another.  Justin couldn’t wait any longer.

           Pop got up and walked over to a Star Wars movie poster on the wall.  He turned around and held his hand out, Oak tossed the replica light saber at him, Pop caught it without flinching and then stood in front of the poster mimicking the stance of Skywalker.

           The poster began to roll up revealing a door.

           “No way!”  Scooter gasped.  “What the?”

           Oak smiled.  “Shall we?”

           Ariana helped Justin up and walked with him.  Her two Arianators rushed over to help carry him.

           Everyone walked over to the doorway previously hidden behind the poster and one by one they walked through it.

           The doorway led into a passageway that resembled the engine room of a spaceship—It was something out of every movie you’ve ever seen that takes place in space.  Hidden LED lights glowed spreading a soft even light, a blue hue that matched a humming sound, the engines of the spaceship.

           Oak Felder and Pop Wansel piloted the crew through the copious amount of twists and turns.  Several times forks in the tunnel shot off to the left or right of them.

           “How much money did it cost you to build this?”  The lawyer asked at one point.  Oak didn’t answer until they reached their final destination.

           “I didn’t build it for me, it was initially my wife’s extended shoe closet for shoe’s she refused to throw out, even though she knew she would never wear them again.”

           Scooter laughed.  “My wife would be jealous, her shoe collection is taking over the house!  I used to think ‘why would you keep shoes if you’re never going to wear them again?’  Ah, I was so young and naive.  I know better now.  But why?  Why so many shoes!”

Ariana responded “It’s just a thing.  It’s like keeping photos, memories of the past.  Also, you never know, there MIGHT be an occasion when you need that EXACT shoe!  And then if you had previously owned that pair and thrown them out you’d be kicking yourself.  Also, if you can afford that many shoes, why not spoil yourself? Whoever said money can't solve your problems, must not have had enough money to solve 'em, they say, ‘Which one?’ I say, ‘Nah, I want all of 'em’, happiness is the same price as red-bottoms.”

Oak stopped the group at a large door.  The door glowed amber around the edges outlining its silhouette.  He pulled out a key.  He inserted the key and turned the key clockwise.  While still holding the key in its turned position he pressed a large button, the first few seconds of a song began to play then it stopped.  He named the artist and the song.  Another song played, then stopped, again he named the artist and the song speaking out loud towards the door.  This continued for three more songs, after which a sixth and final song played for a little longer than the first five.  It played long enough for a few song lyrics to be heard before stopping, he continued singing the next line picking up where the song left off.

A small display beside the key and button read, “You win this round of trivia tunes!”

With that the door opened.

“SO that’s how you’re soo good at the audio round when we go to trivia night.”  Ariana said jokingly.

“You got me.”

With that Oak ushered everyone through the door.

“Whoa!” Scott shouted out after the motion sensor lights turned from a low amber glow to a bright and cheerful yellow, fully illuminating the room.

Half the room was filled with rows upon rows of headphones—All different kinds, vintage, modern, big clunky over ear headphones, sleek new sport Bluetooth ear buds that slipped inside the ear, every different type anyone could possibly imagine, there were thousands upon thousands of headphones, the collection seemed to go on forever, endlessly.  The other half of the room was filled with an equal amount of shoes, which also seemed to go on forever.

“Yeah, my wife really likes shoes.  What’s that phrase?  Happy wife, happy life.  All those songwriter royalty checks mostly go to two things, new toys for the studio, and my wife.”

“Oak, I was saying whoa about the headphone collection, but the shoe collection is equally as impressive as well.” Scott scanned the room with his eyes. “How many headphones are in here Oak?”  Scott asked out of curiosity.

“Hmm, I’d say at least six thousand.  I’ve lost count.”

“Six thousand headphones!”

“I had more, but my wife made me get rid of some to make space to move more shoes in.”  He shrugged as if to silently say, what are you gonna do about it?  Nothing.  “Okay, let’s see what we can do for Justin.”

Oak held his finger in the air and wiggled it towards him indicating for the group to follow.  They walked down a few rows of headphones as though they were walking through the aisles in a headphone only thrift shop.  Headphones clung neatly to hooks as low as a few inches off the floor all the way to the ceiling three stories up.  Ladders like one might find in an old bookstore ran along the shelves for access to the upper levels.

Oak picked up one pair and handed the headphones to Justin.  They were super vintage, 70s or 80s maybe? Well worn, large and clunky.  He plugged the audio cable into the same device he had used to diagnose the earworm playing a sound through the headphones.  “How about that?”

Justin stood for a minute with the headphones on his head then shook his head no indicating that the worm was stronger than ever.  Taking the headphones off he handed them back to Oak.  They walked a to the end of an aisle then down another, “AH HAH!”  He took another pair off a hook.  This time the pair was Bluetooth capable modern and flashy, customizable and comfortable with an over the ear fit.  He carefully placed the headphones over Justin’s ears and tapped on the digital touch screen of the earworm device after syncing the Bluetooth connection. He cycled through various settings.

“Anything yet?”

“No.  I don’t think so.”  Justin shook his head, and then shifted the headphones to fit better.  Oak continued to tap through various settings.

“Wait!”  Justin smiled slightly.  “Go back!”

Oak tapped the screen again.

“There!  I mean, I can still hear it slightly, but it’s barely even noticeable just soft background music.  I can deal with it like this.  Whatever these headphones do, keep doing it.”

Oak searched for the right response, “Umm, well it’s complicated science, let’s just say they’re emitting a phase cancelation noise that is close to what the earworm sound is.”

“Works for me!”  Justin said in an upbeat voice.

Ariana high fived Oak and then low fived Justin.

           Just then the lawyer’s phone rang.  He walked away for privacy.  “Uh huh… Oh, interesting…”

           “That’s not good.”  Scott said staring at the lawyer.

           “How do you know?”  Scooter asked.

           Scott shook his head.  “He only says ‘oh, interesting…’ when it’s something bad.  He’ll never say anything is bad, just ‘interesting’.”

           “How does he get cell service down here?”  Oak asked.  “Even I don’t get cell service!”

           “With him, it’s better not to question such things, just accepted it.”  Scott replied.

           “Okay then.”  Oak said, backing off the subject.

           After the call ended Carl, the lawyer walked back over to the group.

“What is it?” Scott asked.

“Just got off the phone with… Well, I’m not at liberty to disclose who the caller was… but let’s just say they had an interesting piece of information.”

“And that information is?”  Scott said in a coaxing voice.

“Taylor is going to place the porter egg sound behind her song Lover during her performance tonight at the American Music Awards, she’s using the string arrangement as a guise.”

“She can’t do that, we have to stop that!”  Scooter screamed out.  The room fell silent aside from the humming of a few air ventilation fans.

“There may be a way.” Oak finally said, breaking the silence.  “It would require getting two specific individuals to join with us—we’ll need someone on the inside who can get access to the equipment in order to swap the sound a second time with a placebo track, and we need someone to interrupt Taylor Swift right before her speech, long enough to swap out that backing track she’s going to play during Lover.”

“I can think of two people who might be perfect.” Justin’s spirits were picking back up, he seemed to be closer to his old self and less distant.

“Who?”  Scott asked.

“Well, the insider will already be there… Billie Eilish.  We’ve been chill ever since Coachella, you remember, Ariana,” Ariana nodded, how could she forget Coachella.  Justin continued, “and of course more recently she let me record a vocal track on another version of her ‘Bad Guy’ single.  I’m pretty sure she hasn’t made an alliance with Taylor yet.  I know, I KNOW, I was wrong about Ed Sheeran, but I think we can trust Billie.”

“Okay, that would work.  What about the other person?  We need someone to interrupt Taylor before the song, we need someone who has experience, who can get it right, we’ll only get one shot at this…”

They glanced at each other, not saying a word.

Scooter smiled, “Anyone else thinking what I’m thinking?  There’s only one person with the skill and experience to interrupt Taylor Swift at precisely the right moment.”

“KANYE WEST!”  Everyone yelled together.

The helicopter blades spun up as the group climbed through the open doors.  Scott told his ‘Where we’re going we don’t need roads, because we’re in a helicopter!’ joke again.  Oak laughed.

“See, Oak gets my humor.”  Scott said, satisfied that his joke was finally a hit.

Sushi and Tuna could be seen sitting in a window of the house looking out.  They were to stay at the spaceship studio in the care of the Defenders just in case Taylor tried to make any further kitty cat kidnapping attempts.

Pop was the last to climb on board, a Defender handed him a large black duffle bag after he was safely inside the helicopter.  He then handed the bag to Oak.  Oak unzipped the bag to make sure the contents were all there, enough gold headphone cases for each one of them.  He passed the cases out.  “Don’t lose these.”  Oak instructed them.  “There’s a set of over ear Beats by Dre headphones, special grade custom made Solo Pro with Active Noise Cancelling technology.  They’re linked with an integrated communication system so we can communicate with each other.  Works up to five miles away in a mesh network, so as long as each one of us is within at least five miles of another person, we can all talk.  Battery runs off kinetic energy, as long as you’re breathing, the headphones will work.  Unfold them to turn on, fold them to turn off.  There’s one mode for active cancelation with communication and another pre programed mode matching Justin’s frequency in case you get earwormed.  We don’t know if they have one strain of the Gomez earworm, or multiple, but right now, it’s the best we have.  This does mean Justin won’t have communication with us through the headphones, someone’s going to have to stay with him should the need arise for us to use these.”

“What are these little ones?” Scooter asked picking a smaller set of ear buds from perfectly cut-to-shape spaces within the foam.  They sat snuggly inside the case beside the Beats Solo Pro headphones.

“Lookalike AirPods—although, they aren’t Apple, Taylor’s been handing out some kind of custom set to her Swifties, they call them SwiftPods.  These will work in a pinch to protect you from both the Swift sound, and possible exposure to an earworm, but they contain no communication and it’s hard to hear anyone trying to talk to you, the noise cancelation is complete and contains no filters.  They basically work like earplugs, but they look like SwiftPods so you won’t blow your cover in close proximity to a Swiftie.”

“We won’t be needing these,” Ariana grabbed Scooter’s case out of his hands and handed it back along with her own case.  “Can you drop Scooter and I off at LAX before we stop at Kanye’s house?  My private jet is waiting—we’ve got a show to make…”  She looked over at Scooter disapprovingly.

“Better do as she asks.”  Scooter said to everyone.

“But that’s out of the way!”  Scott exclaimed.  Ariana stared at him, her eyes piercing through him.  He quickly backtracked,  “Yeah, we can do that.  Sure thing, not a problem Ms. Grande.”  Scott said to her after looking to the lawyer and getting a nod of approval from the lawyer.

           “Will you two be alright out there?”  Oak asked.

           Scooter shrugged.

           “We’ll be fine.”  Ariana said in a decisively powerful tone.  “My Arianators will protect us from any Swifties if they try anything tricky, it’s Justin that you need to look out for, they’ve already used him twice in this war game, first with the kittynapping and then the earworm weapon, they’re likely to strike again to get to Scooter.”

           The helicopter lifted into the air headed first for LAX and then to Kanye West’s house.

[fountainpenguin]

A T.U.F.F. Timeline

An analysis of “T.U.F.F. Puppy” society and how it relates to my headcanoned Hartmanverse timeline (Healthy suspension of disbelief required). My intention was to unite all four Hartman shows in the same continuity, so alternate universe explanations were ruled out for this analysis.

If you enjoy reading my Hartman show ‘fics, I highly recommend skimming through this post so you won’t be confused down the road; this is now the official Riddleverse canon and references to it are fair game in my ‘fics. Plus I worked really hard on it and if you read it I will be glad (The post is about 5000 words; TL;DR found at bottom).

I will update my sideblog’s timeline(s) to include this information if you’d like to see it all laid out that way instead. 

OH THE HUMANITY

First things first, humans are confirmed to exist in the TUFFverse. Evidence can be found in the episode “The Good, The Bad, and the Quacky:”

This TV card (assumed to be an in-universe card) depicts a human who walks upright and wears clothing. The implication is that humans in the TUFFverse are not treated as pets, but are considered a sapient people.

Furthermore, when skull decorations appear, they’re always modeled after human skulls. The skulls in Snaptrap’s skull collection appear to be human too.

HERE is a link to the Digital Morphology library if you’re interested in browsing its collection of animal skulls. Here is Dudley’s [stylized] skull compared with the skull of a Labrador Retriever, offering evidence that the animals have retained much of their animal anatomy and don’t have human skulls:

We could possibly conclude that Snaptrap has gathered human skulls over the years because he considers them an interesting collectible from the days of an ancient race. However, there is still evidence that humans are alive in modern TUFFverse times:

In “Dog House,” we see the skeleton of a hostage Snaptrap claims to have chained to the water heater himself. This skeleton appears to be human due to the shape of the skull and the lack of ear and tail bones.

In the episode “The Booby Trap,” we learned that it’s illegal to harm an endangered species. We can conclude that humans are probably not endangered species in this time period, because even though Snaptrap is a villain and might not have an issue with killing people, he probably wouldn’t have left an endangered species to starve in the middle of an open room that’s frequently visited by T.U.F.F. agents.

With this evidence in mind, we have reason to doubt that humans are extinct in this time period. Therefore, we can conclude that the Chameleon’s neighbor (Mrs. Ungerman) is a human who doesn’t shave her legs, and that she’s not an animal with balding legs, human-like feet, and a tail kept out of view:

We can assume that humans and animal people are both alive and thriving in the "T.U.F.F.” time period, and that they live alongside one another. However, it seems that there are fewer humans around, or that they avoid associating with the animals for the most part.

Most likely, human communities are still scattered throughout the world, but animal people are the most dominant lifeform (An estimate based on the lack of humans seen in the show and the existence of all the animal puns; in the FOP episode “Abra-Catastrophe,” we also saw an increase in animal puns once animals had become the dominant people of the planet). Assuming that all the animal people can be classified under a single racial label, I would argue that the animal people are by far the dominant race of the planet during this time and that fairy godparents are assigned to animal kids as a result.

THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND

In order to fit “T.U.F.F. Puppy” in the same continuity as the other Hartman shows, I’ve chosen to set it in the future, long after FOP, DP, and BIaB are over. In addition to the existence of animal people, background clues such as the circular doorways, blasters, and elaborate monorail system suggest “T.U.F.F.” is set in a slightly futuristic time period anyway:

A few people suggested that I set “T.U.F.F. Puppy” in the future after a magical war wiped out the humans (most if not all of them). Initially I resisted the idea because it interfered with some fanfic plans (I’ve established in my works that Poof and Foop attend school together, I’ve never mentioned a war, my plan has always been that global warming would flood the planet within a few hundred years and I had a big humans-become-mermaids plot set up, etc). Besides, my preferred genre is contemporary slice-of-life in a fantasy world, and I’m already writing the War of the Angels in two different stories. Trying to make yet another series of magical battles unique sounded like torture.

However, while watching “T.U.F.F.” it became apparent to me that there was no possible way to fit the show in my timeline if I didn’t discard my mermaid plans and prevent global warming floods, unless I wanted to set it during the 2000s with the other shows. The struggle of incorporating “T.U.F.F.”’s animal people and technology in modern times while maintaining the integrity of the other Hartman shows appealed to me even less. So, Riddleverse canon no longer includes a flooded planet plot, and the 130 Prompt “All I Ever Wanted” will soon be updated to reflect this (i.e. the will o’ the wisps will resettle in Pixie World due to a magical war pushing them from their homes rather than floods, and I’ll make changes to some future prompts I’ve been working on as well).

Fairy World’s timeline (that is, the emergence of certain aesthetics, beliefs, and technologies throughout Fairy World) roughly parallels ours, albeit at a different speed (the War of the Sunset Divide stands in for World War I and the War of the Angels stands in for World War II). Fairy World is currently paralleling the 50s (Butch said he designed Cosmo with the 50s aesthetic in mind). Because of this, I designed my version of older Poof with a counterculture aesthetic.

That means that a magical war paralleling the Vietnam War, which filled the 60s and 70s, would fit in Poof’s youth (He’s our flower child, and what’s a flower child without a war to protest?) Keeping with the parallel, I envision this would be a very long war (much longer than either of the two before it) with more and more fighters gradually drawn in.

My take on the Beasts is that they came into existence when regular animals were contaminated with leftover magic (known as “stinky magic” in FOP canon) that infected their food and water sources. I’ve already established in my ‘fics that this contamination was caused by mere magical pollution, so I imagine that a magical war would result in even higher concentrations of stinky magic on Earth (Note: The War of the Angels took place in Fairy World, Anti-Fairy World, and several planets throughout the galaxy and wasn’t centered on Earth itself).

We saw in the FOP episodes “Talkin’ Trash” and “Dust Busters” that Fairy magic, when left to fester, can have bizarre effects on the things around it, which is why I finally decided to be okay with discarding my original timeline plans in favor of a magical war. I haven’t made plans for this war yet, but I do know that I want it to take place on Earth. I want a magic-contaminated landscape to make the Chameleon’s anchor tree a legitimate plant, since he insists he grew it himself:

I imagine the creatures and plants now found in the Petropolis Rainforest were also affected by a magical war. Bringing more magic into a show that has anthro animals and extreme cartoon physics can only help, not hurt...

THAT’S ANCIENT HISTORY

If we argue that “T.U.F.F. Puppy” takes place in the same universe as the other Hartman shows, how do we explain the museum exhibits seen in the episode “The Curse of King Mutt”? After all, we see no humans here.

It’s important to remember that the universe we are playing with isn’t simply “Our world but with fairies and ghosts.” Beasts exist too. They were only driven underground officially in the early 1800s, meaning that they left their mark on the timeline throughout history. It can be argued that the cavemen and King Mutt seen above were Beasts who lived in ancient times in this universe (which seems more plausible than mummifying practices re-emerging in the future following a magical war that wiped out most of human society).

I imagine that after Beasts were forced underground, humans weren’t keen on showcasing moments of history that honored their kind. Historic Beast accomplishments were swept under the rug until Beasts filtered above ground again and earned respect in society; specifically, in a world dominated by animal people, the history of animal people would be more important than it was when humans dominated. During Timmy’s school years, Beasts might have appeared in history books, but only as passing mentions, and mostly in the context of the Creature Wars. Beast accomplishments would be ignored.

Is it reasonable to assume that the canine figures above could be Beasts? Perhaps. After all, not all Beasts are hybrids like Bunsen, or appear to be living pieces of furniture. Some, like Wolfie, resemble anthro animals:

My headcanon for Beasts is that they came into existence when regular animals were contaminated with Fairy magic, then bred and passed on strange abilities to their offspring. Over time, Beasts gained the ability to breed with other Beasts that their ancestors wouldn’t have been able to reproduce with (Bunsen shows both guinea pig and squid traits, among other things).

The animal people we see in “T.U.F.F.” are also able to crossbreed. Dudley was confirmed in “Purr-fect Partners” to have goat ancestry. Bird Brain belongs to an entirely new species (flightless blue-bottomed boobies) who most likely resulted from booby-descended Beasts crossbreeding with flightless birds (probably the takahē). The Chameleon appears to have gecko or anole genes since he can stick to walls, and perhaps snake genes as well since he sheds his skin as a whole instead of in pieces.

(Note: The Chameleon claims he sheds his skin “every night.” He grows it back within a few hours. This is most likely a rapid healing adaptation that resulted from having latent Fairy magic in his system. He flushes injuries off his skin very quickly and can partially regenerate. Some lizards - again, anoles - can grow their tails back if they lose them, so I imagine the Chameleon might even have the ability to regenerate arms and legs again if injured.)

For classification purposes, I will henceforth refer to the animal people as Animals, with the capital A, to distinguish them from the Beasts (This is a time period / show difference, so Wolfie will still be classified as a Beast).

THE GOOD OLD DAYS

We’ll now take a close look at Petropolis and estimate when it was founded. The city itself is a blend of futuristic and old-fashioned, making this a world where corded telephones sit side by side with shiny computers, high-tech wall lamps provide the light to read messy bulletin boards, and automatic doors slide upwards to reveal kitchens full of stovepipes. Split-level rooms with a metallic aesthetic are accented with wooden borders. The raised speedways throughout the city are supported by columns of Grecian design, and populated with a mix of sleek, modern cars and old, boxy trucks.

Petropolis is confirmed to be in California (“The Booby Trap”). It appears to parallel Los Angeles since its population (3,792,621; revealed in “Dog House”) is exactly the same as the population of Los Angeles according to the 2010 census. Notably, previous analysis of Dimmsdale, given its history of being settled by the British rather than the Spanish, has already removed Los Angeles from the equation in my fanfics (Dimmsdale stands in its place, with the Dimmsdale sign taking the place of the Hollywood sign). 

With Dimmsdale and Petropolis both taking the role of Los Angeles in their respective shows, and with “T.U.F.F. Puppy” set in the future, we can suppose Petropolis was built on the remains of Dimmsdale in the future after Dimmsdale was wiped off the map (presumably due to that magical war; I’ve already established that Fairy World’s capital city is located just above Dimmsdale, which would make it a prime target in battle).

I also like the idea of setting Petropolis on Dimmsdale’s remains because in FOP, the Rainbow Bridge to Fairy World is confirmed to touch down at the edge of Dimmsdale. If Petropolis is built on Dimmsdale’s remains, we can parallel the Rainbow Bridge poetry series intended to help people grieve for their lost pets.

The founder of Petropolis was Daniel Boone Loony, and it was revealed in “Legal Beagle” that his great-great grandson, George, lives in the T.U.F.F. agency’s stairwell. 

Let’s estimate George’s age at 30 for the purpose of this calculation. Assuming that the Animals live human lifespans, we can estimate Petropolis was likely founded 110 to 165 years before the series (For this analysis, we’ll call it in the middle of those estimates and say Petropolis was founded approximately 135 years before the show takes place).

We’ll keep that in mind as we shift to another “T.U.F.F. Puppy” town that’s hinted to be older: Critter Creek. Critter Creek is described as an old Western desert town despite being quite modern by our standards:

It’s implied the town was founded by Gold-Digger Gary (or if it wasn’t founded by him, he was one of its prominent early citizens). If Gary’s statue is accurate, he is clearly an animal, not a human, so we can assume that animal people were sapient beings who walked upright, wore clothes, and were capable of founding towns more than 135 years ago. (Side note: A presumed relative of Dudley’s fought the Loch Ness monster 100 years pre-series).

Since Critter Creek is described as an old Western town, we can expect it was built perhaps 100 years before Petropolis. Clearly, the town has grown over time into a booming city full of skyscrapers and monorails, which exist side by side with buildings of wood and stone:

Critter Creek presumably began life as a wooden town and rapidly expanded as technology improved. In fact, technology seems to have improved so quickly that Critter Creek just kept expanding without knocking down its previous wooden buildings, which were still in perfect living conditions and weren’t worth bulldozing. This rapid development may have even occurred within a single lifetime. In contrast, Petropolis appears to have been designed deliberately with its futuristic layout, suggesting its materials were available from the start.

I imagine, then, that a lengthy magical war ended up shifting to Earth and that Dimmsdale was wiped off the map. Many humans didn’t survive this war (Perhaps magical toxins filled the air and turned some of them into objects, plants, animals, or just killed off a lot of them). The humans that did survive migrated to cities that were still standing where they could access resources (especially fresh water; many water sources were likely contaminated with stinky magic in high concentrations humans couldn’t handle).

We saw in “T.U.F.F.” that Animals seem to be running the northern hemisphere; Animals lead many countries and undercover fighting forces of Animals exist around the world. The capitals of Fairy World, Anti-Fairy World, and Pixie World are all located in the northern hemisphere in my headcanon. The skies above the southern hemisphere are far less populated by magical beings, so it’s possible that the magical war ravaged the northern hemisphere and left the land nearly inhospitable to humans. Humans still exist in “T.U.F.F. Puppy,” and some do still live in the northern half of the planet, but the remaining human population is small and most have shifted to the south.

You know what else is interesting about this “only the northern hemisphere is ruled by Animals” theory?

There seems to be a canon distinction between the two halves. Humans are presumably more common in the south while Animals dominate the north.

DAWN OF AN ERA

Critter Creek was one of the early settlements to spring up after the war. Judging from its name, it wasn’t founded by humans. Buildings were constructed of wood because those were the building materials available at the time- in the wake of the war’s destruction, building many homes and shops quickly was a priority. Once people were settled, they could begin expanding their towns. The technology had already been invented, so implementing it didn’t take long once people were back on their feet. As a result, in modern “T.U.F.F.” times we have a society that blends futuristic and old-fashioned technology.

The T.U.F.F. agency itself (and its counterparts around the world) likely sprang up shortly after the war. I imagine it was a chaotic period for several decades. Humans were learning that much of the northern hemisphere couldn’t support them now that uncontaminated water was hard to come by, while the Beasts most resistant to the stinky magic toxins (AKA the ones from family lines who were least affected by it, AKA those who most resembled animals since their biology wasn’t altered as extremely) were able to survive. Beasts who were less resistant to stinky magic continued producing genetically unstable children who were less adaptive to the environment than the more stable animal-like Beasts.

It’s worth noting that in “Hide and Ghost Seek,” Keswick was convinced there is no scientific evidence of ghosts. Such evidence, it would seem, was lost during this period of chaos. By modern “T.U.F.F.” times, Ghosts were presumably spending most of their time in the Ghost Zone. Stable portals between the Ghost Zone and the Living Realm (the Fenton portal and Vlad’s portal) have likely been damaged by this point, so Ghosts only occasionally slip out of the Zone. I imagine that during this chaotic time, the northern hemisphere looked like the bad future we see in Danny Phantom:

Bleak and destroyed. Water sources and farms were contaminated with magic, abandoned by humans and left for surviving Beasts and animals. I wouldn’t mind headcanoning that TUFFverse future Amity Park looks a lot like it did in the bad future here. Amity Park has always been a high-tech city, after all, and various shields probably went up eventually, whether Danny Phantom was evil or not.

So you have this sci-fi human empire in Minnesota that survived the magical war due to it having shielded itself (while most of the country mocked it, I’m sure). It likely expanded to be a huge metropolis bit by bit, drawing in humans from across the nation who sought shelter and resources. Humans still exist in TUFFverse America, but are not widespread. For the most part, Animals rule.

Critter Creek was built in this kind of desolate world. People scavenged for technology, and banding together helped people survive. Many people who got their hands on advanced tech chose to pillage others. Thus, we see the rise of criminal organizations and rogue troublemakers alike. T.U.F.F. and its counterpart organizations sprang up when vigilantes with a strong moral code desired to protect people. In “Internal Affairs,” we saw the Chief viewing old black and white films that depicted him as a young field agent. Most likely, anything high tech that had been scavenged was claimed by powerful forces like T.U.F.F. and criminal organizations, forcing the general public (including news crews) to rely on older technology.

Critter Creek was most likely built away from old, destroyed cities and its main purpose was to provide shelter quickly with the materials available. Sending a helicopter from Petropolis was considered a reasonable way to pick Dudley and Kitty up after they visited Critter Creek in “Golden Retriever.” The city seems fond of neon, so it’s possibly located in Nevada, not far from Las Vegas, where scraps of neon might have been available.

From its name, we can assume it was built by Beasts who survived the war. Over the next several decades, those who couldn’t adapt to the extreme magic contamination died off, and the more animal-like Beasts survived. This perhaps took 125 years, which allows time for a few generations to pass but doesn’t last too long (People do have access to advanced technology, after all, and sooner or later it will be put to use). That’s the same amount of time between Gold Rush times (1849) and the 1970s. Now imagine having access to advanced technology in that time period and gradually learning how it works and how to build more of it. Presto! A blended old West and futuristic city.

~150 years after Critter Creek was built, Petropolis was founded by Daniel Boone Loony over the ruins of Dimmsdale, which were deemed hospitable by that point. If he’s anything like his namesake, he likely fought his way through the wilderness to the site; Daniel Loony might have been his birth name and “Boone” a nickname added on later. The Petropolis Rainforest is a canon area surrounding Petropolis, and is known for its strange creatures and plants. If Dimmsdale was blasted with magic during a magical war, it’s likely the rainforest sprang up around the ruins over the next several decades.

This store that exists in “T.U.F.F.”-

-is a pants store that was rebuilt by Animals where a pants store used to stand in Dimmsdale. The store was damaged, but the merchandise sold there was obvious, so after it was fixed it continued to sell large pants. After ruling out alternate universes, that’s the best I can do with the 1980 timestamp. Expect me to slip a mention of a pants store into one of my FOP ‘fics (either Come What May or Along the Cherry Lane) just because I can.

~135 years after Petropolis was built, we have the present “T.U.F.F.” day and age. As water sources were gradually purified, a few humans migrated out of the safezones where they’d hidden and began to mingle in Animal-run towns. Advanced technologies, which had been seized by powerful organizations, gradually made their way to average citizens, so old films were replaced with color TV, corded phones with cell phones, and so on.

Year 0 - Just after the war; Critter Creek was founded by surviving Beasts in the next few years.

Year 150 - Around the time Petropolis was built.

Year 285 - Around present day; this is when the show takes place.

YEARS IN REVIEW

So if we’ve established that “T.U.F.F. Puppy” takes place in the future, when might it take place? I did some calculations using timeline clues (which I decided not to include in this post due to length) and determined that the show spans about a decade of time.

Butch mentioned in one of his videos that Snaptrap is 35, so I’ll say he was 35 about halfway through the show since that’s nice and average. That puts him at 30 when the show starts and 40 when it ends. The Chameleon seems slightly younger than him, so I’ll say he’s 30 when Snaptrap is 35. Bird Brain was confirmed to be 23 at the end of Season 1, so we’ll mark him down as 25 midway through Season 2. Let’s say Dudley was 22 when the series started, so he’s about 32 when it ends- still in his prime the whole way through.

Kitty is a bit older than him. She mentions in “Toast of T.U.F.F.” that she attended 8 years of “secret agent college,” and she probably spent 3 years at a university before that starting at age 18 for a total of 11 years of schooling. Then we’ll give her 5 years of field experience before Dudley arrives (4 with her former partner, Jack, and 1 on her own). 18 + 11 + 5 puts her at 34 when the show starts. At the end of Season 2 (“Pup Goes the Weasel”) Dudley guessed she was 30 and Snaptrap guessed she was 42. Snaptrap’s made clear that he’s into older women, so this works with his crush on her.

In the latter half of Season 2 (“Sob Story”) we see the Chief’s credit card due to expire in a year that ends with ‘19.

We can conclude that “Sob Story” (Year 9 by my tentative calculations) takes place either in a year that ends with 19 or a few years prior. 2019 is off the table, and so are the next few hundred years.

In “Quacky Birthday” (two years prior) Dudley marked his birthday on his calendar. I chose to work with this calendar because it’s also in Season 2, just a few episodes before “Sob Story” (though one of the episodes between them, “Agent of the Year,” takes up a year on its own, and “Crime Takes a Holiday,” which is also between them, is confirmed for January).

We can assume the thin boxes along the calendar’s top are labels for the days of the week, and that his calendar begins with Sunday. Many cartoon calendars begin with the first box and aren’t meant to be interpreted literally, but I went with it anyway because it’s what I had. I began searching for future calendars to see if there were any with the 1st on a Monday shortly before a year that ends with 19 (since if the card is due to expire in a ‘19 year, it can’t have been issued more than a few years before). Here is what I learned:

May 1st occurs on a Monday in x017, x417, and x817 years when x is an even number. When x is an odd number, May 1st occurs on a Monday in x217 and x617. Therefore, we can cross-reference Dudley’s calendar with the Chief’s credit card expiration date and argue that “Sob Story” (episode with Chief’s credit card; Year I in my notes) is an xx17 year. The first 5 or fewer episodes of the series (Year A) would take place in an xx09 year (Episode 3 is confirmed August and Episode 6 is confirmed March, meaning the year changes in between unless we start rearranging things).

Based on this, we can determine where I can set “T.U.F.F.” in my headcanon to the year if we can just determine the century. That means turning to my FOP timeline to figure out when the best place to set a magical war is, keeping in mind that I want it to be a few thousand years in the future at most- nowhere beyond the year 10,000. I don’t want to go too far forward since although the technology in “T.U.F.F.” is fairly advanced, it isn’t THAT advanced.

Looking at my timeline, I actually don’t have anything going on between the original Cavatina drama (1,000 years post-series) and Poof and Foop being tweens (about 123,000 years post-series). So I have plenty of space to put a war, especially now that I’m no longer planning to work mermaids in there.

Fairy World is currently in its 50s aesthetic period, and has been since before Cosmo and Wanda were married. The Vietnam War officially began in 1955, so this magical war is due to happen fairly soon after Timmy Turner’s time period. I can’t have the war going on during the first few years of Cavatina’s life, so setting “T.U.F.F.” in the early 3000s won’t work for me.

I want the war to be going on for some time before Dimmsdale is hit, but I also want it to continue going on for a long time afterwards (I want Fairies to be too busy with the war that they can’t afford to pause and rebuild America, and again, I don’t want human technology to be TOO advanced at this point).

With that in mind, I think I’m going to start this magical war in the 3500s. We’ll assume it’s between the Fairies and the Anti-Fairies. At first, the fighting is contained to the cloudlands. Then the first human city to be targeted, Dimmsdale, is destroyed around the year 3700 by the Anti-Fairies, which finally spurs the Pixies into action. Pixies generally stay neutral, but when magic strays to Earth and starts causing chaos, they’re going to get involved (Plus, Fairy World’s capital city is right above Dimmsdale, so perhaps it was the target and that would get the Pixies involved too). This sets “T.U.F.F. Puppy” 2000 years in the future, which is nice and easy to remember. The magical war continues for hundreds (or thousands) of years.

I have a few ideas I can draw on for this war... Somewhere in my plans, there’s a block of time where Anti-Cosmo vanishes without warning and Anti-Wanda and Foop are left to run Anti-Fairy World without him for a few hundred years. I was originally going to set the one-shot in question 100-500 years after FOP ends, but I can easily bump it forward by a thousand years. I’d really like to see an entire war play out while Anti-Wanda and Foop are in charge and Anti-Cosmo is nowhere to be found... 

Currently, the story that discusses this “Anti-Cosmo is AWOL” time period is the 130 Prompt “You’ll Never Know,” which is scheduled to post 7 prompts from now (probably January 2020). Keep your eyes out for that one if you want to see a glimpse into the war, because I don’t plan to write an entire ‘fic about it. The prompt will begin either immediately after Dimmsdale is destroyed or immediately before it. That will be fun.

We concluded earlier that “T.U.F.F. Puppy” begins in an xx09 year. Based on my calculations (which were based on the order the episodes were produced with very little rearranging), we can now assume that the series begins in the summer of 4009 and ends in the summer of 4018. I believe this would put the TUFFverse roughly 65-80 generations after modern times.

The biggest issue I have with this timeline at the moment is getting the populations of Critter Creek and Petropolis to 3 million+ each. We’re going to assume that many Animals give birth to entire litters (despite the fact that each mom in the egg maternity ward in the episode “Bad Eggs” appeared to have only one or two eggs) and just roll with it.

TL;DR

In this post, we concluded that-

“T.U.F.F. Puppy” takes place in the future long after “Fairly OddParents,” “Danny Phantom,” and “Bunsen Is a Beast.”

A horrible magical war devastated the land. Amity Park survived intact, protected by a high-tech shield.

The Animals are an anthropomorphic people descended from the Beasts. They are capable of crossbreeding with other Animals and have inherited their ancestors’ resiliency to a great deal of physical damage.

Humans are still around in this time period (Side note: They’re incapable of breeding with the Animals due to the differing levels of latent Fairy magic in their systems).

The Animals rule the north hemisphere while humans rule the south.

Animals are considered the most dominant race on the planet and fairy godparents are assigned to Animal kids, not human ones.

“T.U.F.F. Puppy” begins in the year 4009 and ends in the year 4018.

So, this is how the four Hartman shows fall in my united timeline.

FOP - The fae population has been around for millions of years, and will continue for millions more. They’ve devised elaborate interaction systems that allow them to gain supplies from and trade goods with some groups of people while remaining a mystery to others. Despite their magic powers (or perhaps because of them), the fae fear being taken advantage of by the wrong people. They won’t hesitate to cut ties with individuals or entire societies if they deem that’s what’s best for their people.

DP - Ghosts have always been hated and feared, and for the most part were driven into the Ghost Zone by the mid 1600s. Even before then, large populations didn’t roam the land; Ghosts tend to be territorial, solitary creatures who don’t travel in groups. Mostly they remain in the Ghost Zone, though some have their reasons for wanting to slip out.

BIaB - Beasts were driven underground in the early 1800s; the small town of Muckledunk, founded in 1805, guards a known entrance to Beast World. Before this, Beasts roamed the land and were treated as intelligent, dangerous monsters. Their earliest ancestors (animals contaminated with Fairy magic) came into existence about 250,000 years before the year 2000.

TUFF - The Animals are descended from families of Beasts who were still biologically close to their early animal ancestors (AKA Beasts who were affected by stinky Fairy magic enough to develop into an anthro race, but weren’t harmed to the point of genetic instability). “T.U.F.F. Puppy” takes place in the early 4000s, and the Animal society we see in it grew from a land left devastated after a horrible magical war.

There it is! Thanks for reading, and please enjoy my fanfics! Now that I’ve finished analyzing “T.U.F.F.,” ‘fic updates will resume this summer (that’s 2019 for anyone analyzing my own timeline down the road).

[selfcarecap]

I finally have something to report, be it the most juvenile and bland story – so buckle up and let me underwhelm you with my tedious day-to-day problems! (not me using this as an excuse to message you within reason…) I've had severe issues with my right ear for the past few months to the point where I straight up couldn't hear anymore. I'm one of those insufferable people who'd rather silently suffer than make an appointment at the doctor's – who would've guessed? (Not to mention the obsessive pre-emptive research, insecurity and self-diagnoses I obtained. Could it be more serious? What if there's more than meets the eye? What if they start questioning my hygiene or judge the state of my being…) But my sister had had enough and took it into her own hands, booked an appointment, and decided to accompany me. (me and my social anxiety are eternally thankful for her existence – bless her!) That being said, we got ourselves ready for the appointment today, and she, for reasons unknown, decided to step out (while in a hurry) in heels. Her straps ripped on the way to the tube, forcing her to struggle along behind me. Great start, indeed. Seated in the tube, she started going on a rampage, expressing her discontent quite loudly. You see, the straps tore in a way, where her heeled sandal could no longer hold onto her foot, unintentionally repurposing it into a flip flop. (albeit a poor version) She started nagging, not at all unwarranted, in her usual way: unabashedly throwing around profanities with no ill intent. I know that, she does too, but the passengers didn't – so our ride turned into an awkwardly uncomfortable occassional side-glance fest. (anxiety dialling up to the max) Finally arriving at our destined location, the doctor's office, we checked in. (Very grateful for delightful people at the reception who, with their patient and calm presence, manage to wind down some of my anxiety!) Everything went by quick and easy. Turns out I have, to my over worried disbelief, no lasting damage or serious condition but a mild infection that I now have to treat with daily ear drops until it heals on its own. Thanking the doc for her quick and very friendly treatment, I stand up, making my way out, only to trip and nearly fall – embarrassment barometer once again rising. Before we take off, we quickly step into a DM close by, getting my sister the cheapest shoes. (Flip flops are her enemies, though it's better than walking barefoot downtown) Nearly home, we turn up at the pharmacy to get the ear drops, and it's my first time paying with a credit card. To no one's surprise, I make a complete fool of myself and act like a human experiment that only recently got loose, new to human inventions. Bless the pharmacist for talking me through this and trying to calm my panicky arse, but the barometer at this point has reached peak measure of humility.

I'm now finally at home, concluding today to be a disaster. Though, I've got to admit that my anxiety perhaps dialled everything up worse than it was, as was my reluctance to get my ear checked. (But guess who won't learn anything from this and will repeat it shall a problem arise once more? Me. Without question.)

How was your day? :)

-sparkles

Your anxiety probably did make everything feel worse than it actually was (I’m the same 😭) and I can also promise you none of the people who witnessed you doing those things that you thought were embarrassing even remember it anymore! They‘ve all forgotten about them 100% 😌

But bless your sister! I am her in this scenario, both for taking you to the doctor (ear stuff is no joke😭 YOU COULDNT HEAR??? I‘m glad it‘s nothing bad!!! Also what are ear drops like? Sounds kinda cool but uncomfortable at the same time lol) and also bc flip flops are her enemy lmao sameee

And pls I didn‘t pay with card for the first three years that I had one bc I was scared of embarrassing myself 😭😭 i feeeeel you on that dhdldk

The day you sent this I had two exams (I think I already said that) and by now I‘ve found out that I failed the first one 🙂 but I passed the second one even tho I was 100% sure I was going to fail lmao. Either way they‘re only in my Nebenfach so I can do the failed exam again without any consequences (except I have to obviously pass it at some point lol). So yeah it seems like that day wasn‘t exactly amazing for either of us but there were some good things! You now know your ear is going to be okay and you can pay with card from now on and I passed an exam!

[governingmouse]

5 Times The Love

5 Times the Love. { No Longer Accepting }

SEND “5 TIMES THE LOVE” AND I WILL WRITE A DRABBLE ABOUT THE FIVE TIMES MY MUSE FELL IN LOVE WITH YOUR MUSE.

          i. In the garden among the roses, a modernSocrates and Plato – a resurrected Dante and Virgil – begin the lesson plan. Prisonwas Governor Ferguson’s palace to rule. Overseeing the work of the women,Governor and Deputy stroll at an even pace. Vera doesn’t struggle to catch upwith Miss Ferguson. She’s learning. While Joan is on the topic of correction,Vera listens in her currently enamored state. The breathy way in which shespeaks lures her in like bait on a hook. It’s a piercing sensation. She’scultured and knowledgeable, capable of quoting the classics and spill thetruths of a long game. She is everything Vera wants to be.

          Admirationand reverence tangled together like the lethal snare of vines. Without the gloves,Joan pinches a silken, red petal. She looks over the garden with thesatisfaction of a creator. The petal shrivels from her touch and falls to theground. Her Deputy swears that Joan grimaces – at least, a twitch of her lipscould be perceived as such. Joan lets go, only to snap her fingers at Vera. Theroses in the garden are corrupt, tainted like the inmates.

           ‘ Vera, are you listening? ‘

           Blinking, she jolts back toattention. A deep flush of embarrassment tints the tips of her ears and hercheeks. Vera feels hope. For herself, for the women. She mistakes it for love. Seducedby reason and order, a crush manifests. 

           ‘ Yes, Guv’na. ‘

           With a nod, Joan walks and Verafollows.

          She thinks it’s love.

          ii. A wolf surprises a lamb sore from growingher own set of teeth. On her doorstep, Governor Ferguson holds up a bag of takeaway. Shelooks surprisingly domestic in that earthen, near sheer blouse and a satchelover her shoulder. It’s a sight Vera could easily become accustomed to. Shefeels a twinge in her chest and steps aside to grant Carmilla entry.

          Thefood waits on the counter while Vera rushes in to take care of her mother { it’sbecome a curse for her, an ugly word }.Mum spits out her medication and gripes about Vera’s Florence Nightingale act. Verafears that she is an impostor, a fake, and everyone knows it. Guiltily, hershoulders slump down.

          Seatedbeside Rita, Joan intervenes. One malevolent entity grapples with another. Shesqueezes Rita’s frail hand riddled with varicose veins. Joan leans forward,whispers a mystery that will be buried alive with her.

          Wilted,Vera leans against the doorframe. Watches the exchange. Her heart pounds wildlyin her ears. A worn smile slips into place. She looks at Joan as if she’s thenext fucking messiah

          She knows it’s love.

          iii. Another midnight debrief. Another midnighthour where she wants to scream for more, more, more. Vodka tonics replace mint leaves and mojitos. Ice clinks.Condensation clings to the glass. Every single time, Vera can’t fathom how Joanisn’t drunk. Maybe her height’s a factor, maybe it’s her Russian blood, butVera’s too hammered to theorize.

           Thistime, she picks up on the slight slur that accentuates Joan’s voice. Shegiggles and sets down her empty glass. Joan loosens her tie. Vera’s blouseopens, exposing her throat and collarbone. The Governor looks at her as if she’sgoing to flay her, eat her alive, and suck the marrow from her bones. Verafeels heat, strange and confusing. She wants it to happen.

           A firm, strong hand squeezes herthigh. She slides forward and scoots toward the edge of her seat. Wetting herlips, she aspires for a chaste kiss, but receives more. More means teeth and tongue and gasping for air with Joan’shair falling into her face, shrouding her like a veil.

          She believes it’s love.

          iv. A silken scarf with a pattern of butterfliescovers up her scrawny neck. Vera checks in at the front desk. The nurse asks ifshe’s family. How she wants to laugh at that. Instead, she smiles and shakesher head. Says ‘no.’ This isn’t how she expected the governorship would fallinto her lap. Despite burning down half of Wentworth, despite the razorbladebetrayal, she visits Joan at the psych ward.

          Shesits at the round table like it’s a skewed version of the Last Supper. Purged ofall feeling in a catatonic state, the medication masks Joan Ferguson. It’s hardto look at, harder to say. Vera squirms in discomfort, she’s trying to stay forall the battles, but this is somehow worse than when she visited Fletch. Veratries to think about what Joan is thinking - really thinking. Joan wears an expressionless expression as theportrait of vacancy. 

           “I fought your battles. I did whatyou asked of me. I learned everything you chose to teach me. It wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.”

           As she reaches across the table, herhand covers Joan’s. Curiously, this ghost of Joan looks at the hand, but doesn’tmake a cruel, jabbing remark with a sharp tongue. She would have preferredthat. It’s easier to comfort stone. This is the danger of falling in love witha switchblade.

          Veradoesn’t expect a response. She expects glassy eyes and parted lips. Herface reddens from the pain of holding back tears. Instead, she chooses to steelherself. Her anger swallows her. She retracts her smaller hand. Curls it into aloose fist.

          Come back to me, shewants to plead. Show me the way.

          “I’ll beback tomorrow… to check on you.”

          Sheleaves behind the scent of her perfume, but not the betrayal. That stillstings.

          She swears it’s love.

          v. Baptizedin a river of fire, Governor Bennett runs Wentworth with compassion unlike herpredecessors. Despite all her wrongdoings, she doesn’t stray far from protocol.With Vera’s former mentor on remand, Joan Ferguson has yet to be laid to earth.So, it’s an old game of cat and mouse. To Carthage, a devil of a woman comes.She only lives to inflict pain.

          No morally superior position exists within this circumstance. She wantsto wish her away – to will her away from this prison. Tension radiates likeheat from Vera’s body. Alone, under the cover of night, she approaches the unitwith a letter in hand. Addressed to Shayne Riley and scribbled with a no. 2pencil, the letter has a weight to it. It crumbles within Vera’s grasp. The dimlighting of the isolation unit gives her a waxen complexion. She feels the tugin her chest, her heart, her soul. And realizes that the feeling is still there.

          There is something refined yet syntheticabout Joan. Some things remain constant: Joan is always pale, Joan is alwaysscheming. Her vantablack hair greys at an alarming rate. Her mane falls intoher face like some god-awful fury. She plans her revenge. Plays the long gameand patiently awaits the opportune moment to dismantle Vera Bennett.

          Fromprofound misunderstandings, they invented stories: always a matter of who hurtwho. The riot, siding with Westfall { re: Westnull }, disappoinTment, Jianna’sghost. Neither woman can skirt around the fact that they’re inherently flawed. Allthis collateral damage resembles a haphazard rollercoaster ride. She hides thehurt and lets it manifest as something new. Through the anger, she still lovesher.

          “Youcan be so cruel,” Vera says and the words shine in her eyes like cutdiamonds.

          Vera feignsdisinterest, holding up the letter before ripping it to shreds. She does it toelicit some reaction – any emotion – out of Joan. It’s akin to prodding ahornet’s nest or cutting yourself in the deep, blue sea where a great whitecatches a trace. Vera maintains that glare though her insides twist and she wantsto vomit. The fragments fall to the ground like snow. Joan stands. Her shadow packsa punch, dragging across the smaller woman.

          “You’llregret that.” Joan hisses with acidity infecting her once dulcet voice.

          “Youcan’t touch me,” Vera counters. She buries her hands into her pockets to hidethe way they tremble. Things will escalate: Joan will be put in Proctor’s unit,Joan will try to kill Bea, Joan will succeed, and then what? The documentensuring protective custody will be neglected for the long game they both play.

          You didn’t think you administered her deathsentence.

          Warpedand twisted, that’s the danger of falling in love with a switchblade. Fucked uppeople do fucked up things, Vera isn’t expelled from the fact. Maybe she wantsto keep Ferguson with her, by her side, either as a reminder of better days, aspenitence, or as a reminder of the profound depth to their relationship.

          Verachooses not to dwell on it, not now. Joan won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.She walks away. Leaves her in the dark.

          She calls it love.