#rhythm: vindication

[tsunagite]

Rhythm gayming miscellaneous stuff

[umbral-reign]

it's time to bring back the best meme I may have ever made tbh

[dollarstoreartsupplies]

okay okay okay so in trying to come up with a headcanon for what instrument Pete would play if he needed to (clarinet) I've come to a very important youngest-sibling-of-poor-parents conclusion:

it isn't what instrument peter would want to learn to play (listen, I know it's clarinet, but in a world where it isn't) because those are expensive and I don't think pete is musically driven enough to really bother putting a lot of effort into convincing his parents to buy him an instrument or saving up for one on his own,,,,,,,,, no.

whatever instrument pete would know how to play is whatever ted would buy because he was convinced knowing how to play an instrument would make girls think he was hot

and then (very important note: this is coming from a bass player myself) the only answer to what a pathetic, kind of gross guy with very little perception of what women would find hot who probably heard one time on twitter that guys playing acoustic guitars were cringey would buy and promptly never practice (leading to his little brother stealing it and teaching it to himself when he was bored and under stimulated) is absolutely bass guitar

[nayziiz]

Hungry | CL16

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader (you)

Author's note: A little fluff in honour of his Monaco win.

Masterlist

The memory of many anguished nights flashed through your mind like a montage. You remembered the way he clenched your shirt until his knuckles turned white, the self-doubt etched in his features as he whispered about the weight of expectations. His father sacrificed so much to get Charles to that point, and his godfather, undeniably talented, had only added to the legacy he was expected to uphold. Through all that doubt and insecurity, you were the silent witness to his struggles, the steady rock in the turbulent sea of his emotions.

But today, all of that was behind him. The sun cast a golden glow on the podium, and the crowd’s roar was deafening, an ocean of sound that seemed to lift him higher. The other drivers, his fiercest competitors, now stood below, clapping and smiling in genuine respect. The victory was not just a win; it was a vindication, a triumphant answer to every fear and insecurity that had haunted him. He had won his home race in Monaco. He was indeed the racing Prince of Monaco.

His eyes, searching through the sea of faces, found yours. There was a moment—a brief, heart-stopping moment—when the world seemed to pause. His smile widened, and you saw the tears in his eyes, a mirror of your own. He raised the trophy high, and the sunlight caught on the gleaming surface, scattering sparkles of light.

You thought about the sacrifices, the missed birthdays, the holidays spent apart, the nights you lay awake in an empty bed. It had all led to this moment. He had chased his dream with a relentless drive, and you had been right there beside him, every step of the way. Now, as the national anthem played and the flag was raised, you felt a surge of pride so intense it was almost overwhelming.

The scent of champagne filled the air, mingling with the heady smell of burnt rubber and gasoline. The spray of the champagne was like a baptism, a cleansing of all past failures and disappointments. As he descended from the podium, surrounded by a throng of well-wishers, you knew that his journey was far from over, but this victory was a milestone—a beacon of hope for all the races yet to come.

He reached you, his steps quickening as he approached. The crowd seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of shared emotion. He pulled you into a tight embrace, the trophy cool against your back. You felt his heartbeat, fast and strong, a rhythm that matched your own.

“You did it,” you whispered, your voice choking with tears.

“We did it,” he corrected, his voice trembling. He pulled back slightly to look into your eyes. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

You smiled through your tears, knowing that this moment, this victory, was as much yours as it was his. You had both crossed a finish line today, together.

The celebrations didn’t stop on the podium; they carried well into the night and into the early morning. After the podium ceremony, a whirlwind of congratulations and interviews, the festivities moved into the city. The streets were alive with the hum of excitement, fans and friends eager to share in the joy of his triumph. The night began at a fancy restaurant, where a private room had been reserved for the champion and his closest circle.

He barely let go of your hand, keeping you close and by his side at all times. The room buzzed with laughter and the clinking of glasses, the air thick with the aroma of gourmet food. Toasts were made, speeches filled with heartfelt words of admiration and pride. He looked at you often, his eyes saying more than words ever could. Each time someone praised him for his determination and skill, he squeezed your hand, silently acknowledging your part in his journey.

From the restaurant, the celebration flowed seamlessly to a club, the music pulsating with energy that mirrored the elation in his heart. The dim lights and vibrant colours created a dreamlike atmosphere, a stark contrast to the gruelling days of training and the harsh light of the racetrack. Here, in this place of revelry, he danced with a freedom you had rarely seen, his movements fluid and uninhibited. Yet, even amidst the crowd, he kept you close, his hand firm around yours, as if letting go would break the spell of the night.

He didn’t care about his trophy, which had already been safely tucked away in your shared apartment. What mattered to him was having you there to celebrate with him, to embrace your role in his success. Every time someone raised a glass to his victory, he turned to you, his gaze filled with gratitude and love. He introduced you to everyone, his pride evident as he spoke about your unwavering support, how you had been his anchor, his confidant, his greatest source of strength.

Hours passed like minutes, the night blending into early morning. As the first light of dawn began to filter through the club’s windows, Charles finally made the call to go home. He was exhausted and his body hurt more than he was willing to admit. The adrenaline from the race and the euphoria of the celebration had kept him going, but now the physical toll of the day was undeniable.

You both stumbled into your apartment, giggling like teenagers in love as you finally managed to remove your heels from your feet. The cool floor was a welcome relief, and you let out a contented sigh. Charles, meanwhile, collapsed on the couch, his head leaning back, eyes half-closed but still watching you with a tender smile.

“You okay over there, champ?” you teased, leaning against the arm of the couch to look at him.

“I’m more than okay,” he replied, his voice a mix of exhaustion and happiness. “I’m perfect.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you made your way over to him. “Come on, you need to get out of those clothes and into bed.”

He groaned in agreement but didn’t move, his body too spent to cooperate. You knelt down and helped him untie his shoes, slipping them off his feet and setting them aside. He watched you with a grateful expression, his eyes filled with love.

“You don’t have to take care of me, you know,” he murmured, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face.

“You take care of me all the time,” you countered, smiling as you stood up and extended your hand. “Now it’s my turn.”

With some effort, you managed to pull him to his feet. He swayed slightly, and you steadied him, your arms wrapped around his waist as you guided him to the bedroom. The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow over the room. It felt like a sanctuary, a safe haven after the whirlwind of the night.

Charles sat on the edge of the bed, and you helped him out of his shirt, revealing the lean, muscled frame beneath. You couldn’t help but admire the way his skin glistened slightly with sweat, a testament to the physical demands of his sport. He caught your gaze and chuckled softly.

“See something you like?” he teased, his voice playful despite his exhaustion.

“Always,” you replied, your tone sincere as you leaned in to kiss him. “Now lie down and get some rest.”

“This has been the best day of my life, Thank you for being here with me, for everything.” he whispered, his breath warm against your neck.

You hugged him tightly, your heart swelling with love. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

When you stepped away to take off your dress, Charles’ eyes remained locked on your body.

“Now who’s staring?” you teased, glancing over your shoulder with a playful smirk.

“I’m just hungry,” he responded, his gaze unwavering.

“Oh, you want me to make you something?” you asked innocently, unclipping your bra and turning around to look for a pyjama set.

“No, no. But you can turn around,” he insisted. You did as he requested, feeling his eyes on you, every movement intensified by his attention. “Why would I want anything other than the full buffet in front of me?”

“You’re cheesy as hell, Mr. Leclerc. It’s a good thing you’re cute. And, a Monaco Grand Prix winner,” you teased, walking towards him with a deliberate sway in your hips until you were right between his legs.

He reached out, his hands resting on your hips as he looked up at you with a mix of admiration and desire.

“I’m serious. You’re everything I could ever want," he said softly.

You felt a warmth spread through you, not just from his words but from the sincerity in his eyes. Leaning down, you placed your hands on his shoulders, feeling the tension and exhaustion in his muscles.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you replied, your voice gentle. “Now, let’s get you to bed.”

He grinned, tugging you closer until you were straddling his lap.

“Maybe just a few more minutes like this,” he murmured, his lips finding yours in a tender kiss. You melted into him, the connection between you both a balm to the long and arduous journey to this point. Breaking the kiss, you looked into his eyes, brushing his hair from his forehead.

“Only a few more minutes. Then we both need to sleep,” you agreed with a smile. He nodded, his hands caressing your back as he held you close.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. “For everything.”

You kissed him again, softly, conveying all the love and support you felt for him. “I’ll always be here for you, Charles. Always.”

With that, you both changed into your sleepwear and crawled into bed together, limbs entwined, hearts beating in perfect sync. As he drifted off to sleep, his breathing deep and even, you lay awake a little longer, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your hand.

The first rays of morning light began to peek through the curtains, casting a gentle glow over the room. You knew that this moment, this feeling, was something you would cherish forever. The journey had been challenging, but it had brought you to this point—wrapped in the arms of the man you loved, celebrating his victory, and looking forward to a future filled with hope and promise.

Finally, you allowed yourself to close your eyes, the warmth of his embrace and the softness of the bed lulling you into a peaceful sleep. Whatever the future held, you knew you would face it together, side by side, every step of the way.

[bullet-prooflove]

To The Grave: Captain Jean Treville x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @@lovemissyhoneybee @sekretwindow @rey4kat

There is something cruel about digging your own grave, knowing that each shovelful of dirt takes you one step closer to oblivion. You almost refuse but you’ve seen what happens to a corpse when it’s left amongst the wilderness. You can’t stand the idea of the crows pecking out your eyes, of rats and foxes tearing at your belly.

It takes a while, the digging. Your muscles ache, your palms blistering as you follow the rhythm your body sets. Your mind is full of Jean, of his depreciating laugh, his warm smile, the roughness of his voice. You think of the last time the two of you were together. The scratch of his beard between your thighs as he took you to heaven, once, twice, three times before he made love to you on his bed in the garrison.

You’d slipped away long before dawn, leaving him sleeping heavily amongst the tussled sheets. You remembered pausing in the doorway, considering climbing back into bed alongside of him. You could give up the spy game, become a normal wife, one that cooked, maintained a home.

“You would never be happy with that life.” Jean had once told you. “You crave the adventure too much.”

He isn’t wrong, for years you’ve stayed one step ahead of France’s adversaries and there’s a vindication that comes with that, a satisfaction. When men look at you all they see is a woman, someone to conquer, to seduce. You toy with them, twist them, relieve them of the burdens they carry until all of those secrets spill right out of their heads, because men in positions of power, they like to boast especially to beautiful woman.

Your conquests are rarely about sex, they’re about finding that fundamental weakness and exploiting it. You know how to make a man beg for you, what he’ll offer up in exchange just for the promise of a kiss but that’s always as far as it goes, a kiss and nothing more.

Your heart, your body, your soul, all of it belong to Jean Treville, the man who will never know that you’re buried in an unmarked grave just a short distance outside of Paris.

That’s the other cruelty of what your captor is doing, he’s taking the one thing that Jean treasures most in this world and destroying it. He’ll wreak his revenge by sending your husband letters, detailing horrific, fictious things about what he’s doing to you. It will send Jean into madness, it will consume his waking thoughts, torture him in his dreams. He’ll tear apart this entire country just to find you.

And when he finally breaks, when he commits that deed he can’t come back from, when he begs on his hands and knees for your release that’s when the trick will be revealed.

There was never anything to return.

The woman he loved is gone, murdered because of something he did five years ago and that will be the thing that destroys him, that drives him to put his sword through his own heart.

“That’s deep enough.” Marsac says from behind you and you set the spade into the dirt alongside of you before turning to face him.

He’s had the pistol trained on you the entire time, his finger bearing down on the trigger. He’s under no illusion about your abilities, he’s studied you the same way he has Jean. He knows your strengths, your weaknesses, what it takes to draw you from your post in the Duke of Savoy’s convoy. When a musketeer turns up, requesting a private audience it gets your attention, especially when he’s bringing news of your husband.

The man that no one’s even aware you’re married to.

“Did you know?” Marsac asks you, his grip on the trigger tightening. “Did you know that the orders you were carrying that night condemned twenty musketeers?”

“Would it matter if I did?” You ask him and he shakes his head.

“No, you’re just as guilty as your husband.” He hisses as his footing shifts and he squares his shoulders.  

You know what a shooting stance looks like, the subtle changes in a man’s body before he pulls the trigger. You swallow hard against the well of emotion in your chest, tipping your chin up so that you can look at the sky. You want the vivid blue to be the last thing you see. It reminds you of Jean’s eyes, the brilliant hue as he looks at you during the height of climax.

When you hear the gunshot, you expect a rush of pain, a stab of agony, that’s the way it felt the first time you were shot. Instead there’s nothing.

You exhale, your gaze coming to rest on Marsac. Blood erupts from his mouth, a blush of crimson blossoms across the front of his shirt as the pistol slips from his fingers. He chokes out a word but the copper in his mouth stifles it as he falls to his knees in front of you.

Behind him stands Jean, the barrel of his pistol still smoking as his eyes come to rest on you.

“Terese?” He questions, holstering his weapon as he steps towards you.

“I’m alright.” You whisper but Jean he needs to see that for himself.

His calloused hands come to rest on your shoulders, gentle and steadying as he studies you intensely. There’s flecks of blood across your features, tiny droplets of Marsac’s life force staining your skin. His gloved thumb chases them away as his forehead comes to rest upon yours, his voice breaking.

“If he had killed you...”

He doesn’t say anything else, he doesn’t need to. The words hang in the air between the two of you as he cradles you close, his lips brushing over your hair.

… I would have followed you into the grave.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

Soldier, Poet, King

Part 15

[Beginning] [Previous]

[AO3] [Masterpost]

Almost a year after the last update, have a new chapter 😅 We're actually in the homestretch of it now and maybe that's why I'm slowing down so much (plus like...life, other projects, you know how it goes)

--//--

“Get this fucking brat off me, I said I’m fine!”

Jin Guangyao continues tapping away at his tablet without a twitch; there are still so many meetings to schedule, so many questions to answer in the wake of their ‘press’ junket, such as it was. Just this morning he’d been contacted directly by the most prominent black market Kaiju parts dealer in Shanghai demanding amnesty lest Jin Guangyao find himself dead in a ditch the next time he steps foot outside the shatterdome, so quite frankly he’s got bigger things to worry about than the wet-cat-protesting-his-bath that is Xue Yang.

“You promised, love,” is all Xiao Xingchen has to say for Xue Yang to settle down with only a little more biting, and considering Nie Huaisang has just taken over the task of poking and prodding him from Mo Xuanyu the biting isn’t really much of a threat, save for the vague potential for infection. Who knows where that mouth has been.

“You’re almost single-handedly responsible for the worst turn this war has taken since it began, so I’d say you’ve lost the right to make demands from us ummmm..indefinitely,” Wei Wuxian replies from his makeshift work area in the back corner of the lab, feet up on his desk and also tapping a mile a minute at his own tablet (though whether he’s doing groundbreaking Kaiju research that could also change the entire course of the war or playing a rhythm game is really anyone’s guess; both are equally likely).

“I used your notes so you’re on the hook for it just as much as I am! You’re basically the Grandmaster of fringe Kaiju research and shit, this is all your fault too!!”

“Wow, that’s a boring argument to have heard for the 30th time today. When are you going to get sick of repeating it?” Wei Wuxian yawns. Jin Guangyao refuses to smile at the rather blatant riling-up that Xue Yang so loves to do to everyone else and yet can’t seem to handle when it’s turned right back on him.

“Take it easy,” he calls without looking up from his work; in his peripheral vision he watches Xue Yang attempt another lunge off the slapdash examination table (comprised mostly of a filing cabinet laid on its side and Nie Huaisang’s emergency cot resting on top of it) set up in the middle of the lab, but of course Nie Huaisang hadn’t even needed to be told to tie him down as soon as they’d gotten him on it (“Buy me dinner first, Sangsang!”) so there’s really nothing for him to do but thrash against his restraints.

“Told you he’s feral,” young A-Qing mutters under her breath, sounding mutinous around the chak-chak-chak of chomping on her ever-present bubblegum.

“Yes dear we know he is, and something tells me that cracking open the brain of an interdimensional Lovecraftian nightmare so he could try slurping the contents out like a slushee hasn’t improved things very much,” he replies and feels oddly vindicated when she snorts a laugh into the back of her hand.

A-Qing is…unexpected. He’d heard her calling for Xue Yang to come upstairs that night he and Nie Huaisang had gone to see him at The Cockpit, though of course that evening he hadn’t known precisely who she was or why she felt she had the right to boss Xue Yang around. Finding out that she’s the once-wayward-child-turned-protegé of the Immortals (and that her ethics are significantly more dubious than her benefactors’) had been..a surprise, to put it mildly. Not that he thinks that Xiao Xingchen and Song Zichen aren’t perfectly capable guardians, of course, but rather he’s surprised that two distinguished gentlemen such as themselves seem very fond of collecting people who could be reasonably compared to scrungly alley cats and ignoring all their mange and fleas in favor of cooing over how sweet and brilliant they are.

And they are (brilliant, at least, though not any given definition of sweet to anyone except their ‘daozhangs’), but the contrasts at play in their little fucked up family of four are still a bit of a mystery to Jin Guangyao.

It had been A-Qing, apparently, who had hacked the CCTV and the ‘dome’s video feeds long enough to broadcast Jin Guangshan and Jin Zixun’s deaths straight to the communications tower (and the entire city), and as such Nie Mingjue has instructed that she give their security team an extremely thorough rundown of every breach in their defenses that she had exploited. Jin Guangyao still desperately wishes someone had thought to record Nie Mingjue’s reaction when the girl, standing no taller than his abs and thoroughly uncaring of the danger she was putting herself in, had laughed in his face, popped her gum, and told him that it had taken no longer than an hour the afternoon of the Kaiju’s arrival to get her hands on everything digital in the ‘dome, not just their camera feeds. He hasn’t seen his lover turn that shade of red in a very long time, nor ever seen him so sorely tempted to shout at someone less than half his age and height.

Anyway — she’d taken a shine to Jin Guangyao within minutes of Lan Xichen ushering everyone into the ‘dome to avoid further scrutiny by the press, easily picking him out as one of the adults in the room most likely to indulge her quasi-legal and morally gray brand of ethics outside of her beloved daozhangs. So now here she sits, tinkering around with something Wei Wuxian had given her to turn into a signal jammer for anyone outside the ‘dome attempting to access anything on their network or frequencies, and Jin Guangyao has found himself on ersatz babysitting duty.

(She is also, according to Xiao Xingchen, worried about Xue Yang’s health and wouldn’t be able to focus well working somewhere she can’t keep an eye on his condition; an assessment which Jin Guangyao very politely and very secretly thinks is a load of horseshit.)

“Stop biting, Yangyang, or I’m going to have to knock you out,” Nie Huaisang scolds, and Jin Guangyao is genuinely surprised when it works. Xue Yang quiets down and seems resigned to his fate of being hooked up to various machinery to monitor just about every measurable aspect of human life.

“He has nightmares when he’s unconscious,” A-Qing whispers conspiratorially. Jin Guangyao leans over a bit to hear better and keeps his eyes on Xue Yang, wary of his sudden acquiescence proving itself to be a fake-out. “Really bad ones. I think he’s still in their heads a little.”

“Heads? Plural?” Jin Guangyao asks.

“Uh-huh. He Drifted with one but he says it was all of them, all at the same time. Like the Borg.”

Jin Guangyao frowns and feels like he’s missing something, namely whatever the hell the ‘Borg’ are, but Wei Wuxian makes somewhat aggressive eye contact and puts a finger to his lips to shush him and then makes a sort of ‘keep going’ gesture.

Jin Guangyao glares at him for the contradictory instructions but decides he must mean to just keep her talking about the Kaiju specifically, not to get sidetracked on whatever ‘Borg’ is.

“He knew that the last Kaiju would follow him.”

“Of course he did,” A-Qing snorts, shrugging like she can’t be bothered as she returns to her tinkering, “That was the whole point of the plan to kill your dad, but he knew he could do it because they’re all trying to get at him now. All the time. He says they’re calling for him but it’s more like shrieking he can't ever stop listening to.”

Well. Xue Yang is an obnoxious and genuinely dangerous menace, but being relentlessly pursued by an unknown number of Kaijus who can get in his head any hour of the day or night is not a fate Jin Guangyao would wish on anyone. Another glance at Wei Wuxian proves that he’s turned pale and seems to understand precisely what Jin Guangyao does about what that must be doing to Xue Yang’s already tenuous grip on sanity.

“He’s about to overload.”

Jin Guangyao does not jump at Song Zichen’s sudden comment from behind him, his voice is too quiet for that, but it’s certainly a little disconcerting. He doesn’t have time to ruminate on the slightly eldritch creepiness of the Immortals, though, as he looks over at Xue Yang again and is alarmed (to put it mildly) to find that his neck has turned…blue? There’s an entire network of veins standing out under his skin as he strains against his cuffs but they’re the same neon blue of fresh Kaiju blood rather than anything human, and Nie Huaisang seems to realize in the same moment that the new way Xue Yang is straining against his cuffs has absolutely nothing to do with his hatred for being confined.

“Go get the Wens,” Jin Guangyao orders Wei Wuxian, who promptly jumps to his feet in a flurry of papers to tear out of the lab. Xue Yang thrashes around a guttural scream that only barely manages to escape the tightening confines of his throat and Mo Xuanyu lunges forward from where he’d backed off at Xue Yang’s protest in order to take over the various sensors and instruments hooked to him again.

“His readings are all over the place,” Mo Xuanyu reports over the sound of Xue Yang’s screaming. “It’s a miracle he’s not dead, the Kaiju seem to have completely rewired his brain!”

Jin Guangyao takes note of that in a distant sort of way as he stands in front of A-Qing in a futile attempt to shield her from watching Xue Yang’s shockingly rapid deterioration. The Immortals are standing at his head, Xiao Xingchen attempting to keep him from thrashing so much he injures himself and Song Zichen pressed up behind his husband to hold Xue Yang’s shoulders down with a grip so firm his knuckles and fingertips have gone white.

Whatever it is that’s happening to the veins in Xue Yang’s neck is spreading, the same spidery blue veins standing in stark relief in his temples and across his forehead, and he can only assume it’s spreading downwards as well. (With a detached sort of interest he wonders what’ll happen if it reaches his heart, but it’s highly likely that they don’t want to find that out if they also want Xue Yang to survive. Which he does.)

The Wen siblings arrive just as Xue Yang’s screaming is choked off, quite literally, by a profusion of foamy blood, and as Jin Guangyao turns to usher A-Qing fully out of the room he hears Wen Qing calling out orders to her brother and everyone else in the room, taking charge of the emergency with her usual deft authority.

“Wait — is he dying? For real?” A-Qing asks, suddenly sounding every bit her very young age. “Wait stop, Yao-ge, stop! He’s not allowed to die unless I kill him!!”

“He won’t die,” Jin Guangyao says smoothly, though he and A-Qing both know that’s not something he’s actually capable of guaranteeing. “I promised him I’d send him away from all of this, somewhere nice in the countryside where no one would ever bother you or him or the daozhangs again. I’ll keep my promise but you must calm down.”

A-Qing is small but she’s ferociously strong for someone her age; Jin Guangyao grapples with her in an attempt to keep her from running back into the lab, their heights and strength almost evenly matched. For a long moment they stand there locked in a struggling stalemate until A-Qing bites his shoulder and Jin Guangyao manages to get a foot hooked around the back of one of her ankles to kick her feet out from under her and bear her to the ground with the loud clang! of bone on metal.

Jin Guangyao winces for the bruises that maneuver definitely left on his knuckles, but that’s preferable to giving poor A-Qing a concussion simply because she’s afraid for Xue Yang’s life. He grits his teeth against a pained shout as A-Qing throws her head back to grind his bruised hand hard enough into the floor that he feels the slight texturing of it for grip start to grate the skin off his knuckles, but still he refuses to let her up.

“Alright come here pipsqueak, up you get.”

Jin Guangyao doesn’t even entertain the thought that Wei Wuxian would dare talk to him like that, so he simply rolls to the side to let A-Qing pop up off the floor — and barrel straight into a much more secure hold in Wei Wuxian’s arms, where she struggles hard against his superior height and strength, and instantly loses.

“Qing-jiejie’s got him under pretty heavy sedation, Xuanyu’s trying to figure out what the fuck that was but he’s stable for now,” Wei Wuxian reports around the ruckus of A-Qing struggling to kick him in the shins. 

“No! You’re gonna make him even crazier, I just told you!” A-Qing practically screeches. “Do you want all the kaijus to know where you are? You just locked him in there with them!!”

Jin Guangyao stands and dusts himself off as Wei Wuxian uses his grip on A-Qing’s arms to spin her around to face him, suddenly as intense and serious as he only gets in the midst of battle.

“His nightmares, you said. The Kaiju are actually trying to talk with him? In real time? They’re actively communicating with him?”

“They’re in his brain, Xian-laoshi!” A-Qing wails, “And you just stuck him in there with them and he can’t get out!”

“Okay, I hear you,” Wei Wuxian soothes, though Jin Guangyao notes that he still hasn’t released his death grip on A-Qing’s scrawny biceps, holding her rooted to the spot in front of him. “We’ll wake him up as soon as we can, you have my word. But he’s a danger to himself right now until we can figure out what’s going on with him, physically, and we don’t want him to hurt himself any more than he already has. Do you hear me?”

A-Qing wavers for a long moment, glancing back at the door to the lab like she wants to make a break for it, but in the end she just sags in Wei Wuxian’s grip and nods, clearly miserable.

Jin Guangyao is suddenly very aware that for all her genius and her scrappy alley-cat bluster she’s still only a teenager, and a young one at that.

“I understand.”

“Do you want one of the daozhangs to come take you back to your quarters?”

“...Bai-daozhang.”

“Alright, we’ll get him. You’re okay, sweetheart, it’s going to be fine.”

Jin Guangyao doesn’t even wait for Wei Wuxian to realize that — in this one singular instance! — Jin Guangyao is prepared to do whatever he thinks best without question. He turns back to the lab and steps into the controlled chaos that is the Wen siblings dancing around each other with hardly a word needed as they attempt to save Xue Yang’s body while Mo Xuanyu and Nie Huaisang frantically get all the data on his mental state that they can possibly scan for in the interim.

The Immortals are, thankfully, simply standing to the side to watch the proceedings with eerie stillness, not even seeming to blink as they stare at Xue Yang lying motionless under a soft cage of wires and IV drips, acupuncture needles sticking out of him in the few places where nothing is stuck to him.

“Xiao Xingchen?”

Xiao Xingchen’s gaze is intense when he turns it on him, his perpetually-smiling lips set into a grim line for the first time since Jin Guangyao has met him. The effect is startling, to see someone so gentle pushed so far, but Jin Guangyao is not a man easily cowed.

“A-Qing is asking for you; she’s…distressed by the current situation.”

“Ah.” Xiao Xingchen’s icy expression softens ever so slightly. “Of course, just give me one moment and I’ll take her somewhere less fraught.”

Jin Guangyao nods and tucks his hands behind his back to hide the way he’s clutching at one thumb in the curl of the opposite palm, squeezing it to ground himself. He watches, curious, as Xiao Xingchen turns to step directly in front of his husband and the pair of them lock eyes for a moment, right hands on each others’ temples and thumbs pressed to the curves of their cheekbones just below the eye. They stand in perfect stillness for a long moment and then break apart at some signal only they can understand.

His confusion must be too obvious, as Xiao Xingchen offers him a crookedly sly smile as he approaches.

“Our cybernetics are capable of linking to one another,” he explains and gently shepherds Jin Guangyao back out into the hallway by the strength of his magnetic presence alone. “What he sees I will see and vice versa, until we break the connection again. It takes some getting used to, but it’s quite handy.”

“I can imagine so,” is all Jin Guangyao can think to reply. They step into the hallway again and find that A-Qing is at least no longer being restrained, merely standing miserably at Wei Wuxian’s side though she perks up a little at the sight of Xiao Xingchen at his side.

“Come here, sweeting,” Xiao Xingchen soothes and A-Qing runs to his side, tucking up under his arm like a duckling to drape his over-long, trailing sleeve over her own shoulders like a blanket. “A-Yang will be fine, he’s in the best place possible for this to happen, hm?”

A-Qing nods but says nothing as Xiao Xingchen starts to lead her away, still murmuring warm, gentle reassurances that calm even Jin Guangyao, though naturally they aren’t aimed at him. When they turn the corner and he’s alone in the corridor with Wei Wuxian, he glances at his companion and pauses at the look on his face.

He’s seen that contemplative expression often since the Wens arrived and Wei Wuxian began helping Mo Xuanyu with his research in earnest. That’s the look of a man barely more sane than the evil genius strapped to the examination table a mere 20 feet away who has an idea that no one is going to like very much, save for himself.

“What are you thinking?” Jin Guangyao prods, despite his self-preservation instincts screaming at him not to encourage whatever new madness has grabbed hold of Wei Wuxian.

“The scans can’t really tell us much,” he muses, thinking out loud, “because his brain has become…different, let’s say. He has new synapses, new types of signals firing between neural pathways that we don’t know how to read or understand what they do because they’re not human signals. And we can’t keep him sedated much longer or I think the Kaiju hivemind or whatever it is really will just turn his brains into porridge; we’re barely holding off a total overload as it is.”

Jin Guangyao is following so far, but he can’t fathom the conclusion, whatever it is that Wei Wuxian has thought of that’s put that manic gleam in his eye.

“So what do you propose we do instead?”

The grim smile that slashes across Wei Wuxian’s boyishly charming face is chilling, and Jin Guangyao has to put conscious effort into not letting his shoulders creep up around his ears.

“He Drifted with a Kaiju brain, ah? I think it’s time somebody tried Drifting with him.”

Jin Guangyao can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the thought of being privy to any more of Xue Yang’s thought processes than he already is. That just doesn’t sound like a good time at all and he certainly wouldn’t have volunteered for such a job even before his brain became part-Kaiju soup.

By the time it hits him a mere moment later that Wei Wuxian means to do it himself — to Drift with Xue Yang now, while he’s being bombarded with signals from the Kaijus no matter the fact that they’ve seen how much damage it’s done to Xue Yang — the man has already brushed past him to hurry back into the lab.

“A-Sang stop scanning, plan B – bring that rig over here, hook me up.”

Jin Guangyao needs to stop this, they’re already down two highly experienced, infinitely valuable pilots and they cannot afford to lose another, especially not one as good as Wei Wuxian and not for something so stupid—

He’s off like a shot down the corridor in an instant, feet pounding on metal grates and concrete floors as he flies through the Shatterdome with grim purpose, ignoring every twinge and ache in his old injuries; he can worry about them later, for now he darts between startled denizens of the ‘dome without apology until he can burst into Nie Mingjue’s office. He slams the door open without knocking and is thankful to whatever miracle of genetics gave him his eidetic memory that remembers precisely what his partners are (meant to be) doing at all hours of the day and where.

The Twin Jades look up from the data tablets and report readouts spread on the table between the three of them, equally startled looks in their wide eyes.

Xichen recovers first and asks, frowning, “A-Yao? What is it, love, what’s wrong?”

He can’t breathe past a stitch in his ribs but he forces himself to gasp anyway, “Wuxian is about to Drift with Xue Yang — he’s going to try to understand what he’s done with the Kaijus from the inside.”

Jin Guangyao stumbles to the side just in time to avoid being bowled over by Lan Wangji bolting from the room swift as an arrow, Lan Xichen barely sparing a moment to glance first at Nie Mingjue and then him before he follows on his brother’s heels at a dead run.

Jin Guangyao bends over to try to catch his breath until he feels large, hot hands pull him straight again and keep lifting until his feet are dangling a few inches off the floor, his arms slung over Nie Mingjue’s shoulders so he can stretch out properly and take all the pressure off his ribs and back.

He sucks in a deep, unobstructed breath and then another, and after the third Nie Mingjue carefully sets him back down on his feet.

“Where are Xingchen and Zichen?” he asks, eyebrows pinched like he’s got a headache coming on.

“Zichen’s in the lab, Xingchen took A-Qing away, I don’t know where. They won’t leave the ‘dome though, I’m sure.”

“I want them in here ASAP, Zixuan and Yanli too if they can make it — I’ve got questions and I’m fucking sick of waiting for the answers.”

–//–

Lan Xichen runs through the shatterdome as fast as he can, chasing little more than glimpses of his brother’s white jumpsuit and the dark ends of his hair whipping around corners as people scatter out of their way with a sort of organized efficiency. He can only hope that they don’t leave panic in their wake — they’re at least running away from the communications tower and the Kaiju sirens are, of course, silent. He doesn’t have time to worry too much about that, though; his priority now has to be Lan Wangji, because Lan Wangji’s will be Wei Wuxian.

Lan Wangji loves Wei Wuxian past the point of rationality. This has been true for years, long before the pair of them were given the opportunity to work in proximity and let their youthful infatuation mature into something well-rooted in mutual respect and regard for each other. Lan Xichen has been Drifting with his brother since they were teenagers, and though they don’t share their thoughts whilst in the Drift in the same way the other Pilots do, that doesn’t mean Lan Xichen hadn’t known. That kind of devotion isn’t something one can tuck conveniently away in the silence of meditation, and Xichen had done what he could to help his brother nurture that love through obstacles many people could never imagine.

He knows precisely what it will do to his brother if Wei Wuxian loses himself in the way that Xue Yang has. He also knows that if Wei Wuxian must lose himself then Lan Wangji would rather be lost with him than be left behind again to wonder if there was anything he could have done differently to help Wei Wuxian avoid this in the first place.

Wei Wuxian’s inexplicable disappearance to Yiling so many years ago had been difficult for everyone, really.

Lan Xichen practically skids into the research bay mere moments after Lan Wangji and stops himself from careening into it headlong with one hand braced on the doorframe. Lan Wangji, a mere two steps ahead of him, has not stopped voluntarily, that much is clear. He isn’t struggling, but Song Lan and Wen Ning both have death grips on his arms and apologetic looks on their faces when they glance up at Lan Xichen’s arrival. He can see in the next moment why they’ve stopped Lan Wangji with some force; Wei Wuxian is already deep in the Drift, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands in white-knuckled fists on the arms of the chair pulled up next to the exam table Xue Yang is strapped to, the latter thrashing weakly enough that he isn’t dislodging any of the dozen or so tubes and wires stuck into him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lan Xichen asks Wen Qing, standing calmly behind Wei Wuxian’s seat with her hands cupped carefully around either side of his neck.

“If Hanguang-Jun interrupts them now Wei Wuxian may never come back.”

“His brain activity is only slightly abnormal, no more than if he were at risk of chasing the rabbit,” Nie Huaisang pipes up from behind the bank of computers, Mo Xuanyu typing furiously at his side. “Xue Yang was slipping but he stabilized fully once they started Drifting — it’s actually helping I swear!”

“How is this even possible?” Lan Xichen can’t help but ask, feeling helpless in a way he absolutely does not care for. “Xue Yang is hardly sane, let alone Drift Compatible with-”

Lan Wangji is utterly blank, cold as ice, when he interrupts, bleakly, with, “Wei Ying is a true universal Drifter.”

Wen Qing doesn’t do them the disservice of pretending to be surprised, though Lan Xichen vaguely wishes that she would. But of course, if there’s anything abnormal in Wei Wuxian’s medical history, she would be the first to know it. And his siblings would hardly ever betray such a lucrative secret, not when Wen Ruohan would’ve used him the same way he’d used Xue Yang — destroyed him, the way he’d done to Xue Yang.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of monitors beeping and the ragged, uneven breathing of so many people on edge in the same room.

“The ability to establish a successful Drift with a partner is no guarantee that one will not be injured in the process, even in standard procedure. What are the odds that this connection will destroy his neural pathways beyond repair?”

Wen Qing glares at him first and then Lan Wangji, though whatever she’s thinking she doesn’t let it stop her from answering a curt, “50/50.”

Lan Xichen takes a deep breath in and stands to his full height, doing his best to compose himself and draw an air of authority around himself, no less a suit of armor than his flight suit. “Song-daozhang. Wen Ning. Please release Wangji.”

They do so after a moment’s hesitation and Lan Wangji snaps his sleeves straight again with sharp tugs on the cuffs, his back ramrod straight in a mirror of Lan Xichen’s. Lan Xichen steps further into the room to stand at his brother’s side, a united front, and curls his hand carefully, unsure of his welcome, around Lan Wangji’s wrist in silent comfort. Lan Wangji naturally doesn’t return the gesture, but he doesn’t pull away either so Lan Xichen leaves his hand where it is, the thick canvas of Lan Wangji’s jumpsuit a comfortable barrier between his grip and his brother’s distaste for physical touch.

Lan Xichen counts to a hundred and thirty-seven before something changes; the steady, muted beeping of one of the monitors abruptly ratchets higher, faster, and Mo Xuanyu’s face goes grim as he begins tapping away at his keyboard, his eyes flying from side to side as he reads whatever strings of data are lighting his face up green.

“It’s okay,” he has the good sense to caution, though he doesn’t look away from his monitor for even long enough to glance at them, “they’re fine, whatever it is they’re experiencing they’re doing it together, still aligned.”

Song Lan shifts his weight suddenly, nothing more than a redistributing of his weight from one foot to the other, but it grabs Lan Xichen’s heightened attention before he’s even completed the motion. He spares the man a glance just as he cocks his head and turns to look at the door behind them.

“What is it?” Lan Xichen asks, his grip tightening unconsciously on Lan Wangji’s wrist.

“Xingchen just told me Chifeng-Zun has sent a runner asking for us. A-Qing doesn’t want to let him go, but we can no longer delay the inevitable. Nor do I wish to.”

Lan Xichen takes a deep breath, consciously forces himself to release his grip on Wangji’s wrist one aching finger at a time, and both asks for and receives his brother’s forgiveness for the bruising restraint in a pair of glances and a slight nod that he returns.

Honestly Nie Mingjue has been unusually patient waiting even this long to have his questions answered. He has waited without complaint through the recovery period following the battle, through all the planning and soothing of the press, and now through the thoroughly unexpected arrival of Xue Yang and the Immortals. But time is up now, his partner’s patience is wearing thin, and Lan Xichen can admit at least to himself that his own near-infinite patience is depleted as well.

He finds himself torn between a desire to stay here in the lab to support his brother in fretting over the question of Wei Wuxian’s survival against such unique odds and returning to Nie Mingjue’s office to learn the truth from the Immortals. Just as much as he wants to support his brother, he wants to support his partner in his efforts to clean up the mess Xue Yang has dropped on their doorstep, and the desire to do both simultaneously has him at something of a loss-

“Bring them out of it!”

Wen Qing’s sharp order cuts through the tension of the entire room; before Lan Xichen (or Wen Ning) can stop them, Song Lan and Lan Wangji have crossed the room to their respective partners. In the split second before Nie Huaisang and Mo Xuanyu manage to do as she’s said, both Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang scream loudly enough that blood flecks their colorless lips, and by the time they both slump forward, unconscious and eerily silent, they’re being unhooked from the rig as quickly as Nie Huaisang and Mo Xuanyu can work.

In the sudden silence, Lan Wangji’s soft, “Wei Ying,” is unbearably loud.

–//–

“It’s not as bad as we thought, but it’s also worse,” Wei Wuxian rasps; the fact that he’s hunched in his seat and only able to sit upright with Lan Wangji and Jiang Wanyin bracing him on either side is quite nearly the only thing stopping Nie Mingjue from wringing his neck, his talent and genius be damned. Jin Guangyao rests a restraining hand on his wrist below the table as if he can sense how close he is to losing control. (He supposes it’s entirely possible that he can.)

Xue Yang looks even worse than Wei Wuxian, ashen-faced and a stray drop of blood or two like black freckles on his chin. He’s braced on either side by the Immortals, of course, whose character judgment Nie Mingjue is beginning to question. Deeply.

“Explain.” Really, he should be applauded for his restraint.

Wei Wuxian clears his throat with a little cough that looks like it hurts. “They know what he knows about the pilots, the Jaeger program, our research, everything, but-”

“I didn’t know much-”

“Only what Wen Ruohan wanted him to know and pass along for his own purposes-”

“Not that they understood it much more than we understand them-”

“But obviously they know enough to start mimicking the Jaegers and this is the really interesting bit-”

“They’re built like an assembly-line churning out giant evil monsters that want to beat your ass flat-”

“Well yes but you know, without any sort of personal desire to murder anyone in particular because they’re not necessarily individuals. We keep using the word hivemind-”

“And it is a hive, like really giant freaky bees-”

Nie Mingjue slams his free hand on the tabletop and the back-and-forth between Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang mercifully comes to an abrupt halt.

(“Ooo we made Daddy angry,” Xue Yang mutters, snickering weakly, which Nie Mingjue is electing not to hear.)

“How is this better than we expected, A-Xian?” Jiang Yanli asks, her hands twitching on the tabletop like she wants to reach for her brother even though she’s sitting too far away to reach him.

“The information Wen Ruohan gave them through Xue Yang wasn’t as thorough as we thought; it was designed to manipulate their behavior, not give them blanket information about everything and everyone in the Pilot program,” Wei Wuxian explains, thankfully alone. “If he knows what fighting style they’re going to use next then he can counter it, and if he can tell them when it’s best to attack Tokyo and when to attack Shanghai or Manila or Sydney or San Francisco then it’s all to his benefit. He can control not only his spoils and his money but also his image. He just did it for the first time when he sent the last kaiju to us and instructed Eternal Sun to swoop in to save the day.”

Jin Zixuan rests a hand over Jiang Yanli’s as he asks, “And how is it worse?”

“The connection with Xue Yang has been open every minute since the first time it was initiated several years ago.”

There are no words that Nie Mingjue knows to describe the wave of revulsion that sweeps through him at such a thought, but judging by the expressions he can see around the table on the faces of the rest of those to whom this is news, they’re all feeling the same.

Personal feelings aside, that isn’t a fate he would wish on anyone, not even Xue Yang. To have every moment, waking and sleeping, for years subject to the incomprehensible, violent minds of intergalactic monsters? It’s harsh but someone should’ve done Xue Yang the kindness of putting him out of his misery a long time ago.

“But not anymore,” Xue Yang rasps, bringing Nie Mingjue’s attention back to him. He’s grinning in a way that doesn’t look at all like a smile, sharp and flat with pink-stained teeth.

“That’s temporary,” Wei Wuxian says and he looks distinctly cagey, “I just tried something theoretical-”

“Oohhh it’s not theoretical Wei-gege,” Xue Yang cackles, hacking and coughing like a cat with a hairball, “you’ve done it plenty of times before! Just turned a nice little switch in my brain and made it all go quiet, I saw it!! Saw it in your head, saw it in mine-”

“What the fuck is he talking about?” Jiang Wanyin cuts in, jaw clenched and eyes flashing.

Jin Guangyao clears his throat, a pointed reminder to stay on topic that Nie Mingjue’s temper certainly appreciates. Crisply, he says, “You will have plenty of time to discuss it between yourselves later. What I would like to know is what we do next with the information we have. You have now seen the structure of the Kaiju homeworld — we should use this to determine the best way to eliminate their threat to humanity.”

As much as Nie Mingjue would like to feel like they’re coming to some sort of productive conclusion, the fact of the matter is that of the eleven people in the room, four of them are far too injured to sit through a lengthy strategy meeting and they are, unfortunately, the four most important voices. (He supposes it’s really seven injured, if he includes himself and his partners in the list considering they’ve fulfilled the duties Wen Qing gave them medical leave to complete and are due to submit themselves to her care in the medical bay the moment they leave this imromptu meeting.)

He makes no effort to hide his displeasure about all of this as he sighs a heavy, “No,” and fixes a steady stare on his old friends (and Xue Yang). “That will have to come later. All I want to know for now is what you three want from me. You came here for some purpose, and as much as I would like it to be so, I don’t think you’re here to reforge old ties.”

It is, unsurprisingly, Xiao Xingchen who smiles ever so slightly, unashamed of being caught, and nods, his shoulders curving by an inch or two to turn the gesture into a small hint of a bow.

“It was partially driven by a desire to see you, Mingjue, under much better circumstances than when we parted. It was equally a desire to seek out Wei Wuxian, who A-Yang felt certain would be able to help with his condition. The state of things could not be allowed to continue with the danger posed to humanity, but my Shifu could do nothing for him. She has abstained from worldly concerns and is not as knowledgeable on the issue of fringe Kaiju research as Wei-gongzi; she defers to his expertise.”

Wei Wuxian looks rightly poleaxed by such praise, though Nie Mingjue thinks his deathly pallor and the deep bruises under his eyes (the whites of which have turned the violent red of ruptured blood vessels) contributes, rather gruesomely, to the look of shock.

“And then what?” Nie Mingjue can’t help but ask, glad for Jin Guangyao’s hand still on his wrist below the table, and thankful for Lan Xichen’s hand creeping onto his knee on the other side in silent solidarity. “Xue Yang has put all of mankind in the gravest danger imaginable. He’s a threat to humanity because he exists. Even if we can help, what do you expect me to do when it’s over? Let him go?”

“Yes.” Song Lan’s computerized voice is cool and neutral, of course, but his expression belays some sort of strong emotion beneath the calm surface he always maintains. “He has delivered the tool for humanity’s salvation into the hands of your resident genius, and what Wei Wuxian knows soon you will, too. The gift of knowledge and his cooperation in neutralizing the threat he poses, combined with the protection Jin Guangyao has offered him in exchange for his assistance, will repay his debts and leave him free.”

Nie Mingjue does not glare at his partner beside him, who doesn’t even twitch at the mention of whatever it is he’s promised Xue Yang this time. Of course Nie Mingjue knows that Jin Guangyao has always had a vested interest in keeping Xue Yang alive for his own purposes, but what he would have thought was the most important of those purposes has been accomplished; Xue Yang killed Jin Guangshan, what further use could Jin Guangyao have for him?

They can argue about it later. Jin Guangyao has apparently promised Xue Yang his protection, which means Nie Mingjue must once again let go of his fantasy of separating the man’s head from his shoulders. He grits his teeth but manages to push his anger aside for the moment to get back to the matter at hand.

“Fine.”

“The world is changing, old friend,” Xiao Xingchen says, soothing and understanding in equal measure, “and our time is ending. The war must be won soon, you know this. The Jaeger program is limping along, rotting from the inside as it falls prey to greed and complacency. We had no doubt that your righteousness-” Xue Yang snorts; he goes ignored by everyone in the room “-and sense of justice will not allow you to step down while there’s still a fight to be had, and you are one of the few Shatterdome leaders we felt we could trust with the truth of Xue Yang’s misdeeds. Many others would treat it the same as Wen Ruohan has done and attempt to use it for their own personal gain, but we know you will only use it to end this once and for all. That’s why we came here, and when Xue Yang is no longer a danger to himself or others we’ll leave again to go where no one else can find us.”

Silence reigns after such a pronouncement for a few long moments, broken only when Lan Xichen sits up straighter with the faint rustling of his canvas jumpsuit.

“This temporary solution that you’ve employed, Wuxian — is it enough to buy us time to rest before we begin attempting more permanent methods of severing the connection?”

“It should be — if it fails, Wen Qing or Wen Ning will know how to create the same effect.”

There’s some history here that Nie Mingjue is missing, but now doesn’t seem like the time to push it. Those who have been injured are fading quickly (Jiang Yanli has already had to shake her husband awake once), and he’s aware suddenly of how the steady worsening of his temper is likely the result of his neural pathways continuing to weaken as Wen Qing warned they would. As much as he would like to see this resolved now, he can’t ask so much of his partners or his pilots (or, he begrudgingly adds, Xue Yang).

“Fine,” he huffs, slapping his open palm once on the table in punctuation, “everyone is ordered to rest. Barring any emergencies we’ll meet again tomorrow at 1100 hours to strategize. Xue Yang and Wei Wuxian will return to research for monitoring. Dismissed.”

There’s a flurry of movement as most everyone stands either under their own power or assisted by those around them. Jin Zixuan spares him a tight nod before he leans his weight heavily on the handles of Jiang Yanli’s wheelchair and the pair of them leave, held up in the doorway for a moment as the two pairs of three attempt to navigate their exit without letting Wei Wuxian or Xue Yang crumple to the ground.

Nie Mingjue is left alone with his partners, and Lan Xichen wisely stands to shut the door so softly the metal doesn’t even clank against its frame.

“What the fuck have you promised him?” Nie Mingjue asks with no preamble, his gaze fixed on the handle of the door as Lan Xichen sits down in the seat across from them that his brother has just vacated. “A-Yao what have you done?!”

“I did what I had to, and there’s no use being angry at me. I’d do it again in a heartbeat even knowing what we know now, and no amount of yelling will change it.”

Nie Mingjue hates that he’s right; he at least slams the side of his fist down against the table, the boom of it startling Lan Xichen enough to make him visibly jump but he waves off Nie Mingjue’s apologetic grimace immediately.

“I should have killed him years ago when I had the chance,” he growls. “When this is over I never want to see him again. Ever.”

“That won’t be a problem; I’m sending them overseas to the States, or perhaps Canada — somewhere far enough inland that the kaiju are little more than a horror story, where the only impact of an attack is a week’s delay in imports. Whatever intervention Wei Wuxian and Wen Qing will devise to sever his mind from the kaijus’ won’t cure the damage already done, nor will it prolong his life for more than five years, at most. He should live out his remaining years enduring the trials of being loved inexplicably by two of the most righteous men the world has ever seen. He’ll be miserable enough to sate even your desire for revenge within six months.”

Nie Mingjue takes a deep breath in, holds it for a count of five, and exhales again slowly. Jin Guangyao’s hand is still on his wrist and he rubs small circles into it with his thumb — it’s as much of an apology as he’s going to get, and he’s just going to have to accept that.

“We should report to Wen Qing. I’m sure she’s going to scold us no matter when we go but we shouldn’t worry her more than necessary, hm?” Lan Xichen murmurs, smiling softly when Nie Mingjue catches his eye. “We’ve gotten our answers and there’s not much more we can do until Wei Wuxian has recovered anyway. I’d like to see you take care of yourself for once, Mingjue.”

“Don’t single me out, we’re all shit at it,” Nie Mingjue grumps, but he stands up anyway and pulls Jin Guangyao with him, watching him closely for any signs that his headlong run from research had aggravated any of his old injuries. Jin Guangyao wrinkles his nose at him when he notices him watching, but Nie Mingjue just ducks in to press a firm kiss to his forehead (offering the same to Lan Xichen holding the door open for them when they pass) and leads his partners out of his office and into the labyrinth of the ‘dome.

They traipse in silence down to the medical bay, Nie Mingjue’s mind churning over the new problems that Wei Wuxian’s Drift with Xue Yang has created, but when they reach their destination he forces himself to put the matter aside for the time being.

“Chifeng-zun,” Wen Qing greets, unimpressed, when they step into the main triage room. “Zewu-Jun, Lianfang-zun. Finally.”

“You told us we could delay until the press had been soothed and the metaphorical fires put out,” Lan Xichen reminds his friend. “We came as soon as we could.”

It’s clear she doesn’t agree but she just jerks her chin towards one of the private examination rooms, and when they troop along behind her Nie Mingjue finds it’s already set up for them, the Drift rig moved over from research and three cots already made up with crisp linens fresh from the laundry. She’s even done them the courtesy of pushing the cots close enough together that they can comfortably touch each other while lying down if need be (though he can’t help but notice that she’s left a conspicuous enough gap between them that it’s clear anything more acrobatic is strictly off-limits). 

“I’ll take you through a Drift myself first, a simple connection test like the first to establish the neural link and ensure it’ll stay stable for longer than a few minutes. You’ll then rest under observation until 0600, and if I decide you’re ready for more then Wen Ning will be in after breakfast to run you through a proper simulation to see how you fare in drop conditions. Questions?”

“Many,” Jin Guangyao dimples. “None about our treatment, but I would like a chat this evening while we’re resting, if you would be so kind.”

“My time is in high demand, Lianfang-zun.”

“As is mine, so I thank you for accommodating me.”

Nie Mingjue ignores the urge to smile as Wen Qing visibly bites down on what has to be a retort that she hasn’t actually agreed to do so, but he knows firsthand how useless it feels to go against Jin Guangyao when he’s decided to be stubborn like this. She folds with a nod and a sour little twist to her mouth, and Jin Guangyao at least has the good sense not to gloat over his victory (though his partner does wink up at him when he turns to approach the Drift rig). Nie Mingjue follows his partners over to the rig and he could swear he can already feel himself relaxing, the promise of the comfort of their minds slowing his heart rate and narrowing his focus to the immediate present in a way he almost never gets to appreciate.

He sits still through the familiar process of being hooked up and settles automatically into an almost meditative circuit of breathing and calming his mind further as Wen Qing gets Jin Guangyao connected next and finishes with Lan Xichen, her hands working deftly over the tangle of wires and sticky pads to connect them to his skin-

“WEI WUXIAN!!!”

Nie Mingjue is too calm to jump — but only just. The door to the medical bay slams open with a deafening clang and he and Wen Qing shout a reprimand in chorus, “JIANG WANYIN!”

She continues, “I have patients!! Get out of my med bay if you’re not dying!”

Wei Wuxian comes barreling into the room first and Nie Mingjue thinks, at a glance, that actually he might be dying. He has to clutch at the door frame to stay upright, his face is pale as bone and his eyes are, of course, still blood-red from his Drift with Xue Yang, and he’s panting like he’s just run a marathon.

“Wuxian,” Lan Xichen breathes and, as he’s only half-wired in, quickly divests himself of the various nodes in favor of getting to his feet and hauling Wei Wuxian upright just as twin lines of dark red blood begin to drip from his nostrils.

Wen Qing hurries past them to stop Jiang Wanyin, just barely visible over Wei Wuxian’s shoulder; he’s clearly distraught, his teeth bared and his eyes red-rimmed and glittering with furious tears.

“Don’t you dare protect that bastard-” he grits out, straining against Wen Qing standing in his way to block him from his brother.

Nie Mingjue sighs heavily and starts unsticking all the wires Wen Qing had just placed on him, Jin Guangyao doing the same beside him with an equal air of resignation.

“Your idea to push them all to their limits,” he mutters to his partner under the sound of Jiang Wanyin continuing to hurl abuse at his brother barely staying conscious in Lan Xichen’s arms.

“Your idea to support the Pilot exchange project in the first place,” Jin Guangyao retorts — a weaker argument than he’d usually make, but Nie Mingjue isn’t in the mood to press his advantage.

“Wen-daifu, Wuxian needs attention. Where’s Wangji?” Lan Xichen asks, his question answered in the next moment when Lan Wangji sweeps into the medical bay looking icy enough that Nie Mingjue would swear the temperature drops at least a degree or two from the force of his fury alone. It’s a wonder that Jiang Wanyin doesn’t seem at all intimidated at his entrance — instead he looks somehow even angrier. In fact, he looks damn near apoplectic when Lan Wangji steps up behind Wen Qing to further block Jiang Wanyin’s access to Wei Wuxian.

“What the fuck is going on?!” Nie Mingjue finally snaps, his voice carrying over and cutting through the rest of the panicked, angry chatter like a cleaver. Jiang Wanyin opens his mouth, and Nie Mingjue fixes him with the hardest glare he can. “Do not start shouting at me, Jiang Wanyin, or nothing Wen-daifu can do will save you.” The audible snap of the man shutting his mouth does less to assuage Nie Mingjue’s temper than Jin Guangyao resting his hand on the small of his back.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji calls, low and intense, and all attention in the room zeroes in on them as Lan Xichen transfers Wei Wuxian’s weight into his brother’s arms.

“Get him over to a cot, Wangji. Wanyin, get out.” Wen Qing steps smartly away, clearly expecting to be obeyed. Wangji carefully lifts an unprotesting Wei Wuxian into his arms and lays him down carefully on the nearest bed and Nie Mingjue realizes he’d looked like he was awake but he’s not conscious, or at least he’s not aware. His eyes are darting back and forth, flickering between things that aren’t there, and his mouth is moving in constant soundless muttering that puts the hair up on the back of Nie Mingjue’s neck.

“Come on, Wanyin,” Lan Xichen murmurs; he’s tugging gently on Jiang Wanyin’s arm, trying to get him to move in the direction of the door, but the man is standing, unmoving, staring in dawning horror at his brother being carefully held down by Lan Wangji and prodded at by Wen Qing’s acupuncture needles.

“You idiot,” he finally whispers, his expression twisting from horror to anguish, “You goddamn idiot!!”

Wen Qing doesn’t even look up from her work to snap, “Wanyin get out!! I’ll talk to you later!”

This time Jiang Wanyin allows himself to be towed out of the room, and Lan Xichen shuts the door quietly behind them, cutting off whatever Jiang Wanyin starts shouting as they go.

“What happened?”

“Wanyin demanded to know what Wei Ying did to Xue Yang.” Lan Wangji’s voice is quiet but his disdain for his partner’s brother is clear enough. “Wei Ying did not wish to answer, but when Wanyin’s continued insistence triggered this episode, your brother revealed the truth.”

Wen Qing sighs, her lips thinning with obvious displeasure, but she doesn’t pause in her work.

“I’m assuming these are the questions you would like answered as well, Lianfang-zun?”

“An astute observation.”

Wen Qing sighs again and stands up straight as before, her hands resting lightly on either side of Wei Wuxian’s neck, her thumbs pressed carefully against his jaw as he slips into true unconsciousness. His eyelids don’t even flicker with the movement of his eyes anymore; he looks far too like a corpse for comfort like this, but at least he doesn’t look like a man possessed.

“It was a secret I promised to take to my grave, but if A-Ning has told Wanyin already then I can’t keep it from you. You need to Drift first as soon as Zewu-Jun comes back, but after I’ve stabilized all of you, including Wuxian, then I swear I will tell you everything.”

“Everything,” Nie Mingjue emphasizes, catching Wen Qing’s glare with one of his own. “You’re not in Tokyo anymore, Wen-daifu, and anyone who wanted to profit off of secrets in this Shatterdome is dead.”

Wen Qing’s eyes flicker to Jin Guangyao at his side, but Nie Mingjue isn’t sure whether she wants to argue that that isn’t true, with Jin Guangyao for her example, or if she’s checking to see if he’ll react strongly again to the reminder that Jin Guangshan is gone. Either way, Jin Guangyao doesn’t even so much as twitch at his side.

She hesitates for a few beats longer before she nods with obvious reluctance. “Fine. Everything. We’ll need Mo Xuanyu to bring us Wei Wuxian’s research.”

“There are horrors in Wei Ying’s past that he has kept from his siblings for many years,” Lan Wangji speaks up, too quiet to startle even though Nie Mingjue had nearly forgotten he was there, so still and silent he’s been while he sits at Wei Wuxian’s side. “He has developed a way to carve up his mind and isolate sections of memory and thought; there are things he does not wish for them to ever know.”

Nie Mingjue is glad for the practice of navigating Lan Xichen’s polite roundabout phrasings to help him understand the heart of what Lan Wangji is getting at now.

“Anything we learn will remain completely confidential, Wangji. You have my word.”

“And mine,” Jin Guangyao adds, and though Nie Mingjue doesn’t quite understand why he deemed it necessary, Wangji’s shoulders only relax ever so slightly after the second promise is made.

“Mn.”

“Go back to your treatment,” Wen Qing instructs them in her ever-professional brusque tone. “I’ll be in with Zewu-Jun to start the Drift in a moment, this changes nothing.”

Nie Mingjue levels her with a final significant look before he turns to do as instructed — he’s long since learned not to test a doctor’s temper — but as he ushers Jin Guangyao out of the room ahead of him he can’t help but overhear Lan Wangji’s quiet but firm reply,

“No, Wen-daifu. This will change everything.”

[pumpkincarriage3]

Misfired Arrow || Epel Felmier X Reader

AU: Greek God and Goddess Au 

Featuring: Epel as Eros and Vil as Aphrodite

Warnings: Yandere-ish? Use of Love Arrows (Cupid's Arrows)

Synopsis: Vil is angered by the fact that people are leaving his alters baren for a mere mortal. So, he sends Epel out to make this mortal fall in love with the ugliest man on earth.

Epel grumbled to himself, as he prepared to fire the arrow resting lazily against his bow. He didn't see why Vil was so angry. The human known as (Y/n) would eventually live out their mortal days, grow old, and disappear with the hands of time. They wouldn't forever have the beauty that their youth gives them, compared to Vil who would never visibly age. The life span of this one human was short compared to how long Gods and Goddesses live. It would be a blink of an eye before the human known as (Y/n) was already dead and gone.

It was pointless to do this. No real reason to it. It also didn't help that Epel himself didn't like using his Gifts. He would be more than happy for people to stop worshipping him for a reason such as sexual desire and love. And all the mushy feelings involved with it. And yet, here he was. Camped out in some tree like some creep just because Vil happens to be a little jealous of some human that won't even be around long enough to hold any significant influence over their lives.

Well, it was either this or face Vil's wrath. Something Epel wanted nothing to do with. The very thought made him shiver. The God of Beauty and Love could be very vindicative when he wanted to be, and Epel never wanted Vil to set his sights on him. And ever since Vil had taken him under his wing to make use of his talents, Vil had more than enough dirt on Epel to ruin him permanently. Enough that the favorable outcome was camping out in some tree like a creep. And doesn't that just say more than enough?

That's not even talking about all of the effort Epel had to go through to get this set up. Sending forged letters to both (Y/n) and their prospective match to set up a meeting had also been quite a feat. Especially since (Y/n) was royalty. Epel had wished to make the meeting private, so there were less guards. Less distraction. Less people to accidentally hit. Less people to get in the way. But this would have to do.

Epel watched the scene play out between (Y/n), their escorts, and a lesser noblemen that had come forward with the forged letter that Epel had written. The man was older, greasy, and all together unpleasant to look at. (Y/n) was clearly uneased by the sight of the man giving them a lust filled smirk, but they wouldn't be uneasy for much longer. Even if the thought of what Epel was doing left a rotten taste in his mouth, at least the effect of the arrow would leave (Y/n) blissed out and none the wiser of what was wrong. They would be happy with their prospective husband in a matter of moments, even if they never learn why.

Epel knocked the arrow back, angling it to make sure the arrow hit its mark. Letting out an uneasy breath as he watched. Only for a loud squawking bird to come along and disrupt Epel's focus, causing him to haphazardly let go of the arrow. To let go of his one chance of this all going right. It all happened so fast that Epel barely noticed what had happened.

The arrow missed its mark. Instead hitting against some of the metal the guards were wearing. Setting of a chain reaction where the arrow kept getting knocked around back and forth. (Y/n) jolted in surprise, eyes darting around in fear as Epel watched on in horror. The arrow eventually soared right back towards Epel, hitting him in the chest as (Y/n) turned and made eye contact.

And just like that, Epel's world froze. Logically he knew that it was just because of the arrow that had hit him. That it had nothing to do with Epel's true feelings on the matter. But as he stared at the most gorgeous pair of (e/c) he has ever seen, he couldn't bring himself to care. Not when his heart pounded in his chest like a rhythmed drum. Not when his stomach felt as if a pack of wild animals were stampeding through it. And not when he failed to fight off the dazed smile on his face.

Now he understood why Vil was so nervous. (Y/n) was perfection. His new found reason for breathing. For existing. To continue on. Someone he would more than happily worship at the altar.

Epel knew Vil would be furious with him for failing. That he would strike down against him with all the fires of rage. But Epel couldn't find it in himself to care as he stared at the confused look on (Y/n)'s features as they stared at him. No, this would be just fine. As Epel wouldn't have it any other way.

But first, he would have to get rid of their perspective match. Considering the sleazy man's feature's, Epel was more than happy to do so. And then, he could move on to making sure the love of his life never wanted for anything. That they would be comfortable. That no other future prospects would ever disturb their time again. And Epel would happily be for them whatever they wanted. May that be a friend or protector for now. He would eventually woo them so he could be their lover in due time.

For they were his person from now on. His person to treasure. His person to worship. And he would make sure nothing got in the way of that. Not even Vil's fury.

[thesinglesjukebox]

KEHLANI -"AFTER HOURS"

We're staying out late tonight...

[6.89]

Katherine St. Asaph: An immaculate vibe, a great hang, a simmering build; the feeling of realizing you'd love to linger indefinitely, transmuted into sound. [8]

Alfred Soto: At ease in ruminative mode, Kehlani hasn't recorded many club bangers these days. The Nina Sky interpolation gets them to shake the mopes, or, rather, coaxes them to put their fluttery wishcasting into a kinetic mode that occasionally suits them. [7]

Taylor Alatorre: "In a room full of strangers... it feels like we're alone." Okay, pretty standard club dichotomy there. So then why would you foreground the former over the latter by turning the chorus into this communal come-hither chant? Makes me feel like I'm being courted by a hive mind or polycule or both. Maybe that's part of the weirdness that comes with adapting the "Coolie Dance" riddim to a song about one-on-one intimacy; it didn't have to be, though. [5]

Jackie Powell: It’s difficult to know Kehlani’s true intent with “After Hours." Are they trying for a dark horse R&B hit with hints of afrobeats? Is this a reggae track? Or are they paying homage to Destiny’s Child? (They released a remix of the song that plops their vocals on top of the instrumental to Destiny’s Child’s “Cater 2 U.”)  Kehlani tries to accomplish all of the above, but it’s hard to say whether they execute. The song features a sample within a sample. The first sound is the percussive rhythm that rose to popularity via Nina Sky’s "Move Ya Body," but that sound is a sample in itself, a beat originally made by Jamaican artist Cordell 'Scatta' Burrell in his song "Coolie Dance Rhythm." "After Hours" could have easily begun after that eight-second sample, which prompts the question as to why they needed it. Were they trying to bring in more mainstream listeners who would recognize the first seconds immediately? It isn’t clear. The track becomes most compelling when Kehlani gets to their refrain and then the subsequent pre-chorus. Kehlani has an overdubbed call and response that builds and builds and is quite sexy, but disappoints by the time the chorus hits. The payoff is weak, and the supposed hook sounds like an extended version of Tyla’s “Water,” especially with the echoing backing vocals that aren’t Kehlani’s. In the original “After Hours,” there is a trace of Destiny’s Child's signature sauce: the harmony on the call-and-response sections. But the “Cater 2 U” remix slows the song’s tempo and completely changes the vibe of the song. Is this a song for the club or for the hotel room they take their lover to the night of the ensuing hookup?  [6]

Ian Mathers: Just a fun, light party track, and I mean that as a compliment. I'm actually kind of glad this only uses the same riddim as "Move Ya Body" instead of interpolating it like the intro made me think might happen. But while I'll be happy to hear this come up on the radio etc., I suspect every time I hear that intro I'm going to be a just a little disappointed it's not Nina Sky. [7]

Jonathan Bradley: There are no shortage of songs in 2024 sampling the hits of the '00s, but Kehlani's Nina Sky flip sounds more like yet another take on the Coolie Dance riddim than nostalgia bait; this is how dancehall is supposed to work. "After Hours" is light and pleasant, with an ingratiating synth line that finds new use for old trop house parts. Kehlani is the least essential part, but they don't need to break a sweat to make this replayable. If it were summer here, I might bump my score up by a point. [6]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: I've long been in favor of Kehlani using as many 2000s R&B samples as possible. This is further vindication — over a vague outline of Nina Sky, they sound like they're having more fun than they have in years; the searing, melodramatic quality of their voice works much better as an invitation to debauchery than, say, a duet partner to Ty Dolla $ign.  [7]

Will Adams: The use of the Coolie Dance riddim is smart; the club is still pumping, but the soft synths and half-stepping bass suggest that closing time is approaching, and there's someone who wants to take you home. That transient moment creates heat for "After Hours," even though I'd rather have that interaction while "Move Ya Body" is playing instead. [6]

Nortey Dowuona: After Cordell and Everton Burrell released the Coolie Dance riddim in 2003, they probably had no idea that 25 artists(!!???) would flood to use it almost immediately, but they did expect it to be successful and used. When he and his brother were their most successful, most of the riddims that were produced were given directly to artists in both reggae and dancehall, who, in exchange for the song, would have "gentleman's agreements" with the producers, who would plow through their equipment to create the riddims yet depended on those agreements to work. Each song was meant for a dub plate, to be performed so the artist could eat. The producer, however, got left in the dust. Khristopher Riddick-Tynes of the Rascals, as well as Alex Goldblatt, who is the co-producer of this sweet little gem, didn't even count Cordell or Everton as producers but merely as songwriters, since they took the riddim from this little gem produced by Lionel Bermingham and Elijah Wells. Cordell does get a songwriting credit and a cameo in the video, as well as Diovanna Frasier, choreographer, and Daniel Church, who can rock a pretty solid Jeremih impression. Now, Kehlani does deliver quite handily in the vocals department (with assistance from Jaycen Joshua and his trusty sidekick, Mike Seaberg), but the creation, completion and delivery of one of the best songs of the year depends on at least seven other people who you don't know and couldn't pick out of a lineup unless you're a Mixed by the Masters fanboy. They're the ones who create the spellbinding songs we're listening to while we miss last call to keep on talking, and I think they deserve just as much lucre and recognition as the Bay's worst-kept secret. [10]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[hihimissamericanbi]

Heels click on cement sidewalks

Giggles bouncing across bridges, atoms ping-ponging through space

Our bodies in a rhythm

Step, collide, step, collide

Swaying with drink and youth

I feel your presence, assured, eternal

Like we were always going to be here

There are no stars to twinkle down upon us

Observe the mark we don’t make on this town

Centuries-old

But lights beam all around

Gas lamps turned incandescent turned inevitable LED

Harsh, practical

We accept them

But miss the warmth we never felt

There’s still a few left, you say

Did you know?

Relics from a past stayed fast amongst the swift current

Time marching as we march

Click click click

I roll an ankle, you catch me

Our breath snatched up by laughter swift and violent as we tumble onto the square

Drape ourselves on cold stone walls

Look up at the monuments to men and war and murder

Pull our skirts down, wipe lipstick from the bottle rim

Too young to feel the weight of impotence

Of being nothing in the face of history repeating itself over and over

And over

Blithe and blustering, we sing and plan

Make monuments to ourselves in words spoken

Puffs of steam scented apple-sweet

Drifting benign on night air

A blight to none but past souls reaching for vindication

Ambivalence is our birthright

We wear it well, we think

[tsunagite]

Miscellaneous, mostly FS.

[300iqprower]

one thing about Persona 5 that's extremely vindicating is in regards to when people (stupidly and wrongfully) complained about Atlus "milking" persona 4.

Meanwhile if you look at what actually happened:

P4: Gets a dungeon crawler homage to both P3 and P4, starts a rhythm game series, and has an amazing fighting game that expands on the story and has single player content.

P5: "Gets" a gacha and a battle royale

One of these things is being milked to death and it ain't P4.

[dyke-ulaura]

I wanted to share some points from my music theory assignment analysis of I Feel Him Slipping Away because it scored well and I'm proud :3. I bolded the the parts that analyse the meaning if people want to skip the more theory heavy (unbolded) parts.

Written in cut common, simple duple time which changes to 4/4 in the last few bars. Shifts frequently between A major and C#minor.

There are two rhythmic features that I want to talk about here. Here, in the bass clef, a dotted crotchet and crotchet rhythm is copied in the percussion to give a contrasting, uneven 3/4 feel. This is a shift from the relatively straight-foward rhythm of the previous verse. The triplet in the fourth bar here is also interesting as you’d expect it the previous line. In breaking that rhythm, it emphasises the phrase die in my arms which makes it feel more jarring, expressing Trina's anguish

This segment is taken from the first and second chorus. The second chorus vocals, cut off the #g early and echoes what was already being played in the piano line, repeating the word no in triplets. This has a compound duple feel and echoes how a person, out of frustration, may cut themselves off. This is something I've noticed Trina actually does often (both in In Trousers and Falsettos) that other characters don't really do (marvin does it in i've got a family but this is more about denial). She has a much greater tendency to either cut herself off or correct herself, reflecting her insecurities and self doubt.

At this point accidentals are also used to create an ascending c#major scale from c#minor, this creates further contrast and effectively shifts tone from the previous line of remorse to one of anger and vindication. It's further enforced by the fact that all three women are singing now in unison.

The opening has an A major chord in the piano piano which is reflected in the vocal melody: CCCAE. We start off very stable on the tonic. The rest of the chord progression goes Ab augmented, which resolves to Ab major, then F#minor (first inversion, so A is still the bass) back to A major (the return to a major occurs on the words "were fine". A quick return to the tonic to show how "fine" things are) back to Ab augmented again. This constant shift between stable and unstable chords, represents the contrast between the parts of the marriage that were "fine" and the parts that were "not" (echoing the lyrics). In the last two bars the melody of the vocals is mirrored on the piano until the last note where there is a dissonant minor second between a natural on the piano and g# on the vocals. This represents the clash between husband and wife and the "dissonance" of their marriage.

Only one part of this song really feels like a finished cadence. The end of the first two choruses goes from a suspended chord on the fifth note (g#) into the tonic c# minor. It feels like an ending, but she starts singing abruptly partway through the next bar, continuing on the same thought, but also contradicting it going from favourable descriptions to more negative thinking. This is another example of Trina's specific mannerisms that I mentioned earlier and to me is very similar to "I only want to love a man who can love me or like me or hold me or touch me or stand me" ("... or help me" in falsettos)

The last chord is an F# suspended 4th chord rather than the tonic, giving an abrupt, unsatisfying end as the conflict of the character is not resolved, this is further enforced as the song ends not on the chord, but on the noteless exclamation of the word "Liar"

[hurryupmerlin]

Treating myself to some Mal/Ami because I can

Mal belongs to @riinoaheartilly

It's pitch black in the bedroom. Amiss feels his way through the darkness, sneaking gingerly, until the tips of his toes softly bump against Mal's sleeping mat.

His sleep is light enough to put him on alert long before Ami reaches him.

"Hey, are you awake?" Amiss whispers.

Mal lies there with his eyes open, motionless, frozen in place. Ami's approach sends ripples of unease through him. He doesn’t answer.

Amiss seems unbothered by the lack of response from Mal. He sinks silently beside him and before Mal knows it, a warm body nestles close to him.

"Ami, what the fuck," Mal scolds.

They fit together like puzzle pieces. And while they might not be the same motif, they still come from the same die cut template. The curve of Ami's body alings perfectly with his.

Ami's back presses against his chest, then he snuggles closer, his ass against...

"I'm cold," he vindicates himself, voice sinnless and dainty. Maybe he really is.

Ami moves up, immediately closing the gap again, in a gesture that could mean everything or nothing. He wiggles himself into a comfortable position, rearranges his limps ever so often, and when he finally stops moving, accompanied by a contented sigh, his ass has brushed against Mal's cock so many times that Mal feels the temptation as an uncomfortable pressure in his loins.

Mal doesn't know what possesses him to wrap his arm over the boy in front of him. He likes to think it's just to get comfortable, better than to awkwardly tuck his arm in. That way it means nothing.

His hips shift away, bringing space between where his skin feels scalding hot under the thin layers of clothing separating them.

"G'nite," Amiss mumbles, and Mal no longer dares to move, let alone breathe.

After a while, Ami's breathing levels off into a steady calm rhythm.

Fuck, Mal thinks, bright awake. Fuck.

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

15th December >> Fr. Martin's Gospel Reflections / Homilies on Matthew 11:16-19 for Friday, Second Week of Advent (B): ‘We played the pipes for you, and you wouldn’t dance’.

Gospel (Except USA) Matthew 11:16-19 They heed neither John nor the Son of Man.

Jesus spoke to the crowds: ‘What description can I find for this generation? It is like children shouting to each other as they sit in the market place:

“We played the pipes for you, and you wouldn’t dance; we sang dirges, and you wouldn’t be mourners.”

‘For John came, neither eating nor drinking, and they say, “He is possessed.” The Son of Man came, eating and drinking, and they say, “Look, a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.” Yet wisdom has been proved right by her actions.’

Gospel (USA) Matthew 11:16-19 They listened to neither John nor to the Son of Man.

Jesus said to the crowds: “To what shall I compare this generation? It is like children who sit in marketplaces and call to one another, ‘We played the flute for you, but you did not dance, we sang a dirge but you did not mourn.’ For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they said, ‘He is possessed by a demon.’ The Son of Man came eating and drinking and they said, ‘Look, he is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.’ But wisdom is vindicated by her works.”

Reflections (14)

(i) Friday, Second Week of Advent

We all recognize that music can speak to us more powerfully than words alone. A piece of music can move us in our depths. I have a number of favourite pieces of music that I often return to. I listen again and again to them. I know how the music will sound because I have heard it so often, but I also know that it will move me over and over again, as if I was hearing it for the first time. The last movement of Mahler’s ninth symphony does that for me. We can all name some piece of music, be it classical or pop or rock or country and western, that speaks to us and touches us in places the spoken or written word fails to do. In today’s gospel reading, Jesus compares himself to a piper whose music invites people to dance. He identifies with children in the market square who announce, ‘We played the pipes for you, and you wouldn’t dance’. When this piper plays, very few follow him. They are deaf to the music of the Spirit that his presence plays and that finds expression in his words and deeds. The risen Lord continues to play the music of the Spirit today and we are invited to dance to his music, to allow our lives to move to the rhythm of the Spirit. This music of the Spirit plays from deep within our hearts. Saint Paul in his letter to the Romans declares that ‘the Spirit helps us in our weakness’ and ‘intercedes with sighs too deep for words’. The music of the Spirit that is playing deep within us cannot find adequate expression in words. Each day we can ask the Lord to help us to become attuned to that deep music of the Spirit so that our lives can play the song of the kingdom of God in our world today.

And/Or

(ii) Friday, Second Week of Advent

The gospels suggest that Jesus was very observant of life around him. In this morning’s gospel reading, the behaviour of children in the market place reminds him of his adult contemporaries, who responded neither to the preaching of John the Baptist nor the preaching of Jesus. The asceticism of John make people think of him as possessed; the more celebratory tone of Jesus’ ministry made them right Jesus off as a friend of sinners and undesirables. In other words, there was no pleasing Jesus’ contemporaries. We can all get into that frame of mind; there is no pleasing us. We find fault with everyone and fail to see what is of God there. The gospel reading calls on us to be open to the Lord’s presence, even when the Lord comes to us in ways that don’t quite fit our expectations. Advent is a season when we try to grow in our openness to the many ways that the Lord is present to us. When we pray, ‘Come, Lord Jesus’, we don’t specify the particular way that the Lord should come to us. We invite him to come in whatever way he chooses. In the imagery of the gospel reading, sometimes he comes to us in the joyful playing of pipes, sometimes in the mournful playing of dirges. What matters is that we be attentive and responsive to his many comings to us in the course of our lives.

And/Or

(iii) Friday, Second Week of Advent

In the gospel reading Jesus complains that his contemporaries see nothing good in either himself or in John the Baptist. They regard John as possessed because of his ascetic way of life and they consider Jesus a glutton, a drunkard and a friend of undesirables because of his more celebratory lifestyle. They remind Jesus of children he sees in the marketplace who refuse to join in either the funeral games or the party games of other children. As we might say, there was no pleasing them. Yet, God was drawing near to them in the two very different ministries of John the Baptist and Jesus. In spite of that, they found a way of dismissing both John and Jesus; they belittled both. We all run the risk of belittling the messengers that God sends us or making light of the various ways that God might be trying to communicate with us. God communicate with us in different ways at different times, in the imagery of the gospel reading, in both dirges and dances, in times of great sadness and great joy. The gospel reading this morning suggests that what is needed from us is an openness to hear God, to be attentive to the Lord. That is, above all, what Advent calls for – that listening ear which is attentive to the Lord’s coming and presence, no matter what form it takes.

And/Or

(iv) Friday, Second Week of Advent

We often hear someone say of someone else, ‘Nothing will please him/her’. That is what Jesus appears to be saying about the people of his generation in today’s gospel reading. The ministry of Jesus and the ministry of John the Baptist were very different in ways, and, yet, according to Jesus, his generation found fault with both. John they dismissed as ‘possessed’ and Jesus as a ‘glutton and drunkard, a friend of undesirables’. Rather than asking, ‘What has this person to say to us?’ they dismissed them both in an off-hand fashion. They were like children who would neither join in the dance when the piper played, a reference to the ministry of Jesus, nor would they join in the funeral game when the dirges were sung, a reference to the ministry of John the Baptist. God was drawing near to that generation through the very different ministry of John the Baptist and Jesus. God continues to approach us in many and varied ways. Advent calls on us to be attentive to the presence of the Lord, the call of the Lord, in and through the various circumstances of our lives, including those circumstances we might be tempted to dismiss as having nothing to teach us.

And/Or

(v) Friday, Second Week of Advent

Jesus was a keen observer of people of all ages. He often spoke about his own ministry and the kingdom of God using images drawn from day to day life. In this morning’s gospel reading we find him drawing on his observation of children at play in the market square. Sometimes their games reflect the joy of life. Some pretend to play pipes as if at a wedding while other children dance to the music. At other times their games reflect the sorrows of life. Some children would sing dirges as if at a funeral while others would mourn and wail in response. Jesus often noticed that there were some children who refused to join in any game; they wouldn’t dance when the pipes were played and they wouldn’t be mourners when dirges were sung. These unresponsive children remind Jesus of some of the adults of his day. They would neither mourn in response to the gloomy message of John the Baptist nor dance in response to the joyful message of Jesus. They dismissed John the Baptist as possessed and Jesus as a glutton and a drunkard. It is interesting that Jesus identifies his own ministry with the piper and the dance. His life and his message are good news, the good news of God’s love for us all; he plays a joyful tune. We are called to move in unison with the joyful music of Jesus, with the music of his Spirit that plays deep within our hearts. We try to attune ourselves to the Lord’s rhythm and melody and allow it to shape all that we say and do. That is our Advent calling in preparation for our celebration of the birth of Jesus.

And/Or

(vi) Friday, Second Week of Advent

This morning’s gospel reading shows just how much Jesus was a keen observer of life. He noticed children playing in the market place. One group tries to involve another group in their games. They enact a wedding game, playing flutes, but the other group of children are unmoved. Then switch to a funeral game, singing dirges, but again the other group of children are unmoved. Jesus sees in this unresponsive group of children an image of his own generation who were moved neither by the sombre message of John the Baptist nor the celebratory message of Jesus. They dismissed John as possessed and Jesus as a glutton and a drunkard. Both John the Baptist and Jesus had something important to say, but many of Jesus’ generation were deaf to both messages. The gospel reading calls on us to be open to both the message of John and of Jesus, but, in particular, the message of Jesus. Jesus identifies himself with the children who play pipes for others to dance to. It is interesting to think of Jesus as a piper whose words and actions play the music of God. Our calling is to become attuned to this music of God and to move to its rhythm. This music of God that Jesus plays is celebratory music, not mournful music, the music of a wedding feast rather than a funeral. It is music that brings light where there is darkness, hope where there is despair, joy where there is sadness. If we are attentive to this music and allow it to shape our lives, then we will be a life-giving presence to others and our own lives will proclaim the good news of God.

And/Or

(vii) Friday, Second Week of Advent

When children come to a certain age they often like to act out various roles. They like to play at being a doctor or a nurse or a policeman or a lorry driver or whatever. Children in the time of Jesus were no different. In the gospel reading this morning, Jesus pictures children playing pipes as if at a wedding, for people to dance to. He also portrays them singing dirges or sad songs as if at a funeral, for people to mourn to. On each occasion other children refuse to take part in these games. They don’t react either to the pretend playing of the pipes or the pretend singing of dirges. They just look on disapprovingly. Jesus compares this second set of children to his own generation. They disapproved both of John the Baptist with his more sombre message of repentance and of Jesus with his more joyful message of God’s loving presence to all. They were unmoved by John and Jesus, even though both were God’s messengers and Jesus was also God’s Son. We can all come to a point where we are no longer moved by the various ways that God comes to us. God is always trying to move us through his Son and his Spirit. We need to leave ourselves open to the stirring of God. That will often involve stepping back a little from everything and reflecting on our experience to see where God is trying to lead us, to listen to what God wants to say to us. Advent is a season when we are invited to enter into that reflective mode in a special way.

And/Or

(viii) Friday, second week of Advent

Children tend to have wonderful imaginations. They can play at being something they are not. In a sense, acting comes naturally to them. They can play pretend nurse or pretend fireman or whatever. What is true of children today, was true of children in the time of Jesus. He noticed how they played at being at a funeral or a wedding in the market place. As part of the play wedding, they would pretend to play pipes. For the pretend funeral they would play at singing dirges. Jesus noticed there were often some children who simply refused to join in these pretend games. They were indifferent to the pipe playing at the pretend wedding as well as to the singing of dirges at the pretend funeral. They simply refused to play. This scene from ordinary life reminded Jesus of the response of some people to the ministry of John the Baptist and his own ministry. John was more like the singer of dirges, and many people did not take him seriously. Jesus was more like the piper who played the pipes, and many of the same people took no notice of him either. It is interesting that Jesus uses this image of the pipe player for his own ministry. It suggests that Jesus came to play a joyful tune to which people were invited to dance. He proclaimed the presence of a loving and hospital God, or as Pope Francis keeps reminding, a God of mercy and compassion. This is good news which invites a joyful and grateful response from all of us. The Lord’s tune of good news is to find an echo in our hearts and in our lives; we are called to allow ourselves to move to its rhythm.

And/Or

(ix) Friday, Second week of Advent

Jesus uses the image of children playing to describe his own ministry and the ministry of John the Baptist. The children who play the pipes for other children to dance to are an image of the ministry of Jesus. The children who sing dirges for other children to mourn to are an image of the ministry of John the Baptist. Clearly the message and the ministry of Jesus had more joy to it than the ministry of John the Baptist. It was more of a celebration than the ministry of John. The image of children playing pipes for others to dance to is an interesting image for Jesus’ ministry. It suggests that he has come to play a joyful tune, a tune that encourages people to dance for joy. He is, after all, a preacher of good news, the good news of God’s faithful love for us all, the good news that God has sent his Son so that we might have life and have it to the full, both now and in eternity. We can perhaps forget that the gospel is the source of true joy; when it is heard and responded to it brings a peace and a joy that the world cannot give. Paul says that the fruit of the Spirit is peace and joy. This Advent we pray that we might enter more fully into the Lord’s peace and joy.

And/Or

(x) Friday, Second Week of Advent

Weddings and funerals are very much part of what goes on in every church. There is obviously a great difference between the mood of a wedding and the mood of a funeral. In this morning’s gospel reading, Jesus associates the mood of John the Baptist’s ministry with that of a funeral and the mood of his own ministry with that of a wedding. He criticizes his contemporaries for rejecting both the ministry of John the Baptist and that of Jesus. They reject John the Baptist as being too sorrowful and severe, ‘He is possessed’. They reject Jesus as being too joyful and lax, ‘Look, a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners’. Jesus compares his contemporaries to truculent children in the market place who refuse to join in other children’s games, whether it is the game of funerals or the game of weddings. These children, like Jesus’ contemporaries, will neither dance or be mourners. It is striking that Jesus identifies his ministry with the joy of a wedding feast and with the dance that is inspired by the playing of flutes. Jesus’ ministry was good news; it celebrated the presence of the compassionate mercy of God. This was certainly good news for ‘tax collectors and sinners’, and for all who felt that God had cast them aside. Jesus’ ministry remains good news for us today. He continues to make present to us the compassionate mercy of God. He calls us to join in this celebration of God’s merciful love for sinners, to dance with joy to the music of the kingdom of God.

And/Or

(xi) Friday, Second Week of Advent

Children have started to get very excited about Christmas. They are beginning to look forward to the presents they will get from Santa. Some of those presents will consist of games which will amuse the children for hours. Yet, children also have a way of making up their own games. When I was young, one of the games children played was to enter into different roles. They might play at being a doctor or a nurse or a pilot or a postman or whatever it might be. Today’s gospel reading suggests that children weren’t all that different in Jesus’ day. Jesus alludes to the ways that they played at being at a wedding or even a funeral. They played the pipes associated with the celebrations at a wedding, and they sang dirges as if at a funeral. Jesus noticed, however, that there were other children who didn’t want to join in these games. They were spoilsports, which is why some children give out to them, ‘we played the pipes for you and you wouldn’t dance, we sang dirges and you wouldn’t be mourners’. This scenario reminded Jesus of many of his contemporary’s response to his ministry and the ministry of John the Baptist. They were unmoved both by the solemn message and lifestyle of John and the much more celebratory message and lifestyle of Jesus. Many dismissed Jesus as someone who eat food and drank wine with sinners. We, however, rejoice that Jesus has brought the good news of God’s merciful and faithful love to sinners, among whom we can all count ourselves. We spend our lives trying to live in harmony with the joyful tune of God’s love that Jesus continues to play today as risen Lord.

And/Or

(xii) Friday, Second Week of Advent

As we approach the feast of Christmas, children will be getting all kinds of Christmas presents, some of which will be quite sophisticated and high-tech. Yet, I often think that what children enjoy most are the games that they make up themselves. Children in Jesus’ day were no different. In today’s gospel reading, Jesus comments on some of the games children play in the market square. They act out being part of a group of flute players, playing joyful music, such as would be heard at a wedding, hoping other children would dance to their joyful tunes, or they act out being the mourners at a funeral, singing dirges, hoping other children would weep loudly in response. It’s the make believe world of children. Sometimes, some of the other children wouldn’t co-operate; they wouldn’t dance to the flute players or mourn at the dirge singers. Their body language said, ‘we don’t want to play any game’. When Jesus noticed this, it reminded him of something else. So much of life reminded Jesus of how people were relating to him and to God. It occurred to him that the flute players were like himself and the dirge singers were like John the Baptist, and the children who refuse to join either game were like Jesus’ own contemporaries who rejected both John the Baptist and Jesus himself, for different reasons. Jesus identifies with the children who play joyful songs on the flute, because his ministry was a celebration of God’s merciful and compassionate love.  We are all invited to catch something of the celebratory presence of Jesus among us today, and to live out of the joyful energy which his presence gives us.

And/Or

(xiii) Friday, Second Week of Advent

In the gospel reading, Jesus reflects ruefully on his contemporaries. They are as good at finding fault with Jesus’ behaviour as they were at finding fault with the behaviour of John the Baptist. Yet, Jesus and John the Baptist were very different. The ministry of John the Baptist was more like the children who sang dirges in the market place for other children to mourn over; the ministry of Jesus was more like the children who played the flute in the market place for other children to dance to. If the music of John the Baptist’s ministry was reminiscent of the mournful music of a funeral, the music of Jesus’ ministry evoked the celebratory music of a wedding feast. However, Jesus’ contemporaries were equally unmoved by both types of music. They found fault with John the Baptist and with Jesus. Their readiness to find fault blinded them to the God’s activity in the ministry of John the Baptist and much more powerfully in the ministry of Jesus. To say John the Baptist was possessed and that Jesus was a glutton and a drunkard was to miss completely what was significant about the ministry of both men. We can all be prone to the kind of fault finding that prevents us from seeing the ways in which the Lord may be calling out to us through others. The music of the Spirit can take very different forms in different people’s lives, and we need to keep attuning the ears of our hearts to that varied music, and resist the temptation to turn it off too quickly by finding fault.

And/Or

(xiv) Friday, Second Week of Advent

There was a time, perhaps less so today, when children liked to play by imitating the behaviour of adults. They might play at being a doctor or a nurse or an airline pilot or whatever. In today’s gospel reading Jesus imagines a group of children playing at being the musicians at a wedding and the singers at a funeral. However, this group of children find no response at all from another group of children. When the first group pretend to play the pipes as at a wedding, the other group of children won’t dance. When they pretend to sing dirges as at a funeral, the other group of children won’t mourn. Jesus applies this image to his own ministry and the ministry of John the Baptist, contrasting his own joyful, celebratory ministry with the more austere and mournful ministry of John the Baptist. Jesus observes that like the second group of children his own contemporaries failed to be moved either by his own ministry or the ministry of John. They were behaving like God’s frozen people. The gospel reading invites us to ask how we are responding to the joyful, celebratory ministry of the risen Lord today. Does the Lord’s presence and ministry among us keep placing a new song in our hearts? Do we allow our lives to move to the rhythm of the Lord’s joyful tune, the joyful music of the Holy Spirit? In these Covid days when it is so easy to get despondent, do we allow the Lord to keep us hopeful? The Lord’s daily coming in love to us is always good news to be grateful for and to rejoice in, even when times are difficult.

Fr. Martin Hogan.

[beevean]

Honestly, while Michiru Yamane seems to be physically uncapable of composing a track that is less than great, I think I understood the reason why CoD has my favorite OST, even more than the highly popular (and also slappin’) SoTN

The tracks aren’t just well composed, and they don’t just have excellent instrumentation: I can picture perfectly Hector’s state of mind during the events.

Abandoned Castle isn’t just an “entrance” theme: usually entrance/first level themes are supposed to say “here’s your new badass protagonist, have fun!”, but this one sounds much more serious, the cold guitars and synth conveying Hector’s grief and determination to embark on his quest for revenge. The only other “character” themes that IMO convey the same level of emotions are An Empty Tome and Lament of Innocence.

Garibaldi Courtyard isn’t just a “cathedral” theme: the whole piece conveys awe at the place, but I also hear an unbearable sadness that I can’t even put into words. I can’t even connect it to the game, but it makes my heart swell and I am in love.

Forest of Jigramunt isn’t just a “forest” theme: the instruments paint a beautiful picture, of light shining through the foliage, but the intensity of the melody implies that Hector pays it no mind as he’s deadset on his vengeful mission, his anger tainting everything.

Cave of Jigramunt isn’t just a “cave” theme: while rather upbeat, the discordant chimes, deep choirs and strings manage to convey a “cursed” mood of a place you shouldn’t dwell in for too long. When you remember that this place hides a statue of the Evil God that gave Dracula his powers, it makes perfect sense.

Cordova Town isn’t just a “town” theme: the slow rhythm, the sound of the guitars, the thumping bass and the harshness of the synth (the same that plays in Abandoned Castle) don’t just fit the decrept look of the place, but also they make me imagine an exhausted Hector dragging his sword to the ground, only pushing forward because he has spotted Isaac in the distance.

Eneomaos Machine Tower isn’t just a “clock tower” theme: the piece starts with an elegant piano, but it gradually builds up to something more tense, until by the end of the loop the pressure of the journey is on Hector’s shoulders, who is literally forced to fight time. It’s also perhaps the only clock tower theme to feature a prominent clock sound, which helps the immersion. (special shout-out to the official rearrangement Narcisisstic Reflection; a better translation of the name could be “Recollection of Aestheticism”, and it fits how utterly beautiful and poignant it is)

Dracula’s Castle isn’t just a “final level” theme: after the harp intro, I keep picturing Hector throwing himself up the stairs, slashing all monsters without a second thought, heart racing because it’s all his fault, Dracula is back and it’s all his fault, Isaac played him like a fiddle, he can’t afford to make a single mistake now! (the fact that he sounds more guilt-ridden in the Japanese script makes me feel vindicated lol)

Insane Aristocracy isn’t just the theme of the fight against Isaac: it encapsulates his fury, violence and all-compassing madness, and the solo, that echoes the melody heard in the intro, barely gives more breathing room, to convey the tragedy of his situation. You could also choose to see it from Hector’s perspective, as he’s also enraged to fight his old friend, only to then realize “this is not him. This is not the Isaac that I knew. Something’s wrong. But I still must kill him”.

Legendary Belmont isn’t just the theme of the fight against Trevor: it’s the theme of Hector being petrified with fear as he realizes he’s locked in a room with the monster of a vampire hunter that slayed Lord Dracula, and wants him dead too. You can just feel the sheer panic and difference in power, thanks to the strings and the heavily distorted guitar.

Sarabande of Healing isn’t just a “shop” theme: it starts off as cozy and serene, because the place becomes like a little sanctuary for Hector, but then the celesta gives place to cellos, that you can choose to still see as cozy (I can see Hector resting in the chair as they play) or sorrowful, to paint Julia’s pain that she goes to great lengths to hide.

A Toccata in Blood Soaked Darkness isn’t just Dracula’s theme: it’s a seamless combination of Dracula’s imposing power and anger (the organs) and Hector’s determination to face him like a man this time (the drums), and the major chord midway through is a beacon of hope that Hector is now strong enough to defeat his old master. (side note, its older sibling Dark Night Toccata seems to go for the opposite approach: the organs fit Leon’s grief while the strings and drums fit Walter’s pompous, sadistic nature, and the piece is overall less hopeful. It’s interesting to compare the two, and LoI has a magnificent OST as well)

tl;dr i owe michiru yamane my whole life

[ariadne-mouse]

🎁😏 (first emoji is the question, second emoji is my face while asking it)

Hello friend!! For you, the response to this can only be evilgast :))

🎁 Have a piece of a WIP you want to share?

Have a bit of reverberant branches, featuring the alternate Shadowgast from multitudinous echoes:

-

Thelyss has brought him to the heart of enemy territory.

But they are alone, also.  The only other thing on this tower roof is a silvery device almost as tall as they are, with many rings and loops and globules that orbit each other in a hypnotic dance.  The shape they make altogether is that of a sphere.

It’s fascinating, and pulls Bren from his contemplations very effectively.

“What is this?”

“Guess,” Thelyss quips, stepping away.

Bren serves him a look, but rubs his hand together and walks to the device, not willing to turn down a challenge.  He scrubs his beard, examining from several angles. He waves a hand and determines there is some kind of scrying magic involved.  Some of the rings are stationary, others shift slow and steady, while still others dance quickly like darting sparrows, appearing and disappearing at will.  Looking closer, the rings are actually a metallic liquid, beads and globules racing to redistribute themselves based on some invisible cue.  There is a rhythm to all of it that feels… familiar.  The rings cross and meld, maintaining still oases in a handful of places.

“This detects some kind of arcane activity,” Bren surmises.  He hovers his fingers by one of the thin dancing rings, but does not touch.  He traces it to a place where many lines cross. “This is a map.  Of Exandria, I would guess, by the shape.  These hotspots are locations where there is a lot going on.”

“Very good.” Thelyss draws up beside him.  Bren’s hackles go up instinctively at the praise, and he’s vindicated when the Shadowhand dryly continues, “At least the Empire has some basic standards as to who might attain the title of Archmage.”

“How does one become a Shadowhand?” Bren fires back. “Our reports tell us you are part of a very influential family.  Nothing like generous resources and a little nepotism to secure your station.”

He can see the words strike, sees Thelyss straighten his spine, and knows he’s hit a nerve.  Good.

“I earned my position,” comes the chilly reply.  “I had resources, yes, but the talent — the ambition — that was mine alone.”  Then with a disdainful sniff, the Shadowhand recenters himself and paces a slow circle around the moving rings.  He meets Bren’s eyes from the other side. “This device tracks arcane ley lines throughout the whole of Exandria.  In common, it would be called… hm.  An arcanograph.  I built it myself, probably before you were born.  It occurred to me recently to seek answers here to our predicament.  But I have not had a chance to look at it for any length of time and focus, due to your… fun.”

Bren’s head throbs from the bruised cut he never bothers to heal, the one where Thelyss’s defective echo struck him with a rock.  The real version is just as much of a pain.

Thelyss flicks his fingers and a spectral map of Exandria appears within the center of the orb.  “Some ley lines are stationary.  Others move with various environmental fluctuations; the position of the moons, tides, stars.  I have marked some convergences which are known — temples, cities, and the like, that were built deliberately or accidentally to coincide with intersections where arcane potentiality is consistently highest.  There is also some capacity to record events.  Observe: I may control the parameters and look into the past.”

With a twist of his slim wrists and a glimmer of magic, Thelyss mimics the motion of turning a wheel.  The rings of the ley line device surge like spilled liquid leaping back into a glass, reversing.  When Thelyss stops, the whole contraption is stationary except for the glimmering of the metallic liquid. 

“It is beautiful.”  

The words leave Bren’s mouth almost on their own, honest and unvarnished.  The device is a work of art, and Bren is impressed despite his irritation with its creator.  It clearly took no small amount of both arcane and alchemical knowledge — and finesse — to fashion such a thing.  Out of the corner of his eye he can see Thelyss staring at him suspiciously from the other side of the contraption, his ornate metal shoulder pauldrons almost blending into the layout of the machine.  Starlight and the faint glow of the device reflect upon the his pale violet eyes, turning them quicksilver.  He is waiting for a qualifier to the compliment, but Bren offers none.  The device is beautiful.

“...Thank you.”