#the renegades are holding him hostage :))

[cevansbrat0007]

Jiggly

Summary: You find yourself feeling a little self-conscious after it becomes clear you've gained a little weight.

Warnings: Insecure Reader, Ari Being A Menace, Discussions of Body Image, Mentions of Disordered Eating, Smut (Heavily Implied), Oral Sex (Fem Rec Implied), Light Spanking, Cursing, Clothed Male Nude Female (CMNF), Talk of Potentially Abusive Exes, Brief Discussion of Murder, Pet Names, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Dedicated to @curls-and-eyeliner and @dc41896. This story will more than likely take place in my upcoming Sweet Renegades Series. Not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. Thanks for reading!

___

“Lemme see.” 

“Seriously, Ari?” You mumble, throwing your arms over your face. “Ari–no!” Your man’s eagerness has you almost immediately second guessing yourself as you hastily go back to protecting your middle. 

“Why not?” Your man purrs, nuzzling the fabric of your threadbare flannel shirt with the tip of his nose. It was your favorite thing to wear when you felt like this. Not because it was exceptionally cute, but because it was comfortable.

Nevermind the fact that it had once belonged to Ari. And that you usually only wore it when he was away on a job and you were missing him.   

“I just wanna see what all this fuss is about, Bird.”

“I already told you.” The words are spoken in a huff. After a brief debate, you decide to take advantage of the element of surprise and flip your positions so that you’re straddling him. “I’m feeling a little jiggly.”  

“Right, you’re…jiggly.” A small snort slips from his mouth before he can compose himself. “I heard what you said the first three times you said it. Didn’t make a lick of sense then and it doesn’t make any now.” 

Annoying bastard. Not everyone could walk around all day sporting washboard abs. Especially not a girl like you whose passion for baking was almost as big as her passion for books.

“Oh, shut up.” You grunt, rolling your eyes as you go to pin his hands above his head. 

“I’m just pointing out that my ears are working fine.” He picks that moment to buck his hips, almost knocking you off your perch. Somehow you manage to steady yourself, but it’s absolutely easier said than done.

“Hold still, Levinson!”

“Looks to me like you’re the one doing all the moving.” Ari’s hearty chuckle has you redoubling your efforts to hold him hostage. “Although, I can’t say I’m complaining.” He purrs, his lidded gaze straying to your now-heaving chest. “But I really think our next move should be gettin’ you outta that shirt.”

Fat chance of that one, pal. The last thing you wanted was to be naked in front of him right now. Sunlight wasn't known for being slimming.

“Nope.” 

“I vote yes.” Ari twists his big body, jerking against your hold. “And while you’re at it you can lose the shorts too, along with the panties.” 

“But I’m not wearing any.” The words tumble out faster than you can stop them. It’s enough to have you mentally slapping yourself in the face.

“Even better.” The feral gleam in his eyes sends sparks shooting straight to your core. “I’m a simple man, baby. And giving me easy access to that sweet pussy is the quickest way to my heart.” 

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a surprise that you don’t lose them. As it was, your flimsy shorts were already riding up your ass in a way that was kind of uncomfortable. Mostly because your man wouldn’t stay still.

“Bird, what have I told you about rolling your eyes at me?” The soft, silky timbre of his voice has alarm bells sounding in your head.

“Um…” Now, that one has you at a loss. And not because you didn’t know the answer to his question.

In the past, Ari had explicitly warned you not to do it. Not unless you wanted him to give you a few reasons to keep ‘em rolling. Specifically in the form of his thick, hard cock. Because while your man was usually more than willing to put up with quite a bit of sass from you...

There was just something about rolling your eyes that pissed him off. In fact, the last time you’d done it you’d found yourself bent over the couch with a sore ass and him balls deep inside you.

Granted you’d also been in the middle of a fight, but that was neither here nor there. 

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” 

“Bite me.” You snap, your mouth once again moving faster than your brain. Fuck, you needed to get a handle on that.  

Ari has you on your back in a flash. He looms over you, careful not to give you his full weight. It went without saying that you were well on your way to getting yourself in trouble with your man.

Him and stupid rules about maintaining proper eye eye contact and refusing to tolerate your brand of self-deprecating talk. He always maintained that if he ever found himself wanting one of those rail-thin Hollywood types over you, he’d go see about getting his head checked out. 

To him you were gorgeous. Not because of or in spite of your curves. But because you were you. 

“Where’s all this sass coming from?” Ari asks, shaking his head as his nimble fingers begin the work of unfastening your flannel. “It can’t all be because you’re feeling squishy.”

“Jiggly.” You correct him gently, your heart speeding up as he slowly unfastens one button, and then another. 

“My mistake, Duchess.” And there was his other nickname for you; the one you’d earned yourself during your very first meeting. “I just don’t like seeing my girl upset – especially not when she’s been walking around my place all day looking good enough to eat.”

Soon you’re down another button, but you hardly notice this time. You’re too busy getting lost in his sparkling blue eyes.

Only a few more to go. Frankly, the only reason Ari hadn’t ripped the damn thing was because he knew just attached you were to it. And he didn’t want to risk upsetting you further.    

“I’m sorry.” You try, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. While your boyfriend doesn’t say anything, the apology does manage to earn you a kiss. Even though it’s nothing more than a faint brush of his mouth over yours. 

“Swear to God, baby.” Ari hums as he resumes the delicate task of divesting you of your clothes. “If I ever meet the man responsible for planting all those ugly thoughts in the beautiful mind of yours…” Once all the buttons are finally undone, he parts the edges of the worn fabric, exposing your bare breasts.

“Ari…”

“I’ll fucking kill him.” His dark gaze locks with yours, making it clear that he’s not joking.   

“Beast…” A shiver courses through you, the cool air making your nipples pebble. “This has nothing to do with him. My clothes have been feeling a little snug lately, but then I stepped on the scale this morning and it confirmed everything. I’ve probably just been eating too much.”

“Bullshit. I’ve seen how much you eat.” The tick in his bearded jaw has you glad your ex no longer lived in the same county as you. “Some days it’s still nowhere near enough. Might as well be a bunch of birdseed. And since when do I even own a fucking scale?” 

Since you’d relocated it from your house to his. But your man doesn’t even give you time to respond. He’s already decided on its new home.

“It’s going in the trash, Bird.” Ari growls, his tone dripping with authority. 

“But I need –”

“What you need to do is not worry about counting every single calorie in every tiny bite of food you put in your mouth all the damn time.” His big hands go to frame your face as he forces himself to take a calming breath. “Because I remember what it was like back then, when you were too nervous to even eat in front of me.” 

Shit. You did too. You’d been so worried that he’d make some remark about how much food you were putting in your mouth or on your plate that you’d done your damndest to avoid eating in front of him altogether.  

“And I will not let us go back to that place, baby. I just won’t.” Ari’s head dips once more – this time his tongue sweeping past your lips to tenderly dance with your own as he pours every ounce of love he can into the kiss. He groans when he finally feels you relax beneath him, almost as if he’s savoring your submission. “You have my fucking word.” He murmurs once he finally lets you up for air.   

“I think that maybe I just need to eat more salads.” You tell him as your toes begin to curl. At the same time, a delicious warmth pools in your belly as your man begin’s trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses down your body. Your fingers sink into his chestnut tresses, lightly ruffling the strands.   

“Eat whatever the fuck you want.” Comes his swift rebuttal, his sharp teeth grazing over your pouting nipple.

“Bu–but…then my clothes might not fit.” A hiss of breath escapes as his kisses continue to move further south. “Like, at all.”

“Then we’ll just have to buy you some more goddamned clothes then, won’t we?” Ari snarls before pausing his hedonistic assault to glare up at you. When you don’t respond immediately, one of his hands finds your chin – gripping it with just enough force to let you know he means business. 

Your man was also the type who liked to hear an answer when he asked a question. And that wasn’t something that only applied to you. It was true for everyone. He didn’t talk just to hear himself speak.

“Yes, Sir.” To be fair, it was hard to argue with your boyfriend’s logic. And if he wanted to spend his hard-earned money he’d made off of chasing bad guys, then perhaps you’d ought to let him. 

The last thing you needed was him off pouting in the corner somewhere. He was a sizable enough menace already. He didn’t need the extra help.

“Thank you.” He grumbles, shifting his attention to what’s left of your clothes. Namely, your shorts. The ones Ari wasn’t too keen on you wearing out of the house on account of the fact that they barely covered your ass. Shaking his head, he eases the thin material down your thighs before tossing them over his shoulder. 

Now you were well and truly naked – completely at the mercy of your still fully-clothed Beast.

“Show me what’s mine, please.” Ari rasps, nudging your thighs apart. In the mood to obey, you let them fall open, putting your glistening cunt on  display. “There’s a good girl.” His fingers reach out to brush over your sensitive folds, making you whimper. 

Feeling brave, your hand shoots out to wrap around his thick wrist. “Wait. I was thinking I’d like to, um…makeup for upsetting you a little bit ago.”

“Really, Bird? You wanna make it up to me?” He maneuvers himself on the bed so that he can help you sit up. Nodding, you move to reach for him – intending to remove his t-shirt. Only to be surprised when Ari stops you. 

“But I want it off.” You whine, poking out your lower lip. “You’re not playing fair.”

“That’s because we’re not playing. If you wanna make it up to me then you’re just gonna have to do what I say.” He smooths a thumb across the wrinkles in your brow. “You can suck me off later. After you’ve fed me.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me.” Grinning, Ari goes to lie flat on his back, his muscled arms coming to rest behind his head. “Now bring your sweet ass over here and sit on my face.” He pats his chest for good measure, licking his lips in anticipation. “And I mean all the way down.”

“But what if I –” Your stream of consciousness is interrupted by Ari tugging you forward. He grips your thighs, his slightly calloused palms tenderly kneading your flesh as he urges you up his body in the direction of his waiting mouth. 

This position always makes you nervous – regardless of whether or not you’d had to jump into your jeans that morning. 

“You just let me worry about all those pesky what-ifs.” Your man grunts, letting it be known that the only way to satisfy him right now is to submit. He spanks your ass when you hover too long above his face. “The only thing you need to be concerned about is how I’m gonna redden that ass if you don’t do as you’re told and sit all the way down.”

You feel your face flush as your empty walls clench. Your body was feeling more than a little needy. You were craving your man's cock like the drug that it was. But before you got what you wanted, you'd have to make a couple of concessions first.

Starting with this one...       

“I mean it, Bird.” He growls, delivering a sharp smack. “All the way down, please. I’m not worried about being able to breathe.” You jump when you receive another smack for your trouble. “Besides, if it’s my time to go…then I’d much rather go out with the taste of you on my tongue.” 

"Now let's see just how many you can give me."

END

[paigelts05]

Vanessa Diego [FNAF AR, Renegade AU]

https://www.deviantart.com/paigelts05/art/Vanessa-Diego-FNAF-AR-Renegade-AU-1039641646

Published: Apr 07 2024

CK animatronic maintenance and R&D Robotics contract with Faz Ent has ended, but their stories are far from over.

Vanessa Diego used to work for Silver Parasol until she left in 2018 after the HW incident stole away the face of one of her friends, an eye from another friend, the sanity of her sister, and more harrowingly enough, partial control over her own body.

She told her friends that it was for thier own safety, and it really was: she didn't want to put them in danger by keeping the thing that had harmed them so much so close by, as she knew that whatever - or whoever - it was that had posessed her in such an unconventional way wanted her friends dead for their 'failure to properly harbour him'.

She started a new job somewhere else, that place being CK animatronic maintenance, but the she went on a camping trip a few days before, but got stranded by a storm when she tried to head back to the car park, so she kept her camp up and intended to just hold out, but she heard someone nearby fall and scream, so she found them - a man about her age, all on his own, and in really bad shape with a twisted ankle and some cuts from the undergrowth - and brought him back to her camp to patch him up. After he woke up and they had a small conversation, she realised that this was Luis: one of the guys who runs the maintenance firm she was due to start working for tomorrow.

She found her and Luis's first meeting to be cute, but wasn't sure why he never brought it up. Maybe he just didn't remember.

Though, she did get along with him very well, and him with her, so she started going out for coffee with him! She doesn't know what he calls it, but she calls it a date!

Though her new job wasn't all fun and games with William sitting in the back of her mind and all. Some days, William would force her to have the day off her normal job at CK animatronic maintenance to do her 'Faz Ent work', as William put it, because she had to go to abandoned Faz Ent HQs in order to have a 'propper meeting' with William on the man's own turf, and on one of these excursions where Luis had tagged along, William had tried to kill him, but with quick thinking, she did what she had to do to keep Luis alive: by 'attacking' him herself, only causing enough superficial wounds with two hits of a bat to trick William into thinking that she actually meant it, when in reality, it was the only way she could have kept Luis alive.

Later down the line, whilst she was working on some chip sorting work as a part of the contract that Faz Ent had made with CK animatronic maintenance, a virus got into the computer systems, and it wasn't William: he was already where he needed to be. It was Adelaide. With both Aftons in the systems, things started to go horribly wrong, and after getting a nasty shock from the servers when she was helping Luis clean them up, more things statred going wrong: Faz Ent seemed to be trying to kill them.

The Adelaide incident was the culmination of everything that had gone wrong so far. Ness just counted herself lucky that she hadn't been there for it.

Several days after that incident, William had made Ness ill in order to strand her at home and used her weakened state to effectively hold her hostage in her own apartment, only letting Ness leave the apartment to pick up deliveries from CK animatronic maintenance's office. He did this so she could use the V_A account to extract Adelaide, who had gone into hiding in the systems due to R&D robotics catching onto her next plan too quickly and leave the pure computer virus behind. Though going to the office to pick up deliveries was how Ness was saved: William went to pick up a delivery, and Anna and Raha were able to jump her, scaring William for long enough for Ness to take back over.

It was confirmed once again: she was posessed by William. Everyone knew that William Afton had been manipulating her somehow, and even though they had confirmed that he was possessing her several times, this just confirmed their worst suspicions: he had never left her head and knew everything.

Every time they had thought that Ness was safe to speak or even think, William had always been there. Leeching off of her body and mind. Playing along.

Ness then moved in with Luis for three reasons. 1: she could no longer bear her apartment. 2: safety in numbers and not wanting to live alone. 3: she loved him.

Somehow, aside from William occasionally taking over and the occasional mandatory visit to an old Faz Ent HQ, their lives were somewhat normal; Ness had been able to avoid killing anyone so far, and she seemed to have William under control. Ness and Luis had even gotten engaged. Everything seemed OK.

Until the late autumn of 2021. The worst month and a half of their lives.

It started when William finally took over Ness and spirited her away to the megaplex across the other side of the country: she had been kidnapped by a ghost. Then, he forced her to kill. But she always did everything she could to stall: she has plenty of wounds from attacking herself to buy William's victims more time. A month after she was initially kidnapped, Luis had finally been able to track her down: Faz Ent had many HQs, and they could be rotating her through any number of them to make it harder for the police to find her, but it was pretty clear to see where they had been holding her: she'd been at the megaplex the whole time. The police (mostly just Mike, Danielle, and Carl with the weight of the world on thier shoulders) couldn't get a warrant as there was not enough evidence even though they knew, and her sister was in a risky situation of mutual blackmail against Bill Blake, but despite the flow of information being slow and risky, Luis had found her using what little he had to go off of. Sylvia had also fed Luis what she knew about what needed to be done to save Ness.

And on the night Luis played the second arcade and was primed to play the third, William almost made her kill Luis. Twice.

She and Luis had been fortunate enough for Luis to survive both times, but it still terrified her how close to the wire it had been for her to wretch back enough control to give Luis a shot at defeating her in the east arcade early in the night, and how much begging it took for William to allow her to heal him after PQ3 didn't let him in.

Fortunately, less than a week later, a child named Gregory found Luis's notes on the arcades, and that combined with Sylvia beating the other arcades that had kept PQ3 locked, Sylvia and Gregory wound up in a mutually oblivious tango that ended with Gregory able to play PQ3, unaware that Sylvia was nearby and that it was her presence that let him in whilst Sylvia was terrified that the kid would take the coward's path and set the staffbots on her sister. But Gregory chose to save her and succeeded.

Gregory and Ness had mutual knowledge of eachother beforehand: Ness knew of the Clone 46 experiments, and Gregory knew of the original Patient 46. So it was no surprise that Ness had adopted this orphan who had been forced to live through her trauma.

A week later, Mike, Danielle, and Carl had managed to secure enough evidence to get the warrant they needed to raid the megaplex: a raid they'd been planning since Ness went missing. Whilst it went rather well on the evidence front, Ness, Sylvia, Gregory, Cassie, and Mike faced one life threatening situation after another. Though they seemed to be the ONLY group with such bad luck. Come six AM, those who wanted to face off against William stayed to descend into the deepest heart of the megaplex whilst everyone else evacuated. Of course Ness was amongst those who stayed.

The deepest heart of the megaplex was underneath Roxy Raceway. That is where Adelaide kidnapped Luis, used her control technology to turn him into a killing machine, and then sent him to attack them. Ness managed to take the feral assassin down and remove the control module, but she felt herself getting posessed, and that's when they met Gaz's deceased father who helped Ness thwart William's attempts. Then once the C location guards plus Gaz dispatched Daniel Discord, their former manager from their Freddy's days, Ness was finally able to confront William in a battle that took more of a psychic form, using the ghosts within to force the remnant William was using to rebuild his body to bend to the will of the people and force William to burn himself alive. Whilst Adelaide extracted William before it got too risky, the Burntrap body was now no longer viable, setting back William's plans.

After that, Ness thought it was over, but Faz Ent wouldn't let Ness go that easy. They sent Cheryl M., Todd C., and  Charles Ramirez to kidnap her, and unfortunately, they succeeded and brought her back to the megaplex. Those three seemed to be trying to figure something out, and that something involved them cutting her skin open from sternum to stomach, but she was able to use the blood as a tripping hazard to slip away and hide in west Arcade where she found Freddy's head next to an arcade machine that was playing a short clip of Cheryl's ambush on Sylvia and Gregory.

Sylvia and Gregory had mobilised to save her, but also wound up getting ambushed and kidnapped by Cheryl, and it's a clip from that ambush that Ness had saw on the screens, but it didn't set the duo back and they quickly found a Ness who wasn't sure if she was alive or dead. When they were about to escape, Cheryl, Todd, and Charles Ramirez ambushed them and the trio wound up kidnapped and separated. Ness wound up stuck with Todd in the Fazerblast control room, but was quickly able to knock Todd out before he could continue with whatever faux-medical analysis he was trying to perform on her. She then met up with Sylvia, who seemed to have one of Adelaide's control modules on her chest courtesy of Charles Ramirez, but she also seemed to not be swayed by it. The sisters then saved Gregory, who had been forced into running a deduction by Cheryl. Gregory said something about Cassie dying trying to save him, so when the trio were about to escape for real, Sylvia stayed behind after detonating the remote demolition explosives she had been leaving about the megaplex (she'd gotten a gig at Stan's budget demolitions, the company the courts hired to demolish the megaplex, so Sylvia was only doing her job here), whilst Ness and Gregory used Sylvia's car to get to the hospital.

The next time Ness saw Sylvia was about 40 hours later, and Sylvia was with an unconscious but alive Cassie.

During Ness's hospital stay (she needed so much treatment not just for the wounds inflicted by the exec trio, but those she had sustained whilst under William's control too), William attempted to possess her, but to Ness's surprise, he was contained and suppressed: the ghost of her own dad, who had gone missing when she was very young, was possessing her, and had been since the end of the Raid.

Once everyone was finally able to go home, the nightmare wasn't entirely over. Ness beat herself up over it all until the ghosts of the victims William had killed whilst using her as a vessel told her in no uncertain terms that they knew that she was posessed and had done everything she could have and more to try and prevent their deaths; they'd all seen her stab herself to buy them more time to run, but in the end, the animatronics got most of them.

She was fortunately able to internalise this, and it helped her make one of the most important decisions of her life: when presented with the possibility of a literal human prison being used to contain William Afton - he'd escaped from Scraptrap, his own undead body, before so trapping a robotic body of his in a regular prison would achieve worse than nothing - Ness jumped at the chance to permanently keep William contained and out of the hands of Faz Ent. Nobody was exactly surprised.

When the day came, Ness, Sylvia, Cassey, the samurai ghost known as OMC, and Cassie all worked together to lure William into a VR game that Faz Ent used to train it's megaplex staff and trap him in a fourth Princess Quest game that Sylvia, Cassey, and Ness had put into the game. Cassie was able to lure William to where Ness was waiting, where she essentially consumed him, the Vanny avatar crushing him in her hands, Ness absorbing his ghost and trapping it deep within.

Thanks to a pair of control bracers (bracers designed for those posessed by violent ghosts to be able to keep the ghost from taking over thier bodies) and the constant effort of herself and her dad's ghost, Ness is able to live normally amongst the public and is happy with her role as the Warden.

She is able to live with Luis, and now Gregory too, and live the normal life she'd always hoped for.

[luminnara]

Lumi’s 6k follower rec list!

I’ve been reading a wide and weird variety lately! I really mostly read fics on AO3 so almost all of these are links there 😅 thank y’all so much for following me, and as always, if you read (or write!) any fics from fandoms I’m in that you think I’d like, send em my way!

Dune

Ex Nihilo - Marweli

No House, no wealth, no future.

As the only daughter of a renegade house, you never expected to be able to leave the hidden planet your ancestors sought refuge on. That is until an unlikely alliance proposed by House Harkonnen has the potential to change your life forever. But nothing comes without a price.

Feyd-Rautha is a terrifying man. You should hate him, and part of you does. And yet there is the undeniable pull of desire and his terrible potential that holds the key to both of your futures.

Thrown To The Wolves - @sansaorgana

After receiving the news from the Emperor about moving to Arrakis, Duke Leto suspects the upcoming war with the Harkonnens. His daughter's marriage with the Baron's heir is supposed to create an alliance and ensure his family's safety. Previously sheltered and protected Princess Atreides must now face the harsh reality on her own.

BG3

Reconnecting With Nature - the_littlest_raindrop

A few months after saving the day, you decide it’s high time to pay your lover a visit, to see if your hearts still beat as one.

Demon Slayer

Secrets from the Sound Hashira - Obscure_proxy

Being married to the Sound Hashira was exciting, flamboyant, and adventurous. However, trying to keep secrets in a full house with a husband who can hear through walls turns out to be quite difficult. Resulting in a lot of miscommunication, but lots of steamy sessions. A story in which the reader finds themselves pregnant, trying to navigate the best way to tell their husband Uzui Tengen, and failing miserably.

DC

The Pizza Delivery Girl’s Guide To Gotham City - Morveren

People who lived outside of Gotham City would most often think of it in terms of its heroes and villains. About Batman and Robin, Joker and Harley Quinn.

People who actually live in Gotham City would only think of one thing: surviving.

Who cares about the people in costumes when your house has been bombed for the fifth time, or your wife has been taken hostage just because she worked in a bank?

Or, in your case, when you have to make regular deliveries to places where even Batman feared to tread?

Because let's face it. In a world full of superheroes and costumed villains, the real heroes are the ones who make sure that people get their pizzas in forty-five minutes or less.

Zelda

Interim - starkraving

She has no throne. Girls without thrones should not have knights, but hers won’t go. Princess Zelda – the girl who killed Calamity – would love to fade into legend, but Link’s bought a house, he’s fighting off monsters, and he’s selling giant horses to strangely familiar Gerudo men. She'll never have any peace now.

Mass Effect

Bloodlines - AceQueenKing

In the aftermath of the Reaper war, Garrus Vakarian's father struggles with some new additions to the Vakarian family.

[firewalkzwit]

runt // jonathan crane x reader (25)

Chapter 25

cross-posted on AO3

masterlist.

Sleep on and dream of love

Because it's the closest you will

Get to love

Poor twisted child

So ugly

Poor twisted child

Oh hug me

One November

Spawned a monster

In the shape of this child.

Crane was an apostate, renegade of any good faith, and a child deserted of love. Love that juxtapositioned with her purity and held her hostage of his swings as she clinged onto him. She clinged on like a pest, a leech, an acute infection that creeped up his body and crawled under his skin, like billions of tiny insects of thousand legs, a disease that travels through his blood, condensing it and its stench of iron poisoning his veins until no part of his body was safe of her curse.

His forehead, damp of sweat, rested on his palm as his body leaned on his desk. It was late at night, and he remained in Arkham, the distant howling of the patients prisoners of his torture was overheard crossing the walls of his office, muffled and quieted down by the thickness of the concrete. The dread he felt living tenant in his heart could lap up the soul of any common person, even a crude and thick Gothamite.

His grandmother had the misfortune of ever having to carry with raising what she only thought to be the spawn of Satan, in the sense that a curse had been put on her for even having to be around him. She ladled on her disdain for him ever since he had gained his very early consciousness, paying no mind to protecting the innocence of his infant self. This cruelty, like a hereditary disease, had naturally latched to his back and become parasitic, likewise Y/N, only that it turned him into a bitter fruit and, once stripped from his timid demeanour, shifted into a cruelly sardonic Maldoror.

"If the Lord truly loved me, I wouldn't have been born" his little abstract but almost audible child voice spoke at the back of his head as he yielded and bent, his knees against the hardness of rice and sharp kernels of maize punishing his skin, and his head down, bowed like a dog to his grandmother. Dog was all he had been for more than a human soul could take, stripped from the untarnished purity of a child into the cruel animal of a man. Puberty was definitive of this state, turning him into a lethargic being, vomiting his evil wherever he could, still shy and reserved of his deviant nature, but forming where a mind had become a womb to evil. Long limbs, thin body where bones protruded traced by the skin, odour of sweat and testosterone, the peeking of a moustache under his nose, and a languid character.

"I'm the result of God's visits to the brothel." His younger self would write in his diary, pages filled with macabre irony, he moulded his hatred that desperately searched for a channel, soon to be found in the shape of fear. Fear induction had installed itself in his dopamine receptors to feed him an instant rush of addictive pleasure, always at the expense of someone's suffering. Naturally this had obvious psychological explanations that could be attributed to his upbringing, he wasn't actually the spawn of Satan, or someone born with evil, once again and said before; hardly anyone is. Jonathan Crane could have been a kind soul, a soft lover who instead of torturing Y/N relentlessly with the object of her desire, which was nothing more than a pinch of his vulnerability and affection, he could provide and comply to the desires of her or any other lover without guarding his heart like the last thing he'd ever give out.

But once again, how much of it had he already given out? It was not too hard to deduce that a portion of his possessiveness towards her stemmed from his sociopathic tendencies, but there were fleeting glimpses of humanity in the way his gaze would often release tension as her own stared into his, or whenever she'd hold his head against her chest, and he could feel the warmth of a living being and the heartbeat of a woman, the idea of a lobotomized follower instead of a lover sounded bafflingly appalling. Although, this feeling wasn't very frequent, and whenever it'd abandon his mind it would be quickly replaced by his fury at the thought of not owning her thoughts and decisions, the more she'd abscent herself from around him, the more he'd crave to rewind to when she wouldn't exercise her natural sadism and he wouldn't torture her with his fluctuating mood.

At some point they had been taciturn lovers, passively passionate and honeymooned by the magical sex that cradled their infatuation. Obviously the effects of it lingered on them both, as she was far from indifferent to him either, yet there was an underlying friction, precursor to conflicts over mundane things like the time, or Bruce Wayne. But in every fight he picked, he continued to test how much she'd be willing to take, wondering how much of it was simple devotion to her brother rather than her own convictions and heart.

She couldn't deny there was an underlying thrill to appealing sexually, and even, why not? romantically to a man with the level of insanity as Crane. His volatile but also coldly calculating personality, off the rails and completely deranged, but also painfully methodical and obsessive. Something in his insanity ignited a strange desire to tame it, although prompted impossible, she liked to feed her deluded idea that someday, just perhaps, his deviations could settle down to be replaced with those now occasional snapshots of a sweet and vulnerable Jonathan Crane into permanency.

Despite it being obviously impossible, every time they'd argue, it was when the hostility would scatter and be replaced by the occasional late-night sex that she'd pray wrapped around his arms that she could leash him and keep him forever. Humanise him, dwindling the hatred in his heart to occupy all the space it could fit. She'd naively hope that whenever they'd embrace each other in unbounded vulnerability, in his mind he'd pray for the same as her; love and domestication of a wild, rampant insanity.

Obviously he did, but not in the same way as her, also his moments of weakness being significantly scarce. Despite the cruelty of the circumstances granting no fair play to either of the two, she'd gotten the upper hand in chances of flourishing as an individual capable of feeling love. Crane's love was twisted and plagued with his ego, she was more human still. Although sometimes she was painfully human, to see her humanity remained incorrupt, even by the volatile evil love of Jonathan Crane, made him wish to tame her own humanity and bottle it to consume her whenever he pleased. A part of him wished she was like him, but most of the times he just loved that she was human even in the indecency, the cruelty or her evil, aroused by her genuine nature and the large gap of difference between his character and her own.

me when i realise crane is incapable of ever truly, conventionally and normally loving y/n 😪

[adollt]

the year is 2024, do a Mass Effect trilogy run

Compilation videos I sent to my brother to teach him about mass effect and mostly Renegade. Don't let others walk on you so you can get your "blue points"

stand by your family

Imagine tryna hold a hostage to a person who's had to kill thousands to save the galaxy

Shepard, the real one. there is no such thing as "pretend"

[stolen-breath]

𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕕𝕤 𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦❜𝕧𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕙𝕦𝕣𝕥 -- 𝕕𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝟚 𝕞𝕖𝕟 𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕡𝕥 𝟚

!! TRIGGER WARNING !! blood and gore strong language violence suggestive themes

!! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!

:: author's note :: god, why did this take me so long since part one, i've beaten the game TWICE, beaten the DLC, and gotten all but three trophies on the base game, so i feel a little more comfortable writing these headcanons.

🇮‌🇫‌ 🇦‌ 🇷‌🇪‌🇳‌🇪‌🇬‌🇦‌🇩‌🇪‌ 🇭‌🇺‌🇷‌🇹‌ 🇾‌🇴‌🇺‌ – 🇭‌🇴‌🇼‌ 🇼‌🇴‌🇺‌🇱‌🇩‌ 🇾‌🇴‌🇺‌🇷‌ 🇧‌🇴‌🇾‌🇫‌🇷‌🇮‌🇪‌🇳‌🇩‌ 🇷‌🇪‌🇦‌🇨‌🇹‌?

𝒻𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓌𝑒𝓎

frank was well on the way to losing himself to booze or throwing himself off the fish eye's many roofs

but then he met you

you make him feel things he hasn't felt since before the fall

before long, you get him to taper back his drinking to more social endeavors

you do have to stop him from reclaiming his nightrunner cloak

but when a renegade snatches you, attempting to hold you hostage, he completely loses it

he hops on the radio and rallies every single person he can to your aid

even the famous aiden caldwell arrives to help

frank isn't there -- you've shown him that his strength no longer lies in his body, but in his ability to inspire people

but when aiden carries you, bloodied and bruised, into his room, frank breaks down

he doesn't leave your side until you're well enough to walk again -- and even then, he doesn't let you out of his sight

in spite of his fears, it is his honor to crown you a nightrunner alongside lawan

but you better keep that radio at your side every second of every day or he's going to mcfreaking lose it

𝓳𝓾𝓪𝓷

it's been four months and you're still not sure if you and juan are together

juan is notorious for never sleeping alone -- but he's also notorious for rarely bedding the same person twice

and you two have been having a hell of a time for four months

you don't think much of it -- he's a promiscuous lad and he's spoiling you rotten, so why not enjoy it while it lasts?

but when the renegades snatch you, you're shocked to see him arrive personally to retrieve you

he brings a rare vintage, his pride and joy, and sets it carefully on the table

when one of the renegades step forward to take it, a thin blade slips from his sleeve

it takes only a few minutes to clear the room

you never took juan for a fighter, but he makes it look easy

he pulls you into his arms, bridal style, and brushes a sweaty lock of hair from your forehead

"come on, y/n, let's get you home. you desperately need a bath."

he washes you personally, massaging your shoulders and back, scrubbing every inch of you with sweet smelling body wash that you haven't seen since the beginning of the fall

of course, you end up fucking in the bathtub -- but what else did you expect from the whore of central loop?

𝓳𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓽

the leader of the peacekeepers

arrogant, confident, assertive to a fault

when he sees something he wants, he takes it -- simple as that

and right now? jack matt wants you.

he tries to convince you to sign up for the peacekeepers -- you refuse

the closest he can get is hiring your services for jobs

you think it's adorable how he blusters when he's with you, trying to keep up his facade of being in control

you also think it's adorable when he hires you to hand him a bottle of whiskey two feet away from him just to have an excuse to spend time with you

when the renegades snatch you, the peacekeepers make it a priority to tell him as soon as they find out

it takes hadley and three others to hold him back from charging out the door and retrieving you himself

he refuses to stay behind

he wants to kill them all -- but he can't afford all out war with the renegades

as much as he loves you, he has all of villedor to think about

when the renegades announce their release conditions, he pays it without a second thought

he carries you out of the room himself, back to his quarters

you're not allowed to leave until you are 100% back to normal -- according to his standards, not yours

he orders a squad of lawkeepers to be your bodyguard, despite your protests

it's that, or you never leave the flotilla again

he loves you too much to let anything happen to you

𝓬𝓱𝓻𝓲𝓼 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓶𝓼

chris williams has a lot more to think about than some renegade recruit

but when you walk through the door, he can't take his eyes off you

even though he has a wife that he loves, he can't stop thinking about you

he dismisses it as 'seeing potential' and sees to it that you get the finest training and gear

it isn't long before you're a captain in his ranks, only two positions below chris himself

you can handle yourself -- but when group of renegades grows resentful of your rapid success, you get swarmed and overwhelmed

you manage to take most of them down, but renegades are known for fighting dirty

it doesn't take long for chris to find out

after all, you've always answered his summons within minutes

and he tends to call you a lot

it is a little known fact that chris williams has the only gun left in villedor

it quickly becomes a widely known fact

he uses all but one of his few remaining bullets to execute every renegade that dared lay a hand on you

"if anyone so much as touches them again," he announces, his voice ringing through the hall, "i will slit their throat myself."

he has his right hand man carry you to the infirmary and stays with you all night, in spite of the few medics assuring him you're going to be fine

perhaps it's time for him to consider divorce

[meatgrndr]

absolutely silly but

[charlesoberonn]

Ok, here's my ideas for Renegade Princess.

Toph misses Earth Rumble 6 because the Beiphongs decide to bring her along as they inspect their holdings in a colonial port town. And when the Red Hands raid the port, Mai recognizes the flying boar crest and they kidnap the Beiphongs daughter for ransom.

Toph could get away, but that would out her as an accomplished earthbender and while it's no Earth Rumble, getting kidnapped by pirates sounds pretty exciting.

She quickly realizes that being a hostage is boring and, after one of the poor fools guarding her in the brig complains about the sand in his boots, Toph decides not to wait for the ransom to be paid. Thirty minutes later, Azula is watching an obnoxious, seasick 12-year-old use one handful of sand to choke out one of her lieutenants while threatening to do the same to her with the other handful and demanding to be taken back to shore. "Tell me, Toph Beiphong, have you ever wanted to be a pirate?"

Toph and Azula make a deal to turn her over for the ransom and meet up later at the EarthRumble arena. Toph thinks this is to avoid having her parents turn their resources and connections against the Red Hands, when actually it's a ploy for Azula to cement Toph's trust and loyalty.

She earns the name Blackhand, because coal is the only earth available for bending aboardship; also she starts carrying a small censer on her hip so she can ignite her bending coal.

Assuming Aang still has his swamp vision, the flying boar leads him to a soot-covered little girl with flaming hands.

Azula demands that she learn to swim, which is an ordeal for everyone involved, and Azula ends up personally taking charge of her lessons.

Toph does not volunteer that she is a human lie detector. Which ends up being important when she realizes that she can't tell when Azula is lying, a fact which leaves her shaken and suspicious.

Toph invents metalbending earlier than in canon, because Zhao got lucky and managed to capture 'Azula's pet earthbender' and has her imprisoned on his flagship. Despite Toph's bravado afterward (and the fact that she crippled his vessel), the incident is definitely harrowing for her. Close-quarters combat in an unfamiliar, enclosed space; her only tool a bending style that she literally just invented and has no practice in; vastly outnumbered by soldiers taking orders from a man who is an experienced, vicious combatant and does not believe in holding back.

That's all I've got so far.

I really like all of those ideas. I don't know if I'm gonna use all of them, but I definitely going to make Toph join Azula's crew (I was going to anyway).

I especially like Toph ransoming herself back to her parents. It's a very cruel thing to do that would set her on a very different path than she did in the show.

[jawanaka]

Since you covered Ciri and Triss already, give us your take on Morvran. 😊

Oh this is interesting (Morvran is for all intents and purposes the third major character in the Suns and Swallows suite as it today. (I got another ask about Ciri and Morvran so this little essay will mainly be about horseboy himself).

So Morvran Voorhis. General, nobleman, horsegirl, wannabe debonair and utter dork.

Now unlike Ciri and Triss there is much, much less canon on his bones. He doesn't appear in the novels, even though he is mentioned both as a child a group of conspirators want to put on the throne and as Emhyr's succesor in the various sources cited. His father is an influential nobleman and they are somehow distant relations to Emhyr.

In the game he appears as one of Emhyrs top generals (in command of the Alba division, one of Nilfgaards top units which was incidently wiped out at Brenna just a couple of years prior) and most trusted men, handling various sensitive tasks like debriefing Geralt and being the one Emhyr handpicks to go to Kaer Morhen (which falls apart due to a silly dickwawing competion rather then the more sensible fact of Kaer Morhen being hundreds of miles behind Redanian lines). We also see him undertake sensitive diplomatic missions to Novigrad (yes he behaves like's he's on a pleasure trip but come one, hanging out with the queen mother of Temeria mere weeks/months before Nilfgaard strikes a deal with its leadership in exile? Come on). It is also here he expounds on his love of horses (which he finds more honest then men) and horse races, of which he is committed but a very good sport if he loses.

We also meet him later in Vizima where he hilariously fails to be chivalric and suave to Ciri, who shoots him down (its hilarious). We also learn that he finds the idea that Ciri would refuse the empressship inconceivable.

Interestingly he is not present for the final battle at Undvik. Given latter events it is unlikely that this means he has fallen from grace: more likely with Emhyr off in Skellige Morvran is one of the people holding things together on the mainland. Last, he is seen as the commander of the escort that picks up Ciri in White orchard, were we get the supremly akward moment of him walking in and out of the background of Ciri and Geralts conversation. However, this also means he would overhear parts of it (we'll come back to that).

Now, Gwent is at best demi canon but part of its description is intersting so here goes:

Morvran Voorhis was fond of saying he could win a war without a single sword. There was much truth in that: Morvran's strategy revolved around the shrewd use of spies and saboteurs. This might not have earned him much honor, but it did earn him a great many victories. He was also known to recognize no rules in warfare. To vanquish the enemy, he was willing to make alliances with anyone, whether they be renegade witchers, war criminals, or rebellious mages. Only one thing mattered: victory.

So to sum up what do we know about Morvran the person:

- He is a skilled general who nonetheless tries to find other solutions then outright combat to problems. Despite being a soldier he does not enjoy war, as such.

- He is quite open and pleasant to have to do with but can also be quite akward and he states a fundamental mistrust of other people. He has grown up as a combination of ward and de facto hostage at Emhyr's court, which would make this understandable.

- He is for whatever reason trusted by Emhyr and in a way seems unambitious: he does not seem to hold any outward anger over Ciri being bumped up to the number one spot. He does however find it inconcievable that she would even consider refusing this honor.

Now how you write Morvran is then up to you. I write him as a budding political idealist, someone who ends up following Ciri because he believes, to a degree at least, in her vision of the empire. Someone who has seen war and doesn't particularly want to do so again. Someone who can be quite akward and dorky at times but who cares about those around him, be it his lady or annoying servant girls who abuse their position to the utmost.

Thank you @andordean for the ask. Original ask here, as always

[trashytummiez]

Motion Sick Gaming

@squidbiscuit made this amazingly cute pic yesterday of Raihan getting all burpy on his stream from motion sickness.  I had to make this fic after that.  <3

Raihan usually loved livestream gaming.  It was always a really fun way of interacting with his fans and where he got the most donations.  Unfortunately he often tended to forget that some games really go in way too fast and loose with the camera. 

He was playing an FPS about a cyborg who goes up against renegade cyborgs just like him.  Fun game with really reactive controls and intense boss battles but that also meant the camera moved way too fast for Raihan’s eyes to properly keep up.  So all poor Raihan could do was sit in his gamers chair and try his best to soldier on without getting too sick in front of his watchers.

“And that’s the warehouse boss cleared,” Raihan said into his headphone mic.  He sounded groggy already and huffed mildly.  “She really makes you leap’n run all over the place huh...”

He turned his head and held in a burp he felt rising up his throat then cringed at the unpleasant taste in his mouth.

“Ungh, now the park level.  Think this is where I gotta take out all the bad guys in like five minutes or else a bomb kills all the hostages...”

Raihan cringed remembering how fast paced this level was going to be.

Just as he feared it wasn’t long before he had to start blasting his way through terrorists in a gorgeous park setting.  There were so many with rocket launchers that Raihan had to constantly be leaping and using his mouse to quick-fire at every rocket that got shot his way.  The loose camera lurched way too fast with each sharp turn of Raihan’s mouse and made Raihan’s face go a little green.

Not only that but his hoodie covered tummy released a really thick and unpleasant gurgling.

GRRRRUUUUUOOOOOORRGGGL!

Raihan raised a fist to his mouth and muffled a really deep burp that clearly got picked up into his mic.

MMMFUURRRRRRRPH!!!

Raihan huffed making his tongue stick out and revealing his fangs in a more sickly manner.  “Uhaaaah...sorry chat-urp-forgot how wonky the camera in this game is...”

He appeared as if he was sweating a little from how nauseous he was getting.  

One of the chats asked him if he should take a break or play something else.

Raihan managed a weak smile and shook his head.  “Nah it’s fine.  Just gotta be a lil more careful with my aim...”

He kept playing and the level never let up.  Raihan’s character was turning so much he almost resembled an owl which did nothing to ease the growing nausea brewing in his stomach.

Another loud and unpleasant gurgle erupted from his tummy and had Raihan exhaling a deep breath to keep from feeling too sick but it didn’t work.  It was no wonder all the reviews kept criticizing the games camerawork and not having a sensitivity scale to manipulate like any self resecting PC game.  

Raihan paused the came when it to be too much slouching in his chair with his head hanging low.  “Unngh...that’s brutal,” Raihan said with a nauseous huff.

His breath hitched and he leaned back in his chair with one hand on his belly then turned his head to muffle a really wet burp that left him cringing after.

HHHHHHRRRRRRRMMPH!!!!

“Unnnngh, ‘scuse me,” Raihan mumbled in sickly fashion while rubbing his churning belly with one hand.  “Sorry chat.  Really don’t mean to be burping into the mic like that...”

Lot of chats popped up assuring Raihan it was okay or thanking him for playing but saying he didn’t need to if he didn’t want to.  Of course with twitch he also got quite a few chats popping up and practically begging him to burp more.

One popped up suggesting he try ginger ale to see if it would help his tummy problems.  They also donated ten euros if he got the full bottle instead of just a cup.

Raihan huffed again.  “Ungh, thanks for the donation...guess it couldn’t hurt...”

So Raihan took his headset off and got up from his seat with a groan still holding his tummy in one hand when he walked off to grab a drink.  While he was off-camera the chat could hear a really loud and raunchy burp erupt from the kitchen followed by a relieved moan from Raihan.  Some chats popped up lol-ing.  Others posted heart emojis and a few expressed disappointment that he wasn’t on camera to let loose.

He eventually came back with a 2 liter bottle of ginger ale and sat back down.

Raihan huffed again then put his headset back one.  “Alright chat.  Let’s see if this does anything...” 

He unscrewed the bottle and began chugging down.  With his mic so close to his lips it picked up and amplified the sound of his gulping for his watchers.  So many of them fawned over the loud squelch of his throat taking in so much soda.  Others jokingly posted ‘chug chug chug!’  Raihan downed a good portion of the bottle with his eyes clenched shut and letting the ginger settle.  His tummy bubbled heavily from all the carbonated liquid filling him up so fast but he just needed to feel less nauseous.

Eventually he pulled the bottle away and panted heartily inadvertently giving his viewers a good look at the inside of his mouth.

He set the bottle down and huffed some more.  Then there was an audible gurgle that rose up his throat and made his head lurch in his neck for a moment until Raihan released a huge burp right into his mic.

BLLUUUURRRRRROOOOOOOOOOORRRAAAAAHP!!!!!!!

It was so strong that it practically made his volume levels peak.

Raihan leaned back in his chair and rubbed his belly with one hand gasping heavily.  A low burp rolled out from the corner of his mouth exposing his fangs some more and then a tiny after burp.

UUuuuuuuurrrrllloooorlhp!

Urp!

His hand firmly ran up and down his turbulent tummy really digging his fingers into it.  He looked really concentrated like he could feel another one building up inside.  Then he clutched his belly and released a really throaty burp.

HAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUURRRRAAAAAAAAAAHP!!!!

The feed was going nuts with superchats and donations.  Raihan just laughed in an exhausted sort of way and shook his head.  “Faaaah...hah...bloody hell, there’s still more in there,” he said patting his belly a few times and releasing a short but sharp burp after.

Raihan sighed and rubbed his belly in a more satisfied manner humming to himself. 

“Man...that’s way better,” he breathed in relieved fashion to his viewers.  “Brilliant suggestion, mate.  Stomach feels way less grumbly now...but I think I’mma take your advice and cut the stream short theEEEEEEEEEERRRRUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHP!!!”  His sentence was cut short when a raunchy burp cut him off midsentence.

He blushed and covered his mouth.

“...Guess that was the rest I was waiting for...” he said chuckling embarrassingly.

Though he probably shouldn’t have been too embarrassed.  That little display of gaseousness was probably going to see his sub-count surge once the compilations started going out.

Oh the things Raihan did for his fans.

[meggannn]

shepard/garrus?

oh boy, sorry for the late response! I always end up posting these things and then going to read/take a nap/play a game or something. anyway writing this up took two hours, i hope it is even slightly interesting to read. cut because this is looooooong

What made you ship it?

I think I was interested in this ship before I even played ME. I was just like “I know Shepard is a character and an alien named Garrus is a character, and people draw porn of them together.” because I think it’s reasonable to say it’s one of, if not the most, popular ship in the fandom, or at least in ME’s tumblr fandom? and the way people talked about it, I knew their tropes were #banter, #battle couple, #partnerships, and... and as we’ve learned from royai, I am a bit weak to those tropes (assuming I like both of the characters). the way people talked about them also from a “best friends” angle—which is sort of forced in-game in a way that seems strange to me now—was also a plus in its favor at the time. (if they get together, I do see their friendship/companionship, in whatever form, in some ways integral to their romance—unless you’re playing full far-right renegade who’s like a xenophobe and hate-fucking Garrus, I guess?—but Bioware also kind of shoehorned Garrus into that best-friend role and that’s a topic for another day.)

What are your favorite things about the ship?

(my friend will hit me if I say “partnerships” again) I’m gonna talk about the way I play my Shepard now, because so much is dependent on the unique Shepard. for Lydia’s journey over the series, I see a large part of her journey as basically a study of her (often self-inflicted) loneliness. and she never entirely breaks her habits of self-isolation, but the events of the series force her to be vulnerable in a way she would prefer not to be in front of a crew, or, y’know, ever. Garrus becomes an integral part of that story to help her break her out of these bad habits (all of the crew does, particularly also Ashley for my Shep), but to my eyes, the story of “Shepard and Garrus’s relationship” is also one of mutual respect, burden-sharing, and sanity and morality checks.

I don’t think of their “mentor” relationship in ME1 very often mostly because I don’t think it was done particularly well, but for all its faults, I do like how naturally the jump from “subordinate” in ME1 to “ally” in ME2 felt; once you meet Garrus on Omega you feel more on the same footing as two friends greeting each other because you’ve both recently been through trauma and the sight of a friendly face in a station full of hostiles is so unexpectedly welcome that it lets them both hope things will be okay for a minute. starting from that moment, Garrus becomes one of the few people who can see “under” her mask, I guess: partly because he’s one of the few combatants from the SR-1 who knows Shepard well and sees who she is both on the field and onboard the SR-2, with the ability to compare both to the times of “before you died”; partly because he has trauma response training and recognizes it in others even if he doesn’t in himself; partly because his loyal personality makes him sensitive to wonder how she’s dealing with being resurrected; and also partly because they’ve both gone through similar things. namely, getting your squad killed and blaming yourself for it, and it possibly being your fault (BioWare is inconsistent on what Shepard’s role was on Akuze, but in ME1 she has the chance to reply that she was responsible for getting them out safely, and failed).

necessity forces Shepard to adapt to things like being effectively forced to work for terrorists; being isolated from her support system; being resurrected and feeling like a stranger in her own body; later, getting decommissioned for making an incredibly difficult call to save the galaxy; watching your homeworld burn; being forced into a political role negotiating high stakes you don’t know how to play; being told you’re the spearhead of a galactic war; doing all of this without a full crew complement; the list goes on. those are all, on their own, incredibly isolating, traumatic experiences, and my Shepard’s not emotionally sane at the best of times. (emotionally stable, perhaps, only in the most literal of terms, at least on the surface. she’s like a rock when shit hits the fan. emotionally sane, no, for that reason and more.)

the tables have turned, and Garrus ends up becoming a large part of helping her regain agency in most if not all of those things: in ME2 he was a former crew member she trusted, and he was eager to work for her and be distracted from his failures on Omega. over in the battery, he is himself recovering from a major injury (like Shepard) and going through the aftermath of a bloodbath he feels responsible for (like Shepard), working on a crew that holds him at arm’s length, that he also... arguably... didn’t have much choice in joining (like Shepard—I’m assuming he wasn’t held hostage and joined voluntarily after waking up, but lbr this is unconfirmed). their reasons are different and varied, but they don’t realize until much later that they have found each other at the most opportune time, providing a sense of stability for each other, and also, frankly, sanity and morality checks.

in ME3, he steps into this role more fully because he’s become more disciplined, is doing work firmly in his wheelhouse, and paired up against Shepard struggling with their positions somewhat reversed from ME1: him more confident and her now completely out of her element, floundering with her place on a galactic scale. without Garrus—and Chakwas, and Joker, and Tali, and later the loyalty of the entire SR-2—the story of ME would be a tragedy, and it would end shortly in ME2; it’d be the story of how my Shepard slowly went insane being forced to fight boogeymen under a terrorist banner. Garrus isn’t, like, the keeper of her sanity, but their ability to check each other, and see themselves in the eyes of each other, provides stability and occasionally a bit of a wake-up call to both of them. when they’re both vulnerable, they both feel most seen, and most understood, by an alien that listens.

one angle of this ship that highly interests me at the moment, along with the above, is that while it’s not illegal for them to be together, it’s still... a really bad fucking idea lmao. (I could make the argument that it’s a bad idea for Shepard to be in any relationship with their crew but I think there are a few ships—Garrus, Tali, any Alliance crew at all—that realistically would be huge political clusterfucks.) so overcoming personal insecurity and fear of the unknown to acknowledge interest in each other, and the desire to become an item, getting roadblocked by a reality wake-up call with the fact that 1) she’s his boss, 2) Garrus comes from a society where station matters, like, sort of a lot and it even determines your job and how much legal power you have, 3) the potential political blowback (which would be ENORMOUS because lbr the hierarchy may not care about what turians do in off-hours but they WOULD care about the superior/subordinate thing, the human thing, the fact that they’re doing this while a war is going on. basically one of their best agents is on the Normandy to negotiate their interests and they’re basically at the whims of their relationship the whole time)... it’s a lot! all of that sort of makes it tragic, but I’m curious to see how they’d overcome it.

anyway, all of that is where I’m coming from when I think or write about this ship, but there’s a lot more I’m not mentioning here. there are a lot of juxtapositions that in my head that I’ve either added or extrapolated from canon that also interest me about this pairing. Garrus is a former cop, as is his father; Lydia is a poor kid who used to be in a gang out of necessity. Garrus is a turian with often traditionalist thinking; Shepard is a human who has much less sociopolitical power than him, even if she is his superior on the Normandy. both of them are roughly as old as the First Contact War, when their people were at each other’s throats not thirty years ago. Garrus idolizes Spectrehood while Lydia hates it, feeling it was forced on her. they can’t eat the same food. and yet despite all of that, and the fact that they need translators to communicate, they manage to understand each other when a lot of the world around them doesn’t.

god this is not even the full list of it. anyway I could go on but I’ll stop there lol.

Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

oh jesus, so much. I’m a grouchy and picky shipper, be warned.

pining can always make my ships more interesting, and imo it’s a consistent part of any ship of Shepard’s, considering it’s wildly inappropriate and unprofessional for her to be fucking any subordinate, so I think more consideration could be given to shakarian in the “we shouldn’t be having a thing and oh also you’re an alien and I’m kind of scared of both your government and your body” angle! I hope to explore that a bit with a fic I’m writing (if I ever finish it, god).

I hate the flavor of fandom!shakarian where Shepard romanced Kaidan in ME1 then felt “betrayed” when he’s confused and hurt on Horizon, so she gets with Garrus as like... revenge? idk. and then Garrus usually develops this bias against Kaidan as a sort of author mouthpiece (which is inconsistent with his characterization cause Garrus is nothing but pleased to have Kaidan back on the SR-2 in ME3!) and takes up the anti-Kaidan crusade cause K ~questioned the commander~ (since when does Garrus fall over himself defending a superior from criticism?) like, idk. I think Garrus can be sensitive to the fact that that reuniting must’ve been painful for Shepard, but also be aware that it was also really painful for Kaidan because all of Kaidan’s complicated feelings about Shepard’s resurrection were, realistically, things Garrus should’ve felt too! this trope is very popular but just feels like manufactured drama for drama’s sake, idk, I’m also not big on love triangles so. I would much rather people just rescue Ashley on Virmire and avoid the whole thing rather than have previously-romanced Kaidan around in ME3 for the sole purpose of forcing him to watch Shepard/Garrus being happy together tbh.

I think full goody-goody paragon Shepard is too preachy to make a good partner for Garrus and full shoot-anyone-in-my-way renegade Shepard encourages and emboldens his worst tendencies (and Castis Vakarian is right to disapprove of them). most people end up playing some combination of both, or if they do settle in one camp or the other, usually there is some sense of realism where Shepard doesn’t play nice/naive or play mean all the time, so it’s rare I see either of those kinds of extreme Shepards depicted, but in general if there is a Shepard that is so far in one direction it seems illogical to me that they ever stay together.

I think wanting a mShep romance for Garrus is a pretty welcome idea in fandom, but adding onto that, I think Garrus should’ve been romanceable in ME3 for players who changed their minds on other romances or want to play slow-burn romances! we had it for Kaidan—and should’ve had it for Ash—so (pounds fist on desk) Garrus too imo!

I hate the canon get-together because Shepard walking into the battery and asking “do you want to fuck” feels very tailored to the players who want to romance Garrus, not to who Commander Shepard is, imo. it lacked all of the subtlety and depth of some other romances—until the scene of Garrus coming to her cabin with a wine bottle, at least, cause I do like that scene, but anyway, I dislike the actual get-together.

just in general, I’m a stick in the mud, so my favorite iteration of this ship is where Shepard is resolutely professional, and the challenge of it becomes him getting her to open up, not the other way around. like, I think on some level every iteration of Shepard is a bit of a lunatic/eccentric, because you have to be to do the things they do, but I like to see their flirting with less of her calling him “big guy” (not sure where that came from, is that in canon? I must’ve missed it, but personally I don’t like it) and more of Garrus making wisecracks in the canteen while he’s talking to Joker, but he’s looking at her out of the corner of his eyes and he really said his joke with the aim of making her laugh, and as she’s reading her datapad she hears him, and even when she wants to chuckle she stops himself and just smirks cause she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a laugh, but he sees her lips twitch and feels his heart flutter. that. I want more of that.

oh lastly, I hate “Shepard takes Vakarian clan markings” in any iteration. there is no canon relation to turians being poc—in fact I’d argue they have sociopolitical privilege real-world bipoc do not—but the concept of social face markings, face tattoos, etc., is rooted in non-white cultures and with the fact that 1) turians had a literal civil war over the territories those markings represent, 2) we don’t even know if marriage is how markings are shared or if non-turians are ever invited to wear them in the first place, 3) most of the art of this trend, lbr, is of mostly white Shepards in wedding dresses and blue face paint... all that combined just makes me frown and scroll faster every time I see it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bipoc Shepard with Vakarian face markings in fic/art, and that to me is very telling (not because they should have them, but because bipoc fans who make bipoc Shepards usually recognize when a racially-coded trope is uhhhhh not so great to appropriate for someone not of that group).

[fuckyeahharryhart]

KINGSMAN: THE GOLDEN CIRCLE, IN MY AU, HARRY HART WOULD STILL BE A BADASS WHEN THEY FIND OUT HE’S ALIVE. HE’S JUST A BAD ASS WITH NO MEMORY

IN MY ALTERNATE UNIVERSE - this is what happened when they found Harry. And Roxy is alive, cause “what the hell?” And basically is an excuse for me to thirst on Colin Firth as Harry Hart, who will always be a badass gentleman spy, memory or no.

Merlin, Eggsy and Roxy survived the explosions that destroyed Kingsman. Following the clues from their doomsday protocol, the three of them traveled to Kentucky to Statesman HQ.

They are confronted by Agent Tequila where they try to explain what they are doing there. Tequila does not believe them. He disarms and disables them. The scene begins in Statesman underground holding room. Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin wake up to find that they are bound and restrained.

(apologies in advance for grammar, spelling, format. First draft, secondish draft. Just did one quick read-through and fixed most of the glaring errors.

PS I kinda nerded out with the amnesia and weapons research) 

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

The room remained vague and shadowy. Eggsy fought against a heaviness that kept his eyes closed. He tried again to blink them open. No such luck. They were uncooperative. Moving on. Assessing what little he could, he tested the restraints that bound him to a cold metal chair both at the wrists and ankles. Zip ties. Cheap and easy, but harder to release from than traditional handcuffs. He tried anyway. And then a second time, only with more force. Nothing. He willed himself to relax. If he couldn’t get free with brute force, it was time to get creative. Switch to strategy and problem solving. At least try to figure out what the hell was going on and why a souped up cowboy was holding them hostage. 

His training, his instincts wanted to kick in regardless of the fact that he was restrained. He ran through his checklist anyway. Scan and clear the room. Assess the threat. Spot entrances and exits. Locate the nearest weapon. It didn’t necessarily need to be a gun. Any object that could possibly disable an enemy would suffice.

It was infuriating that he was unable to proceed with his training. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It was a moot point anyway, nothing of him seemed to be responding to his commands. His surroundings remained a bleary haze. His brain still foggy, was trying to catch up.

The renegade cowboy that had disarmed and disabled Eggsy, Roxy and Merlin, was waiting rather patiently for them to wake up. That is, until the point he was no longer patient and decided to empty a bottle of perfectly good whiskey on Eggsy and Merlin. As he considered himself a gentleman, he spared Roxy.

 It was unsettling how he took the three of them down so easily. Eggsy reasoned that they certainly weren’t at their best. Shit had gone down in the last 24 hours and they were damn tired.

Eggsy and Merlin sputtered in protest. 

“So good of you to join us.” The cowboy’s tone was relaxed and untroubled.

He took a casual stance and leaned up against the wall like he was just waiting for something interesting to happen.

His head cocked to the right. “Now where was I?”

 Nodding to himself, “Oh yeah”, he said, as if he just remembered something fascinating. His fingers snapped together with a sharp click. “You were just about to tell me who ya’ll were and how the hell you found us.” He mentioned this as if he were waiting for them to describe what they ate for breakfast and whether or not they had enjoyed it.

The disparity between his gregarious tone, his friendly manner, and the slightly hostile glint in his eyes was disconcerting.

He crossed his legs on the other side and tipped his head to the left.

“Anytime ya’ll are ready to start talkin’, Im all ears.”

They had already tried to explain what happened to their headquarters. Well, their tailor shop backstop. How likely was it that generations of tailors had passed down a secret doomsday protocol for survivors in case of complete destruction? Of their tailor shop? Eggsy had to admit, as a story, it positively wreaked implausibility. But it was true, aside from replacing their secret intelligence agency with a bespoke suit business. 

From the cowboys perspective, it would seem kind of insulting that they expected the him to buy their story. Actually, It would seem pretty insulting to expect anyone with the most basic cognitive skills believe it. The problem was that, as ridiculous as story was, it was, in fact, the truth.

Eggsy didn’t have any more to say. Roxy, who would probably take him down if given half the chance, wisely remained quiet. Merlin’s furrowed brow meant that he most likely had a bloody lot to say, but nothing that would improve their situation. 

They had reached an impasse. 

The cowboy regarded them thoughtfully from under his Stetson, wide brimmed hat. 

“We don’t have folks from your neck of the woods in these parts that often.” His lips pursed in thought.

“I would reckon once every year or so, some might pass through here that sound like y’all. Why,” nodding his head confirming his own information. “I think it was just about a year ago, we had someone drop in unexpectedly.” 

He gazed up and to the right, as if recalling a memory. Maybe y’ll know him.” He said, his eyes falling back on them.

Merlin. “I highly doubt that.”

The cowboy drew back slightly, irked by their obstinance. These brits were stubborn as all get out. Did they seriously expect him to believe their doomsday protocol story? What was this? Were they on some kind of scavenger hunt?

“I just find it awfully convenient that you just “happened” to find this bottle of whiskey with our name on it. Right after your entire “shop” exploded with ALL it’s employees and everyone who worked there. Every single person who knows you, gone with it. That would be mighty upsettin’ if I was in ya’lls shoes.” He tried on a little sympathy for size. Nope, didn’t fit. He continued with his slight undertone of sarcasm. 

 “Can’t even make a call to see if anyone can vouch for y’alls.” Such a shame, he thought. Alrightly, he’d just keep talkin’ at ‘em until one of them slipped up or said something interesting.

He could talk into the night for all he cared. “Not even anythin’ left to take with you. Except a couple of watches that can unlock a biometric security system.” Now this was legitimately irritating. 

“Why would some little ole tailors shop need to have a biometric security system? I mean, ya’ll look mighty fine in them suits and spectacles, but sorry to say, not that fine.”

He used this opportunity to break out one of his favourite southern idioms. “You see, that dog don’t hunt.” He amused himself.

“Look.” Said the Scotsman. “We have no idea what you are talking about. The only reason we are here is because we found one of your bottles.” 

He nodded his head in understanding, before pressing his lips together, this time doubtfully twisting them to the side.

“See, here’s the thing. Lots and lots of folks have our bottles. Ain’t none of them ever broken into our maximum security “warehouse” before.”

“You’re looking for the Brit, ain’t ya? “His eyes narrowed. “And now why would that be?”

Merlin’s brow furrowed even deeper. “We still don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was reaching the far ends of his exasperation. “We do not know anyone here. Quite sorry to say, but we have never heard of Statesmen before. In our part of the world, we prefer a single malt scotch. No offence.”

“None taken.” He said pleasantly.

The cowboy pushed himself off the wall.

“Well,” he huffed, “It seems we’re at a stalemate.”

The cowboy continued to study them as he spoke.

“Ya’ll telling’ me a story you say is the truth.”

He shook his head in disappointment, feigning sadness. “And I just don’t believe ya. Now we could go round n round like this until we’re all blue in the face. But that sounds like a waste of time to me.”

“If we ain’t getting anywhere like this, might be time to switch things up a bit?”

“Ya’ll say you don’t know the Brit. But I’m thinkin’ y’all should talk to him. Might be able to make some sense out of what’s comin’ out of your mouth ‘cause I just don’t get it.”

Silence from the three of them. Well, weren’t they a stubborn bunch. 

The man sighed dramatically and shrugged his wide shoulders. 

“Well, it appears you wont be cooperatin’ with me. I think it’s about time ya’ll talk to someone else cause I sure aint getting’ nowhere with ya. But I don’t know if you’re gonna wanna talk to him.”  

He regarded them sympathetically. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be on the other side of that table when he’s the one asking questions. Ya’ll might be wish’n to see my pretty face again.”

Three almost identically frustrated faces looked back at him.

“Word is round here, don’t matter what you won’t say to me.” 

He started ambling across in front of them, from wall to wall in slow, measured steps. 

“What matters is what y’all gonna to say to HIM.” He stopped mid-stride, turned toward them. 

“Now, I’ve seen him doin’ his thing, right?  Believe me, he’ll have ya talkin’ in ways you can’t even imagine.” He continued along his thoughtful line, turning away from them.

He began to let the heel of his boots scuff the floor with every step. “You wont even be able to shut up, ya’ll talk so much.” He spoke over his shoulder. “ Tellin’ him things you ain’t even tell your mama.”

No response from the three Kingsman.

He turned toward Roxy. “My apologies little lady, but here at Statesman?  Guys and gals? We’re all on equal footing.” He had the gall to wink at her. “No matter what our name says.” 

He hooked his thumbs under this belt and hitched the whole get up, flask holster and all, up his non existent hips. 

“I hate to see a pretty miss like you have to go down with the likes of them.” He tilted his head in the direction of Merlin and Eggsy. “But, at Statesman, no special treatment for the fillies.”

Roxy proceeded to murder him with her eyes.

Absurdly, he decided it was a good and proper time to dial up the charm.  “Say, you don’t wanna tell me what you and your boys were up to here? I’m pretty sure you’re the one keeping these fellas in line.”

Her eyes were wide and fierce. It turned out that Roxy no longer needed to blink. 

“That’s quite a look you’re thrown’ at me.” The cowboy smirked.

“Well, I’m really sorry. I apologise for this, but ya’ll don’t give me no other choice.” 

He turned toward the side and pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses from his shirt pocket. The lenses were shaded to a dusky gold. He unfolded them, put them on and tapped the side of the lens. 

“Ya there?” He spoke into the air.

Evidently the glasses were a communications device and he received an answer in return. He nodded to himself. “Yep, affirmative.” 

There was another brief pause as he listened to the person on the other side. “Roger that.” He turned off the communication by tapping the side of the lens a second time. 

He looked at them almost sympathetically. “It looks we ARE gonna find out what happens when we change things up a bit.”

He walked over to the frosted panel window and flipped a switch.

Roxy, Merlin and Eggsy were momentary blinded by a brilliant white light. So bright and unexpected that they had to turn away. They squinted against the flare as coloured spots tripped behind their eyelids. They continued to blink until their eyes adjusted to the intensity of the new light. 

What they saw as the opacity of the glass dissolved… Well, to say they were ill prepared would be the understatement to understate all statements.

It couldn’t be.

It was utterly impossible.

But there he was. 

Outlined by a dazzling white light. 

Unmistakable.

It was Harry Hart.

—

The agents tried to gather their collective wits like they were trying to herd cats. It was nearly impossible. Harry disappeared from view. Sharp, tell tale footsteps could be heard walking down the short distance from the viewing area to their holding room. 

Between the three of them, none had taken a single breath from the moment Harry Hart appeared behind the glass.

For Eggsy, a white hot wave surged through his body and seared him from his finger tips to his toes. He could even hear the heat ringing in his ears. It was a high pitched whine that reverberated from one side of his head to the other. He had no control over his physical response. Any authority that he may have had, dissipated with the frosted glass. Apparently, his body knew exactly what to do, because it was doing its own thing, without any input from him. He set his thoughts aside and let his body do whatever it felt the need to. He was fairly certain he was exhibiting the physical signs of shock. He felt pale, his hands were damp and clammy. He felt weirdly mortified. He might as well be naked, for he felt exposed to the deepest, most secret recesses of his soul. Places that had no business being brought to light. 

He felt laughter bubble up through watery eyes he didn’t even know if he could call tears. For joy? Sheer bewilderment? Whatever the reason, his eyes were leaking. The buzzing in his ears wouldn’t stop and he felt sure he was about to pass out. He wanted to drop his head between his legs, but he didn’t dare pull his gaze away from the door he knew Harry Hart would enter from. He didn’t dare blink. Let alone look away. 

His ears burned, his cheeks flamed red and splotchy. It was as if he was caught off guard doing the most embarrassing thing he could think of, just times a billion and witnessed by everyone from his mum to his kindergarten teacher, not to mention every famous person that he had a crush on or looked up to and the whole mortifying episode was being televised live around the world. 

Whatever he was experiencing, it was nearly unbearable. Like suffocating and hyperventilating at the same time. Was that even possible? His heart had either stopped or was beating so rapidly that it felt as if it was hardly beating at all. Which seemed feasible as most of his blood had pooled in his cheeks and the tops of his ears. Surely, there was none flowing to his brain. It had signed out for the moment. It certainly wasn’t sticking around to see what was coming next. 

 He tried to arrange his face into the shape he thought would be appropriate for when his mentor, who he saw get shot point blank in the face, a man who died over a year ago, who he had spent what felt like a lifetime grieving, materialise as an interrogator for a covert cowboy secret agency in Kentucky. He couldn’t imagine what an acceptable face would look like in that situation, so he assumed that his face had no expression at all. It was the best he could do. 

He didn’t even posses the wherewithal to see how his partners where faring. He hoped that they were in a more presentable state. He moved his mouth to form words, but nothing came out. He tried clearing his throat, but it was dry and papery. Apparently, whatever autonomous system that controlled his salivary glands also decided that this whole situation was bullshit and decided to check out, too.

The track of the footsteps, even now so familiar, paused at the door. The handle turned with a weighty click. 

He didn’t have the brain capacity to even imagine what would happen next.

The only thing in his head were three letters. And they weren’t  ABC. 

They were W. T. F.

The door opened. 

They saw the man who had once been the foundation of their agency. 

The man who had once been its living and breathing heart and soul. 

How long had it been since he last thought of Harry Hart? After the initial grief, the denial, the anger, and finally, the acceptance, the loss became a dull ache.  Though tolerable, it never went away. They never found his body, but he didn’t have hope that Harry would ever return. He saw the shot that took his life. Even the best agent had no way of possibly surviving a point blank shot to the face. Harry fell where he had once stood. He didn’t get back up. And like that, Harry Hart was gone.

In the aftermath of V-day, Eggsy and the others didn’t have a chance to even stop and think about what happened to Harry, let alone process the loss. That came after. In the moments when time slowed down, things got quiet, and they no longer had the urgency of missions to distract them from the loss or to use as a vehicle for their anger and rage at the unfairness of it all.  

Eggy’s pain was not only due to the loss of his mentor, but also from the fact that he never got to tell the man just how important he was to him. Their final conversation repeated in his head, over and over, on endless loop. The last words that he had exchanged with Harry were harsh and accusatory. How much he wished that that conversation had not been their last. What wouldn’t he give to say the rest of the words that were caught in his throat. To finally release them. To say he was sorry. But the chance never came and the words clung to him, never to be spoken.

A tall man in a dark pinstripe suit entered the room.

At first glimpse, he was their Harry Hart. As perfect as they imagined and just as they all remembered him. Only on closer inspection did they notice small, but significant details that would indicate otherwise.

He was wearing what looked like the exact same suit he “died” in. But this one didn’t show any of the wear and damage that was sure to have happened in that final, brutal rampage. Either Statesman had an excellent tailor repair the original suit, or more likely, Harry had his suit replicated. 

The details were exacting as they had always been. The tie with the Windsor knot. The pristine white spread collar and crisp pocket square. French cuffs that were still held by the Kingsman cuff links. 

His standard horn rimmed communication glasses had been modified. The left lens was now shaded a solid black. There was an additional piece that covered his peripheral vision from the edge of the lens to the end of the arm on his left side.

How was it possible that he stood before them, as handsome and regal as ever? Hell, the man could even make a blacked out eye look distinguished. It added to his air of gravitas.

A curious pair of black cowboy boots with elaborate stitching, stood out from below the mid-break of his trousers. The footsteps they heard in the hallway didn’t come from his standard oxfords.

Neither did they see the familiar Kingsman standard issue pistol he would always pack without fail. In his right hand, held down by his side, he toted a nickel plated Colt Single Action Army revolver modified with a double barrel. He carried it by its smooth, wooden grip.

But he did walk with the same measured strides, familiar in pace and sound. Harry took his place in front of them as the cowboy found a space off to the side. 

They wore their incredulity in silence.  Words were insignificant compared to this impossible occasion. Words that would adequately express their turmoil did not exist. Merlin looked like he was trying to deconstruct a complex algorithm in his head. Roxy looked, he imagined bizarrely, like she had just been denied an orgasm. Where the hell did that come from? Eggsy fairly certain he looked like a bloody idiot.

And so they waited. 

Familiar, golden brown eyes, well, eye now, gazed over them. Making and then holding eye contact with each of them in the way they had always remembered he would when he required their full attention.

They searched his eyes and face for recognition. To see any kind of dawning realization that he knew who they were. Merely seeing Harry, alive and mostly whole, was something that was unfathomable to them. 

Finally, Harry spoke.

The vibration of his voice was able to resonate through their shocked and dampened senses. It was a deep and calming sound. Smooth, measured tones with an aristocratic accent that clipped his words. Vibrant. It was a voice that was warm, safe and familiar. It was a voice that sounded like home.

What was completely baffling were the words that beautiful voice said. 

“Please excuse my dreadful manners. But I don’t believe we have properly met.”

They turned and glanced at each other in confusion. What the hell? Surely there had to be some part of Harry that recognized them. At least Merlin, with whom he shared a history going back over twenty years. 

“Harry. It’s us.” Merlin implored. “We’re not undercover. Right now, we’re not anything. That’s why we came here.” 

“Harry.” Merlin’s voice was touched with sorrow. “Kingsman is gone.”

Harry’s face remained impassive. The spark of recognition remained unfired. There was no hint of softening, no warmth, no glint that told them, “Not to worry. Everything is under control.”  

Harry confirmed. “Yes, I had the pleasure of hearing your story.” He leaned back against the wall and took a casual stance. Crossing his legs in front of him much like Tequila did.  He placed a hand in a pocket. The other gripped the Colt lightly.

“It’s quite interesting.” He looked thoughtful. “And particularly unfortunate that this Kingsman Tailoring “Agency” that you speak of, was completely and utterly destroyed. How unfortunate that the three of you happen to be the only survivors.” 

Time paused with him as he contemplated this thought for awhile.

“It would seem rather convenient, on the other hand, for that gives us absolutely no way to possibly verify your doomsday scenario.” 

The disappointment on his face hit them with a guilt that was worse than his impassivity. 

“And why, all of a sudden, after a year, would not only one, but three mysterious Brits arrive here at Statesman, of all the places in the world, for no other reason than a bottle telling them to.” 

Beseechingly, Eggsy replied. “Harry, we don’t understand what’s happening. We thought that you had died when Valentine shot you outside the church.”

Harry’s face suddenly hardened. Slowly he pulled himself up to his full height.

“How could you possibly know that?” The air around them became sharp with tension. 

How did they end up on the wrong side of the interrogation table? They had never seen Harry from this perspective. But they had witnessed him work targets before. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

As Harry continued, his voice remained very calm and very steady. 

“No one. Pardon me. I should clarify. No one alive except Statesman has that knowledge. Not even I had that knowledge in the beginning.”

Instantly, it was crucial that no one speak out of turn. Harry’s voice had taken on a tone that was flat and affectless.  They had rarely heard it before, but they knew it was dangerous to be on the receiving end of that dull and indifferent voice. 

Harry was walking his edge. And Harry on the edge was not someone you wanted to push. To anyone else, he would have appeared unchanged. But he had the sharp glint in his eye, the set to his jaw, and the steely note to his voice that betrayed he was very, very angry. They only knew this because of their history with him. It was critical to tread very lightly. 

Eggsy words were dressed with caution. 

“Harry, you were at the church, “he emphasised, “on behalf of Kingsman.” He carefully walked through a minefield of words, wary of any misstep that would trigger Harry’s anger in their direction.

“We knew that Richmond Valentine was up to no good. You were assigned the mission to find out exactly what he was planning. You flew to Kentucky. Valentine was testing his SIM card transmitter on the people in the church. You were there as well. Even though you didn’t have a SIM card, the transmission was strong enough to affect everyone, whether they had a SIM card or not.”

 “Merlin and I were on the communication feed. We saw everything…. You were affected by the sound waves, too… You had no control…” He wasn’t sure how to continue, but he definitely didn’t want to mention the number of people Harry had killed.

Merlin spoke on his behalf. “Eggsy’s right. We saw you confront Valentine. We saw him shoot you in the head. We thought that you had died. The bullet destroyed the communication feed or else it would have transmitted…” he paused. “Proof of life, or confirmation of death.” 

Harry reflected. “Yes, I did almost die on that day.”

Eggsy and Merlin flinched.

“It was only through, whatever would like to call it, luck, perhaps fate. Regardless, it was Statesman that located me. They were able to save my life. I owe them. I am a man who honors his debts.”

The room prickled with silence. They dared not say more until they were able to see more of the landscape they were trying to traverse. It was littered with threats.

Harry, now pacing in slow, steady strides, continued. “With all the resources you say this Kingsman agency had, how surprising that it had to be strangers that came to my aid. Otherwise,” he recalled, “I would be, quite dead.” 

The three of them realised they were on eggshells atop a minefield. Never before had they been confronted by Harry in this manner. Never before had they even witnessed Harry in this state. They were uncertain of what to do when faced with this degree of suspicion and mistrust from a man, who in the past, would have given his life to save any of theirs.

When no one spoke, he began to ruminate. “At Statesman, we knew that it was Richmond Valentine who shot me. Confirmed by two of their agents.” He turned back toward them. “Though the question of why still remained unsolved.”

Coming closer. “But you three, now, are here with that answer,” He paused in-between his points for effect. 

“But you are here, completely by chance.” pause 

“Only because of a doomsday protocol scenario.” pause 

“A scenario that led you to Statesman.” pause 

“And I just happen to be here as well.” pause  

“Do you know what the odds are of that happening?” pause  

“Rather extraordinary, don’t you think?” pause  

“I must say, you are quite the interesting trio. Unassuming.  Not quite what one would expect for this sort of operation.  Perhaps that is the point. Disarm me with your improbability, with your accents, so familiar to my own. Here to deliver stories of how I was part of an organization that no longer exists. And you are the only other individuals who know what occurred the day I was shot.” He stopped in front on them. He turned to face them and drew tall once more.

Looking at each other was a dare none of them were willing to take. They knew that the most important thing at that moment was to maintain eye contact with Harry anytime he looked in their direction. If they couldn’t offer him any answers, at least they could show him that they had nothing to hide. Now was not the time to look or act guilty.

No matter how many tactics he used, regardless of how hard he pushed them, their story would be the same because they had no other story. Was there no memory of Kingsman at all? What about Harry’s moral code, that Kingsman only risked a life to save a life. Was that a credo he still followed? The did not know what to expect.

“Regardless. Questions for another time I suppose.” He waved his hand as if brushing them away.

“The pressing issue still remains.” He was firm and unyielding. “Who are you and how did you find us.”

 What could they possibly say at this point? They remained silent.

“We welcome our visitors and our guests. However, we do not take kindly to trespassers. You say you have nothing to protect, but your honor. If the three of you are the only survivors of your organization and you are as close as you say, I would assume that you would, at the very least, protect a third of what remains of your agency.

Eggsy suddenly found himself on the business end of a Colt Single Action Army revolver. 

Staring down the barrel of the gun, he felt drunk, off balance, like he had fallen into an alternate universe. Where the laws of physics no longer applied. 

“Harry, it’s me.”  The only thing he could think of that could reach Harry was the guilt he had carried with him for over 17 years. The guilt that made him reach out to Eggsy in the first place. 

With self-possession he did not have, he composed himself as well as he could while being threatened by the mentor he once thought was dead.   

“My father saved your life.” He spoke quietly and deliberately and without hesitation.  “But you had made a mistake that cost him his. You were trying to repay him by helping me find purpose, to do something good with my life. You recruited me to Kingsman. You changed everything for me.” 

The look Harry returned for these words was almost kindly. 

“I’ll give you the following three seconds to prove that to me.”

Fuck. Eggsy was drawing a blank.

He could hear Roxy and Merlin, as if they were underwater yelling to Harry anything they could to make him stop.  

What felt like a lifetime later, the door burst open. Apparently, he had lost the ability to count, because that brief passage of time felt like much longer than three seconds. 

“Stop!” a woman yelled urgently. She tossed Harry a black umbrella. He caught it deftly with one hand.

“Their story checks out.” She held her palms out toward Harry. Please stop.

“I checked our doomsday scenario locker.” She explained. “Only to be opened in the case of a catastrophic event that cripples the agency to the point where we cannot rebuild on our own. It was established by a network of international intelligence agencies, forged when they first began. Since autonomy was the goal for each agency, once the protocol was put into place, no agency was to uncover it unless absolutely necessary.” 

“Take a look.” She nodded to the umbrella in his hand. “Kingsman. It has our logo on it.”

Harry paused to inspect the handle. Sure enough, the Statesman logo replaced the “s” in Kingsman.

He handled the umbrella in a way that seemed familiar to him. It almost seemed like he was looking for other recognisable features. Eggsy has seen plenty of Harry handling the umbrella like it was an extension of himself. He had saved Eggy’s life with it. It looked so natural in his hands. Like it completed the final picture of their Harry Hart and he was hopeful that this might be the final piece of the puzzle.  

Harry looked at the umbrella thoughtfully. It was difficult to read his face if he didn’t want it to be read. After a pause, he tossed it lightly back to Ginger. 

“Not good enough.” The gun swung back toward Eggsy.

They froze, unable to move, speak or even breathe. They were at a loss, nothing in their training prepared them for this. Roxy and Merlin could only watch helplessly as Harry cocked the revolver at Eggsy. Was it a live round? Or was it blank?

What kind of FU world would allow something like this to happen? Eggsy thought. He grasped for any hope, any last play that he could make, but the only thing within his reach was empty space. It simply slid through his fingers, without purchase, without substance. There was nothing that he could hold on to.

BUT… his eyes darted towards Harry’s right hand. The gun in his face was blocking his view… Fuck it. He squeezed eyes shut as he opened his mouth. The words ran together and toppled over each other as they spilled out without pause. 

“you wear a gold signet ring on your right little finger gentleman are traditionally supposed to wear the ring on the left hand but you wear yours on your right because a Kingsman always wears it on whatever hand happens to be dominant and you are right handed”

Nothing happened. And it was quiet.

Cautiously, Eggy peered from one eye. He wasn’t dead. He opened the other eye.

Harry regarded him from along the barrel of the revolver. Eggsy flinched away from its deadly mouth.

Harry deliberated. His mind took a step back and a step to the side. He looked at the situation from a different perspective. Because he was wearing a signet ring on his right hand, not on his left, as was the gentlemen’s  tradition. He was wearing it when he was shot. He could not recall where the ring came from, or its significance. Researching the insignia came up with no leads. But he continued to wear the ring, for no other reason than it felt right to him. Like he insisted on wearing his suit, rather than Statesman’s tie and jacket. 

His eyes let go of some of the hardness. Eggsy hoped that he saw a little softening at the edges. 

Harry’s voice, so familiar it made his heart hurt. Not accusatory, but with interest, he asked, “How do you know that?” 

Eggsy, with great effort willed his gaze to leave the barrel of the gun and meet the face that had once meant so much to him. He caught Harry’s eyes and didn’t flinch.

He took a deep breath. “I know,” he said with a calmness and a clarity he did not feel, “because I’m wearing one, too.”

Harry, without breaking eye contact, nodded to Ginger. She hurried to Eggsy’s side. After a quick glance, she confirmed, indeed, he was wearing a signet ring exactly like Harry’s.

Harry lowered his gun. There were three consecutive sighs of relief.

“My apologies.” He said as he holstered his weapon.

“It seems as if we have much to discuss.”

———

They found themselves in a massive great room at Statesman HQ, the top floor of a huge structure the shape of the Statesman signature whiskey bottle. Floor to ceiling windows circled the entire room, providing a 360 degree view of the rolling hills of Kentucky from every vantage point.

The centrepiece of the space was a leviathan of a conference table. Elaborately carved, solid hard wood. The trees that created that table must have had lived for years to grow to such a substantial size.  It had space to sit 12, but only few of the spots were occupied.

One of which by a larger than life, genial, vintage cowboy of a man. A little flashy, a little ostentatious, more than a little gregarious, he was the head of the Statesman outfit. With a place at the head of the table, he leaned back in his plush armchair with aplomb. He introduced himself as “Champagne” or Champ as he was known affectionately by his agents.

Roxy wasn’t surprised that, aside from Ginger Ale, she was the only female present. Hell, Ginger was the only other female that she had seen since they had entered Statesman HQ. Well, technically ‘broke in’, but still. They had an invitation, even if it was only in the shape of a whiskey bottle. A bottle that they had emptied while wallowing in self pity. Even Merlin was a bit maudlin, at one point, sobbing into his whiskey and singing Country Roads a little off key. Roxy had side-eyed him until Eggsy spotted the secret message hidden behind the label. She wondered they they had made the clue unnoticeable until the bottle was emptied. They could have quite possibly missed the hint. Being under the influence of, admittedly, very smooth whiskey did not enhance ones ability to spot decades old subtext on the back of whiskey labels. Whose clever idea had that been? 

Once again, she found herself in the odd situation where she wanted to be taken seriously as an agent, but Agent Tequila’s insistence on calling her sweetheart, miss, darling, filly of all things didn’t give her much confidence that Statesman would be any different from the old boys club that was Kingsman.

Even back at HQ, she was often, dear, dearest, or darling. The only person that she tolerated those endearments from where Eggsy, who used them in jest, and surprisingly Harry Hart. But Galahad, and Galahad Sr. calling her dear was much different than a two-bit, over the top, slick cowboy secret agent she had just met calling her something as intimate as “darling”. 

Would it kill him to call her Lancelot? It miffed her that he used Eggsy’s handle and not hers. Looking at the head of their organisation, she didn’t expect him to be much different. 

She took a seat the near end of the table, between Eggsy and Merlin. Agent Tequila walked in with Ginger, followed by Harry. She was surprised when he continued past them and walked around the head of the table to the other side, the Statesman side, and took a seat next to Ginger. He pulled out his chair, as smooth and as graceful as he sat thousands of times at the head of the Kingsman table. Even unbuttoning the last button of his suit so it wouldn’t crease and smoothing the back of his jacket before he leaned into his chair. The crossed legs, the hands folded on the knee. The authoritative, yet relaxed posture. It was all so familiar. What she couldn’t reconcile was the inscrutable, impenetrable expression that fell over his face every time he glanced in their direction. There was no warmth, no familiarity, no flicker of understanding. It made his face look unfamiliar and she did not like it one bit. 

To add insult to injury, Ginger had leaned over and whispered something in his direction. The small hint of a ‘not quite smile’ that pressed his lips together, his mouth just barely turned up at the corners, meant that she had shared an observation that confirmed something in his mind in a bemused sort of way. It was the look Harry had once made, when inquired about Eggsy’s tardiness, she revealed that he was running late because it was JB’s birthday party later and he wanted to get the dog “pupcakes” to celebrate. The memory tugged at her heart.

She didn’t turn her head to see how Eggsy was faring, but she could almost feel his dejection. She hoped it wasn’t so obvious on his face. Sometimes he was a little too earnest for his own good. Not that her other side was an improvement. Merlin was seated directly across from Harry. Only a distance of several feet, but it might as well have been lengths of the world for as distant Harry was from them. The furrow between the Scotsman’s brows had appeared the moment they discovered Harry alive. It took up residence on his face. Harry Hart, the man who was the only person close enough for Merlin to consider a friend, was now a mystery to him. 

The loss, between Eggsy and Merlin, was a cold empty space that Roxy had the unfortunate pleasure to be seated between. She was determined to warm up whatever mood vacuum that had sucked her in. Or at least not make it any worse.             

 And why did she always have to be the mediator? The men had elected Roxy as their spokesperson as neither of them thought that they would be able to speak without laughing, crying, shouting or hitting something. Predictably, she found herself the voice of reason. To be fair, she WAS the one with the least emotional involvement. Not that she hadn’t adored and respected Harry Hart, like everyone that worked under his guidance, but she had to admit, Merlin and Eggsy must be twice as confused and devastated by the recent turn of events. She mentally steeled herself against any additional revelations that might be thrown their way. But at this point, if there was something that could top this most recent turn of events, they might as well just blow up this joint and let it all burn down, too.

After everyone had settled in, and to her amusement, a pour of whiskey was set in front of each of them. She decided to get this “rodeo” started. She nodded in Champs direction. He tipped his chin, tapped his glass with his pen to get everyone’s attention and announced the opening of the meeting. All the Statesman and Harry, emptied their glasses. From her peripheral she saw Merlin and Eggsy follow suit without hesitation. Did all agencies revolve around the consumption of alcohol? She had already developed quite a tolerance from her brief stint at Kingsman so far. Well, if it brought these two agencies on familiar ground, who was she to argue? She tipped her glass back. And the welcomed the warmth after the initial burn, though still much smoother than could be expected. She appreciated the added touch of liquid courage. She cleared her throat. 

“We find ourselves here, under what we,” she gestured to herself and her colleagues, “believed to be the most difficult of circumstances. Only to be faced with another impossible situation. As you can imagine, the revelation that Harry Hart, our Sr. Agent Galahad,” she nodded in his direction, “who we believed had been killed over a year ago by Richmond Valentine, that he is still alive, has been shocking for us.”

In Harry’s direction, she continued, addressing him directly. “Harry. If we had believed there to be even the most infinitesimal chance that you could have survived Valentine’s bullet, we would have not hesitated to garner all the forces of Kingsman to find you and bring you back.”

Harry, respectfully listened to Lancelot, attentive, but without revealing anything aside from simple interest.

She faltered a little under his gaze. And she, too, wished for that little wink, the small tilt of his chin that would encourage her to continue. Just as he first did when she joined Kingsman, nervous over her first debriefing. There was no comfort to be found in his direction. She took a deep breath and continued. 

“Both Eggsy - our current Galahad - and Merlin witnessed the events of what we thought was your death.” She forced herself to face him, eye to eye, without hesitation. After all that he had sacrificed for them, it was the least she could offer him.

Her voice was clear and firm, her words meticulously thought out. “They saw you get shot, point blank, in the face, by no more than a distance of 10 feet, by a 9mm semi-automatic Heckler and Koch P30. The bullet destroyed the communication transmission via the left lens.”

Both Eggsy and Merlin were looking down. Both remembering all too clearly the events from that day. The details were painful for them to hear, especially when the man who they thought had died, was in fact, sitting across the table. Even though they had every right to call time of death, they couldn’t help but feel they had left him behind. 

Roxy continued. “Merlin, our communications and technology strategist and Galahad, who was at the time, your protege, had witnessed all the events up to the point the bullet severed the transmission. We could only deduce, at that point, that a bullet of that caliber, from that distance, would have shattered the lens.” She took a deep breath, “and continued through the left eye and exited the back of the head. Resulting in immediate death.” 

She could sense Eggsy flinch by her side. He had seen the whole thing far too clearly. 

“As much as we wanted to, we were unable to collect the body at the time of death. Due to unforeseen circumstances regarding treachery within the highest ranks of our agency, Merlin, Eggsy and I, had to straight away address both the source of our internal corruption and abort the plans initiated by Richmond Valentine. We were successful in both, but not in time to prevent casualties, both enemy and civilian.”

In speaking so intimately regarding what they thought was his death, she decided to switch identifiers from “the” to “your”. The man was sitting right in front of her. She spoke with a new earnest note in her voice. Rather than distancing herself from her words, she decided to speak from the place that had felt the same grief and loss as Eggsy and Merlin.

Harry’s eyes took on a different note as he heard the emotion in Roxy’s voice. 

“In the immediate aftermath of V-day, after the initial threat was neutralised, we flew to the States in an attempt to find you, identify you, and bring you home for proper internment, but we were unable to locate your body. We tried over weeks, through every channel, every resource, we followed every lead, with no success. We didn’t hope to find you alive.” 

She fought against the wave of emotion that threatened her composure.

“But we hoped that we would be able to properly commemorate your bravery, your integrity, your sacrifice, with the honour, dignity and grace worthy of your life and your legacy.” 

Roxy had stop for a moment, but she did not look away. A small tear rolled down her cheek without her noticing or bothering to wipe it away. It was as if the loss was new again. This pain was fresh. For all of them.

Harry’s eyes finally softened and they caught a glimpse of the man they remembered. But whether it was empathy for Roxy, clearly struggling to continue as her emotions caught in her throat, or understanding how they felt and what they had to do in the most difficult of situations, they did not know. 

And whatever amnesia he was experiencing had to be temporary, right? Surely Melin could devise a plan to help jump start his memory. Now that the were there, they could help him remember.

—

Roxy was determined to continue until the end. 

“After the events of V-Day, we had to recenter and regroup. Our agency had clearly been compromised. We needed to locate and close the leaks and tie up any loose ends.  Our losses were felt across the board. We had to rebuild what we could from the ground up. To recapture the integrity of our organisation. The immediate need to clean up the aftermath was one of the few things that we could focus on to help us come to terms with your loss. We knew, that if you had survived, you would have taken the mantle of Arthur. And that it would be your highest priority to rebuild the agency beyond reproach.”

“After several weeks, in which we continued our search for you, we felt that it would be best for us personally and professionally to move on. We held a private memorial for you, and honoured you as best as we could. After that, we could only move forward. It was a difficult time for all of us.” 

“We found ourselves here, after our organisation was levelled again. This time with only the three of us as survivors. Our HQ, our foundry, our storefront.” Her eyes flared with anger at this point. “And all of our agents worldwide aside from Galahad and I, were all taken down as targets.”

“Merlin was the only surviving handler and tech strategist and the only one of us that had been with the agency long enough know that a Doomsday protocol existed. With all of our resources destroyed, we had no way of protecting ourselves, to find out who had organised and carried out such a coordinated attack. Our last and only option was to see if this protocol existed.”

“We found the Statesman logo. Located your distillery here in Kentucky. At this point, we really had no plan beyond finding your organisation and hoping that you would be able to assist us.”

“We still had some tech in our possession, which I admit, looked suspicious for a group of tailors to have, let alone know how to use. That’s when your agent found us. We meant no ill will, but we had no other way to get into contact with your organization.  We didn’t even know if you existed. We had nothing to lose but to continue to follow any clues that we might come across. We had no protocol for a circumstance like this.”

“You can only imagine our bewilderment to be taken as adversaries when we were looking for help. And then our shock of finding Harry Hart. Finding him, not only alive, but with no memory of the agency he was devoted to over 30 years. It still is an unthinkable situation that we were not prepared for and obviously, are still trying to process.”

She had been speaking for a long time. She paused, took a sip of water, swallowed, before continuing.

She addressed the table. “Everything that we have said is the truth. We were also an independent intelligence agency with headquarters in London.” 

She turned again to Harry. “You were an integral member of this agency for most of your adult life. You know each of us well. Merlin has been your colleague for over 20 years. You knew Eggsy’s father, he saved your life in a mission that had gone sideways. That was seventeen years ago. You had recruited him as a way to repay his fathers sacrifice. My uncle was also a long time colleague of yours and our families go back many years.”

“We are so grateful that you are alive. We are sorry that we left you behind. That would never be our intention. We are forever indebted to Statesman for saving your life and taking care of you. But as you can imagine, we have questions of our own. How did you get here? How did you survive? Do you have no memory of Kingsman at all? What can you remember? Obviously, you have retained your skills, but to what extent? If you honestly don’t remember, then we can see how unbelievable our story is. But I think if you are still a man of honour and integrity, then you have to feel that we are not hostiles or adversaries. We pose no threat to you. Your instincts must tell you we are offering you the truth.”

She could tell that Harry was processing the information, she just couldn’t tell whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Roxy concluded. “And that brings us here to the present. I think our most pressing question is “how did you survive?”

Harry nodded to Ginger to answer the question. He seemed to want to observe the conversation. His attention had never wavered from Roxy while she spoke, only widened at times to include Eggsy or Merlin. If he had come to a conclusion, there was nothing that they could see.

Roxy gladly handed off the meeting to Ginger. Harry’s unwavering gaze was getting a little unnerving. Without the added scrutiny, she could get collect her own thoughts and feelings. Kingsman recruitment training had been brutal, but nothing could have prepared them for the last 48hrs. Nothing in the Gentleman’s Guide had a blueprint on how to behave when your agency gets blown up and your dead mentor, comes back to life, has amnesia, and then almost shoots you.

——

Ginger spoke up.

“I would like to confirm that we now have proof that your story is legitimate Which means, Harry, what they are saying about your history with Kingsman is most likely the truth.”

Harry tilted his chin slightly in her direction in acknowledgement. 

She spoke in the direction of the three Kingsman. “We have just received corroboration from several independent sources that the events did occur as described and that your agency was the target of a massive strike against organisations such as ours. We are sorry for your loss. You will have full access to our resources to investigate this adversary and we will provide you with support. This is a threat that affects all of us.”

Merlin spoke up. His voice was rough with concern. 

“Harry, what happened?” 

Harry’s voice, deep and a with familiar, crisp authority, suddenly filled the space.

“At this point, I believe Ginger will be able to recall the events much more clearly than I. I have no recollection of events immediately following the shooting.” He turned to her. “Please, continue.”

Merlin gaze remained fixed on Harry and worried there for several moments, before he turned his attention to Ginger.

“The day prior to V-Day, we detected the transmission of a very low frequency sound wave. Much lower than what is normally used for any legitimate communication. This frequency, for the time and location, was suspicious to say the least and it was imperative that we investigate. Agent Tequila and I helicoptered to the spot, about 10 miles away.”

“The frequency stopped right about the time we were closing in on the location. We had already pinpointed the source so we knew where it originated from. Even though the transmission had stopped, we could still find clues to its origin.” 

“We were just flying into the zone when we witnessed the shooting. We saw Valentine and his accomplices depart. They didn’t confirm death. I expect they thought that shooting someone in the face.. well, there are not many outcomes. Our timing couldn’t have been better planned. We had developed what we call “alpha gel” to use on our own agents in the case of a head shot. Previously, a head shot meant immediate death. Body armour can only protect so much. We’ve lost very good agents.’ 

But depending on where the bullet entered the skull and if there was minimal damage to the actual brain and spinal cord, the gel could potentially save an agents life. 

Harry was still alive when I checked his vitals. I applied the alpha gel immediately. It’s crucial to activate the gel to prevent tissue damage and accelerate the nannites that are used to repair neural pathways. I won’t go further in depth at this point. The main issue at that moment was to preserve life. 

Of course, because of his glasses, we knew that he was intelligence, we just didn’t know whose and we had no way of finding out without compromising Harry’s safety and our anonymity.  

Harry suffers from retrograde amnesia, which could be from the injury. But it can also be a side effect of the alpha gel. However, when life it at risk, the benefits outweigh the possible negative outcomes. This kind of memory loss, you lose existing, previously made memories. This type of amnesia tends to affect recently formed memories first. Older memories, such as memories from childhood, are usually affected more slowly. 

She motioned to Harry, while he listened closely to her explanation.

“So while Harry was whole as a person, personality wise, function wise, cognitive and behavioural skills in place, he had no memory of who he was aside from what could be observed. He had no memory of his past, people, places, events. This was an interesting case because usually with retrograde amnesia, there can be the regression to the younger self. The skill set and knowledge and the growth that occurred during the time of memory loss can also be lost as well. Such as, if you learned French while you were in college, but you lost the memories of this timeframe, in most cases, you would no longer be able to speak French. In fact, the whole memory that you learned it to begin with would be gone. In these cases, the knowledge and skill learned during this time would also be forgotten. However, in some rare cases, the ability to remember the skill remains, while the memory of the past when it was learned is lost. 

“In Harry’s case, it was obviously the later.” 

The slightest shift in the landscape of Harry’s face indicated that we was thoughtful and reflective. How must it be to wake up and not know who you are.

Harry, while still maintaining full concentration on Ginger, set a small part of him free to revisit the day he regained consciousness. Which technically, would not be regaining consciousness, since he had no recollection of losing consciousness to begin with.

——

POV HARRY HART

“My name is Harry Hart.”  It was the first thought that went through his head.

Secondly, “Caucasion male, 6’2”, brown hair, brown eyes, 58 years of age. 13.5 stone” That all sounded perfectly reasonable to him.

Thirdly, wasn’t a thought, it was a feeling of emptiness. Not as if he was missing something. It did not feel like loss. It did not feel as if he was lacking. That would imply that there was something present to begin with.  It was not a feeling he could identify or that felt familiar or could find a word that was representative. It was unusual for him. He never found his vocabulary lacking. Perhaps if it could be called a non-feeling. He was a vessel. Neither empty, nor full. And no desire to be either or. An interesting sensation. 

When he first woke up, he had not realised that he was suffering from amnesia. Due to the amnesia there were no memories that insisted he should be a certain person. That he had to exist in a certain place. Doing something specific. A curious circumstance. There was no sense of surprise waking up in the condition he found himself to be. He did whatever he would do in a circumstance like this. Assess the situation. 

As he entered a conscious state, his mind automatically shifted into overdrive. But without moving. Without betraying any kind of change. He felt the need to remain unnoticed. He did this from where he rested. He first determined if he had sustained any injury or damage that had caused permanent physical disability or bodily harm. He had full function of all of his appendages. He did not know how long he had been in this state, but he did not notice any signs of muscle atrophy or joint stiffness. They must have a system that stimulated muscle tissue and nerves to prevent deterioration or he had not been in an immobile state for any length of time. Blinking his eyes was like scrapping sandpaper and his throat was a desert of sand. He attempted to make any kind of noise and found it difficult. That meant he had to have been out for at least some meaningful period of time. His head did ache something awful, and he noted a bandage or some other type of patch over his left eye. The use of only one eye would change his perception of depth, and the range of his peripheral vision, but he did not doubt that he would be able to adjust accordingly.

He had no reason to question his cognitive function. He processed information unhesitatingly and with ease. Without a sense of doubt, without faltering, he scanned the room and began to examine his surroundings. He was being held in some kind of hospital or medical ward. Not civilian. It was either private or for research. Maybe military. Hi tech, advanced equipment. Everything was in pristine condition. Two exits on opposing sides. No windows. A complex ventilation and filtration system suggested an underground location. No immediate threat that he could ascertain, but that could change at any moment. No apparent weapons. Some medical instruments that could possibly work. He was not restrained so he was not being held against his will. Or there was no need if he was unconscious the entire time. He did not feel any urgency or sense of immediate danger, but he did not question his need to assess the situation .

He heard two people approach the door to the left. Judging from the echoing quality and the gradual volume and clarity of their foot steps, from a fairly long corridor. 

His eyes remained closed, his breathing shallow and steady, his heartbeat was slow and rhythmic. He concentrated on the sound. One set of footsteps was clearly male. The stride was longer, more pronounced, in heavy shoes, presumably boots. But an easy pace. Most likely 6’, 13 stone, physically fit. His gait was even, balanced and light. Not the walk of someone that led a sedentary life. The second set of footsteps he concluded were female. Lighter, but not timid. A confident woman. Just a smaller stature. Medium height. Slight frame. Like her partner, fit, alert, competent. 

He did not know why or how he came up with these deductions, but he did not question them. He held the information in his mind so it was easily accessible. The voices, once they became decipherable, were relaxed and easy. Their tone was jovial and non-threatening. Younger than he was. American accent, with a southern drawl. He could be in the US, but anywhere was possible. While he did not expect danger, he still prepared himself for the risk. Mostly, his need was to understand the where he was, how he got there and have leverage over the situation.

The door opened with a heavy swooshing sound. He did not hear the click of a lock being turned, so he was not being held in high security setting.

The two individuals were still conversing, and he could just almost decipher what they were discussing. The man remained on his right hand side while the woman walked around the foot of the bed to inspect the instruments and diagnostics panels to the left. Her back was turned away from him. The man remained at his side. A quick glance in his direction. A holster was slung around his waist, it held a nickelplated SIG-Sauer P226 with wooden grips. A quality weapon. To his advantage, the strap securing the weapon was not snapped in. That would have been a trickier maneuver.

He guessed the woman was in medical, the man, based on the weapon and the fact that he was not actively participating in the tasks, that he was a guard or protection of some sort. With their relaxed tones, and familiar interactions, possibly a friend or colleague. 

Not one to overthink a situation, he decided now was as good a time as any. No use in waiting, expecting a better scenario. Best to address the situation you know rather than wait for one you don’t. Never a guarantee for a better set of circumstances. Only guarantee is time lost.

He waited patiently for the moment to proceed. Just a small distraction was all he needed. It arrived sooner than he anticipated and under better circumstances that he had the right to expect.

“Tequila, would you be able to hand me the print outs right behind you?” 

Harry saw him turn away from the bed, his hips rotated in his direction, the angle ideal for him to grab, cock and point. He only hoped that his deductions regarding his physical state were correct, or it would be a moot point. He might not even be able to sit up, let alone hold a weapon.  Take the out, the told himself. 

These thoughts occurred within fractions of a second. Without hesitation, in one fell swoop, he grabbed the gun, pulled back the slide to load the chamber. Thankfully his body responded without any resistance or weakness and he slid himself back into an upright position. 

He judged the distance between the three of them. The man called Tequila, was close enough by his side to possibly disarm him, so he swung the weapon in the woman’s direction. She was far enough away that the gun was not within her reach. He centered the sight at her chest. It was not the aim of a stop shot. It was the aim for a kill shot. Might as well show them he was not a man to underestimate. He did not want to shoot her, but he did want to make it very clear to them that he was a man to take very seriously. 

Once he guaranteed that he had their attention. Though he had many questions he wanted answers to, he asked them the two questions that were the most urgent.

His voice was gravelly, but still clear enough to understand. 

“Who are you?”

“What am I doing here?”

For having a gun aimed at her chest, the woman was surprisingly relaxed. She held up her palm towards the other man. She would handle this. The man shifted his weight back to a holding posture rather than the offensive stance that prepared him to take action. 

“You have a British accent. That’s helpful to know. How are you feeling?”

“My first two questions still stand.” He regarded them impassively, but kept any notes of aggression from his tone.

—— 

Gingers POV

“My name is Ginger Ale, I’m Head Strategy Executive and Director of Medical here at our outfit.  This is Agent Tequila. Welcome to Statesman, our whiskey distillery. You’re at our HQ in Kentucky.” 

She handed him a cup of water. “Sip. Don’t guzzle.”

She was succinct. “As for what you are doing here, we were waiting for you to wake up so you could tell us. We found you outside of a church about 10 miles from here. You had been shot in the head. You were still alive, so we did everything we could to keep you that way. You’ve been unconscious the entire time here. Your vitals were strong. We were just waiting for you to wake up. We have some questions for you as well.” 

Her voice was gentle, but firm. He did not catch any inflections or hesitations that would indicate she was lying, or with holding information. Her tone was honest, forthright and it put him slightly more at ease. 

“I answered both of yours. Would you be so kind to answer mine?” She asked politely.

He did not refuse, but he didn’t say yes.

“How are you feeling.” she asked again.

“Would you care to clarify?” He asked in return. “There are multiple ways I can respond to your question.”

So he was witty.

“Pick one.”

“At the present moment, tolerable. Though this persistent ache in my head leaves something to be desired” He equivocated. 

“That’s to be expected with a headshot. You did lose your left eye. There will be residual pain/discomfort until the injury is completely healed.”

“What is your name? 

“My name is Harry Hart.”

“Do you feel comfortable enough at the moment to answer some questions for us? Is there anything that you require immediately? 

“More water would be appreciated. Otherwise, feel free. Fire away.” He looked amused. He reached over to return Tequila’s gun. “Perhaps a poor choice of words in my case.” He revised his response. “Very well then, proceed.”

She refilled his water and pulled a chair next to his bed. Tequila found a place strategically viable to intervene if things went sideways. He wasn’t one to get caught off guard twice.

“Now, since we are on a first name basis, can you tell us why you were at the church that day? Why would someone would want to kill you?”

“No.”

“No?” 

“I simply do not know.”

“Why you were there? Or why someone wanted you dead?”

“Neither.”

“Where are you from?”

His face remained blank.

“That may be a little vague.” Ginger specified. “Where do you live? Where is your home?”

No response.

How old are you?

“58” 

“Do you know what you do for a living? Where do you work?”

An almost imperceptible turn of the head.

“Can you remember where you went to school? Secondary or university.”

He squinted his eyes. But no answer.

“Do you know who the current world leader is? President? Prime Minister?”

Her regarded her impassively. She started to form her own understanding of how he was communicating. She could play along. Any form of communication was good for her. It didn’t have to be words. There was more than one way to impart information. It would all get her to the same place. Plus, she would have the chance to read his non-verbal cues. That would be a challenge. His expression was nearly inscrutable.

A slight turn of the head meant I don’t know. His impassive face meant maybe, but he can’t know for sure. The blank disinterested stare meant that he had no idea what she was referring to. She was already intrigued by her patient. She was becoming more fascinated by the moment. 

Changing tactics, she asked. “Can you play the piano?”

A slight tilt of the head. This was new. That meant the question sparked something in his mind. It was a possibility, but he couldn’t know for sure. Interesting. She went further down her tangent.

“What’s pi to the tenth decimal?”

Without hesitation, he rattled off. “3.1415926535”

“Parle vous français?”

“Oui”

How many languages can you speak?

“Six ”

“What are they?”

English, French, Spanish, German, Italian, Arabic.

Hmmm. Arabic was interesting. She filed that away to look at more closely at a later time.

“Do you know were you learned Arabic or why?”

He was taciturn.

“Are you right or left handed?”

“Right.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

Impassive.

“Do you own a car?”

Impassive.

“Do you know how to drive.”

“Yes.”

Now they were getting somewhere, she thought to herself.

“What was your favourite game as a child?”

He furrowed his brow but answered.

“Chess.”

Were you good?

“Yes.”

“Did you compete?

No answer.

Hmm. Retrograde amnesia, she pondered.

“Can you shoot a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever killed someone?”

A tilt of the head. Possible, but can’t confirm.

“Do you think you’re a good person?”

“I have no reason to doubt that.”

“Do you know what orange means?”

“The color or the fruit?”

Good. “The fruit, what does it remind you of? 

“Winter. Christmas.”

Excellent. “Do you remember a Christmas from your past?”

Blank stare.

“Do you think you’re attractive? Good looking.”

He huffed, amused. 

“It’s not a trick question.”

“Not to seem chuffed, but I’ve never had any complaints in that regard.”

“Can you remember any specific compliments that you’ve received in the past?”

Thwarted.

Good. “So you know that other people think you are attractive and desirable. But is that how you see yourself?”

 “I was attempting to be modest.” 

She waited for his response.

Reluctantly, “Yes.” He admitted. “I know that I am attractive, handsome, good looking. However you would like to call it.” 

He continued even though he had already answered the question. It was his first moment of revealing information on his own.

“I would go out with myself if I were able, but unfortunately, that is not an option. I am not a narcissist. However, I would say that I regard myself with a healthy and acceptable amount of vanity. “ 

Did Ginger just discern a bit of sarcasm?

His good looks have been a point of contention in the past. Not that she could blame him. She was curious to know how his appearance either hindered him or helped him. She did note that there was no wedding ring when they found him. She couldn’t complain. It didn’t hurt her daily check ups that he was extremely easy on the eyes. Even his hospital issue gown made him look handsome.

Ok. Time to move on. She switched her line of questioning. 

“Where are you right now?” She asked.

His expression was doubtful. Of her, not of his answer. His face asked the question. “Didn’t we just discuss this?” Nevertheless, he answered her with a bemused sigh.

“Kentucky, United States. Apparently 10 miles away from a church where I was shot in the head.”

Ginger nodded. She was encouraged. 

He didn’t see why. It wasn’t difficult to recall. She had only just told him.

“Do you remember our names and what we do?”

He found the helpfulness of these questions debatable, but if it would accelerate his process, he was willing to comply. And participate, if it made this whole interaction a tad more interesting.

“Your name is Ginger Ale. After the beverage, I can only assume. Your colleague, here, is called Tequilla, after the alcohol. I am under the the impression that these are code names that are assigned by the intelligence agency that employs you. Statesman. With a distillery as a backstop. Hence the libation themed code names. 

“Ginger Ale, I gather from your code name’s slight variation, you are in an essential, but supportive role. Whereas Tequila, a right tipple, would be classified as an agent. Of your independent organisation. I would believe, comparable to the CIA, but without the restrictions that often hinder government run spy organisations. And with more interesting code names.”

There was just the slightest hint of cockiness in his tone and in his expression. She found it equally amusing and charming at the same time. Now they were making progress. More than she could have hoped for.

He was obviously intelligent, well mannered, well spoken, though taciturn. Understandable upon waking up with no memory of where he was and why he was there. It was a very promising discovery. He seemed to accept his situation without resistance. He was alert. No hint of confusion. Just a desire to understand the circumstances he found himself in. 

He was emotionally stable, if not a little irritated, by his current state. He took the loss of his eye as a matter of fact. Overall, his ability to acclimate was nothing short of remarkable. 

He folded his hands on his lap, one over the other, tilted his chin in her direction. His posture said. “I’m waiting patiently..” He was throwing shades of a personality she was already warming toward. 

There was a momentary pause. They regarded each other with interest. 

 Finally Harry spoke. “I have amnesia.” He wasn’t asking a question. He was stating it as a fact.

She confirmed. Nodding. 

“I would like to perform some additional CT and MRI scans, and EEG, but judging from the traumatic brain injury you’ve suffered, you most likely have retrograde amnesia. Just based on this conversation alone. To be more specific. Focal retrograde amnesia. 

She continued to explain. “Focal retrograde amnesia, also known as isolated or pure retrograde amnesia, is when someone only experiences the loss of memories that have already been made. Anterograde amnesia, on the other hand, is being unable to form new memories.

He listened to her with a new interest. 

She continued. “So, it appears you have retrograde amnesia, but no anterograde. This means that the ability to form new memories is left intact. You easily recalled information from a short time ago. That is very good news.” She paused, looking for his understanding.

“Please, go on.” He said.

“This kind of isolated memory loss doesn’t affect a person’s intelligence or ability to learn new skills, like playing the piano or affect previously learned skills, like driving a car, speaking different languages. Most likely, if we sat you at a piano, you would be able to play, based on your response to my question.”

“What is the prognosis?”

Ginger, equivocated, a little hesitant “With amnesia, it’s difficult to predict. Retrograde amnesia can result from damage to different parts of the brain responsible for controlling emotions and memories. These include the thalamus, which is deep in the center of the brain, and the hippocampus, which is in the temporal lobe and the cerebellum. There are many variables involved.”

“Thats is all very interesting, but doesn’t quite give me any predictions for my future.” 

“To be completely honest, for the injury you sustained, the amnesia is surprisingly less severe than I would have predicted. Most traumatic brain injuries are mild, resulting in concussion. But a severe injury, like a serious blow to the head, or a bullet for that matter, can damage the memory-storing areas of the brain and lead to anterograde amnesia as well. Depending on the level of damage, the amnesia could be temporary or permanent. I know that’s not very helpful.”

“Ginger, there is no need to “hedge your bets” as they would say. I am quite prepared to accept any answer you provide.”

“The fact that you can remember new information is promising. Your cognitive and behavioural skills are, as far as I can tell, excellent. I would be interested to test your knowledge further. You may have skills that you don’t know you have until you have a need for them.”

“If I were to summarise… “ Ginger concluded. “And please let me know if I go too far off the beaten path as I find this area of research very intriguing.”

She stole a glance at Tequila. “Many would find it boring.” 

Tequila gestured with a shrug of his shoulders..”So what? I think it’s boring.”

Ginger turned back toward Harry.

“Are you comfortable?”

“As much as one could hope.”

“Please understand that I’m generalising here. Just the fact that you are interested in this subject and can process information is extremely promising. The questions I asked you, though random, I asked for very specific reasons.” 

“Our memories” she explained, “can be separated into two groups: Explicit and Implicit. Each of these categories can then be further broken down. If I can use your case as an example?”

Harry nodded.

In the clear and assured tones of a professor, she explained. 

“Explicit memories, or declarative memories, are those we consciously try to remember and recall. When I ask you a question, such as, “Where were you born?” to answer, you would navigate through your explicit memory.

“Explicit memory stores events and facts. This is your conscious memory. You know that you have them and can remember them when you need to. In your case, I asked you to recall a derivative of Pi. You did that easily. That would be an explicit memory. Your knowledge of different languages also taps into your explicit memory.” 

Harry was still, but receptive.

Encouraged by his attentiveness, she broke the concept down further.

“Of these explicit memories, there are three different types. The first two are episodic and semantic memories. Do you know what semantic means?” She asked him.

“Of course. That which is related to language.”  replied Harry.

Ginger was pleased.

“Exactly. Our semantic memory stores knowledge about words, concepts and language-based knowledge and facts. Knowing the definition of “Semantic” is, in fact, a semantic memory. So is your knowledge of Pi in relation to the numerical expression, and the ability to speak different languages. This part of your memory seems to be unaffected.”

She checked in with Harry. She had the tendency to explain way beyond the interest of the listener. He confirmed. Go on.

“The second kind of explicit memory is called episodic memory. This is information about events that you have personally experienced. For example, if something looks or feels familiar, you’re probably trying to pull from your episodic memory. Times in your life, people, places, emotions and context that make up the events in your life. The what, when, where, how and why of your memory.”

“This seems to be a large part of your memory that has been affected and it seems to go back for a very long time. Typically, when you see lapses in episodic memory, it’s usually the more recent memories that can’t be accessed. Memories of childhood are still there.  In your case, your entire past seems to be wiped.

He asked his first question. Well, other than the first two, but that was at gunpoint, so they didn’t really count.“Then how is it that I still have all of this knowledge.”

“Yes, just getting to that. Now we move over to your implicit memories. These memories are not part of your consciousness.”

She took a breath. “These memories are based on behaviours and movements. Memories that are retained through practice and repetition. A learned skill would be part of this memory.”

She had vast knowledge of memory loss due to brain trauma and she welcomed the opportunity to share. “There are two types of implicit memories. Procedural and emotional conditioning.”

“Procedural stores information about how to do things. Why you are able to perform actions without consciously monitoring the sub procedures that need to be pieced together in order to perform the task. Or, more simply, it’s the reason you can brush your teeth without a second thought. It is the memory for skilled actions.”

“This part of the memory is why you can do things without thinking about them. You know how to drive a car. But you don’t know if you own one. You can play chess, but you don’t know if you played competitively. Same with the piano. You can shoot a gun, but you don’t know if you’ve ever killed someone. Even something as simple as brushing your teeth is part of this. You don’t have to consciously think about every sub action you have to make, or the motor skills involved. Probably the same way with a gun. If I asked to take apart and reassemble Tequila’s gun, you could probably do so without knowing how or why you possess that skill.”

“Lastly is Emotional Conditioning.  This can be a little trickier to identify. I would have to ask you more questions to see how this part of your memory was affected. These memories are made through classical conditioning, associations made through stimuli. You know what an orange is. You know what they smell like. It reminds you of Christmas. This is emotional conditioning. But you can’t remember any Christmas that you’ve had. That is your episodic memory.”

Harry looked openly thoughtful. He was no longer guarding his expression. The softness took years off his face. It was hard not to just stare at him. 

“There’s one more category of explicit memories that is important. Autobiographical. This memory system is made up of both episodic and semantic aspects of your memory. It’s a collection of memories specifically related to the self. This could be how you look, your height, specific meaningful points in your life, or the general idea of your concept of self. Which is why I asked you questions not just on how you look, but how you, yourself, viewed your looks.”  

“You know what a gun is. Semantic. You know how to shoot a gun. Procedural. You don’t know if you’ve ever killed anyone. Episodic. Killing someone is only acceptable under certain circumstances. Emotional conditioning. But without knowing whether or not you’ve ever killed anyone, you believe you are a good person. Autobiographical.”

“In regards to the actual landscape of your brain, your cerebellum and prefrontal cortex seem to be the least affected.  In addition to contributions to implicit memory, conditioned responses, fine motor movements, posture and coordination, the cerebellum also maintains internal representations of the external world, which allow you to move in darkness as long as the room or space is familiar to you, and how you would need to position your self to aim a gun and hit a moving target.”

Harry was still engaged, so she went on. 

“It seems the hippocampus was the most affected by your injury. This would make sense based on the entry point of the bullet. This part of the brain processes declarative and episodic memory, people, places, and things as well as recognition memory.” 

“I know that’s a lot to take in. I’d like you to rest in the meantime. You’ve only just woken up, in well, less than ideal circumstances. Even though you say you feel “acceptable” you are still recovering from a major injury.  We’ll follow up with you more frequently, now that you are awake.” She wasn’t asking.

Harry, for the first time, addressed Tequila. “I take it that she is always the voice of reason.”

“Without fail.”

“And I assume there is no sense in arguing.”

“None at all.”

——

For simplicity’s sake, they assumed that he was from the UK as many of his mannerism and idiosyncrasies were quintessentially British. Tequila had gotten into the habit of calling him Hart, or The Brit for short. Harry, who was not one for such informalities, was amused. He did, however, recognise that Americans, as well as Statesman, were more easy going and relaxed in their word, dress and interactions with each other, overall. 

——

“Was there anything, physically, or possessions that I had on my body when you found me, that would offer any clues to my identity.”

Ginger paused. “Well, Harry, we found you in quite a unique state.”

They had already been over the event numerous times. But Harry knew that little details were often overlooked the first time around and could surface after a spell.  Ironic, since his own memory wouldn’t be surfacing in any amount of time. He would have rather used a more elegant metaphor, but he was like a top notch computer with nothing to process. All of his files were wiped. Who knew if they were recoverable. No use in wondering. 

When Ginger Ale and Agent Tequila found Harry, he had made quite the impression. As the helicopter descended, Ginger and Tequila saw him closely for the first time. He was splayed out, flat on his back, unconscious, with a bullet through his eye, wearing of all things, an impeccably tailored, navy pinstripe double breasted suit. He was fully decked out with all the details. Spread collar, tie with a Windsor knot, suspenders, oxfords, even a tie pin, cufflinks, a pocket square, and a signet ring. It was a sight not often seen in their part of Kentucky.

While Ginger attended to the man, Tequila checked the church. It was the site of a bloodbath. This was no mass shooting. A mass shooting would be clean and simple compared to what he found inside.  These people had been slaughtered. Creatively. Luckily, whatever or whoever the threat was that had massacred the congregation, had departed. 

Harry had definitely been involved in the bloodshed, but to what extent, they did not know. The tell tale signs were on his suit. It hard to see the bloodstains against the dark wool, but there were unmistakable splashes of red on the crisp whiteness of his cuffs and collar. It was torn in places, whether from a weapon or some other object, one couldn’t tell. But mostly, the proof was on his hands. They were stained with blood and gunpowder residue up to his wrists. He did not have any weapons on his person when they found him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one inside. Nevertheless, a person doesn’t get that much blood on themselves from using a gun. Even at close range, the blood spatter would spray backward. 

Whatever he had been involved in, it was up close and personal. Rage sound waves plus the expert skill and killer instinct of a veteran assassin could definitely equal the carnage that was left behind. He was fitted with a shoulder holster, but no weapon. They didn’t have enough time to search for identifying evidence in the church. The object that they found the most interesting were his glasses. Handsome, squared off, dark tortoiseshell horn rimmed frames. But it was the lenses that revealed the most about him. The glasses told them he was intelligence. They just didn’t know whose.

Intelligence agents, as a rule, never carry anything that can identify them. Harry was no exception. His clothing, even his shoes, though exceptionally well made and no doubt very expensive, bore no labels. It was all bespoke, custom made to fit him, and him alone and as a result, no identifying markers.

They tried to reverse engineer the communications transmitter from the remaining lens. They also attempted to disassemble his watch, but both were designed to withstand and prevent external tampering. Whoever designed them was talented and had the foresight to put anti-tampering mechanisms in place. 

Of course, they had run a facial recognition and prints through their international database, but as they expected, there were no matches to be found. They couldn’t investigate thoroughly without compromising his safety. Obviously someone wanted him dead. It could even be his own agency. More than once, had an agent been removed by their own employer. The threat might still exist. Nor could they risk the anonymity of their own agency. 

They scanned news for anything surrounding the Kentucky event, who was involved, any unusual occurrences that happened at the same time, but they only found information on Valentine and his cohorts. They even kept their ears open on the secret spy wire, to see if a fellow agency was looking for an operative, or had an agent who had gone rogue, or had one go dark. They didn’t have any luck. It’s not like they could put out an “if missing an agent, please call” flyer. While Harry was recovering, they also put out feelers for possible missing persons that matched his description in the civilian world. Even if he was an intelligence agent, that didn’t mean he didn’t have a cover in place, a backstop that could possible lead to his identity.

His accent immediately suggested he was from the UK. However, his lack of a specific regional dialect, made it difficult to narrow their search criteria. Harry’s accent was that of the Queens English, or RP Received Pronunciation. Which might mean he was from Great Britain, or any of the commonwealth countries. Their contacts at MI6 and MI5 received a little exchange of information to see if they had any leads, of which there were none. Whatever agency that he was with, was not government funded. Of course there was the brotherhood of clandestine intelligence agencies across the globe. But in this circumstance, they did not want to broadcast that they were potentially sheltering an agent that could have possibly blown his cover, been burned, or been compromised in any fashion. The safest avenue for both Statesman and Harry was to remain inconspicuous until a tangible lead was discovered.

Because, at the very least, he was intelligence, and so were they, they were curious as to his specialty, his area of expertise. Handling a gun was part of every agents training, no matter where their loyalties lie. It was no surprise that he was comfortable shooting a weapon. All agents were. It was possible that he could be a clandestine officer, or focus on espionage, recruiting assets. He could be an interrogator. He was intelligent, well spoken, articulate. Psych-ops, psychological warfare or diplomacy could be just as likely.  His fastidious appearance, polite manner and gentlemanly demeanour would certainly lend itself to international relations. Certainly a man with his physical attributes wouldn’t be secluded to a desk in analysis. With his charming personality he could possibly be a raven, a male agent employed to seduce people for intelligence purposes. That would be effortless on his part. He would just have to show up. There were many ladies that had taken notice of the handsome figure who was a mysterious presence at Statesman’s HQ.

 It was also feasible that he had cross specialties. Some of the specialties would be more challenging than others to assess. Weapons were straightforward. You were either good or you weren’t. Once he felt both physically and mentally up to task, they brought him to their version of Hogan’s Ally or the Farm, the FBI and the CIA’s, respectively, tactical training facilities. 

When Harry’s health improved, they discovered the true extent of his abilities. They were far greater than Statesman expected.  As Harry’s strength and coordination returned, complex tasks became second nature again. His body began to respond to the stimulus and he gravitated toward the physical challenges that Statesman tested him with. What they learned on the shooting range, then in the Statesman tactical training facility and Special Operations Division, they did not expect and were not prepared for.

Harry found the whole process amusing. If not outright entertaining. Losing ones memory had its advantages. One need not worry about expectations, preconceived notions or judgement. He would either be good, or he would not be. Either outcome would be acceptable to him. No one, not even he, would know the outcome until after the fact. And he knew how useless it was to wish for one scenario or the other when anything was possible.

What did happen, was that the challenges of their tactical installation were not capable of quantifying his ability. His skills far surpassed the most advanced exercise they had.

He proceeded to excel at every exercise, drill, and challenge they placed in front of him. He performed without thought, without hesitation, with the grace and composure they had come to equate him with. First, on the shooting range and then finally on their full scale replicated “warehouse” where they would simulate real life combat situations, including the use of live rounds.

The first test was for speed and accuracy and his knowledge of different firearms.  At the shooting range, they laid out a variety of weapons in front of him. The guns were unloaded. He was tasked with loading the ammunition in to the proper clip or magazine and then loading the weapon. He was to discharge the all the rounds at the target at the end of the range. Aiming for a kill shot either at the head or chest, release the clip and return the weapon and then move onto the next weapon he was familiar with. 

Statesman didn’t know what to expect, but the certainly didn’t anticipate what they witnessed. 

Harry had insisted on wearing his full suit as he did every day. The Brit was calm, cool and composed. He was neither excited nor concerned regarding the proceedings. More than anything, he seemed relaxed, but slightly more interested in the tactical challenges than the cognitive behavioural tests that they had him perform. They explained to him what the task was. One by one, load the clip, load the matching weapon, discharge all the rounds, release and repeat. 

Without any visible effort on his part, Harry loaded the first clip, loaded the weapon, and then seemingly without aiming, pulled the trigger.  The first several shots landed off mark. He adjusted and then fired the entire clip, alternating between two chest shots, followed by one round to the head of the target at the end of the range, chambering each bullet between shots if there was a slide. It did not go unnoticed that his method was the one used by assassins. They all knew, when eliminating a target, it was without fail, two to the chest, one to the head. He was still completing his follow through on the previous round, while reaching for the next clip, before releasing the clip of the weapon in his hand and switching to the next. He did this smoothly, with ease, dexterity and without hesitation with the entire set of weapons. One after the other, shot after shot, hitting mark after mark without effort. No fancy moves, no showy stance, just incredibly efficient, accurate, skill and technique. With the reverb of gunshots echoing through their ears, Harry laid down the last gun in line with the rest, turned toward the observing Statesman. His precision was astounding. 

 There was no perceptible change in his demeanour. He could have been doing a crossword puzzle for all the exertion that was evident on his face. 

“Does this suffice?” His face was pleasant. There could have also been the tiniest hint of amusement. 

It was Ginger that spoke up first. “I do believe, yes, that will suffice.”

Tequila regarded him not only like he was from a different country, but a different species of man all together.

 “How the hell ’dya do that?”

Harry gave him a good natured smile. 

“Knowledge of the weapons.” He continued plainly while smoothing out the front of his suit and adjusting his cuffs to their proper length.

“One must possess an understanding of the moving variables involved when discharging handguns, especially for a significant number of rounds. One must focus on accuracy, which involves trigger pull pressure and control, proper stance, a secure but consistent grip, taking in to account grip tension and fatigue. Excessive trigger pull weight will cause muscle fatigue of the index finger and can ultimately lead to task failure during pistol marksmanship.”  

While opening and closing his shooting hand, he massaged the base of his trigger finger. 

“With the variety of weapons that were included in this drill, one must locate the front site alignment based on the make and model and identify the site picture, either combat, center, 6 o’clock hold, if adopting a classic stance. However, front site becomes irrelevant in situations where the target is not in front of you.”

The Statesman were surreptitiously glancing at one anther. Was this man for real?

“And then one must consider breath control, trigger press and reset, and naturally, follow through.  Of course, one must account for situational awareness. Needless to say, it is far less complicated aiming at a static bullseye in a controlled environment,” He gestured to the range. “rather than at a moving target under enemy fire.”       

He spoke with an easy nonchalance, as if he were describing how to serve tea. Incidentally, last week, Harry had already instructed them on the official rules of how to prepare a proper cup of tea. He had looked vaguely insulted when he inquired about tea and Tequila handed him a cold bottle of sweet tea from a nearby cooler. Following this incident he educated them on the finer points of afternoon tea.

“First and most importantly,” he informed them.” Select the appropriate English tea.”

Harry recommended Earl Grey, Breakfast Blend, or Traditional 100’s black teas. Slightly more bitter than American teas, he informed them.

“Always use freshwater for individual steeping. Boil water between 180-200 degrees.”

Harry stated that it was imperative that the water is at boiling point to properly release the flavours of the tea.

“Slowly pour into a teapot over a single tea bag or loose leaf diffuser. Let it steep for six minutes. Remove the tea bag. Do not squeeze the tea bag. Pour the tea into a proper tea cup, not a coffee mug. At this time, one can add milk, not sugar, unless you want to disrupt the flavour of the tea.” 

He was firm on the following point. “Only milk, if you are looking to make a proper cup. The color of the tea with milk should have a dark orange-brown hue, similar to American coffee. Once the milk is stirred, the tea should be at the perfect temperature to enjoy. If feeling especially British, one can pair with scones and clotted cream.” 

With the same casual, relaxed ease, he continued. “Naturally, it helps if one is familiar with muzzle velocity, air resistance, barometric pressure, humidity, air temperature and wind speed. The quantity and quality of propellant used in the firearm as well as projectile mass and length of the barrel.”

He saw the blank stares of the Statesman agents. He equivocated, “Or in more simple terms, front site, trigger press, and follow through.”

If he was this level on the shooting range, they were eager to see what surprises he had in store for the simulation. If his performance on the shooting rage was any indication of his abilities, his proficiency on the full scale replica could very possibly be stupefying. 

Word traveled with the wind on Statesman grounds. The following day, allowing his shooting hand appropriate time to recover, Harry prepared for the real life simulation.  A variety of curious onlookers, from fellow agents, handlers and operations support began to gather in small, inconspicuous groups at the control center where anyone watching would have full audio and visual of Harry the entire time. 

The immersive course was situated in two enormous warehouses with an open courtyard area in between.  It was devised to test Harry’s technical and tactical skill. So far, he had shown exemplary marksmanship. But like he had mentioned, it was much less complicated to shoot with accuracy in a range under a controlled environment. The ability to perform with the same accuracy and precision under pressure is what separated a good agent from an exceptional one. They were going to find out which category Harry fell into.

Harry, as an operator, would have to perform under the following conditions; unknown target distances that vary from close to extended ranges, identifying threats and non-threats prior to engagement, making decisions under pressure, speed vs. precision shots, tactical movements, utilising different types of cover and tactical shooting positions to accomplish the mission, which was to come out clean on the other side. Firearms ranged from pistol, rifle, shotgun, carbine rifle, AK -47, as well as improvised munitions. There could be an active shooter scenario. A hostage situation. Anything was possible.

The Statesman insisted that he didn’t have to wear his suit during the engagement and offered him combat gear. His suit was certain to interfere with his maneuverability. He showed up to the course, fully attired in his classic pinstripes, down to the cuff links. He couldn’t explain why, but it felt completely natural and at ease. 

“One should always be able to engage in life threatening situations while properly attired.”  He explained. 

 Call it vanity, call it pride, but he only felt comfortable in suits when he was in a professional role. Wearing anything else seemed sacrilegious. He wasn’t going to wear any less for an evaluation, no matter what the evaluation entailed. And he was very particular. About his suit specifically. He had several suits tailor made by a firm of Statesman’s recommendation. 

The one concession that he did make regarding his attire was to replace his Oxfords with the Statesman issue cowboy boots. Cowboy boots, of all things. But he had to confess, they felt good on his feet. It was easier to cover the unfamiliar terrain of the Statesman property, which included dirt, gravel, hay, barns, and stables and various other interesting outbuildings. At least the boots still made a familiar sound on hard surfaces. He particularly enjoyed the hollow, rounded quality his footsteps made when he crossed Statesman’s many hardwood floors. Particularly in the large storage areas the housed the enormous barrels of whiskey while they aged. 

He was also pragmatic. The boots were definitely more appropriate on the occasions they went horse riding, or other “outdoor activities” that his new keepers might engage in. While he might be fastidious in regards to his appearance, he still valued practicality.  For the landscape of Kentucky, the boots were more appropriate. And they did indeed, have a satisfying click that was comfortingly familiar. 

While the course was being finalised, he tested his right hand by creating a fist and then opening his palm wide. He repeated this several times. There was residual soreness from the prior days drill, but nothing that caused him concern. In the simulation, there would be a wide variety of firearms and weapons available in the course. Not every weapon would be a handgun. A shotgun or a riffle could be braced on the shoulder. Different weapons would require a different set of muscle and therefore prevent repetitive fatigue.

His shooting hand didn’t concern him, he was fairly certain he could fire from his weak hand as well. He was curious to find out. He decided to try even if the opportunity didn’t present itself. 

As he entered the course, the Statesman gathered around the monitors.

Even in a suit, he manoeuvred like an elite operator. His movement was refined, graceful, efficient. He held himself tall when he needed to check and clear areas, keeping his spine in alignment. His footing was sure and stable as he maintained a mid-foot drive with every step he took, balancing his weight between the ball of his foot and the heel.

He was not one to peacock. His skills and technique always had a specific goal and end result in mind. Ego had no place in life and death scenarios. But on the course, after he completed a task successfully, he could’t help but push the level of his abilities. Explore his edge. He began following up his kill shots with a second maneuver from a trickier vantage point, or with a more demanding technique, adopting more and more challenging strategies and unlikely scenarios. Each time, giving a little bit more than was necessary. He wanted to discover the full capacity of his skill. 

On the course, he felt a new vitality. Whether it be due to the physical exertion of being in the field, or the mental challenges that sharpened the edges of his mind, he did not question. He simply allowed it to flow.

He attempted to fire from his non-dominant hand when the weapon and the cover required it. He adopted a canted shooting stance, firing the gun from a 45 degree angle, aiming for a target that would be impossible in his position with a right hand grip. Well, that was confirmation he could shoot with both hands. When he needed to reload, he also did so with one hand, just to see if he could. He could. With the slide locked to the rear, he placed the gun between his knees with the grip facing upwards. He slid the magazine and then locked it into place and removed the gun from between his knees. His hand hit the slide release and he got back into the fight in a matter of seconds. Some of those watching hadn’t been noticed. His technique and execution was flawless.

He fired on the run at a moving target who was using a “civilian” as cover and hit his mark.

He shot two weapons at a time.

He shot from behind his back. 

He could shoot through things and still hit his target on the other side. 

He could shoot away from a target, knowing that the force and angle of the ricochet would hit its intended target.

He used bullets as a tool, shooting items into place, to remove barriers, open doors.

He used bullets to adjust a reflective surface so he could see around a blind corner.

It was as if he was mapping the entire course and picturing it in his head while he moved. Once he scanned an area, he was immediately able to place the location in relation to his position and the rest of the course. 

Not only was he expert at weaponry, a top notch marksman, his physical capabilities far exceeded their expectations. He was physically fit, but it was beyond that. He was evolved. He had a body awareness, not only in control of his physical actions, but the awareness of his own body moving through space. (He would be one hell of a lover) At times his movements were economical, not wasting a single iota of energy on a motion that was unnecessary.

But the movements that he did come up with were impressive. One motion would seamlessly flow into the next like a dance. A dance with bullets and weapons, but a dance nonetheless. 

He could shoulder roll while aiming and discharging a weapon.

He could knee slide to dodge obstacles.

He could position himself to make a defensive position into an offensive one. 

He could use a target as a cover, while taking out the target at the same time.

He could practice hand to hand combat for close quarter contact, simultaneously hit targets on the periphery with his weapon. 

At one point he threw his gun forward in the air, while on the move, used both hands to catapult himself over a low wall while the gun was still traveling through space. He caught the gun, landed and then swung it around in his hand and used it as a cudgel to incapacitate a target before he had a chance to reload. 

Agent Tequila leaned in.

“Holy shit.”

“Mmm Hmm.” Ginger replied.

If they hadn’t witnessed it on the monitors, they would not have believed it. 

It seemed like the further he got into the course, the better he performed.

He moved faster, with more precision, solved problems more quickly, took out more targets.

His most valuable asset, even more than his marksmanship and his physical and tactical expertise, would be his sheer creativity and his ability to improvise on the fly. It was as if, when faced with a problem, there was always a solution. You could almost hear him say, “Well, let’s find out.” The methodology that he used could be seen as unorthodox. It often purposely put him in harms way, but that same method enabled him to open a door to a solution that previously had not been possible. It wasn’t that the proposed solution was not feasible. The solution did not even exist until he created it.  He was confident enough to trust his own judgement and took risks in only the most challenging situations.

Agent Tequila, “If there was a soundtrack to go with this, that would be some kickass music”. 

Ginger nodded. She had to agree. Watching Harry move the way he did in his suit? It might seem silly or old fashioned or traditional to think what she did. He looked noble, gallant, honourable even.

Harry Hart was never one to disappoint. When he was expected to deliver, he delivered and then some. He completed the course while beating Statesman’s record time. To the observers, it felt like he had been in the warehouse for a lifetime. Hadn’t he been moving in slow motion? Some of them even forgot to breathe. 

He burst through the exit on the other side. The doors opened to the sound of cheers and applause. The breeze was cool on his skin, while the sun provided an inviting warmth. The air was fresh and crisp. It was a beautiful day to feel accomplished. He left any residual stress or tension behind. He felt light.

This was not a sight that Statesman was accustomed to seeing after a course was completed. More often than not, the agent would appear dazed, distressed, a little shell-shocked, a little traumatised, perhaps even rethinking his chosen career. Not many were cut out for this kind of work. Rarely did you ever see one, not just capable of the work, but made for it, thrive on it. Harry Hart was the latter.

Harry was exhilarated in a way that he hadn’t felt since he regained consciousness. The calm, cool, collected, focused, deadly Harry Hart from the warehouse gave way and a new man took his place. His expression opened up with a vibrant laugh that changed the very structure of his face. Hell, it changed him into a different person. Whatever, walls, barriers he built had fallen aside, revealing his true authentic nature. He was a man who enjoyed being alive. When he grinned, it was easy to imagine that he would have no problem winning hearts. Certainly most of the females that had watched him take the course were left a little breathless, a little enchanted. And actually, the men didn’t look that much different. 

Why did he seem so attractive at that moment?  

Why did he look so charismatic as he stood, tall and confident in his pinstripe suit, outside the warehouse with an easy smile and warm brown eyes? What had changed from the time he entered the course on the other side? 

The man who started the course had been handsome. The man that came out at the end? It would be easy to fall in love with him. That man was beautiful.

They were seeing a man in his element.  

They were witnessing a man finding his identity.

He seemed more present, more there, more alive. 

He finally felt like he had a place and a purpose. 

When he woke up in the medical ward, his first thought had been:  “My name is Harry Hart.” 

It was different now. There was a connection, a new realization. 

Now he was awakening outside the warehouse.

This time around, he thought to himself.

“I am Harry Hart.”

His brown eyes appeared even more golden in the sunlight. They were warm and inviting. No longer cold. No longer closed off. The light wind tossed a lock over his forehead. In a rare gesture he ran his hand through his hair.

He slung the communication headset around his neck, but not before jesting.

“All right.” He said definitively.   He paused for a moment.

He grinned. “Would you like to see that again?” 

——

What they discovered when Harry completed the course. …Whatever past Harry had come from, he had advanced tactical and technical skills that had muscle memory and strategy so ingrained into every fiber of his being that he didn’t need to think–he simply acted. In the face of immediate life threatening danger, he didn’t merely react to a situation. He took charge. He didn’t make decisions to survive. He made decisions to win.

They had to assume an agent of his caliber would be missed by his organisation. His talent, skill and expertise, if found in an agent, you very well make sure that agent stays in your employ. It was even likely that he was a senior agent or a director. They could certainly imagine him in a leadership role. A complicating factor could be that he was presumed deceased, and therefore, there was no chatter on the wire where you could find information, if only you knew what to look for. 

——

After Harry had literally triumphed over the course, there was a new aura about him. Before the trials, though he was always the perfect gentleman, he was reticent, distant, not quite aloof, but definitely keeping himself an arms length away. Both physically and metaphorically.

He wasn’t one to participate in any activities that weren’t directly related to him. He certainly didn’t spend time in the lounge, conversing with the others or stopping in for a cocktail. He didn’t socialise with any of the others. He would politely participate in conversations that happened around him. Could be quite engaging when immersed in a topic he was intrigued with. There was an unspoken invitation that he was always welcome. In addition, one of the Statesman usually asked him to join directly. Harry would always politely decline. Not offering a reason or excuse, but simply turning down the offer in his quiet, but firm way.

He answered questions that were directed to him, but when the conversation took a turn away from work and into more personal areas, he would offer his apologies and depart for a quiet location. He could often be seen a little aways from campus, sitting in the sun, an open book in one hand, a cup of tea in the other. 

He never spoke of his past unless he was questioning Ginger or Tequila for any information that they may have overlooked when they initially found him. By all appearances, he seemed to be handling himself well. Especially under the circumstances. But since they didn’t have a frame of reference, they didn’t know if he was usually so reserved, or if this was a result of the situation he found himself in. 

They found that he could horse ride. Once he brushed up on tacking and the most basic fundamentals of horsemanship, he was able to recall the rest on his own. He only rode alone. He never left the campus unless it was required by Statesman. He wouldn’t have anywhere to go besides. The only time he was away, was when he was on horseback. 

He did make an exception regarding his attire when it came to this activity. The Statesman all rode western style. A suit wasn’t the most appropriate. If they rode English, he would have requested a riding habit. His compromise? A pair of trousers, and a button down shirt. No suit, no jacket, no tie. Regardless, he did make a striking figure on horseback. Once he was, quite literally, back in the saddle, he handled himself gracefully. He was both firm and gentle with the animals and they responded to him in turn. He seemed more at ease and communicate more with the horses than with people. It was auspicious, though, seeing a cowboy hat perched on this head. 

They kept an eye on him, at least from a distance. Making sure that they caught any signs of undue stress, mental or emotional problems, disassociation, anhedonia, or displacement. The side effects of amnesia were hard to predict. If a person is unable to reclaim their lost memories, they would have to start rebuilding their history from scratch. This was easier for some than others. The older the person was when they suffered memory loss, the more difficult it became to let go of a past they no longer remembered.

With Harry being older than most of the Statesman, he may be having a harder time assimilating. Even though upon waking, he was coherent, intelligent, adaptive, accepting of his situation, once the realisation sets in that their condition is permanent, there may be a later period of denial that was similar to grief. Suffering the loss of their identity. 

Looking at the person that he was before the physical trials was like looking through a window that was covered with a thick film of dust. You might be able to discern that there was something significant, meaningful, worthwhile on other side of the glass, but it would always be a shadowy, vague, dim suggestion of what it actually was.

The tests had cleared away the dust and debris until the glass was clear, crystalline, perfectly see-through. And what had been behind the glass suddenly shone through. That person was the real Harry. Not the shadow form that you would occasionally see, always crossing from one place to the next. Hardly ever still. Never comfortable to remain in one place for long.

After the trials, he was more open, quicker to smile and engage in conversation. Though he would still refuse invitations on occasion, he would be more willing to accept with equal frequency. They discovered he could be quite the conversationalist. His dry wit and biting sense of humour was a welcome change to the often crass or juvenile comments from the male agents. 

If he wanted to, he could easily hold court. His accent and his deep voice were as captivating as his words. But never did he dominate a conversation. He always made a conscious effort to include everyone’s remarks and would even ask the opinion of those who looked like they wanted to say something, but were hesitant for one reason or another. He was more than willing to have someone else take the lead in a conversation, but if the conversation veered in an uncomfortable or inappropriate direction, he always managed to guide it back to civility. Not that he was opposed to a healthy debate, but he did believe that some words should be either said in private or not at all.

He was just as expert at navigating social situations as he was the field. This was a surprise to them since he was so withdrawn at first. They discovered that he was just someone who never wasted words. 

Not only did he become an increasing part of the fabric of Statesman’s front, he also participated more in the intelligence side of the agency. His insight was valuable, his strategies were sometimes unexpected but always effective, and his analysis sharp and concise. He didn’t go out into the field on operations, but he often assisted handlers and their agents with more demanding, complicated missions. Many times he was able to foresee an obstacle that they could avoid, or lead them out of an operation that had gone sideways. At first, the teams were hesitant to request his assistance, whether they were averse, intimidated or just nervous to approach him. But as he led teams into more successful missions, with less loss, less injury, less risk, he was often sought out, his time claimed in advance.

If he missed the field, it didn’t show. They still didn’t feel comfortable sending Harry out on assignment and he never requested a mission. They feared that the lack of direct action, the kind that he had participated in during his test course, would revert him back to the state where he was listless, closed off, removed. But he did not regress. If anything, he become more. It was difficult to explain to someone who didn’t know him during his transition. But with every passing day, with every new interaction, with every mission that he assisted, with every training session he held for advanced weapon and tactical skills, which he did have to admit, he particularly enjoyed, he just become more himself. 

By the end of the year, he was The Brit. Everyone knew him. Everyone adored him. He was free with his smile, his laughter, with a kind or encouraging word. His pinstripe suit was now a common site on campus. He had his own group of women that would pine after him, though he remained firmly unattached. His opinion was respected, his advice valued, his critiques, though sometimes harsh, were always considered constructive. 

He was not exactly gregarious, but he was a very skilled conversationalist. He could exchange witty repartee, as well as engage in topics with depth and you could trust that there was always something interesting on his mind. When he excused himself for any reason, you were left knowing more, feeling more, thinking more. However, by nature, they learned, he was a reserved and private person. But whatever walls or fences that he had constructed at the beginning of his stay, had slowly but consistently been deconstructed. On that bedrock, he wasn’t rebuilding his history. Without even thinking about it, he was fashioning a completely new one. 

The last year had been spent laying down the foundation for his new life, accumulating building blocks, each experience a new row of brick and mortar. He had let go, completely, of who he might have been in the past. The exercises that he and Ginger went through to try to recover his memory, from hypnosis, light therapy, trauma induced memory retrieval, did not work. After not even a modicum of success, felt that he spent an appropriate amount of time trying to regain his memory. He accepted the fact that his memory was gone. That he would be best to move forward. Not to look back. It was simple really. There wasn’t anything to look back on. So he began his life at Statesman.

—-

His awareness circled back to Statesman HQ, to their stateroom and fully to the present moment.  Ginger was explaining the last of the progress he had made during his year at Statesman.  He had finally reached a point of satisfaction with what was his life. Was he looking for more? Perhaps. Contentment wasn’t a natural state for him. There was always room for growth, for learning new things, and having new experiences.

However, ironically, not just because of the amnesia, he was not one for looking back. He felt that he had always been this way. Now, here were three individuals who were asking him to do just that. Asking him very earnestly, sincerely, and genuinely. 

Like the girl had said, his instincts would be triggered if they were being dishonest or withholding information.  He believed they were telling the truth and had nothing to hide. But for once, he was at a loss.  What was he to do with this information?  Was it even possible to be the person they wanted him to be? He was looking for an answer, but could find none.

He tested the weight of his questions. Was this a burden that he wanted to carry? Does a past that you can’t remember even matter? Should it even? Perhaps the only reason would be to recognise the relationships with those who still remembered you. Where was the honesty in that situation? Wouldn’t faking a past that you can’t remember be just as bad as pretending that you are the person that you used to be. While organising these questions in the folders of his mind, he kept his face calm and neutral. He didn’t have to decide anything at this moment. But he did need to establish boundaries.

He couldn’t give an answer to these three individuals. But what he could do was help them in their current situation. Help them find out who had destroyed their agency, what they were planning and how to stop them. At least, that he could offer. That, he could do. The rest would still be there. Problems, if ignored, only became more vexing. He would look at them later. Perhaps the answer would come to him.

“My sincere apologies.” He started. 

“Ginger is correct. I suffer from amnesia and I recall nothing about my history. Nothing prior to my time recovering here at Statesman. While I retain the skills and knowledge that I possessed in the past, I do not have any memory as to how or why I have them.

“We have tried every means available to recover my memories, with no success.” 

“But we are here now.” Merlin interrupted, encouraged. “We can remind you. Perhaps trigger something that makes you remember.”

“We can help. He’s right. “ Eggsy added. “Who knows more about you, than Merlin?”

Roxy nodded in agreement.

It was probably the first time the group looked somewhat enthusiastic.

Ginger interrupted. She was worried about this. She would have to be the one to grab their hopes and tether them back to reality. 

“Not to discredit your suggestion. If this were a different case, then yes, there is the possibility that it would work. But when someone is suffering from retrograde amnesia, unfortunately, their memory cannot be recovered by simply being informed about their personal experiences and their identity. What you are referring to is called the reminder effect. This would consist of re-exposing the patient to past personal information. This can work for other types of amnesia, but simply giving Harry details of his life won’t help him retrieve memories.”

Eggsy eyes narrowed. He was dubious. He was convinced something they said or told him could surely open up the gates to Harry’s memory. They just needed to try.  They just needed a chance. They hadn’t even had the opportunity to say anything to him at all. They looked toward Harry, imploringly.

Harry was his usual respectful, attentive self. But his expression was guarded and he was quiet.

Their frustration limped across the table in his direction. Ginger needed to redirect.

These people had been through hell and back. But Harry was her patient. And he was Statesman now, regardless of his pinstripe suit, his accent, or his British mannerisms. As much as she sympathised with their situation, there was the risk that Harry’s progress would stall or that he could relapse. The worst thing they could do would be to insist Harry be someone he no longer was under the misguided notion that they were helping him. Harry would be trapped, defeated and they would only face disappointment.  Ginger arranged the words carefully before she spoke.

“Memories are exceedingly intricate. But to simplify, making a memory involves storing information in the brain as a specific pattern of electrical activity.” she explained.

While avoiding excess jargon, she wanted to emphasise the complexity of Harry’s memory loss. If only it were as simple as forgetting something and not being able to remember.

“When we recall a memory, we recreate the pattern of electrical activity that formed it in the first place. This information is then distributed across different regions in the brain to retrieve the memory.  Injury in any part of this circuit can fracture memory function.  It’s not that the synapses, the path, necessary to make these connections, is blocked. It’s much more than that. There’s nothing at the end of the path. There’s nothing to retrieve. It is as if the memory was never made. It’s not hidden. It’s not in the subconscious. It’s not filed somewhere deep in his psyche. It simply does not exist.”

Disheartened. Dejected. Depressed. The three of them were the dictionary definitions. Ginger sighed. Being the bearer of bad news was never a party, but this was less than enjoyable.  However, she wanted to explain as much as she could so Harry wouldn’t have to. He had made so much progress in the past year. It had to be unsettling to face an unknown past, when you had made so much effort to be in the present.

Getting to her point. “Unfortunately, there is no established cure for retrograde amnesia memory loss. There’s no magic drug or deep-brain stimulation that jolts memories back into the mind. I wish there were. If recovery does happen, it largely occurs on its own.  With amnesia as a result of brain trauma, If you're really lucky, new pathways form among the remaining brain cells, like in stroke victims, or other parts of the brain take over from the damaged areas in what we call neural plasticity. But that is very rare.”

“Sometimes, the reminder treatment is more than ineffective, it can also be harmful. Too often, the stories people tell amnesiacs sound like someone else's life and it can be unsettling to them. Witnessing the disappointment of past friends, colleagues, and family when they can’t remember, or be the person who they used to to be, can be emotionally damaging. Having people tell you how to think and feel, or that you’re not who you are supposed to be can be distressing.”  

 “I don’t mean to be discouraging or unsympathetic. It’s crucial for us, for our own sakes, but most of all, for Harry’s,” she placed her hand on his forearm for emphasis, “ that we are realistic.” She wanted to be very clear as she drew her hand back and made her final, essential point “Do not make expectations that can only result in disappointment.”

As Eggsy, Merlin and Roxy discussed Harry’s future with the other Statesmen, Harry claimed this time to examine the three faces across the table. He set aside any of their mannerisms, agitations, conflicts that were due to the current circumstance and concentrated on what he believed to be their true and natural state. He didn’t try to analyse them, judge them or question what he saw. He tried to feel them. To feel the look in their eyes, to feel the expressions on their faces, to feel the quality of their movements.

He closed his eyes for a moment and just listened, not to their words, but to hear the sound of their voices. He felt their vibration.  Not only to see if anything sparked in his mind, but viscerally. A reflex, an intuition, a sensation that stirred something deep rooted in his bones. 

But his mind and his body were quiet and still.

It was time for him to speak up. Before he addressed them directly, sat up even straighter. Tall and silent. He did not make any of the usual gestures he did when preparing to take over a conversation. Familiar movements of brushing something non-existent off his suit, adjusting his cuffs, running his hand along the back of his hair, adjusting his glasses. He was still. His hands were clasped and rested on the table. 

Only seconds ticked by until everyone quieted along with him. Their heads all turned in the same direction. Harry could always pull attention to him without saying a word. 

He was also not one to hold back words that needed to be said. Time would be lost and nothing would be gained.  He did not want them to get their hopes up. He did not want to them to expect something from him that he could not deliver. 

For the second time, he opened with an apology. “I’m very sorry.” His eyes were sympathetic. 

They had the feeling he was preparing them for bad news.

His words were sure and resolute. There was no hesitation. No wavering. When Harry made a decision, he was firm.

“I do not remember Kingsman.” 

He shifted his weight forward in his chair, resting his elbows and forearms on the table and folded his hands together. It was a gesture of familiarity. He spoke directly to them, as if they were having a conversation. It wasn’t just reciting a statement. He knew, full well, they would be affected by his words. He knew that they would not be the words they wanted to hear. He knew it would be painful for them to be on the receiving end of his words, not matter how gently and honestly he delivered them. He would serve them by being unguarded, unreserved and up front.

He paused so they could process what he was telling them. 

“Prior to your arrival, I was not even aware of its existence.” He added frankly.

“I do not recall any relationships I may have had currently or in the past.” He spoke plainly.

“As much as you may want me to, and I recognise that you do, and I understand where that need comes from, I cannot say, in all honesty, that I know you.” 

Harry was nothing if not direct. 

His eyes held each of theirs. He saw the dejection in their faces. He could not help but feel empathetic. It was obvious that, whoever he was in the past, these people cared for him very deeply. Perhaps even loved. But for Harry, he was never this person and he was never one to fake an emotion he didn’t feel. 

He was compassionate, but firm. "I’m unable to say I even recognise you. I want to make it abundantly clear that I am not the man you used to know. I may look like him, I may sound like him, at times I may even act like him. But I am not him.” His voice was kind now. His face was gentle. His expression no longer guarded. 

“However meaningful your relationship was, no matter how strong the connection, I am unable to reciprocate in a way that would honor that bond.”

With an honesty and an openheartedness that touched all their raw wounds, he offered.

“It’s not that I can’t remember the Harry I used to be. Or that I do not care. It’s obvious that your relationship with this man was very important, very meaningful, to all of you.” 

He softened both his voice and his manner.  

“It is, that this person you used to know, in my eyes, he never existed.” His face gentled. Became grave and solemn, almost tender. 

“Do you understand?” 

And for Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin, that perhaps was the most painful moment of all. Because with the kindness they heard in his voice, and the softness they saw in his eyes, the way he held his concern for them, on his sleeve where they could see it, he was in that moment, everything that they knew and loved. He was their Harry Hart. He was their Galahad. 

-----

Whew! If you got this far thanks for reading. Let me know what you think, good, bad, funny, dumb, sad, WTF? Whatever.  

Always feel free to reblog, share with someone else who thought TGC had sooo much more potential. Or was pissed that they killed off Roxy. And don’t even get me started on Merlin....

[betasuppe]

Here's the info for the Obakei + Crime Fam AU I came up with earlier today [literally started today, so sorry if this seems a bit messy & such, but this is what I've got so far!]:

It starts with Kei, who comes from a rather well to do family, when her parents have arranged a marriage for her with a really wealthy man who practically owns half of the town!... even though she's never met before. The guy seems like a good fellow, but turns out to be a total creep. The first time they meet, he gets her alone in his house after separating her from Morgan - who's an employee of Kei's household, but the two practically see themselves as sisters! - & the monster tries to r*pe her. In her panic, Kei pulls a gun she had smuggled in on her person [which Morgan insisted Kei bring along with her just in case] & she kills him without a second thought. Knowing no one would believe her & she'd be punished cruelly for his murder, she tells Morgan about the ordeal & the two quickly run off into the night without looking back....

Days pass & it's only too obvious that Kei's basically useless in the real world & she struggles to get along with what little money she has. Even though Morgan has far more street smarts than her, they can only get so far with the small amount of resources they have together. They eventually wind up at a bank, where Kei begs for access to some money through her father's account [to no avail] when the place is suddenly held up by a terrible group of bandits. The monsters take the girl hostage, holding her at gunpoint to rob the place blind & use her to safely make their exit after their successful robbery. They tie her up & toss her on the back of a horse & are about to head off when Kei starts screaming that she needs Morgan, to the point that her ride-or-die pal willingly gives herself up to be taken hostage as well lmao when the bandits take off deep into the night.

Once they get to their hidden, but opulent decorated hideout somewhere in the middle of the desert, the bandits tie the girls up & play around with them in a not so friendly manner, cruelly suggesting just how to be rid of the girls. Kei manages to get the gag off of her face & she bargains for their lives, telling the criminals that they can ransom her back to her rich, stupid family for some big bucks. This catches the leader's attention & the Wraith finally steps in. He stares down silently at their prisoners, where Kei panics & tells them all how fabulously wealthy her father is & how much more worth alive she could be to the fiends. After letting her awkwardly ramble on for a bit, he announces that they have big plans thanks to the lucky hostage taking of this particular patsy.

So, the bandits keep them simply as prisoners for a while, but Kei & Morgan both somehow start bonding with a few particular members of the gang until they've won over everyone besides their stoic leader. But, eventually after being coerced by his gang & chatting with the girls on his own, the Wraith is intrigued enough that he has the two released & has them start training to be a part of their team of misfits, as Kei made it plainly clear that she too wants to get back at her family & show them she's not just a useless tool to marry off for her father's sake & all that!

So, Kei takes to the wild side of life real fast & becomes a natural leader & gunslinger among the chaotic group. She's there with the bandits through heists & robberies, even going so far to help plan out the ransom scheme they're going to enact againsy her own family. Thus, cue hectic rides through the desert in the dark of the night on horse back & crazy train robberies & full town shoot outs & all the classic western tropes that are just 😌👌

& all the while, Kei & the Wraith grow closer together, going from being his prisoner to basically becoming his right hand man.

In due time, they slowly learn more about each other, & find that they share similar disastrous pasts that led them out here in the middle of desert to live these chaotic criminal lives.

It turns out that the Wraith's sad tale started when he had once proposed to his hometowns darling & the love of his life. They had been best friends since childhood & so she eagerly agreed, but he was completely undesirable in her family's eyes as he was half native & the town frowned on his mixed heritage. So, instead, this girl's family decided to have her be quickly married off to someone else, to shake the Wraith from tearing down the good name of their elite family.

Regardless, the Wraith was able to find out when & where the wedding was yo take place & when he tried to stop the wedding proceedings, hired goons from the girl's family beat him up & tossed his sorry self in jail. By the time the Wraith came to, the girl was married to some wealthy idiot & long gone, set off on some train for her new life without him.

Fueled by rage, he broke out of jail & confronted the girl's father, where the two engaged in a stand off & the Wraith shot the horrible man down. With a price on his head & wanted posters hanging around the town for killing an official of the blasted little town, he ran off & started accumulating a group of followers by freeing prisoners from nearby jails & working with renegade natives who were hungry for revenge on these land developers & businesses who were eating up the natural landscape & sacred lands, as well.

Over time, the fearsome name of the Wraith passed from town to town, where the team of criminals slowly took on larger & larger crimes until they were the stuff of legends! They were slowly taking back towns one by one until they were nothing but ghost towns & the desert was allowed to reclaim the land stolen from them.

&... well... uh, sorry to say, but that's honestly all I have so far!! I started thinking up this whole thing this morning, so forgive me for any odd ideas or whatnot, I'm slowly going to smooth it out into a solid story!!

Bur, surely rhe bandits return to take revenge of Kei's family & some sort of drama surely unfolds, but I'm not sure what just yet... so sorry for the lack of satisfying ending,, but I'm working on it oops! I promise!!

Lemme know your thoughts & if you have any ideas, shoot them my way as I will gladly take on advice to draw this story to a perfect ending!!!

[rockislandadultreads]

Parapsychology titles that’ll give you a true fright

The Unidentified: Mythical Monsters, Alien Encounters, and Our Obsession with the Unexplained by Colin Dickey

In a world where rational, scientific explanations are more available than ever, belief in the unprovable and irrational--in fringe--is on the rise: from Atlantis to aliens, from Flat Earth to the Loch Ness monster, the list goes on. It seems the more our maps of the known world get filled in, the more we crave mysterious locations full of strange creatures. Enter Colin Dickey, Cultural Historian and Tour Guide of the Weird. With the same curiosity and insight that made Ghostland a hit with readers and critics, Colin looks at what all fringe beliefs have in common, explaining that today's Illuminati is yesterday's Flat Earth: the attempt to find meaning in a world stripped of wonder. Dickey visits the wacky sites of America's wildest fringe beliefs--from the famed Mount Shasta where the ancient race (or extra-terrestrials, or possibly both, depending on who you ask) called Lemurians are said to roam, to the museum containing the last remaining "evidence" of the great Kentucky Meat Shower--investigating how these theories come about, why they take hold, and why as Americans we keep inventing and re-inventing them decade after decade. The Unidentified is Colin Dickey at his best: curious, wry, brilliant in his analysis, yet eminently readable.

The Super Natural: A New Vision of the Unexplained by Whitley Strieber, Jeffrey J. Kripal

Two of today's maverick authors on anomalous experience present a perception-altering and intellectually thrilling analysis of why the paranormal is real, but radically different from what is conventionally understood. Whitley Strieber (Communion) and Jeffrey J. Kripal (J. Newton Rayzor professor of religion at Rice University) team up on this unprecedented and intellectually vibrant new framing of inexplicable events and experiences. Rather than merely document the anomalous, these authors--one the man who popularized alien abduction and the other a renowned scholar and "renegade advocate for including the paranormal in religious studies" (The New York Times)--deliver a fast-paced and exhilarating study of why the supernatural is neither fantasy nor fiction but a vital and authentic aspect of life. Their suggestion? That all kinds of "impossible" things, from extra-dimensional beings to bilocation to bumps in the night, are not impossible at all: rather, they are a part of our natural world. But this natural world is immeasurably more weird, more wonderful, and probably more populated than we have so far imagined with our current categories and cultures, which are what really make these things seem "impossible." The Super Natural considers that the natural world is actually a "super natural world"--and all we have to do to see this is to change the lenses through which we are looking at it and the languages through which we are presently limiting it. In short: The extraordinary exists if we know how to look at and think about it.

Unbelievable: Investigations into Ghosts, Poltergeists, Telepathy, and Other Unseen Phenomena from the Duke Parapsychology Laboratory by Stacy Horn

A fascinating, eye-opening collection of “Investigations into Ghosts, Poltergeists, Telepathy, and Other Unseen Phenomena, from the Duke Parapsychology Laboratory,” Unbelievable by Stacy Horn explores science’s remarkable first attempts to prove—or disprove—the existence of the paranormal. A featured contributor on the popular NPR program “All Things Considered,” Horn has been praised by Mary Roach, bestselling author of Spook, for her “awe-fueled curiosity [and] top-flight reporting skills.” Horn attacks a most controversial subject with Unbelievable—a book that will appeal to armchair scientists as well as fans of TV’s Medium, The Ghost Whisperer, and Crossing Over with John Edward.

When Ghosts Speak: Understanding the World of Earthbound Spirits by Mary Ann Winkowski

Lights flicker on and off for no good reason. You feel drained and inexplicably irritable. Your four-year-old is scared to enter her bedroom. Tell these things to Mary Ann Winkowski, and she'll tell you that you have a ghost. A happily married, devout Catholic, suburban mother and full-time paranormal investigator, Mary Ann Winkowski has been able to see earthbound spirits, spirits that are trapped on earth and haven't "crossed over," since she was a little girl. Mary Ann works with these spirits to help them make peace with what keeps them here - whether it be people they can't let go of or homes they love. In When Ghosts Speak, Mary Ann will tell the amazing story of growing up with this gift, and will share tips on how to recognize when you're not alone, and what to do if you are in the presence of a ghost.

Phenomena: The Secret History of the U.S. Government's Investigations into Extrasensory Perception and Psychokinesis by Annie Jacobsen

The definitive history of the military's decades-long investigation into mental powers and phenomena, from the author of Pulitzer Prize finalist The Pentagon's Brain and international bestseller Area 51 This is a book about a team of scientists and psychics with top secret clearances. For more than forty years, the U.S. government has researched extrasensory perception, using it in attempts to locate hostages, fugitives, secret bases, and downed fighter jets, to divine other nations' secrets, and even to predict future threats to national security. The intelligence agencies and military services involved include CIA, DIA, NSA, DEA, the Navy, Air Force, and Army-and even the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Now, for the first time, New York Times bestselling author Annie Jacobsen tells the story of these radical, controversial programs, using never before seen declassified documents as well as exclusive interviews with, and unprecedented access to, more than fifty of the individuals involved. Speaking on the record, many for the first time, are former CIA and Defense Department scientists, analysts, and program managers, as well as the government psychics themselves. Who did the U.S. government hire for these top secret programs, and how do they explain their military and intelligence work? How do scientists approach such enigmatic subject matter? What interested the government in these supposed powers and does the research continue? Phenomena is a riveting investigation into how far governments will go in the name of national security.

Monster Hunters: On the Trail with Ghost Hunters, Bigfooters, Ufologists, and Other Paranormal Investigators by Tea Krulos

Do ghosts exist? What about Bigfoot or Skinwalkers? And how will we ever know? Journalist Tea Krulos spent more than a year traveling nationwide to meet individuals who have made it their life’s passion to hunt down evidence of entities that they believe exist but that others might shrug off as nothing more than myths, fairy tales, or the products of overactive imaginations. Without taking sides in the debate, Krulos joins these believers in the field, exploring haunted houses, trekking through creepy forests, and scanning skies and lakes as they collect data on the unknown poltergeists, chupacabras, Skunk Apes (Bigfoot’s stinky cousins), and West Virginia’s Mothman. Along the way, he meets a diverse cast of characters—true believers, skeptics, and hoaxers—from the credible to the quirky, and has a couple of hair-raising encounters that make him second-guess his own beliefs.

Synopses pulled from goodreads.com

[swanandphoenixsong]

Aliit - Ao3

Chapter 8: Patience

Series: Part 2 of the Star Wars - Nouveau AU series

Chapter Summary: Varad and Bo-Katan go to meet with the Cabur’ade, and Korkie finds a new ally at the Merrik Estate.

Notes: This chapter begins in Varad’s POV, then switches to Korkie’s.  

Translations of Mando’a: *Cabur’ade – guardians of Kalevala, similar to the Journeyman Protectors of Concord Dawn ‘ika – suffix meaning small, little, young; term of endearment ad’ika – young child; term of endearment aliit – family, clan or tribe or’dinii – moron or fool mando’ad – Mandalorian, child of Mandalore (plural: mando’ade) aruetii – foreigner, traitor, not-Mandalorian (plural: aruetiise) Mand’alor – ruler of Mandalore, literally “sole ruler”

– –

19 BBY – Esplanade, Kalevala

Dawn on Kalevala was quiet, serene. Light reflected off the mountains and down through the valley below. There were drifting clouds, heading south and east, the same direction that would lead them to Koha Bay and Esplanade.

Varad followed Bo-Katan, riding steadily on Balutar-class swoop bikes, over winding trails through the lakelands. The last time she had ridden through here was with her comrades who joined the Nite Owls.

The five of them were back at the estate, taking stock of supplies and weaponry alongside two of Bo-Katan’s other renegades. She knew it had been cramped in the cargo bay of the shuttle, but none of the Kalevalans had been willing to stay on Mandalore when they could return to their homeworld. The remainder of the Nite Owls were sent to Keldabe, (where Death Watch formerly mined for beskar, before Vizsla had revealed himself on Concordia) and kept watch on Sundari.

To Varad’s knowledge, the plan was to recruit clans from Kalevala, contact others from Krownest and Concord Dawn, and build a large enough force to counter Maul’s Shadow Collective. She was optimistic with their chances, although she doubted Captain Ordo and her mother would leave Kalevala themselves.

They arrived in Esplanade a short time later, just as the city was starting the day. They headed towards the docks, emanating with the sounds of fishermen and sailors preparing their vessels. They stalled their speeders next to the old warehouse where Varad had first met Bo-Katan, some months ago.

“Where we headed, Varad?” Bo-Katan asked gruffly through the comlink.

She dismounted and replied, “We can walk from here and tow the speeders as we go. We need to talk anyway.”

“About what?” Bo grunted, grudgingly following her lead.

Varad removed her helmet before she answered, although she knew Bo wouldn’t do the same. She had gotten used to that, as many Death Watch members would hardly ever unmask unless they were at base-camp or in private. It had almost been encouraged, although not a mandated rule.

“I want to get our stories straight before we see the captain. We don’t want a repeat of the last time you two spoke.”

Bo-Katan scoffed, but she didn’t refute the statement.

Varad set her helmet on the bike and started pulling down her hair as they walked. Even with a few months under her belt, she never felt very comfortable tying up her hair to hide under her helm.

“So, where to start– maybe with the night we left the Death Watch? Although that brings up Maul and the Darksaber pretty quickly.”

“We start with his nephew; that’s our in, isn’t it?”

“Well, we don’t want him to think he’s a bargaining chip. We’re not holding the cadets as hostages or barring him from seeing them if he doesn’t listen to us, so–”

Bo sighed, turning her helm up towards the sky. “I assume you have a better idea?”

Varad held back a grin. “I could do most the talking?”

“You’ll do that anyway.”

“But I mean it. They know and trust me.” Bo remained silent, so Varad continued, “Firstly: we left Death Watch, and are not allied with Almec or the crime families. Then, we work backwards: how we and the cadets got a shuttle offworld after we tried to rescue the Duchess, to when we found the cadets and how they had figured out as much as they could on their own. Then we can delve into how the Sith betrayed Vizsla, and everything before that.”

Bo tilted her head side-to-side, considering. “We can’t gloss over the fact we helped them subdue the crime families and brought them into Mandalorian Space, nor that we thought we could handle them on our own.”

“Right, Ordo wouldn’t take kindly to subterfuge.” Varad was glad Bo had agreed, and not suggested they keep their part secret. Bo’s acknowledgement reassured her– she wasn’t wholly incorrigible, she could even be honorable and honest, and without much convincing besides.

 The Cabur’ade were located in what had been the marina firehouse, before it was relocated closer to the main dock, about fifty or more years ago. At the time, the local militia had been mostly unofficial, nearly run out by the Kalevala’s faction of New Mandalorians.

The militia had regained respect and legality when Bo’s father, Adonai Kryze, and Ordo had hunted down the territorial clans – who had destroyed and made barren the farmlands between the Sisu mountain range and the Fadno lakelands, about ten klicks southwest of the Merrik estate. Varad didn’t know the full story, as Ordo hated talking about it.

Varad and Bo-Katan parked their bikes near the entrance, as a few fishermen walked by, furtively watching them. Varad waved at them, widely grinning when they recognized her and smiled in return. Then she jogged to catch up with Bo and tap out her family’s knock pattern on the worn plasteel.

Her mother opened the door, momentarily confused before she saw them. “Kalei? How did– Are you still–”

“Relax, Mum. We’re not with Death Watch anymore. We’re here to talk.”

Lani sighed and let them in, Bo-Katan tipping her head slightly out of respect. They found Ordo, dressed in a flight suit and boots, sitting in the armory, methodically cleaning and re-assembling his old gear. He looked up as they came in, and he answered Kalei’s salute with a smile.

“Welcome back, Varad’ika.” He gave a cursory glance over Bo-Katan. “You two have some explaining to do.”

Kalei raised her eyebrows. “You know about Mandalore then?”

Lani sat beside Ordo, her gaze wary. “The New Mandalorians told the civilians of the events in Sundari, although without much detail. But we were able to intercept copies of Death Watch’s broadcasts.”

“Ah,” Kalei coughed, slightly offset. “We weren’t sure if any news had reached Kalevala.”

Ordo nodded, refocused on his weaponry. “The Nite Owls were privy to Vizsla’s scheming, I presume.”

Bo-Katan stepped forward. “Yes, we were. I will not deny that I was directly involved in it, but we ask that you listen to what we have to say, before you decide anything.”

He and Lani shared a look, before she turned fully toward them. “You have our attention.”

Kalei spoke, just as they planned, explaining the events of the last few days in reverse order. Ordo was reserved, but she caught his slight smirk whenever she mentioned his nephew.

Once they reached the night of Maul’s betrayal, they recounted fully their prior machinations, of how Vizsla and Bo-Katan had attempted to use the Sith for their purposes. And how, despite their reluctance, Death Watch willingly backed them while suppressing the crime families and forming the Shadow Collective, as well as granting them passage into Mandalorian Space and intel on how to invade Sundari most effectively. Bo-Katan did not obscure any detail, but nor did she show any emotion in her confessions. She was a void before them, seemingly unaffected and removed, despite their scrutiny.

“So,” Lani looked between the two when they finished, “what d’you expect to happen next?”

“Well,” Kalei gave a quick glance over at Bo, “you’re both invited to come back to the estate with us. We’d appreciate your help in getting a proper ship, but we– I would understand if you didn’t.”

Ordo’s gear was clean and re-assembled now, and he sighed as he looked up at Bo-Katan. “There is more to discuss, but I’d rather the cadets be around to hear it, so we will meet you there.” He stood, taking up his flak vest. “Just have to run an errand before then. Should take less than an hour.”

Bo-Katan nodded and left the room as Kalei walked over to her mother.

Lani raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Has she changed at all, since you joined?”

Kalei shrugged. “She’s not as bad as she seems, really. Vizsla’s death has certainly affected her, as well as seeing her sister and nephew for the first time in a decade.”

She patted her shoulder with a forlorn smile. “You’re too forgiving, ad’ika.” They hugged briefly, and Kalei saluted goodbye to Ordo as she went to follow Bo-Katan.

 – –

Korkie woke slowly, blinking blearily, as traces of sunlight filtered through the curtains. His chest tightened as he remembered where they were, and everything that had occurred. They were at the Merrik Estate, the former home of his aunts’ cousin, Senator and Prince Tal Merrik. His final act, two years ago, had been an attempt to assassinate Duchess Satine and threaten everyone on the Coronet, in a declaration of loyalty to Death Watch. There had been no time for Satine to grieve or understand– she had arrived safely on Coruscant and had to plead with the Senate not to send troops to Mandalore. It was not happenstance that Grandpa Jerec had died during her absence, but after his memorial rite, it had given them cause not to visit Kalevala since.

Korkie had missed his homeworld terribly, but the memories of it had been warped and tainted by the betrayals of Tal and Bo-Katan. In comparison to Death Watch’s takeover of Mandalore, being here again, confronting all that he had lost, was petrifying.

Korkie closed his eyes and breathed deeply, concentrating on the reassuring presence of his aliit surrounding him. With them, he could be brave and steadfast, just as they needed him to be.

He let out a sigh, taking care to glance at Lagos, peacefully asleep behind him, and Soniee, laying at his side. He felt Amis stir from his shoulder, groaning quietly. He watched his eyes light up as he looked around, delighted to be on Kalevala again. Only when he looked at Korkie did his expression falter.

“Are you okay? Being here, I mean–” Amis stammered.

“I will be,” he replied quickly, giving a half-hearted smile. “Being here just brings up a lot of bad memories.”

“Well,” Amis leaned forward, placing his hand on his shoulder, “we’ll just have to make new ones. Last night was a good start.”

Korkie pondered the thought, remembering how Lagos and Soniee had been mesmerized by Kalevala’s natural scenery. The planet would be teeming with new experiences to share with them. And he could see excitement brimming behind Amis’s concern. Korkie pushed down his trepidation and gave a hesitant smile.

“C’mon, let’s go see what the morning has for us.” They stood, careful not to disturb Lagos and Soniee, and headed through the halls. As they rounded the corner, they were met with the smell of someone making breakfast, wafting out from the kitchen.

An older woman with graying russet hair stood at the stove, humming as she spiced strips of Fadno rudd-fish and prepared a pot of mushroom porridge. After placing the fish-strips in the oven, she turned toward them.

“Aunt Bes?” Korkie whispered, mystified. He hadn’t seen her in the two years since Tal– her son’s betrayal. She hadn’t attended Jerec’s memorial, nor had he heard from her afterward. In his limited interactions with Kalevala, it seemed she had disappeared in the aftermath of what had occurred, and Korkie hadn’t had the courage to ask Satine whether that was the whole truth. He hadn’t wanted to know if she had betrayed them, just like Tal and Bo-Katan.

Now he knew she had remained here, and had stood aside while the Nite Owls occupied her estate. It may be his refuge now, but how would the implications of her presence here impact their stay?

She saw his reaction, and her face fell in sympathy and concern. “Oh, Korkie.” Her eyes crinkled at the edges, and Korkie couldn’t help but feel like a child, frightened and grief-stricken, looking for someone to run to. Once it had been Bo-Katan, Satine and Jerec, and now he looked toward Amis, and he stepped up beside him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.

He took a breath, calming himself as he leaned back against the wall. “Did you–” he began.

“Tal never told me,” She answered quickly, “They arrived at the estate while the Coronet was still on Mandalore. Had I resisted–”

“They might have killed you,” Korkie shuddered.

She shook her head dejectedly. “To be honest, I didn’t think Bo was capable of it. She was still– but then Tal was dead, the Deputy Minister was dead, and I saw that Bo-Katan was indifferent to all of it, as well as the threats on Satine’s life. I felt I had little choice.”

“Had we known–”

“No,” she smiled sadly, “I didn’t reach out to Satine. Tal had sworn fealty to them, and although I hadn’t agreed myself, it wouldn’t matter. If I had fled to Esplanade or even off-planet, others would still associate me with his choices. I thought occupying whatever amount of Death Watch’s attention was a more worthwhile endeavor.”

Korkie huffed. “Was it?”

“Possibly,” she shrugged, “but perhaps you and Satine needed me more.”

He remembered how closed off Satine was, after returning from Coruscant, even at Jerec’s memorial. Vizsla and Tal had both betrayed her trust, she was grieving, and beginning to suspect Bo-Katan’s involvement. Throwing Aunt Bes in between– “She might not have given you the chance,” he presumed.

They went silent, the sounds of the food cooking filling the diminished, awkward space between them. Amis stood beside him, firm and reliable, and Korkie was grateful to have him.

“I really am sorry,” she said softly, “I never wanted to hurt you and Satine.”

He nodded slowly, unable to look up at her. “You’re not at fault, but thank you.”

Bes turned away then, checking in on the fish-strips and porridge. Korkie sat at the small side-table and sighed, calming himself from the tense conversation.

A while later, Korkie and Amis were setting out plates and utensils while Bes and Varad brought the food from the kitchen. Wren had redressed Lagos’s leg, and now headed out to fetch Bo-Katan.

Korkie watched as Soniee, with Lagos hanging on her arm, came to join them in the elaborate dining hall, bordered with large transparisteel windows and sheer curtains. Seeing Kalevala surrounding them in the daylight, and smelling the freshly-cooked traditional meal, were new experiences for them both. Just as Amis had said, it was uplifting to share this with them.

Lagos looked baffled even as she sat, her focus darting between their surroundings and each other. “I’d half expected to wake up back at the Academy, as if these last few days were a dream.”

“All real,” Korkie replied, sitting down opposite her as the others followed suit. He introduced them to his great aunt, and the girls seemed to regard her just as much as they would formerly with Satine.

Soniee took in a deep breath beside Lagos. “The food smells wonderful.”

“I hope it tastes even better,” Bes commented from the head of the table. “I haven’t had guests to cook for in a long time.”

They began to eat, savoring the exquisite tastes, and telling Bes of their shared history of joining the Academy and finding dependable and long-lasting companionship with each other. Bo-Katan and Wren came in late, listening attentively during their story of discovering Almec’s corruption, and how they helped Duchess Satine and Padawan Ahsoka in apprehending him and his cohorts of the Mandalorian Guard’s secret service.

“I’d heard of your bravery from Toa,” said Varad, “but it’s more real to me now, hearing it directly from you all. It’s no wonder that you banded together when the crime families and Death Watch invaded Sundari.”

Korkie smiled at the thought. “Satine had insisted I go to the safehouse, and told the others they should head home to their families. Even so, they pledged to go with me.”

“We couldn’t let you go all on your own,” said Soniee, “You could’ve been targeted for being Satine’s nephew, and you’re our friend besides.”

Korkie looked between them, his heart warming as he saw the sincere devotion in each of their expressions. Along with being reunited with Great Aunt Bes, he felt reassured, that he had this family, and that they wanted him in it.

The only blight was Bo-Katan, her posture stretched taut with tension as she glared at them. He raised an eyebrow at her, wondering if she’d voice her clear objection to his trust in his fellow cadets, compared to his rejection toward her. Would she boldly offend him and his chosen family, or would she wait to confront him in private, as they had done so before? Was her belief in Death Watch’s prejudiced policies so strong, she could not fathom how he would choose to put his faith in three New Mandalorian cadets, rather than in her, a faithful Mandalorian warrior who had dedicated her life to restoring their ancient traditions?

“Death Watch doesn’t target Mandalorian children,” she said finally.

“No,” laughed Amis defiantly, “they just let their criminal allies do that for them.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Amis,” Soniee said, the teasing lilt in her voice hardly matching the sharp glint of her gaze, “I doubt they made sure that children weren’t in danger when they terrorized Mandalore and Kalevala two years ago.”

Korkie watched Bo-Katan grit her teeth, her right hand balled in a tight fist on the table.

Varad let out a harsh laugh from her left side, and proceeded to eat another bite of rudd-fish, as if the conversation was of little concern to her.

Wren kicked her underneath the table.

“What?” Varad asked offhandedly, “the cadets’ got a point. Death Watch are ruthless brutes. They didn’t care who got caught in the crossfire.”

“Says the brute who aimed a blaster rifle at my head,” Amis replied.

She shrugged. “We can settle the score whenever you like, kid.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Varad grinned widely, looking toward Bo-Katan.

Bo-Katan huffed, refusing to look at her. “No, I don’t care if someone else kicks your ass, or’dinii.”

“Aw, lighten up. They’ve proven themselves trustworthy, Bo-Katan. They’ve taken good care of Korkie so far, haven’t they?”

“They’re not faithful mando’ade–”

“Why not? Is it their fault how they were raised? You want ‘em to swear the creed? We broke ours when we refused to follow Maul.”

“That aruetii is not our Mand’alor–”

“By our creed, he is. And we can’t hope to defeat him without outsiders’ help; that will include Jedi, off-worlders, and New Mandalorians. You can’t refute that.”

Bo-Katan went quiet, her bright green eyes blazing. Korkie had watched them with rapt attention, aggravated on behalf of his fellow cadets, then buoyed by Varad’s bold approval of them. It was a relief to have his doubts voiced by someone else, especially someone who Bo-Katan might actually listen to.

Unfortunately, she would not be dissuaded. Instead, she promptly picked up her helm and the left the room. Wren gave Varad a frustrated glare and went after her. The absence they left behind was deafening.

Bes sighed, breaking the silence. Korkie turned toward her, a question in his gaze. “I’ve had to put up with her and Vizsla’s brutes for the last two years,” she explained. “I’ve tried to argue with her before, but their kind of ideology isn’t easily shaken. Right now, she’s desperate, clinging to his bigotry like a lifeline. I’m not saying it’s impossible for her to change, but–” She paused to sip her tea, weighing her words sagely. “I suppose I’ve lost my patience for it. I’ve spent my life watching Mandalorians fight over disputes like this– claiming their brethren are their enemies. Petty disputes escalated into barbaric war, families were torn apart, and yet the ideology survives.”

She looked at each of the cadets, challenging them with her gaze. “Whether Bo-Katan admits it or not, you all are Mandalorian. You are our legacy, and it was our responsibility to make the future safe for you. I can’t go back and change the world you grew up in, but I swear to you, you are always welcome here.”

Korkie understood then, why Bes had allowed Bo-Katan and the Death Watch take over her estate. Tal and Bo-Katan were her family, and she had wanted to support them, even when she disagreed with their choices. She had hoped, that with her actions, Bo-Katan would realize the flaws in her beliefs. But that time had come and gone, and his great aunt was tired of waiting around for change when she didn’t have time to spare anymore.

It reminded Korkie of himself. Trusting Bo-Katan to rescue Satine had been his ultimatum– the last time he would ever expect better of her. Now, he felt wrung out and exhausted, the extent of his tolerance expended. He had waited ten years for her return, and she had come back a terrorist of a bigoted, fanatic cult.

He’d had enough of waiting.

Endnotes: Phew! That took a while, which I expected, but I didn’t realize just how long. Classes have begun (first time living on campus in a long time), so writing and posting may not occur very often. I may refocus on Jedi Scholar, or I may get distracted by the prospects of Aliit’s next chapters. I had originally planned to include Toa and Lani’s arrival and reunion with Amis’s POV, but the writing was taking a lot out of me, and it’s been so long since I last posted– so hopefully this tides me over for now.

[bardofheartdive]

Mass Effect Asks/Answers

Taking a page from @lyrishadow and answering them all! (Because I can!)

1: Favorite background and psych profile? 

Colonist/War Hero

2: Favorite class? 

Adept (+ sniper rifle)

3: Favorite ME1 mission? 

Virmire. I know the bad thing happens but I still love it. (“Hold the line!”)

4: Favorite ME2 mission? 

Is it cheating to say the Suicide Mission? I’m saying it anyway.

5: Favorite ME3 mission? 

Cerberus Coup on the Citadel (and the Citadel DLC)

6: Favorite ME1 squad?

Kaidan and Ashley (until Virmire), then Kaidan and Garrus

7: Favorite ME2 squad?

Garrus and either Thane or Miranda

8: Favorite ME3 squad? 

Garrus and James (until after the coup), then Kaidan and either Garrus or James

9: What squad member do you bring along the most? 

Kaidan 

10: What squad member do you bring along the least? 

Liara (if I didn’t have to bring her for anything I wouldn’t)

11: Are there any squad members you just don’t like? 

Liara

12: Favorite non-combatant? 

Anderson, Chakwas

13: Who did your first Shepard leave behind on Virmire? 

Ashley 

14: Who did your most recent Shepard romance? 

Kaidan 

15: Anderson or Udina, for council member? 

Usually Anderson but Chris went with Udina, 

16: Favorite species? 

Rachni (SINGING PLANET!!!)

17: Favorite loyalty mission? 

Mordin

18: Favorite weapon? 

Biotics (seriously I use guns as little as possible)

19: What power(s) do you use most frequently? 

Throw (ME1), Singularity + warp/throw (ME2 and 3), I also really like Overload and Concussive Shot

20: Favorite DLC?

Citadel

21: Favorite non-Normandy character? 

Anderson 

22: Favorite multiplayer class/character? 

Never played multiplayer

23: What enemy do you really like fighting? 

Cerberus

24: What enemy do you really hate fighting? 

Banshees and Praetorians

25: What mission do you dread every time you get there? 

The side quest in ME2 where you have to defend the wounded quarian from varren. (Makes me wish I wasn’t such a completionist . . . ) Also Jacob’s loyalty mission (because I HATE the way it’s written). 

26: Who do you wish was available as a romance option?

Kaidan in ME2 and James in a not creepy, date-rape way

27: How many Shepards do you have? 

Five that I play as (Ariella, Chris, Gina, Mara, Veerla) plus one that is my attempt at playing as Kaidan during ME3 (don’t ask, it’s complicated). I also have a default mShep that I write for but haven’t played (my mShenga John) and a few others for one-shots and other random things that aren’t especially developed. 

28: What’s the most hilarious thing that’s happened to you while playing (a glitch, a mission that went haywire, etc)?

Nothing in specific besides the weird death poses (myself, my squad, and the enemies) 

29: If you primarily play Paragon or Renegade, is there a dialogue/interrupt/action of the opposite alignment you always take? 

Does killing Kai Leng count? It’s technically a renegade interrupt but I feel like it shouldn’t count.

30: Share a headcanon about one of your Shepards HC: 

Ariella chooses Destroy on the Crucible and is put on trial for genocide against the geth afterward 

Chris (and most of his surviving team from Torfan) is briefly kidnapped and held hostage by batarians in retribution

Gina loves strategy games like chess and kepesh yakshi. Her favorite is go.

Mara is a ballerina who taught a beginner class at a studio on Arcturus and would have become a professional dancer if she hadn’t joined the Alliance. 

Veerla was rescued from Mindoir by Anderson and lived with him in London between the raid and her enlisting