#they both took one look at locus and were like 'we can use him for our plans and maybe it'll fix him as a bonus'

[tvckerwash]

you know a trait I wish we would've gotten to see more of post recollection is Sneaky BastardTM wash who has a plan on top of the real plan and he doesn't tell anyone about said real plan until the last possible second, essentially forcing those around him to participate against their will in one way or another. get moved around like pawns on a chess board idiots.

[the-breathing-pen]

To the little girl, around whom I feel alright..

From the heart of someone, who's shy to wave hi's,

From the soul of someone, who's afraid of good-bye's.

There's a much too little, a little too much- I've got to say,

Even though I'm scared, I shall begin, so shall I may?

Cherishing beautiful moments, even fighting on the some,

It makes my face red, to just think how far we've come.

From tying the friendship bands, to tying those bonds at heart,

This journey, recorded somewhere, is surely a piece of art.

This is an attempt, to thread the golden times we've spent,

And if some shall make you angry, know that love was all I meant.

For years you've been, my go to place for bliss,

And lord, I could never tell you, how much you, I miss.

A little convo we'd do, and waves of joy would flood to me,

I'm a writer, little girl, your words are blood to me.

May the clocks stop ticking, the day you smile the most,

Do you remember that day, when we raised a virtual toast?

May we remain together, in days of sunshines, and raining dogs and cats,

How can I not remember, those funny convos in the chats.

Yes those were the initial days, those days 'it' took a start,

They look so small from today, as they're miles apart.

Unknowingly, you've been the healer, on times I've fallen ill,

On the most depressing of the situations, you've helped me chill.

From a small shady corner, to owning most of the land, of my heart,

For years you've been, and shall remain, the muse of my art.

The beast people know, wouldn't be known, if you hadn't made him brave,

You've held these hands, when they thought of jumping in the grave.

Were in different sections, but couldn't resist those solving of doubt,

Do you remember the reason we met? you know who I'm talking about.

See that's why I say, you understand me better than anyone,

I didn't mention a name, yet you guessed it in a singleton.

Anyways, do you remember the breaks, we'd plan to be free,

And the location were planned too, the statue and my tree.

You never came alone though, which caused me a lot to blush,

Still, those meetings felt like dealings, so there was a usual rush.

To the little girl, who's every single picture taken, literally looks cute,

And her nagging of not getting a picture, would usually make me mute.

I still imagine the days, you asked me what to post at ends,

And we'd go on buzzing for hours, about teachers and lost friends.

Remember the day, we met outside your class, for an issue of fevicol?,

I still remember the voice, you spoke with my mom to, the first time on call.

Yes, it was your birthday then, the day I smiled a lot,

I still remember the panic, in a locus full of girls, I was the lone dot.

See where nostalgia brings me, to memory of days I broke in a million ways,

And if hope's a word girl, your presence were the only rays.

Whenever the world was there, showing off its evilest claws,

You were there to hold me, to help fight those unjust laws.

The bands you tied, weren't confined to wrists, they went upto my heart,

Yes, distances grew sometimes, but they could never set us apart.

I wish the day shall never come, when distances would succeed,

Girl keep my words burried, in your heart's soil as a seed.

So that if some day comes, when there are dark clouds full of glooms,

We shall know us forever, through those flowery blooms.

I didn't had one, Thumbs up was never the favorite drink of mine,

But it became, and about you is all I think, on drinking it everytime.

Infact, everytime I go shopping, I wish "you were here",

Wouldn't it have been different, if you just had been there.

Oh how similar are our likings, and not to speak of hates,

I still stand amazed, how similar are things to which both of us relates.

You've a beautiful skill set, which I really really praise and adore,

I just pray we stay like this, together through sweet and sour.

You've seen me smile, you've seen me cry,

But unlike the others, you never gave back stabbing a try.

To the kindest soul, whose eyes are the most beautiful cage,

Your English looks cute, especially when you're in rage.

Nah nah, that doesn't mean you should get angry, its just said for fun,

Remember, others are just twinkling stars, while you're my sun.

You are the notes to my music, the ink to my pens,

The shine in my eyes, and the 'time' to my 'whens'.

You, yes you're the jeweler who knows preciousness of my tears,

Yes, you are the one, who stood with me in fighting my fears.

I even tried destructing my arts, thinking my hands can no longer play,

But you were there to motivate me, and I build it again from clay.

Up into your arms hence, I surrender it all, if I've got a fame,

My museum can't get enough, of your calligraphed name.

In the coldest of the seasons, you've been my glove,

In the busiest of the months, you've been my dove.

The watchables you recommend, I see you in the lead,

To you hence I associate, every learning or good deed.

To every single of those kdramas, watching which my heart sank,

I just can't, even if I try to, give you a complete thank.

You are who I look forward to, whether its light or its dark,

You are who I want to talk to, whether the topic is dull or a spark.

You're the one from whom, I just can't hide any of my lies,

You're the one who filled colours in the monotonous skies.

Even on days everyone left me, and to talk me noone would dare,

You were right there, beside me, showering all of that care.

To the little girl, around whom I feel alright,

Together we shall climb, any of the height.

So remember girl, if you're sad, or if you ever feel down,

I'll reach you, surely, from anywhere around the town.

If your heart ever feels dry, I shall come as rain,

And if it shall somehow break, I'll put it together again.

My words shall became waters, that wash off all the pains,

And become balloons, to celebrate all the gains.

Whether its a snowstorm there, or a day that's melting hot,

I'll always be there for you, no matter what.

May ages remember this tale of ours, may it becomes a folk lore,

And yes the moon's beautiful, but you, way wayyyy more.

If I'm an eye, then you're the sight,

And remember this moon is nothing without you, moonlight.

I can write more, without stopping about you for ages and ages,

But I don't want to out-spill all of my love, in these literary pages.

The journey shall never, its just some lines that are gonna end,

At last I just want to thank you, for all the together time we've spend.

Know that you're loved, and don't you ever feel alone,

Know that whenever you want, there's someone on the phone.

May all the waters dry, from the great valley of Nile,

But you, my girl, never forget, How to smile...🥀

[brazenskald]

Flight Risk

Ever been on the edge of a highrise, staring down a thousand-metre vertical that could leave you flatter than a burnt crepe on the sidewalk? If your stomach just jumps at the thought, good for you. You have a healthy sense of vertigo. Me? Never felt anything other than a skin-tingling urge to see if I could make it up that high and live to kiss the ground far below. Yeah, you could say my priorities were a little screwed-up. But then again, I was also staring down the barrel of a gun. Not a metaphorical one either. Pretty sure this was a Glock, or maybe a Smith & Wesson. I wasn’t paying too much attention, since the hand holding the gun was attached to my very beautiful, very angry ex.

Henry’s never been one to mince words, even when we were on better terms. Kissing terms, I liked to say. Straight to the point, Henry was. It didn’t surprise me that even with the wind buffeting our clothes, he held my gaze in the way that a python might, as it contemplated the best way to squeeze life from its prey.

“Ray,” He shouted, to be heard over the wind. “Hand over the loci!” You’d be forgiven for asking yourself what the fuck a locus, plural loci, is or are. I myself had the faintest clue, but we don’t need to get into that now. The relevant point was in my eloquent reply.

“Henry, if I had the loci, I’d have to let go of this ledge to hand it to you, and we both know that could end in the very swift and very sudden demise neither of us wants!” Henry was the laconic one. My gifts lay elsewhere.

“Give them here or I’ll push you off this tower myself!” Henry, bless his heart, couldn’t make a threat heavier than the gun he still held leveled on me, and nothing made that clearer than his reliance on gravity rather than good old fashioned lead. I reached down into my breast pocket to feel the cold edges of the loci, still secreted away right where I’d stashed them.

“Counter-offer, why not let me go and we can discuss all of this business in the relative comfort of a steamy bubble bath? You’ve still got the keys to my place, right?” I’d never asked for them back. He’d never offered to return them. I took it for what it was. A tacit admission that he wasn’t willing to break things off. He just needed a break. Promotion from beat cop to lead investigator hadn’t improved his patience, and I was used to his pattern of slinking back after a hard case. We had our rhythms, and we made it work. These bizarro stones weren’t going to change that.

“Ray…” Henry growled, a fire lit behind his eyes that signaled we were inching close to a breaking point. It was the same tone he fell into after I walked in with a few too many bags from a boutique, or if he spotted me liberating articles from some yuppie’s waistcoat while they ogled my tits.

“Henry, I’ll give them back, once I’ve had a chance to take a good look at them. You know I always do.” This was a lie. Henry usually snuck out with any number of pilfered goods when he thought I was sleeping, which I never was. He kicked like a mule while asleep, and I was an early riser. “Besides Hen, when have I ever lied to-”

In the movies, badasses fire off gunshots that knock bad guys clean off their feet. No such thing in real life. Small calibre rounds in particular hit you like angry prods of a finger, only they sting a hell of a lot more, and you bleed all over yourself. The shock of being hit, along with my bewilderment that Henry had actually shot me, the prick, caused me to forget the precarious situation I was in. That all-important sense of vertigo that is supposed to keep you alive? It rushed back with a vengeance right in time for me to tumble out of reach of any possible handholds. I plunged into the void, watching Henry’s face morph into horror at what he’d done. Should I have felt grim acceptance? Maybe. Somebody else might’ve. I flipped him off, and twisted to face the rapidly approaching street below.

Everything moves slower when you’re in moments of tremendous stress or peril, another truism which smartass psychologists swear is post-hoc neuro-processing, some such gobbledygook that amounts to the brain casting off the usual filters to take in all possible details. The gist? Your brain doesn’t speed up, it actually slows down, or at least the amount of information you absorb at the same constant rate increases, leading to that change in perception. What that tells me, a college drop-out with a passing interest in neurocognitive processes where they interact with biocybernetics, is that my fall lasted about the usual amount of time, but my reflexes were firing in response to far more stimuli than normal.

My hand reached into my breast pocket and seized the loci, those blighted jewels that had indirectly caused my current predicament. I can’t say what I consciously expected, other than that I wanted to have the cause of my untimely demise in hand at the moment it all came crashing down. I must have gripped them more tightly than before, the edges digging into my palms and drawing blood. What happened next was difficult to process, even afterward.

I felt the skin of my hand peeling off, like I’d dipped my hand into boiling oil. I watched the sidewalk rush toward me at about the speed of the typical maglev train, and despite my smugness of seconds past, I closed my eyes. My chest lurched like I’d suddenly started falling upwards. The wind rushing past my ears fell silent. That seemed a lot less… violent than I had anticipated. Is death usually so anticlimactic?

I opened my eyes. A cackle tore free of my throat, lurched out right ahead of a wave of bile. I spat when my stomach was empty. The pool of vomit had splattered to the sidewalk beneath me, while I hovered several feet overhead.

“Eat your heart out Henry,” I rasped, throat hoarse from puking. “I am going to steal so much shit, you’ll never be able to give it all back.”

[shining-magically]

so I’ve wondered this since the trailer came out years and years ago and Chloe defended the movie - was the red shoes teaser written by the same team that made the movie? were they forced to market it like that, was that based on an earlier draft, etc?? not sure if you know but you seem like the leading expert!

Sorry, this is gonna be an absolute novel because you know I’m an animation fan and the history and production of Red Shoes and the Seven Dwarfs is SO interesting and insane. Like, Tangled levels of insane. Thanks for calling me an expert, no one else was gonna do it so I just kind of took up the helm lol.

Here’s the low-down... The timeline of the movie’s production is an absolute mess and kind of an extremely wild ride. It was in production for ten years, went through a lot of different crew members, and went through at least two other major versions of the story before landing on the final version.

Since there’s not a ton of info on the movie’s production, a lot of this is pieced together from different interviews and context clues, and also a lot of what I’ve read and what I am quoting has been translated from Korean, sometimes pretty roughly. But yeah.

Here’s the story of why the Red Shoes and the Seven Dwarfs teasers and poster were so, so bad and fatshame-y and the actual movie was so, so good and body-positive. (With pictures and production artwork!)

(This is a beast of a post so I’m putting it under a cut.)

All right, so. After its conception originally as a short story by the South Korean studio Locus Creative in 2009-2010-ish, Red Shoes and the Seven Dwarfs was being worked on and was set to come out in Summer 2017, as evidenced by this poster at the 2015 Cannes Film Festival, featuring a different logo and very different character designs for most of the dwarfs.

In early-mid 2016, the first teaser (in which we see Snow White undress and then two dwarfs recoil in horror at her fatness when she takes her magic shoes off) was released, after the film had kind of been slowly chugging along for 6 or so years. (I am having such trouble pinpointing when the second teaser was released (in which one of the dwarfs basically attacks Snow while she is sleeping to steal her shoes), but I believe it was around the same time.) The teasers didn’t get that much traction because this was a small film from a small indie studio in South Korea.

None of the final actors had been cast yet. At this point in the production, the story was different, one of the many versions that the movie went through. As in the final movie, the dwarfs were actually cursed knights/princes and Snow White switched back and forth between two body types due to her magic shoes, but in this version, the dwarfs needed to steal the shoes from her in order to break their curse (rather than needing “a kiss from the most beautiful woman in the world” like in the final movie).

The weird thing is, I believe they had JUST changed the movie’s story when the teaser came out. I’m almost positive it was released more as a proof of concept than as an actual trailer for the movie. They had just recently combined two separate characters (seen above), a typical pretty, skinny princess character (Snow White) and a cute chubby girl character (’Bonnie’), into one single character that switches back and forth between the two appearances when she wears the magic shoes (also they had just dropped literally half of the movie taking place in the real world, with a magic mirror portal, it was a whole thing). 

They didn’t have the details of this aspect of the new story hammered out yet, and the first pass at presenting Snow’s magically changing body type, was, yeah, not good and super offensive. This was a really inexperienced indie studio making their first film on a low budget, so even the animation and voice acting wasn’t great. I think they just wanted to get SOMETHING out there because it had been 6 years and they wanted to have something to show for it.

But here’s the thing. Despite how the teasers make it seem, this was always supposed to be a movie about body positivity, letting go of appearance-based prejudices, and loving yourself and others for who you are and for who they are, which we see in the final film.

I like to think of our film as a kindhearted one. Our intentions are nice.

- Director Sung-ho Hong

It’s important to keep in mind that this movie was made in South Korea by a 99% Korean crew, and, as I understand it anyway, in Korean culture, ‘fatshaming’ is not really a thing that is seen as overtly offensive. Also, children’s media there seems to have more adult things in it than in the US, which probably accounts for the more risque parts of the teasers. That said, I really believe that at this point in the timeline, the movie was on-track to be bad (or at least not very good) when it was released, and it would have ended up bad IF a few key players hadn’t signed on (which I’ll get to in a moment).

Interestingly, the movie’s producer, Sujin Hwang, said in a 2017 interview:

“[Both teasers] were solely produced to induce curiosity. They’re completely irrelevant to the actual story.”

- Producer Sujin Hwang

I think what she was trying to convey was that neither one is a scene in the actual movie, because while the teasers didn’t reflect the revamped story as it existed in summer 2017 (the time of the interview), they DID reflect the earlier version of the story where the dwarfs wanted her shoes, which is what the story was at the time they were made.

Now that we’re in post-teaser 2016, HERE’S where things start to turn around. After the teasers were released, my guy Disney veteran and native Korean Jin Kim joined the project. He and Red Shoes director Sung-ho Hong had been buddies for about eight years and Sung-ho had been trying to get Jin to come to Seoul and work with him at Locus for a long time, and he finally succeeded.

Jin and his twenty years of Disney experience as an animator and senior designer on films like Tangled, Frozen, Big Hero 6, Zootopia, and Moana, had a HUGE HUGE HUGE influence on the movie. He redesigned almost all the characters, oversaw all the visual development from the moment he signed on, and heavily (HEAVILY) supervised the animation, literally going frame-by-frame through preliminary animations and drawing over them, teaching the inexperienced animators at Locus everything he knew. (Literally almost everyone except him either only had TV experience or had no professional experience because they just gotten out of school.)

From an outsider’s perspective, it really seems as though Jin joining the project (and his gargantuan effort) made the quality SKYROCKET. Not just in character design and animation, but also in things like effects animation, story, etc. After he joined, Locus really started pushing HARD to make a good, high-quality movie, and his influence and experience from being a prominent figure at Disney was absolutely key. The studio also began to really study Disney films and other well-made animated films from other studios to really try and pinpoint what the DNA of a good animated movie really is.

I don’t have any solid evidence, but I’m pretty sure that Tony Bancroft (an animator and the co-director of Mulan) then joined the project because he’s good friends with Jin Kim. He is only credited as the voice director (the movie was recorded in English and the characters were animated to the English dialogue), but I am SURE that he probably also had a pretty big influence on the movie, because like... How could he not? I really really think there was more to his role than his title would have you believe, even though there’s almost no info out there about it.

So now the movie goes through a gigantic metamorphosis. Character designs, visual development, and animation quality are all rapidly improving, the story is tightening, and the themes of the movie (which, again, were always the same and intended to be positive) are being presented in a more sincere way. The movie is becoming the sweet, self-love-encouraging and body-positive movie that was eventually released.

I’m putting a gif from the credits of the final movie here. As we move into 2017, when the giant eruption of backlash occurred, please keep in mind that the story was finalized at this point and that THIS was the movie people were so mad about:

Chloe Grace Moretz accepted the role of Snow White immediately after she read the script and she recorded her lines (I think) in early-ish 2017. Her co-star Sam Claflin also immediately accepted the role of the romantic interest, Merlin, after reading the script and recorded his lines in (I believe) July 2017.

In the summer of 2017, the story and script were more or less the same as in the final movie. Promotional images from that time show that most of dwarfs had been completely redesigned by this point and didn’t have their teaser designs anymore.

They also released a few screenshots that look exactly like the final film. The movie was advertised as coming out in ‘2018′ at this point. Here’s a promo image from 2017 that is MUCH more tactfully worded than the infamous Cannes poster:

So now we’re in summer 2017. The Cannes Film Festival. The movie’s script and story have been basically nailed down, animation is underway, and the Korean film company Finecut is beginning to market and sell the movie to worldwide audiences. They are planning on showing some footage to potential buyers at the festival, and they make a poster to advertise the film there.

Unfortunately, it’s THIS POSTER:

Now here’s where there are some unknowns. By this point, the movie is basically in its final form, which is an adorable, body-positive story about loving people for who they are, loving yourself for who YOU are, and that provides commentary on society’s standards of beauty and how they affect how people are treated/viewed. So why this poster??? All I can really tell is that someone (I think Finecut) really, REALLY messed up and either horribly mistranslated the tagline, or didn’t do enough research to know that this kind of thing is REALLY NOT OKAY in western culture.

The above picture is shared and the internet backlash begins, fueled by tweets from prominent body-positivity activists like Tess Holliday. Even Chloe Grace Moretz speaks out against it, because she of all people KNOWS that that’s not what the movie is about. The internet then finds the old teasers from before the movie was revamped and it makes things worse. Producer Sujin Hwang profusely apologizes and says that that is NOT the message of the movie. Locus pulls the advertising campaign, and takes down the two old teasers.

“Our film, a family comedy, carries a message designed to challenge social prejudices related to standards of physical beauty in society by emphasizing the importance of inner beauty.”

- Producer Sujin Hwang

Voice director Tony Bancroft also tried to explain the situation:

“The truth is the film has a body-positive message as its core theme–it’s the opposite of what reports are saying. The problem is one poorly translated movie poster that has been taken dramatically out of context.” 

- Voice Director Tony Bancroft

And then... There was nothing for a while. The movie didn’t come out in 2018 and was delayed. From what I can tell, I DON’T believe this delay was related to the Cannes backlash. I think it was mostly due to Locus’s limited budget and resources, because as we know, animation is difficult, time-consuming, expensive, and easy to do badly but hard to do well. Also, probably with Jin Kim and Tony Bancroft’s influence, they REALLY wanted to make sure to do a good job with the animation because they now had a great story and they really wanted the movie to be a quality, worldwide hit that would kind of put South Korean feature animation on the map. Just take a look at how nice the final animation was:

The movie was released in South Korea on July 25th, 2019. Unfortunately, the damage was done in the English-speaking markets and it was not released to an English-speaking audience until June 22, 2020, when it was released digitally in the UK. At the time of this post, there is no set US release date, but the distribution rights were recently bought by Lionsgate and the MPAA gave the film an official PG rating.

So who’s to blame? There’s no good answer. You could blame Locus for making those old teasers. You could blame Finecut for the competely tonedeaf Cannes poster. You could even blame cancel culture for raging against the movie based on one poster and two old teaser trailers without researching what the movie was actually about.

All I know is, it’s a damn shame.

[prvtbugsbuggins]

26 - Old Yeller

For @whumptober2021

Chapter link -> Here

Trigger warning for: Intense arguments, betrayal, and self reflection.

Prompt: Mercy

Summary: Epsilon learns some hard truths about himself, and wonders if he has finally gone too far.

���

Epsilon was tired. They had been on the run for days now, running from some invisible mercenary that would be more than happy to put a bullet through everyone’s head. Once they discovered what was happening on Chorus, they were quickly being hunted. They had discovered how they kept running into the mercenary Locus, resulting in many close calls that were far too close for comfort.

To be safe, they essentially had to kill Caboose’s pet, the remaining part of what was once a Mantis-class military assault droid. Of course, Caboose would befriend something like that. But for everyone's safety, it had to go, but convincing Caboose to do so was the hard part.

“Caboose, I’m sorry but we have to destroy it.” He tried to keep his tone gentle. He truly didn't want to have to destroy it, but he was more concerned on keeping his friend alive more than anything else. Epsilon crossed his arms from where he projected on Carolina’s shoulder, trying to look firm and in charge. Alpha was once leader of Blue team, and Caboose often got the two of them confused, so he was hoping to exploit that. Said Blue was cornered, hunching protectively over an AI chip that he refused to hand over.

“No!” Caboose shouted, using his body in an attempt to block everyone from getting closer. Freckles, or the ‘brain’ of Freckles, was impossible to get to. If Caboose didn’t want to give anything up willingly, it took either intense bargaining or outright tranquilizing him to get him to give it up, the latter was out of the question.

“We have to, Locus has a tracker program on it.” Epsilon tried to reason with him, “It’s how he keeps finding and trying to kill us. I want to keep us all safe, don't you know that?”

“I’m so sorry Boose, but he’s right.” Wash jumped in to try and back him up, something the AI was grateful for. “We can uh...get you another robot once everyone is safe. Preferable one that doesn’t have missiles on it.”

The Spartan only shook his head, moving his hands to hold the chip close to his chest. “I’m not abandoning Freckles! It’s not Freckles fault he’s sick!” He shifted his stance once he saw Carolina and Tucker move a little, both soldiers keeping well out of the way. “Why can’t you fix him? You're smart!”

“Because Locus is probably already on the way here, we don’t have time!” Epsilon shouted, raising his voice in frustration. He was steadily losing his temper, they had been at this for a good ten minutes now and it seemed like Caboose was not going to budge. “Stop being a fuckin’ baby and hand it over!”

“Epsilon…” Carolina warned, shooting the AI a look that he promptly ignored, he was too angry. Angry because these idiots weren't listening to him.

“No!” Caboose shouted back. “I won’t because Freckles didn’t abandon me! He was there for me, unlike you.” The last word was said with so much force that the AI actually took a step back, even though he was just a hologram. It was extremely rare for the Spartan to get angry, and when he did something was likely to get broken. Epsilon switched tactics, moving to try and calm him down.

“I didn’t abandon you! We had to-”

“YES YOU DID!” Caboose was full on screaming now, hiccupping as he started to loose control over his emotions. “You died! You came back! And you left! And then you came back! And then you left again without even saying goodbye!”

“You know I had a good reason for that.” Epsilon snapped, thoughts of de-escalation thrown out the window as he got defensive. “We had to go after-”

“I DON’T CARE! I JUST WANTED MY FRIEND!” Sheer pain roared out of Caboose's throat, chasing the end of a sob. The Spartan turned around, shoulders shaking as he clutched the chip as though with was a tether to reality. “Freckles was there and you weren’t! I needed you! But you keep leaving and hurting me! All the time! I WISH YOU WOULD STOP COMING BACK AND LET ME STOP HURTING!”

Caboose threw a fist back behind him and hit the stone they were sheltering behind with so much force, it cracked in half. Stones shifted and what was once a boulder about the size of a tank was reduced to mere pebbles in seconds. If anyone was standing there at the time, they would have been utterly obliterated, and they all knew it. Unconsciously, everyone stepped back away from the Spartan, something that did not escape his notice.

“I…” The pain in his voice was evident as he watched the people he cared about be actually frightened of him. He had scared them. Blue armor shook as he pulled his fist back, now covered in powdered stone, the one that could of easily killed someone. “I’m…it was...I wouldn’t...”

“Boose…” Wash stepped forward and slowly lifted a hand towards him. Caboose couldn’t help but feel like Wash was treating him like he was about to bite someone, and it hurt. “It’s okay, we-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence, the sudden movement spooking Caboose into running. He was there one second, and then he was gone, a simple cloud of dust dissipating where once stood. For a moment, everyone stood around and stared at the now empty spot, pebbles still continuing to shift and move about.

“Nice going, asshole.” Tucker hissed after a moment. “Real bang up job you did.”

“Shut the fuck up, Tucker, I didn’t see you helping!” Epsilon turned to stare at Tucker, flickering red in his anger. “I did the best I could, but you saw how he was acting!”

“He was acting like a traumatized person, in pain, who attached themselves to a comfort object because the usual source of their comfort up and left! The same thing that you, the one who caused it, wanted to destroy! What the fuck did you think was going to happen!?” Tucker threw his hands up in the air, frustrated and angry himself. “Christ, Church, do you ever think about anyone but yourself!”

“I AM THINKING OF EVERYONE!” The AI shouted back, “I’m trying to keep us safe!”

“Doing a real good job of doing that too, seeing that one of our teammates up and fucking left.” Tucker gestured hard at the empty spot.

“Guys-” Washington tried to interrupt, putting a hand on Tucker’s shoulder, but Tucker shook him off with a growl.

“No! It’s about time that fucking prick gets a reality check!” He whirled around again and pointed at the AI. “Listen, you think Caboose can always bounce back from anything, but he can’t. There’s only so many times a person will take getting spit on before they up and leave! And he’s taken so much shit from you! Which is rich, cause he's the only reason why you are alive right now!”

Epsilon drew himself up, ready to yell back, but was stopped by Carolina.

“Epsilon...Church.” She said, softly, trying to remain calm. He could pick up the subtle edges of guilt in her voice. “You need to listen….we both need to listen.”

“You can’t possibly-”

“Yes, I can.” She stressed, fixing the AI a hard gaze. “Our push to find the director hurt a lot of people,” She glanced over to Washington, and nodded. “and we didn’t help by leaving everyone behind again. We both need to make a change.”

Epsilon couldn’t say anything to that.

“Listen Church,” Tucker continued, rage simmering down a bit. He was still shaking slightly, but his voice was even and controlled. “I have never met anyone so completely loyal and loving like that big goofy idiot. I have no clue why he loves you so much, but you better start acting like you deserve it, or you are going to push him away one too many times and be alone. And you’ll have nobody to blame for it but yourself.” With that, he turned and began to walk away.

Time stopped, at least, it seemed like it stopped. To an AI, it was just normal processing speed as he rolled around the words Tucker said to him. What Caboose said to him.

He remembered when he had first proposed going after the director to the gang. He had lost his cool. He had gotten angry, and promptly turned it on everyone. In his mind, he had blamed them all for his suffering, his frustrations. But then he saw the hurt on everyone’s faces, people who cared about him, and he had just repaid them all by slapping them in the face.

The worst of all was Caboose. He could see in his eyes how much it had hurt him. One of the worst pains he could remember feeling was when Caboose turned around and walked out that door. He had let himself become consumed by his vengeance and anger and ended up hurting everyone with his selfishness.

Caboose had be the one to pull him out of the Epsilon unit, to make him a body, to catch him up, to be glad that he existed. It seemed like no matter where he was, Caboose wasn't too far behind, ready to help or just be there. He never treated him like the broken fractured AI that he was, to Caboose, he was just his friend. Caboose loved him from the get go, even when the AI didn't understand why.

“I have no clue why he loves you so much, but you better start acting like you deserve it, or you are going to push him away one too many times and be alone.

And you’ll have nobody to blame for it but yourself.”

It was true. All of it.

And then he went left in the middle of the night with Carolina, without so much of a note, or saying goodbye. Caboose must have thought he had died again, learning to heal a little from his time away before his dumb ass came back - and ripped open the wounds all over again.

He didn’t know a hologram could feel sick, but he felt it now. Regret and shame wasn’t an easy mix to process. Cold reality crashed down around him, and for the first time since forever, he knew he truly fucked up.

Holy shit, he was such a dick.

“Wait! Where are you going!?” Epsilon shouted, For a moment he was afraid that he did go too far, and that his friend was walking away, never to return. Afraid that he was too late.

“To look for Boose.” Tucker growled, not even bothering to turn around to give the AI a glance. “Nice of you to show your concern.”

“...Take me with you.”

“What!?” Tucker visibly bristled, sounding almost offended by that statement. “You just want to come along and hammer in that knife even deeper. Holy shit Church, you are hella eager to kill that poor man, aren't you?”

“No, you’re right…” Epsilon sighed, drawing the last of his pride together. He didn't bother getting angry at Tucker, he deserved the remark. “I am a dick. I need to apologize.”

Tucker shook his head. “No. I don’t think he’d want to talk to you right now. Let him cool down and when we get back, maybe you can try.”

“...okay.” Epsilon could only sit quietly, watching Tucker walk off and into the bush. He didn’t know how Tucker would be able to find Caboose. Caboose was nearly impossible to find if he didn’t actually want to be found, but something tells him that he’d let Tucker do it. Tucker, and not him.

Washington let out a breath he was holding and looked to Carolina. “Hey, Lis-”

“I’m sorry, Wash.” She interrupted. “I’m sorry I left again.” She went over and hugged him. Wash returned the hug with a sigh, before he let go.

“Just don’t do it again, Boss.” He gave her a thumbs up. “And it’s all good.”

“I need to log off for a bit.” Epsilon announced, and before anyone else could get a word in, he vanished back into the implant. He knew he was running away from his problems for a little while, but he needed the quiet and the dark.

He had some self reflection to do.

—

Once Caboose came back with Tucker, Epsilon apologized. Then he and the team found a secure place where Epsilon could clean the chip, in which then it was installed into Caboose's gun.

The argument was a turning point on how Epsilon treated people around him, and he realized just how bad his temper could affect everyone and how often he thought about himself. The sobering reality that he might drive someone like Caboose away was what he needed to start working on himself.

Caboose was reassured that nobody was scared of him, they were more scared of him getting hurt than him hurting them. When Boose slips too hard into anger, he can end up getting himself hurt badly by simply not seeing dangers. Like he could literally walk right off a cliff because he's too mad to see the edge. He would most likely survive, but he would still get hurt. Like he could have easily broken his hand by punching stones and the like :( Plz don't punch solid objects, it doesn't do well for your hand bones.

[ofhouseadama]

could I dm you this? yes. but also asks are fun even though this question is mean so. how do Ed and Lorraine react to the Vietnam war?

Okay so my Ed and Lorraine are absolutely Kennedy Democrats, are both very excited and enthusiastic about the first Catholic president, but both are against the Vietnam War and US military intervention from the start. Ed's already fought in one imperialist proxy war, he's got the PTSD to prove it, and Lorraine just is truly repulsed by violence of any kind.

And also like, to go completely left field for a minute -- I've been thinking a lot about how teenage Lored were effectively trapped at 17-19 years old. Mostly financially, and in different ways. in 1951, Lorraine wouldn't have been able to have her own bank account. Women wouldn't have the right to open their own bank account until the 60s or have a credit card until the 70s -- her money would have been her father's, effectively. and while probably not maliciously, since she was a young woman she likely wouldn't have had much access to her pay checks unless she was cashing them directly. Ed, meanwhile, while trying to survive a negligent/abusive household, absolutely would have been spending money on things most teens wouldn't have to in order to survive... and that's before getting the draft notice from the Selective Service, which took away even more control of his own life.

So I see Ed and Lorraine getting married young (even for the 50s, they're a few years younger than the median, though the war was actively driving that age down) mostly out of making the most out of what they could together. Ed putting Lorraine on his bank accounts and asking her actively to manage them while he's away, and her depositing her paychecks into his account would give her more financial control in her life than most women of the era. Lorraine's engagement ring (the size of that goddamn rock) is even an insurance policy most women her age and demographic didn't have -- often when women fled marriages, it was only with their jewelry to sell. It's half about Ed's possessive streak, half him showing he's not afraid to give her the money to run, if she needed to.

Anyway -- the trauma of their late teens and early twenties is entirely rooted in the rising Cold War anxieties and the locus of harm done to women in the 50s and I fully see their pursuit of demonology and the supernatural as something Lorraine initially started while working as a secretary for the Diocese, something she did to stay late at work and help people she could physically reach while Ed was away at war. She initially started staying late on the days she knew Father Gordon would be bringing in a scared family or terrified couple or frightened soul in through the back door hours after everyone had left, staying to pray and keep herself nearby, to be an observer to a fight she could be party to. Father Gordon figures her out quickly, of course, asking what interest she has in demons and exorcisms, and figures out she's clever with records and archives, almost to an uncanny degree.

And then figures out to exactly what uncanny degree.

After Ed came home and became the husband instead of the boyfriend, it turned into something Ed could throw all his metaphorical demons onto and a healthy way to exercise his control issues and fear and anxiety that doesn't (generally) affect Lorraine because she's fighting with him side by side in this, when before they were separated by thousands of miles -- the beginning everyone's favorite Catholic battle couple very much rooted in Ed and Lorraine parsing out who brought home metaphorical demons from the war, and who brought home literal ones, and bringing them to Father Gordon when necessary. Rooted in Ed needing to be useful, to dusting off his Catholic school Latin and reading everything he could get his hands on so that he could continue to help, continue to fight.

Lorraine would have been pregnant with Judy during the heightening tensions with Cuba and as Kennedy is sending more and more military "advisors" to Vietnam and Cold War tensions flared the hottest they'd get in the 1960s and I can just see both of their control issues revving up, especially with a few-months-old baby in the mix. Just the two of them laying bed, looking down at their three month old baby girl, wondering if they'd all get nuked tomorrow. If war would be declared tomorrow. If they'd all be dead, if they brought her into the world just to die violently. It's like taking guns off the street. They can't control the White House, or the Soviets, or Cuba or China or or or -- but they know about demons, they know about spirits, they know about taking these bombs off the battlefield, in the war of good against evil, and this is a war they can be foot soldiers in together.

Lorraine would get a bit of relief in the March of '63 when Kennedy dropped married men with children to the bottom of the draft pool, and then dropped the age of the draft pool to 26, aging Ed out of the Selective Service entirely. And then in November, JFK would be assassinated, and the photo of Jackie Kennedy covered in blood, leaving the hospital hand-in-hand with RFK, would be on the front page of every newspaper in the country. It would be a jolt for both of them -- but it wouldn't fully hit Lorraine until seven years later, when she'd have her first vision of Ed's death and fully understand Jackie Kennedy's weary, "I want them to see what they have done to Jack."

After the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution in August of 1964, they fully throw themselves into taking cases almost full time. As the war heats up, Ed pulls back from teaching art classes at the VA. If he spends too much time there, he has to face how pointless the violence has been. If he spends too much time there, now, he has to face that he still doesn't know why he survived. Why he lived, and everyone else on board the ship with him died. Because he still doesn't know, he still is fighting to make his life matter in a way that makes sense to him. All he has is his sense of duty, a couple of college credits, and his hands. On good days, he knows that he's loved -- that Lorraine loves him so much it makes it hurt to breathe, that he's a good father to his daughter, who will never be afraid of him.

Ed has a complete PTSD relapse in 1966, with the beginning of the ground war and the full-throated resurgence of the American propaganda machine and military recruitment. He's back in the guilt spiral, the "I never had it that bad, I was only in the Navy for two years, I never had it that bad," just feeding into "why did I live when everyone else I fought with died," back and forth until he can't sleep, can only sleep when Judy sleeps, accidentally ends up adapting himself to her nap schedule and has to sleep with his hand on her chest, feeling her breathe.

Lorraine calls in Chief, after Ed can't get out of bed for 72 hours and misses mass for the first time in his life. Chief, who comes up from Brooklyn to remind Ed of the time their entire ship exploded and Ed treaded water for eight hours and everyone else died. How they spent the next six months getting drunk whenever they weren't on duty and picking fights they couldn't get out of, and that one time they got thrown in the brig because Chief struck a superior asshole and Ed just followed him into the fight. (No, Lorraine does not know about that time Ed and Chief ended up in the brig. She will never know about that time. Judy will at some point in her early 20s learn about that time, when she needs to learn about how her parents are people, who have absolutely made mistakes in their lives.) "You and I spent six months drunk," Chief says, bouncing Judy on his knee in the kitchen over a cup of coffee, Ed refusing to look at him as he deep cleans the stove. "And then your dad died, and your sainted wife handled everything for you, and we realized we couldn't send you home to her like that."

"I still don't know why I lived."

Chief shrugs. "It doesn't matter why, son. The same reason any of us live, and any of us die. It doesn't matter. You have a little girl now who depends on you. She matters more than any goddamn reason -- you live for her, and your saint of a wife, and for all the people that you help. So that you can look them in the face, say you've been down in the hole that they're in now, and you know the way out."

Lorraine calls in Chief, because she absolutely picked a fight after mass that day without Ed, with Judy on her hip. Overheard Dorothy O'Malley running her mouth in the pew in front of her sounding like a national security ghoul and didn't even think before she opened her mouth and unloading the full force of her anxiety and anger on her. Only stops because she feels a gentle hand on her shoulder and Father Gordon murmuring in her ear, "Okay Mrs. Warren, you've made your point," while leading her away. It's the "Mrs. Warren" instead of the familiar "Lorraine" that jolts her back to herself, kissing Judy's head as she tries to shake herself out of it.

"Thank you," she tells Father Gordon, defeated.

He shrugs. "You don't come to confession until before Friday night prayer service. I didn't want you stewing on this all week." Pausing, he takes a moment to fondly tug on one of Judy's pig tails, making her laugh. "If Ed's not... feeling well, I know about that."

Lorraine bites her lip, knowing full and well that Father Gordon served as a chaplain in World War II. That seeing the violence of the Nazis firsthand is what convinced him that the Devil was more than a metaphor, that evil truly walked the Earth. Sent him on his own path, chasing darkness.

Lorraine nods.

"I could talk to him," Father Gordon says. "But it would likely come better from someone he served with."

When she gets home, she finds Chief's number in their phone book, and calls Brooklyn for the first and last time. He comes up the next day, and shoos her out of the house to do something for herself for the first time in months, telling her that he's more than equipped to look after a single three year old.

Ed goes back to teaching at the VA a few months after that, teaching art to the new round of mentally scarred children returning from war. He concedes to group therapy, and a few sessions with the VA psychiatrist to get something to take the edge off. He teaches at the VA until the troop withdrawals in 1970, reducing his class load as he and Lorraine take on more and more cases -- verging towards a hundred a year -- for the Catholic Church, and the media attention that comes along with that, the publicity engagements that help keep their bills paid, the articles and academic talks.

Even still, Ed occasionally brings home someone for dinner, just to make sure that they've only brought metaphorical demons home from war with them, not literal ones.

Sometimes it's literal ones.

[teenwolffan-with-nolife]

The Witch and The Wolf Pt.47

Word Count: 2,681

Characters: Derek Hale (brief), Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Isaac Lahey, Ethan and Aiden Steiner (mentioned), Allison Argent, Kira Yukimura, Noshiko Yukimura, the Nogitsune, Lydia Martin, Reader

Pairings: Eventual Derek Hale x Witch!Reader

Warnings: angst, brief fluff/ crack, death TW

A/N: --- 

Masterlist        Series Masterlist

“Medically, he’s okay,” you walked into the McCall House, seeing Melissa whispering to Scott.

Stiles was nowhere in sight, along with everyone else that was there before.

“How do we know if he’s really Stiles?” Scott asked.

You walked into Scott’s room, seeing Stiles laying on the bed.

“(Y/N),” he jumped out of bed, collapsing into your arms as you gasped slightly, in shock.

“Hey, Stiles,” you said softly.

“I-I’m so sorry,” he shook his head.

You wrapped your arms around him tightly.

“Really, don't worry about it. Come on,” you led him to his bed, while he sat in front of you, bouncing his leg anxiously.

“Uhm, Kira’s mom is on her way and she’s bringing the Oni with her to make sure it’s me,” his voice was shaky as he continued to look at the floor.

“Are you okay?” you put your hand on his shoulder, looking at him slightly concerned.

“I’m sorry,” he wrapped his arms around your waist once again, while resting his head on your stomach.

You stroked his hair softly, trying to calm him.

You made eye contact with Derek, seeing him frown slightly while you motioned him to leave.

“(Y/N)? Stiles? She’s here,” you heard Scott call.

You helped Stiles up, feeling him leaning on you while the two of you made your way to the living room.

You saw Noshiko standing in front of the three of you, surrounded by the Oni behind her.

“This is gonna sting,” you turned to Stiles.

He nodded his head, stepping forward as the Oni put their hand on the back of his neck, pulling him down slowly. Their eyes glew yellow, scanning Stiles.

He collapsed to the floor, shivering as you ran to him.

“Check,” Noshiko said.

You looked behind his ear, seeing a 5 marked on it.

“It’s him,” you nodded your head.

“Can the Oni track down the Nogitsune?” Scott asked her while you helped Stiles up, handing him a blanket.

“Tomorrow night. It’s too close to dawn,” she replied.

“(Y/N)? What about you?” Derek asked.

You closed your eyes briefly, trying to use your magic to track him.

“I-I don't know… The link’s broken. But, it’s not completely gone. There’s still a trace. I might be able to track it,” you replied.

“You won’t get far without the help of my Oni,” Noshiko warned.

“Well, I have to at least try. Would you know why he took Lydia?” you asked.

“Mainly because of her powers, I would assume,” Noshiko replied.

“The power of a banshee,” Scott realized.

“He wouldn't… he wouldn't kill her, right?” Stiles asked, a hint of nervousness in his tone.

“No, he won’t. We just have to find him and find him quick...” your eyes traveled to the clock.

6:24 AM

---

“Locus revelare,” you closed your eyes, searching through Beacon Hills for any sign of Lydia or the Nogitsune, being unsuccessful.

You groaned, resting your head in your hands, slightly frustrated.

“Anything?” Allison asked, walking into your room, Isaac close behind her.

“Nothing. It’s honestly like he just disappeared off the face of the Earth,” you groaned.

She handed you a napkin, motioning to your bloody nose as you groaned.

“Thanks,” you sighed.

“Yeah, no problem,” she replied.

“This is… frustrating,” Allison said.

“Very. Any luck on finding Lydia’s car?” 

“No…actually, scratch that,” Isaac received a text on his phone.

“It’s in the Sheriff’s impound lot,” Isaac said.

“You guys, go. I need to head to Scott’s anyway. Be careful and call me if you need any help,” both Allison and Isaac wrapped their arms around you before you hugged them back.

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen tonight, but I need to let you both know that I care about you guys so much,” Allison looked between you and Isaac.

Your face softened as you stroked her cheek.

“Right back at you, kiddo. Stay safe, both of you,” they waved, walking out of your room while you gathered your things, heading to Scott’s.

---

“What does your book say about the Nogitsune? Anything?” Scott sat next to you.

Stiles was currently asleep on the couch.

“This book doesn't have anything. All my other ones burned in the fire, and I’m still trying to find them again. All I can tell you is that there is a link between Stiles and the Nogitsune,” you explained.

“Isn't that a good thing? Can’t you trace it?” he asked.

“I’m trying to, without hurting Stiles. He looks like he’s getting worse and if I try to find the Nogitsune through Stiles, it might even kill him,” you looked back at Stiles’ pale figure, shaking on the couch.

“I don't want to see my best friend like this,” Scott sighed.

“I know, kid. He’ll be okay. We can do this,” you said, softly stroking his cheek.

You could hear Stiles’ voice as you turned, seeing him sitting up and gasping for his breath.

“Stiles?” the two of you ran to him, helping him stand up.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Scott said, trying to calm him.

“W-What’s going on?” he asked.

He took a step back from the two of you, breathing shakily.

“Your dad is at Eichen House, they’re all looking for that girl, Meredith. Everyone else is out looking for Lydia and I’m trying to find a spell or anything to help find them,” you explained.

“Well, did you find anything?” he asked.

His voice was still shaky, and you could tell that he was only getting worse.

“Actually…” Scott started.

“We didn't find anything,” you said quickly, interrupting him.

Scott frowned as you shook your head.

“Why does it feel like we’re waiting for a ransom call?” he sighed.

“Hey, it’ll be okay,” you put your hand on his shoulder while he pulled away, noticing something off.

You grabbed his hand, realizing they were shaking, and freezing.

“What the hell? You’re freezing, Stiles,” you frowned.

Scott held his hand, black veins appeared on Scott.

“You’re in pain,” Scott said.

“I’m just cold,” he pulled away from both of you, putting on his jacket.

“I just can't get warm,” you and Scott both knew something was wrong.

“Do you want me to take your pain?” Scott offered.

“I can heal you too,” you said.

“No, it’s fine. It’s not that bad, it’s like a dull aching sensation,” Stiles said.

“Where?” you asked.

“Sort of everywhere,” he sighed.

You two gave him a sorrowful look before Scott received a call from Kira, walking back from the two of you.

“You know, this is probably the longest time you’ve spent with us since Scott became a werewolf,” Stiles let out a small laugh, his teeth chattering.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” you replied. 

“Don’t worry about it, I’m just happy to have you here through all of this,” he sighed.

He rested his head on your shoulder while you pat his back.

“Hey, we gotta go, like now,” Scott ran to the two of you.

You raised an eyebrow, before the three of you took off.

---

“Where is she?” the three of you ran to Kira.

“I don’t know, she ran off,” she shook her head.

Scott raised his head up.

“She’s in the music room,” Scott said.

“Wait, we have a music room?” you said, slightly shocked.

Scott just gave you a blank look, before shaking his head.

“Come on.”

---

You saw Coach tase the orderly from Eichen, his twitching body falling to the ground.

You looked slightly impressed, while Stiles ran to Meredith.

“Coach, nice to see you again,” you nodded your head.

“Who the hell are you? Another new kid?” he replied.

Scott stifled a laugh while your face dropped.

“I literally graduated like less than a year ago. I went with you to that lacrosse meet that got canceled! I was in your class!” you exclaimed.

“Not ringing a bell. Just get the kid out of here, okay?” you rolled your eyes before the rest of you raced back to Scott’s house.

--- 

You were slightly shocked, seeing Isaac sitting nervously, with Rafael standing in front of him while the four of you ran into Scott’s house, backing up slightly.

“Who’s she?” Rafael pointed to Meredith.

“She’s… my girlfriend,” Stiles lied.

She backed away from Stiles before shaking her head.

“You’re not my type,” she shook her head.

Stiles’ face dropped, giving her a look.

“Well, we have some things to talk about,” Stiles pulled her arm softly.

“He’s my type,” she motioned to Isaac.

“Okay… Isaac can come too,” the three of them ran upstairs, leaving you standing with Scott and Rafael.

You could feel a strong tension in the air as Scott dug his nails into his fist.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

You took a step back before Scott held your arm, trying to tell you to stay with him.

“I need to talk to you,” Rafael replied.

“I can’t right now,” he replied.

You heard your phone ringing as you let out the breath you didn't know you were holding, seeing Derek’s name flash across your screen.

“Uh, sorry, gotta go,” you quickly pulled away from Scott, while he mouthed for you to stay before you ran upstairs.

“I think you just saved me,” you sighed, answering the phone.

“Uh, you’re welcome I think? Look, Ethan and Aiden were trying to find Lydia’s scent, until someone started shooting wolfsbane at them,” Derek replied.

“WBhat? Where are you guys now?” your face dropped.

“We’re hiding out in a coyote den right now. But that's not the main thing. I’m pretty sure it’s Araya who’s shooting at us,” Derek said.

Araya? Realization hit you soon after.

“How did she find… are you okay?” you asked.

“We’re fine. I’m just warning you. Be safe. I don’t know what she's here for,” Derek replied.

“Okay… we have Meredith with us, we’re one step closer to finding Lydia and finding the Nogitsune,” you explained.

“That’s… be careful (Y/N/N),” he said.

You nodded your head softly before replying.

“You too. Don’t end up dead,” you said.

“Right back at you,” you let out a small, shaky laugh before hanging up the call, feeling a familiar pang in your chest.

It was worry. No matter how much you tried to stop it, you kept thinking about Derek and kept worrying about him. You reminded yourself once again that nothing good ever came of it and you were only making yourselves fall farther apart.

You shook your head, walking into Scott's room.

“No, we’re not gonna torture her!” you heard Stiles say in a hushed voice, him and Isaac in the bathroom.

Meredith sat silently on Scott’s bed, rocking back and forth.

“Hey there,” you squatted down, looking her in the eye.

“You don’t know where Lydia is, do you?” you asked softly.

“She’s not telling me,” she shook her head.

“I meant scare her,” you heard Isaac say.

“We’re not gonna psychologically torture her either!” Stiles yelled back.

You gave them a look before Meredith called out, the boys rushing back.

“Aren’t… aren’t you gonna answer that?” Meredith motioned to your phone as you frowned slightly.

She’s a banshee, right

“Oh, right. Uh, hello?” your phone was off as you pressed it against your ear.

You pretended to talk to someone, handing her the phone.

“It’s for you,” you said.

“Hello?” she asked.

You turned to Stiles, who shrugged.

“Torture shouldn't be your first answer, you know,” you whispered to Isaac.

He sighed before Meredith handed you back your phone.

“Coup de foudre,” she said.

Coup de foudre?

“W-What is that? Spanish?” Stiles asked.

“No, it’s French. Love at first sight. What the hell does that mean?” you frowned.

“I know what it means,” you turned around to see Scott running into the room.

“Camp Oak Creek. We have to go.”

---

“Look, if no one else is gonna say it, I will. Stiles, you look like crap. You look like you got worse,” you sighed, hearing Isaac as the four of you drove in Stiles’ car, on your way to Oak Creek.

You rested your head on your hand, giving Isaac a look.

“And when we find this other you, is he gonna look better or worse? What happens if he gets hurt?” Isaac asked.

“You mean if he dies, do I die? I don’t care, as long as no one else gets hurt because of me,” your face fell as you sat up.

“Stiles,” you started.

“No, (Y/N). I remember everything I did. From… From stabbing Scott to stabbing you, setting your apartment on fire… forcing you to take your powers back,” his voice wavered as you sighed softly.

“Stiles, that wasn't you,” you started.

“Yeah, but I remember it. You all have to promise me, you can’t let anyone else get hurt because of me,” Stiles turned to face Scott, then you and Isaac.

You shook your head.

“You can't put what he did on yourself, that wasn't you,” you said again.

“It wasn't me? I remember you screaming my name, begging me to stop,” Stiles raised his voice slightly, leaving you quiet, with nothing to say.

You felt Scott's and Isaac's eyes on you before you sighed, leaning back in your chair. You had to come up with a plan to save Stiles, whatever the outcome was.

---

“We've done this before, you guys. We’ve all gathered together to save lives before. They were total strangers, this is Lydia,” you all nodded, meeting Kira and Allison at Camp Oak Creek.

The group of you stood outside the gates. 

“What are we gonna do about my mom?” you heard Kira ask.

“Well, we’ll need to split up. Kira, you’re probably the only person who can get through to your mom. Half of us will stay with Kira, and half of us will go find Lydia, deal?” you suggested.

They all nodded in agreement.

“Keep your weapons close, Allison,” you looked around the camp before you, Stiles, and Scott ran into the building.

---

“I-I can’t smell her anywhere,” Scott shook his head worriedly, the three of you running down the corridors.

“Inveniet eam,” you looked around, running forward with Scott and Stiles behind you.

You turned right, spotting an empty room, behind a locked door.

“Patentibus,” you used your magic to push the door open, spotting Lydia backed against the wall.

“What are you doing here?! I told you not to come!” she yelled, running to you three.

“What?” Stiles asked as you frowned.

“Lydia, we’re here to save you,” you shook your head.

“Who else came with you?!” she yelled.

“Allison, Kira, and Isaac,” Scott said.

“Someone’s gonna die,” her eyes watered slightly in panic.

You felt your heart stop out of worry for your friends. 

“We gotta go,” the four of you ran down the hall. 

Stiles called out, collapsing over as you turned to look at him, you and Lydia stopping.

Scott continued to run down the alley, while you sat on your knees, lifting Stiles’ head up.

“Stiles?” you said softly.

You heard a loud screeching noise, as your head shot up.

“Go, I’ll stay with him,” Lydia said.

You froze, before nodding, getting up and running to the rest of them.

Isaac was on the floor, blood dripping from his body while Scott cried out, holding Allison’s body.

No

Your eyes watered, feeling your chest aching harshly. There was a loud ringing in your ears, seeing Allison’s body limp.

“I-Isaac,” your voice broke as you ran to him.

You continued looking at Allison, your tears slipping down your cheek.

“S-She’s dead… (Y/N),” Isaac cried softly, as you wrapped your arms around him. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, feeling your tears slipping as you sniffled, trying to comfort Isaac.

“Allison…” you could hear Scott crying out as you shut your eyes tightly.

You could hear Scott’s cries as you held back your own cries, biting down on your lip hard.

“I-I… We need to call Chris,” your hand was shaking as you reached for your phone, dialing his number.

[gkingoffez]

2020 RvB Valentines Exchange uwu

@rvbgiftexchange

My partner was MentalMaterial but I think they’ve changed their name to @linklebard ?

Anyway, here’s ur Tuckington mutual pining bed sharing as requested. Enjoy!

Words: 1833

Pairing: Tuckington

~~~

Tucker was fucked. He had to be- fucked in the head or the heart or the mostly healed stab wound in his side from that fucker Felix. Something had to be wrong, despite the fortified walls of Armonia around him, the Chorus truce, the energy sword in his bag and especially the ex-Freelancer standing beside him in the confined corridor who he hadn’t expected to be there.

“I’m sorry, sirs!” squeaked the young woman in front of them, a civilian wearing a military lanyard, pulling at her frazzled hair with one hand and frantically scrolling on her data-pad with the other. “There must have been a glitch in the program- you should have been assigned your own private rooms. I’m so sorry, our equipment is so outdated and it does stuff like this sometimes-”

“Please stop apologising, it’s not your fault,” Wash insisted gently. “We understand that this was just a mistake, but we’re tired and just want to go to bed?”

“Are you sure there’s no more spare rooms on this floor? A secret penthouse with a jacuzzi maybe? I’ll take it if there is.” asked Tucker.

The woman shook her head, frowning and tapping away. “I’m sor- I mean, no, not here, in fact there’s nothing else on this floor. “This hotel was only converted into officer accommodation a few days ago, and Locus was confirmed to have stayed here while in the city,” she explained.

“There are empty rooms further along that way, but we haven’t had time to do the same level of security sweeps on them.”

The woman gestured at the plain black door behind her, completely identical to the myriad of other ones lining the narrow corridor.

“This room does have a queen bed, sirs. The easiest solution might be that you can share it for the night and one of you can move tomorrow? I know it’s not ideal, but it’s better than a possible security risk.”

“What?” spluttered Tucker. “Why aren’t there enough rooms? And What happened to all of us getting private-?”

“Thank you, that’ll do us fine for tonight,” interjected Wash loudly, glaring at him. “We don’t want to cause too much fuss this late in the evening, and definitely don’t want to stay somewhere that’s not secure. Don’t you agree, Captain Tucker.”

Tucker gaped, words escaping him under Wash’s gaze.

He was fucked. Because once the adrenaline had worn off discovering a manufactured civil war, transmitting that info globally, being betrayed and stabbed by Felix, confronting Hargrove and whatever else happened in the less than a week since he’d snuck off the New Republic base, Tucker suddenly had time and space for… thoughts.

Thoughts like how much he’d truly missed the man standing beside him.

Wash, who’d been a hardass in the canyon like he was being fucking paid for it, who’d kept them all fed and alive and together, and then he’d gone and done the heroic sacrifice play, like an idiot, and suddenly he was gone. It felt like all Tucker had thought about for the last several months was whether Wash was okay, whether he was in pain or alone or dead. At points he’d almost wished they’d swapped places, that he was taking the (in hindsight, non-existent) punishment from the Federal Army, and Wash was the one training the Lieutenants.

Then out of the blue, Wash was back. Wash was fine. Everyone was fine, and like a circle, the whirlwind of betrayal, civil war, stabbing yada-yada unfolded. Tucker had only just caught his breath again and was looking forward to actually relaxing for once, only to end up in this corridor, standing awkwardly in front of a room they’d both been assigned to.

Wash was staring pointedly at him with those stupid clear blue eyes that made Tucker’s heart jump, and it was clear something must have been wrong, because that wasn’t right. It was physical and mental exhaustion, not love. He wasn’t some hormonal teenager, he was a grown man who wanted to go to fucking bed and not have to deal with his fucking feelings.

“Yeah, whatever, let’s just go then,” Tucker said offhandedly, adjusting his sack over his shoulder and stomping into the room without another word.

It was small but glamourous compared to normal military quarters- the hiss of the sliding door muffled against thick looking carpet, one door presumably leading to a bathroom, a single kitchen cabinet with a sink and a lowboy with a television mounted to the wall above it.

The bed took up the bulk of the space in the far end of the room. Behind it hung thick mustard coloured curtains, although Tucker knew even without having to move them that they’d been covered barred with a bullet proof covering as part of the security sweep. What was the point of being a heroes of Chorus, after all, if a well-placed sniper could take them out through a hotel window?

“Home sweet home, I guess,” Tucker shrugged, ignoring his jumping heart as he unceremoniously dumped his stuff on the ground near the kitchen space.

“Thank you for stopping to help us. We’ll be fine.” Wash was saying as he backed into the room. “Good night.”

“Good night sirs!” the woman said, “And again, I’m so-!”

The door hissed shut, Wash’s hand on the button.

“What the fuck, dude,” cried Tucker, rounding on him. “You didn’t have to immediately say yes. I could have pawned Caboose onto someone else and taken his room or something.”

“Oh don’t bother Caboose, he’s probably already asleep and you’ll never wake him. It’s late. All we need is a bed and everything will be else sorted in the morning. One night in the same bed won’t kill us.”

Wash crossed the room and carefully deposited his own knapsack on the lowboy.

“Besides, I wanted us to stay together a little bit longer. To be safe, you know,” he added quietly, glancing Tucker’s way.

Now, of course, Tucker’s eyes had also joined the ‘fucked party’. Was it a trick of the LED lights, or was that a blush on Wash’s cheeks? There was no way to double check, as Wash quickly turned his back on him.

Tucker crossed his arms haughtily, huffing and shaking his head to reset it.“Whatever. I’ll take the right side.”

“Fine by me,” replied Wash, unzipping his bag and rustling around in it, still turned away. “I’m going to change in the bathroom. Oh, and Tucker?”

“Yes?”

“I swear to god if you sleep naked, I’m going to suffocate you with a pillow.”

“Not if I suffocate you first, asshole.”

Maybe ten minutes of bathroom time, brushing teeth and other general night activities later (Tucker was fully clothed in loose borrowed sweats), they were both lying in bed back to back in the queen bed.

“Well,” said Wash. “Good night.”

“Yeah, night.”

As soon as the light turned off, Tucker’s brain switched on like a fucking Christmas tree.

He was not in love with Wash. Love was for girls and people who hadn’t spent literal years on the shittiest military posting ever, then got knocked up, then spent years in the desert, then got dragged on a mission to kill the Freelancer Director, then crashed landed on a planet- well, anyone would get the point. Sure, he acted like a stud and a lady’s man, but truthfully, it had been a long, long time since he’d really loved anyone like that.

Wash had been a fucking Freelancer. Caboose and the Reds talked about him like he was the most capable, badass guy around (barring the time he’d apparently gone evil and shot Donut, of course). Not to mention, he was kinda hot. Sandy hair with streaks of grey, blue eyes, even the criss-cross of scars across his pale skin did things for Tucker. Like he was this put-together, experienced and handsome man next to Tucker’s immaturity and recklessness.

The sheets were feeling too tight and stuffy for his brain, and the slow pattern of Wash’s breathing next to him was not helping. He flipped over onto his back, pulling and rearranging them, staring up at the shadowed ceiling.

“Hey Wash, you asleep yet?” he asked quietly

There was a beat.

“If I was, how would you expect me to answer that?” came the annoyed reply

“I dunno. Snoring?”

Wash snorted. “Just go to sleep, Tucker.”

They were in the same bed. They were in the same bed. Wash was inches away, the kind of distance where Tucker could touch him and then easily brush it off as an accident of movement. Wash’s hand was right there, he’d only need to reach- but no. He couldn’t do that, it wasn’t right.

When Caboose first suggested putting the ex-Freelancer in Church’s empty armour, it hadn’t really mattered to Tucker that much. He was just a guy who’d been an asshole but switched sides in time to help them take out the Meta, may as help him not go back to jail after all. Months in the crash had changed that, and all that time of training and bickering and surviving together had made them friends. He’d bitched and bitched and then watchedWash sacrifice himself as a rockfall separated them had been devastating, throwing into perspective just how goddamn much he cared about all of them despite the fact that they were a bunch of Red and Blue idiots.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder or however the shit went. And Tucker had spent months wishing Wash was ok, wishing he was there, wishing a lot of things.

Maybe he had fallen in love with the man in that time. Maybe it wasn’t as fucked up as he was making it out to be, he’d always been pretty dramatic, after all. Dudes fell in love with dudes all the time, especially when they’d been through a lot together.

Oh for fuck’s sake, none of this matters! There’s no way in hell that he likes me too. Just go to sleep, idiot.

Tomorrow, Tucker could wake up and blame it all on stress, exhaustion and the computer system that had fucked up room assignments. For that moment, however, he felt himself drift off, eyelids heavy and breath evening out.

They had work to do tomorrow rebuilding Chorus and tracking down mercenaries, and the more sleep he got, the better.

The last thing he registered that night was the vibration and rustling sound of Wash twisting in place. However, he must have dreamed about the gentle, tender touch he felt on his face as he was just on the precipice of sleep.

That couldn’t be right.

~~~

A snapshot of the future- tangled limbs in a queen bed, dark on pale and scattered scars. A data-pad hanging limply in a man’s hand, the other gazing at him with an adoring expression. The first glances at the rapture in his lover’s face, and snorts.

“You’re fucked,” he says, jokingly.

“No, you fucked me,” replies Tucker. They laugh.

~~~

Ya’ll let me tell you about the absolute stress rollercoaster I’ve had these past few months. So first up, I completely forgot I’d signed up for this exchange, and was surprised when I got the message. Then I proceeded to have a family death, my birthday and the stress of having to search for a new place to live and start packing up my stuff, all while working my shitty full time job and being exhausted from it.

So to my exchange partner, I’m sorry for not reaching out at all, but my anxiety levels are pretty high these days. This was written pretty quickly, at the last minute and after not writing for probably a year, but I hope you enjoy.

I might have another editing run through it before posting elsewhere but it’s done somewhat on time so I’m happy (Valentine’s was actually yesterday for me and I have to leave for work in like five minutes.)

Anyway, happy love and bed sharing and mutual pining guys. Love ya.

[skia-oura]

Dipper’s Day Around the World

A/N: This is 21k written over the span of like 6 months, so buckle in folks.

ao3

_______________________________________________________________

December 4th, 5:58 AM EST

           Dipper didn’t exactly sleep, anymore, but he was close enough to rest and unconcern with the matters of the rest of the world, sandwiched between Torako and Bentley in their bed, that the sting of the summons—friendly, from a personal circle, not from the standard one that strangers used—startled him into a disgruntled moan. Torako, a lighter sleeper in the morning, the early bird between them, twitched and then hummed an inquiry. “Izza…summons,” Dipper mumbled back before he turned and pressed his face into the crook of her neck.

           “Mmm,” she said. After a while, she asked, “Someone you know?”

           He could hear her voicebox buzzing under the skin at his lips, could feel it vibrating lightly into the cartilage (manifested cartilage, yes, but cartilage as long as he wanted it to be) of his nose. A very dim part of him strengthened by still-waking awareness wanted to open his mouth and bite down into the flesh a little, just to feel it echo more directly into the not-bones of his teeth. The rest of him knew that it was a bad idea and was a sure way to get the heel of her palm slamming into his nose hard enough to break and hurt. It wasn’t even omniscience that told him this, just unfortunate prior experience.

           She still let him close, though, and so he nuzzled in. “Yeah,” he sighed, but he was mostly awake now. “It’s a friends and family circle. Even though it’s at—oh, look, it’s 6 AM,” he said.

           Torako reached over and up and ruffled at his hair. He sat up and smoothed it flat, glowering down at her. The motion dislodged Bentley’s arm from his waist but the Bentley that lived in this house was a deeper sleeper than the Bentley that returned to the apartment he’d been kidnapped from, and so he did nothing but scrunch up his nose (adorable) and sleep-mumble unintelligible noises before relaxing back into deeper sleep. Dipper sighed and relaxed shoulders he hadn’t even realized were tense.

           “Go gettem, Dips,” Torako whispered, eye cracked open in a half-awake smile. “We’re gonna have breakfast bout nine, ok? Ben’n I got busy days planned.”

           “Okay,” Dipper said. He bent down and pressed a kiss to Torako’s forehead. “Let Bentley know where I’ve gone when he wakes up, okay?”

           “Mmmkay,” Torako said, then yawned and snuggled back into the covers. “Later gater.”

           The summons stung him again. Dipper hovered above the bed for a moment, wings spread, then melted from comfortable (but elegant!!) pajamas into a more formal (but somewhat casual) suit before focusing on tracing the summons back to its locus, and slipping from bedroom on the East Coast to elsewhere.

December 4th, 11:01 AM BST

           Elsewhere turned out to be another bedroom, in front of somebody he knew (Soos, no—Olla, her name is Olla) in England. He also knew that her mother would destroy them if she found them together, and it was the middle of the day and wait, what was Olla doing home anyways?

           He blinked down at her. “Why are you even in your dorm? Don’t you have classes?”

           “Alcor,” Olla moaned. Her hair was a mass of messily plaited braids, ribbons bright but askew. “You gotta help me. You’re my only hope of passing this stupid chemistry class I decided to take with my friend but we’re both hopeless—not hopeless, but definitely for sure 100% in over our heads—and for some weird reason most of the people in class aren’t keen on talking to me long enough to do studying or they’re busy or they’re just pain rude, please save me.”

           Dipper sat down on her bed, which was next to the desk she was sitting at. Olla Sussally twisted the chair around in place, leaned forward to heave something up off the floor, then turned back around. In her hands—fingernails painted vivid, somewhat chipped colors that shifted weakly from hue to hue—was a very large tub, and in that tub was the biggest horde of candy Dipper had seen anywhere other than a grocery store. His mouth, despite any efforts to the contrary, began to fill with saliva.

           The memory of Olla’s mother was just terrifying enough to remind him that his skin was actually prickling with discharged magical energy. “Your mom changed the wards again, didn’t she? It’s a shame they didn’t work, but she’ll know you summoned me, she always does, and she’s always so pissed even if I didn’t technically approach you.”

           Olla moaned and tipped her head back for a moment. “I know I know, it’s so dumb and I hate it yet my mum really is the best and I love her n’all, but like, I have got to get this chemistry in the brain space as fast and fully as possible so can we talk about mum later? I have a candy bag per concept and you’re, like, supposed to be super smart, right? You’re supposed to know everything.”

           Dipper cocked his head at her. Olla wasn’t smiling, not even nervously. Well, Dipper thought to himself, Mrs. Sussally couldn’t be too mad if this meant Olla a) was less stressed, and b) passed chemistry.

           “Okay,” he said, sticking his hand out. “Deal.”  

           “Oh gosh oh thank you you’re the best,” Olla breathed out, then reached out and shook his hand vigorously with both of hers. Blue fire bloomed, then sputtered when she whirled around and pulled a textbook towards her—which, considering the fact that Olla was one of the most laid-back and calm people he knew, was concerning. “Okay, so, let’s start with chemical formulas, because hoo my man—my demon? I’ll have to ask you later—but, like, there’s molecular formula, and then there’s empirical formula is sometimes the same but sometimes different, and it has to do with math which is fine but I still don’t get why.”

           Dipper blinked at her, then reached forward and pulled a bag of malted biscuits from Olla’s candy stash. She had swiped several worksheets and class notes up to hover in the air between them. “It’s easier to deal with some chemical equations that way,” he said.　“Look—here, at this problem…”

_______________________________________________________________

           Halfway through explaining the Gillespie-Nyholm theory in regards to double and triple molecular bonds, Olla’s phone rang. Dipper stopped, stared at it. Olla looked down. The display read: ‘Mum <3 <3 <3.’ The hearts twirled in circles and threw off little digital glittery sparks.

           “Aw,” Olla groaned, tipping her head back. “It’s only been, like, an hour. Come on, mum!”

           “Maybe she hasn’t noticed yet?” Dipper ventured. He stuck his fingers in his mouth to lick off the sour sugar particles and eyed the still mostly-full tub of candy. “If she hasn’t, we could definitely get through another few concepts. I’ve only had four bags.” He wanted at least another three. Maybe five. Ten would be best.

           Olla stuck out her tongue at him, took a deep breath, and then answered the phone. “Hey, mum, what’s up, howsit going, what’s on, you at lunch or something, it’s so weird for you to call me now haha you know class just finished!”

           There was a muffled noise, the sound of somebody talking just out of earshot. Dipper tipped his head to the side. Would eavesdropping even be worth it?

           “Woah, that’s weird, the wards are juuuuust fine here!” Olla cast her eyes up at the ceiling. Dipper looked up as well, and winced a little at how almost soggy some of the wards looked, bent out of space from where he’d pushed his way through. Well, their cover was blown. He cast a longing look at the candy bags, and wished for a reality in which he could earn them. “I guess your alert app is just fritzing out again!”

           Silence. Then, several garbled words, Olla’s eyes widening and cutting to him. She laughed a little nervously. “What do you mean, mum? Sure, I wasn’t in Mid-Millenium Literature class, but that’s just because chem is kicking my ass into a sad bit of lumpy dough and I needed to take time—no, no, no tutors, just me and my cute little—wait you’re right outside the building??”

           Dipper froze again. He met Olla’s eyes. As Olla’s mother started talking again, Olla flapped her free hand at him frantically, mouthing go go go!! as she listened.

           If he really wanted to, he could take Olla’s mom. But a) he respected her, b) Olla really loved her, and c) Olla’s mother actually kind of just a little bit intimidated him when he wasn’t hopped up on anxiety and possessiveness and fear for his Mizar’s safety. So Dipper grimaced, lifted a hand in farewell, and blipped out of Olla’s dorm room with the fleeting thought of the next place he could go on such short notice.

 December 4th, 9:29 PM AEST

           It was, perhaps, not the best idea to suddenly appear on the couch right next to Tommy and Filara Hangar—they were a little jumpy—but Dipper wasn’t anything if not dramatic. He slung one leg over the other, slipped into something a little more formal mid-blip, and set his hands on top of his knee so that the fingers were curled a little over the kneecap. “Hello,” he said, pitched just high enough to be heard over the evening news.

           Next to him, Tommy Hangar screeched and nearly scrambled over the back of the couch. Filara Hangar seized a wineglass off the table and flung it at him with incredible accuracy. Taken off-guard, Dipper had only a split second to decide whether to let it land or whether to pluck it out of thin air. He hesitated, and the decision was made for him—the glass smacked into his nose and red wine splashed up and over his face. Blinking, liquid clinging to his eyelashes, Dipper said, “Well, that was rude but I get it, I guess.”

           Tommy wheezed from behind the couch. “What the fuck, you feathering fuckwit,” she said. “Holy shit you can’t do that to us without giving a ring or tapping out a coupla knocks first. I hate it when you do that! It freaks me the fuck out.”

           Filara, on her part, was staring at her outstretched hand, bewilderment blooming all over her aura like morning glories. “I threw a glass of wine at Alcor the Dreambender,” she said, a little faintly.

           “And hit,” Dipper groused. He materialized a stylish handkerchief from out of his vest pocket, snapped it open, and dabbed at his face just to emphasize his point. “You’re lucky that this suit is literally materialized out of the power I possess and isn’t actual fabric, because that would be a bitch to clean.”

           “Die mad about it,” Tommy said. Dipper opened his mouth to respond to that, but Tommy widened her eyes at him and he wisely shut his mouth. She hauled herself back up and over the couch to sit squarely between Dipper and her wife. “We wouldn’t pay for it anyways, it’s your own feckin fault for slipping in here out of thin air at—” she glanced at the news “—9:34 PM, what the hell and why are you even here?”

           Dipper waved the concern aside as though it were a physical thing he could clear the air of. He finished dabbing the wine off his face and snapped the handkerchief again to disperse it from its momentary existence. At the same time, the wine was pulled out of the non-fabric of his clothes and vanished. “My last appointment was cut very abruptly short, and I’d been meaning to check in on you two so I figured that now was as good a time as any. How are you?”

           Filara blinked at him. “I hit Alcor the Dreambender with a half-full glass of wine,” she said, a little glee in her voice and in her eyes.

           “Yes you did, honey,” Tommy said. She patted her wife’s hand and smiled. “It was a hot damn moment of glory and I love you even more than I already did.”

           “Didn’t you throw ice water on him a few months ago?” Filara cocked her head and looked Tommy up and down, lightning bright sparks of realization fading into soft ombre appreciation.

           Dipper frowned. There was no need to rub it in, he totally could have stopped that from happening—both the wine and the water. “Yes she did, and we’ve already covered the wine stuff, how are you?”

           “It’s 9:34 PM,” Tommy drawled, turning her attention away from her wife to glower. “What do you think??”

           “Now, now,” Filara said, rubbing at Tommy’s shoulders from behind. “I know it’s late, but we haven’t seen him in a while and I threw wine on him, so I think that it would only be fair to entertain him with a little conversation, don’t you think? I’m sure he’s a little lonely, aren’t you?”

           Filara smiled at him. She looked nothing like Lionel, but Dipper read him into the quirk at the corner of her mouth that said she was still smugly amused at her unintentional victory over him. The little heartache that came with the thought moved Dipper to look past it and the quite frankly presumptive opinion that he was lonely, he wasn’t lonely. He was fine.

           “No,” he said, “but Bentley and Torako are busy sleeping right now, and I’m awake and out so I wanted to talk to you.” The more he thought about it, though, the more tempting the thought of blipping back home and crawling into bed for snuggles was. He absolutely was not lonely.

           Tommy wrinkled her nose. “That’s right, it is stupid early over there still, isn’t it?”

           “Yeah,” he said, though stupid early was a relative term when it came to individualistic habits and sleep patterns. For some people in the same time zone, it was stupid late.

           Filara leaned over and propped her elbow on Tommy’s shoulder. Her near-invisible lenses flashed a little, and she grinned. “So how are Ms. Gorgeous and Mr. Sigils?”

           “Adjusting.” Dipper leaned back into the arm of the couch and twisted a saccharine drink out of nothing to sip at. “We just finished settling into the new house nine days ago. Torako or Bentley might have sent you pictures?”

           Tommy had been frowning at Dipper ever since he pulled out his drink. “Dude,” she said, slowly, “I know you’re a demon and all, but that’s rude, man, just ask for a drink.”

           “Oh, it’s quite all right,” Filara said, patting Tommy’s arm. “If he brings his own drink, that means that there’s more wine for me. And yes, Torako did send me pictures of the house. Bentley didn’t, but he made up for it by sending me updates on how things were going, and I very much appreciate it.”

           With a sigh, Tommy leaned back into the couch and crossed her arms.

           “Did she send you pictures of the tables?” Dipper drawled, swirling his drink around in its glass. “Mine was the best one.”

           “That’s not what she said.” Filara raised her eyebrows. “In fact, she said that you all voted hers the best, and that’s the solid truth there.”

           Dipper sniffed and took a sip of his not-beverage, mentally pulled together his arguments in favor of not Torako winning their unofficial competition, and launched into them with a passion that Bentley would have described as ‘overkill’ and Torako as ‘desperately in denial.’

_______________________________________________________________

December 4th, 8:39 PM PHT

           Dipper only burned through an hour before Tommy had enough and kicked him out during a lull in conversation, citing that she actually wanted to spend time with her wife, not the dude who came around to pick her wife’s brain and engage in furious debate over the most mundane things before turning around and treating the most abstract concepts with the same fervor. He’d relented and accepted a couple drinks—overly sugary and laden with alcohol that couldn’t affect his non-existent metabolism—and found himself having made off with one of the Hangars’ drinking glasses on accident. He shrugged, sent it off to the Mindscape Shack, and figured it would make a good excuse for another visit.

           In the meantime, it was time to visit somebody very new to their current life.

           Dipper closed his eyes and followed one of the faint bonds inside of himself to a small apartment of Cebu—Grand Courtyard Bldg 5, apartment 607, nursery with the window facing north-east—in the evening, when its sole occupant was sleeping soundly, parents in the other room finishing dinner and relaxing before the baby woke up again. There was a personalized cam-monitor in the corner, anti-tamper sigils that reminded Dipper of Bentley (and when he looked at them for more than a split second, he saw Bentley working on them as part of a senior project for undergrad, and how strange, how incredible to think that they’d gone so far from that point, blooming into existence under his fingertips), and Dipper only spared a single thought to artificially looping the input past the anti-tamper sigils (they were Bentley’s, of course he knew how to get around them) before drifting closer to the crib.

           Lloyd Remnit had not lasted long after their visit, after Dipper tore the information from his mind and Fantino had died as a result. Stan had always given everything for family, and it always hurt when he failed to protect them. (many Stans had summoned him over the years. Some paid the ultimate price for their loved ones. Some paid a different price, but it all fell to pieces around them anyways. Others, ones who hadn’t summoned him, had summoned others instead—one had given away her soul to be consumed. Dipper had torn that demon to pieces).

           This time around, given how his last incarnation had ended up at odds with Alcor, he was determined to have Stan on his side. Which meant—this.

           “Hey,” Dipper said softly, breathily. In her crib, María Elena ‘Inyang’ Dimayuga lay on her back, fingers curled into soft fists. He took a moment to take her in—a little on the large side, for a two-month-old, eyelashes dark and soft against her puffy cheeks, baby hair thin clouds across the crown of her skull. “Hey. I’m going to be your Uncle Dipper. Your parents don’t know yet, but they don’t know a lot of things about you yet either, do they? They’re still calling you Aweng. Don’t worry, they’ll figure it out eventually.”

           Inyang shifted in her sleep and scrunched her nose. Dipper stilled, but her eyes didn’t open, and her barely-there, underdeveloped aura didn’t shift suddenly in that telltale breath between sleep and wake that infants tended towards. After a few moments, he slid from stillness into careful motion, chin propped in the heart of his palm, elbows on the edge of the crib, ankles-crossed mid-air. His wings fluttered once or twice. He sighed a little.

           “It’s been a few years since I’ve interacted with somebody so young,” Dipper confessed. “Not since Lata, at least. Nobody’s been stupid enough to summon me with a newborn sacrifice recently, and the chances to meet babies like you are otherwise pretty slim in my line of work.” He laughed a little. Inyang let out a breathy sigh of an exhale. “But you’re family, you know? I should—I should stick around for you.”

           Inyang’s fingers tightened into fists, then relaxed. He looked at her nails. She probably needed them trimmed, soon. Dipper remembered sharp baby nails, and they were a somewhat discordant experience when the rest of them was so soft, so malleable, so easy to swallow—

           Dipper closed his eyes, breathed in and out, and chased the thought down into the deepest, most terrible part of him. Then he opened his eyes and looked back down at Inyang.

           Inyang looked back, dark eyes large in her small face.

           They stared at each other for a few seconds, Inyang frozen by the uncertainty of an unfamiliar face hovering over her, Dipper by the very human instinct of ‘maybe if I don’t move, this very small child will just go back to sleep instead of crying.’ Despite being a dream demon who didn’t need moist eyeballs, Dipper was the one who blinked first.

           Inyang’s aura twisted. She let out the start of a choking cry. Galvanized by memories of caring for babies over the years, Dipper started shushing her, reaching into her crib on reflex. His sharp talons faded into stubby nubs, his gloves melted away to materialized skin. “Hey, hey, no, it’s all right—”

           Footsteps outside the door. Moments before he managed to pick Inyang up, Dipper frantically twisted himself into the shadows under her crib. Seconds later, the door opened.

           “Oh, that’s odd,” the parent said. Dipper blinked, and there it was—Alisha Dimayuga, journalist, wife to Jolan Dimayuga, owner of a small clothing boutique that custom-sized for all its customers. “The camera didn’t pick up on you waking up—hush, hush, sweet little Aweng, here I am, it’s okay. Why don’t we go see your Zaza, hmm? Zi would love to hold you, love to kiss your precious little nose and all the pain away.”

           Dipper stared up at the bottom of the crib, seeing Alisha pick up Inyang and soothe her without physically seeing it. Alisha rocked from side to side with each step, murmuring about how hard it was to be a baby as she slowly made her way out the room, Inyang still crying pitifully in tired-sleepy-pain-overstimulation. She was going through one of her growth spells, Dipper knew suddenly, though he’d always known it. It hurt, to grow so much all at once and not understand anything, and thankfully it was knowledge that faded quickly. Dipper still remembered his second birth, how things changed and ached and felt like fire melting and reforging and melting his bones all at once. The pain of it, over and over, all at once after stretches of nothing.

           He wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

           Dipper considered revealing himself to Alisha and her partner. He thought about introducing himself, but the thought of Alisha’s fear and Jolan’s terror-courage and the rift that would possibly set between him and Inyang made him hesitate, caught between the soft shadows of the nursery and the light spilling in through the open door. He stayed for a few moments, listening to Alisha and Jolan’s soft voices in the other room, hearing Inyang’s cries get quieter and quieter until she was silent.

           Maybe another time, Dipper told himself. He coalesced back into his humanoid form next to the crib, with its whale-patterned sheets and its pale linoliwood bars. He looked out the door, into the sliver of the hall he could see, and remembered other babies over the years that he had raised, or helped raise. Later, he told himself firmly. For sure.

           Dipper closed his eyes, breathed in deep, and blipped—

 December 4th, 8:54 AM EST

           —into his designated seat at the dining table, aka the chair that Torako had snatched for her temporary bedside table and kept falling out of bed for. Dipper might have—in the previous months—maybe on occasion scooted it just far enough out of reach that she would tumble out of the sheets. Just maybe on occasion, though. Not every night. That would just be suspicious.

           “Morning,” he chirped at Torako, who was sipping at a cup of coffee. He eyed it—hazelnut creamer, oof, she was anticipating a Day.

           “Hey,” Torako said. Across the table, Bentley’s forehead was flush against the wood surface. He groaned out something that Dipper interpreted as a greeting.

           “You never jump anymore,” Dipper complained. He crossed his arms and set them on the table, leaning forward. “It’s so disappointing.”

           “Dude, we’ve lived together for, like, eight years, of course I don’t jump anymore,” Torako said. Dipper hummed in absentminded agreement in order to hide the fact that he was as of that moment making plan after plan to startle the snot out of her. “Besides, now I have a Dipper-sensor as long as Bentley’s around—he moaned out something a second before you popped up.”

          Very kind of her to tell him what situation he needed to avoid in order to succeed. Torako really was her own worst enemy, because she should know by know that Dipper wasn’t nearly nice enough to not take advantage of such facts. “I had forgotten about that.” He actually almost had. “Bentley conscious yet?”

           Bentley groaned again. Torako picked up her fork, stabbed a sausage on her plate, and shoved it in her mouth. Dipper squinted his eyes at the remaining sausages and wondered if he could get away with sneaking one off her plate.

           “Kind of. I think he had a rough last hour of sleep; he was really groggy when I finally shook him awake.”

           Half-formed schemes of how he was going to make Torako scream in surprise fell to the back burner as he cast a more appraising eye over Bentley and his aura. Bentley kept saying that he didn’t want them to treat him like something fragile, like those delectable sugar cubes that were 90% air, 9% sugar and 1% flavoring and were so thin they fell apart the moment they touched your tongue, but Bentley was also dealing with PTSD among a host of other problems so Dipper was going to worry. Especially since, you know, exhaustion crept and shifted slow through his aura in a way that Dipper hadn’t seen since last week.

           “Hey, Ben. Looking tired there.”

           Bentley didn’t make a noise. Instead, he lifted his head up just enough to glare at Dipper. Dipper winced, both at the animosity and at the tiredness strung at the corners of his eyes and in the crease of his forehead. Bentley glared even more.

           Torako whistled. “I’m not sure, but it might have actually gotten worse?”

           “Shut up,” Bentley groused. He reached out and nearly knocked his mug of coffee over (and if it weren’t bad enough that he was drinking coffee, it was worse because even all the way across the table, Dipper’s teeth could feel the half-cup of sugar Bentley had poured in) before tugging it close and sipping. It must have tasted awful. Bentley didn’t blink an eye.

           Dipper looked at Torako. Torako glanced at him. They both decided that shuddering was probably not the wisest course of action, with Ben so grumpy. That being said, Torako still opened her mouth. Really, she was her own worst enemy.

           “So you’re…still going to work today?”

           Ben grunted and shifted his gaze to her, narrow-eyed. “I gotta,” he said. “There’s a new sigils company being built here, and there’s a…what’s the word…mandatory, right, there’s a mandatory meeting at 9:30 about it.”

           “What about a teleconference?” Torako speared another sausage. Dipper, momentarily distracted, looked down at her plate and stretched nonchalantly. If his hand was a little closer to her plate than before, well, that was just coincidence.

           Shaking his head, Bentley took another sip of his coffee before saying, “Confidential information. Gotta be in person.”

           Dipper, after a blink and a quick rush of information, thought that it might be more that Bentley was being stubborn about ‘earning his keep’ and less about ‘having to go to the meeting in person.’ Dipper was actually pretty sure that Karl Svinhish would happily come to visit just in order to fill Bentley in on the details. He considered the pros and cons of actually saying that, and decided to keep his mouth shut. Instead, Torako distracted, he set his fingers right at the edge of her plate.

           Torako snorted and pointed her fork at Bentley. “And Karl Svinhish wouldn’t bend over backwards for you, no, no he wouldn’t.”

           Bentley actually hissed at her and bared his teeth. Torako’s face went—not pale, no, but she had the expression of somebody who has just realized that they’re treading right at the edge of too far and should really go back before they’re mauled. She stabbed down for her sausages.

           Dipper, right on the edge of getting himself a tasty salty snack, howled as her fork stabbed right into the back of his hand.

           “Oh fuck,” Torako said, jumping out of her chair. “Oh fuck, how the fuck did your hand get there, what even—”

           Dipper felt torn between cackling and screaming. It really, really hurt in all the best and worst ways. “You stabbed me!”

           Bentley, at some point, had half-pushed himself out of his chair. He lowered himself down into it, lifted his coffee mug, and raised his eyebrows as Torako pulled the fork back out of Dipper’s hand. He sipped.

           “Shut up,” Dipper giggled at him, tears streaming down his face.

           “I’m too tired to be nice,” Bentley muttered. “You were asking for it.”

           Torako blinked. She looked down at her sausages. “Were you—trying to take my breakfast?”

           “No,” Dipper lied. He licked at the puncture holes in the back of his hand, then willed them to go away. His blood tasted almost like copper, today. “Of course not.”

           Torako glowered at him, and pointed the fork. “You were.”

           “Never,” he said. There was a tug somewhere in his gut, and he recognized family—friend—Batoor a split second before he said, “and you can’t prove otherwise, Batoor’s calling, see you guys later bye!”

           Torako threw her fork. He disappeared before it could reach him.

 December 4th, 4:09 PM GMT

             Dipper blipped back into physical space upside-down and in a pretty snazzy pair of electric blue ruffled slacks. He craned his neck back to look Batoor in the eye. “You called?”

           “Someday, I hope you realize how old you sound when you say that,” Batoor complained. He was sitting on his desk, a textbook in his lap and a pencil stuck behind his ear. His curtains were open, the dorm courtyard below empty but for the few students taking advantage of a clear afternoon to get some much-needed sun. Dipper tilted his head and pointed.

           “Is that kid stacking chips on her nose?”

           “Undoubtedly,” Batoor said, not even looking. “It’s a new fad. You wouldn’t understand them, being an old geezer.”

           Sometimes, Dipper regretted introducing Torako to Batoor. He extra regretted that Torako and Batoor had exchanged contact information, and that Batoor was picking up on some bad habits of Torakos, like bullying Dipper with no regard for how impressively powerful he was. No respect these days.

           “I understand fads,” Dipper grumbled.

           Outside, chip-stacking student made it to four chips high. Four chips wouldn’t be nearly so impressive if they weren’t being stacked corner to corner. Dipper was kind of jealous—he wasn’t sure he would be able to do that without taking advantage of his powers.

           “You keep telling yourself that,” Batoor said. “Anyways—I need help with this history paper. You know about history, right?”

           Dipper fancied that, if he’d never become a dream demon caught in the claws of near-eternity (he knew that he wouldn’t last forever, but it may as well be—it basically would be, as far as this universe was concerned, and more than that he couldn’t quite wrap even his demonically-altered brain around), he would have been a scientist, or a mathematician, or an over-qualified pizza store manager (which if it came with free pizza, wouldn’t be a half-bad gig.) At almost-thirteen, he hadn’t been as interested in history beyond conspiracy theories and supernatural stories. Now, though—“My middle name may as well be Historical Record,” Dipper said. He flipped over mid-air. His braid fell over his shoulder as well.

           Batoor blinked at him. “Those pants are…new,” he said, in English. Dipper narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

           “Not really,” he said. “What, you don’t like them?” Mabel had been the one who pestered him into conjuring them for himself in the first place. He’d gotten a whole cheesecake out of that deal, and the mortification of them had barely been enough for his young-demon ego to deal with. Now, though—they were ruffled, and bright, and Mabel’s, and that was enough.

           “And the braid is different,” Batoor said.

           Dipper looked down at it, pulling it further into view with his left hand. He flipped the end of it between his fingers. “ Yeah, I don’t usually go for this style. It’s fun, to change things up.”

           Batoor blinked. The scales around his eyes shimmered. “Yes,” he said, thoughtfully, “I guess so. Anyways, I need help with the history paper. About history. In English. I am older so class is harder? It’s a high-level class.”

           “Okay,” Dipper said, easily enough. It wasn’t like Torako or Bentley would be better company now, and they were going to be busy anyways. “What you got to pay me, then?”

           Grinning, Batoor opened a desk drawer with his foot. Dipper perked up despite himself, shoulders dropping and eyebrows raising. “Candy,” Batoor said, “and snacks. From Kabul.”

           Not as easily obtained as gummy peaches, here in Ireland. “Oh,” Dipper said. “I see what you’re doing. You’ve been talking to Torako.”

           “Of course,” Batoor said, before switching back to Dashto. “She’s the only one that can handle you, other than Bentley, and she’s the one with the Demonology degree. She’s been very helpful in my studies.”

           Dipper stilled. He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you were doing a degree in Community-Building and Inter-Species Relations,” he said, slowly.

           “I am,” Batoor said. He reached inside the desk drawer and picked up a couple packages, one carefully-preserved mini gosh-e fil stuck in stasis, powdered sugar and chopped pistachios kept in place through the power of food-regulation preservation spells, and the other an assorted bag of koloocheh. A few of them were broken despite the spells, and Dipper knew they had to be good. Koloocheh were brittle cookies by nature, after all.

           “Oh,” Dipper said. He couldn’t look away from the treats for a second, then made himself because he could get a major deal out of these if by some small chance Batoor didn’t know any better. “They’re pretty good, but for a whole paper?”

           “And proofreading,” Batoor said. He smiled, as sweet as the sacrifice he was offering. “I know exactly how valuable these are. They’re not only delicious, they’re sentimental. My Oware bought them for my Transfer-Day. I haven’t had gosh-e fil since we left Afghanistan.”

           Oh fuck, Dipper thought. He felt a trickle of unease down the back of his neck a second before the realization hit him and he sunk to standing on the floor like a dumbass. “Oh,” he said again. “You’re doing a specialization in community law and advocacy, aren’t you.”

          Batoor grinned. “Demonology overlaps with law-writing classes a lot, you know. Anyways. For help finding relative articles about my history topic in both English and Dashto, assistance refining my arguments, and thorough proofreading of my English composition, I will give you both of these very valuable, sentimental treats, and maybe we can have some video game time together if my roommate doesn’t come back too early.”

           “That’s a big if,” Dipper said. “Do you have the new Red Rider game? The one that’s set in a magicless urban wasteland that you have to carefully scavenge tools and make intelligent allegiances in order to strategically rise to the top of the crime syndicate that’s taken over the city and make the ultimate choice whether to rule over all with an iron fist or transition to a better societal system?”

           Batoor stared for a moment. “Yes,” he said slowly. “You like that game?”

           “Well,” Dipper said. “I suppose I kind of do, yes, but not too much.” Dipper carefully did not mention that the open-story ending that mimicked the rewards and consequences of living a high-stakes human life scratched the same itch he had tried to, over and over and over in human skins that lasted not long enough. He also didn’t mention that the mathematics that went into calculating story paths from individual choices was jaw-droppingly incredible and he needed to see it in play for himself.

           Batoor nodded. Dipper narrowed his eyebrows in suspicion at the sparks of mirth and slowly unfurling anticipation in his aura.

           “Stop being amused,” Dipper said, pointing his lace-gloved finger at Batoor and scowling. “I kind of like it.”

           “Sure,” Batoor said with a perfectly straight face that was very at odds with the emotions that Dipper was reading. He held out his hand. “Anyways, I do have the game and we can play it if there is enough time. If there isn’t, we’ll play at the next opportunity feasible for both parties. Do we have a deal?”

           Dipper looked at the sweets. He tilted his head and thought about the promise of the game—which he was guaranteed to have a chance to play—and then about the difficulty of the task before him. He didn’t mind proofreading either, especially because English had cast off a bunch of the fiddly rules about punctuation that honestly Dipper thought were still needed. He could make sure that Batoor’s teachers weren’t teaching him too much that was wrong.

           Grinning wide, Dipper reached out and took Batoor’s hand. “Deal,” he said. Blue fire licked up from between their palms briefly, and Dipper felt himself get—sharper, smarter, stronger—for a brief flash as the deal lanced through him. Then he let himself slide into that state of mind where he was—not compelled to do a task, no, but it was similar.

           “Great,” Batoor said, grinning lazily. He leaned back against the desk and looked very self-satisfied. “Because my Red Rider game’s multiplayer option hasn’t been used since the time my roommate agreed to try it out with me.”

           Dipper tipped his head. Something niggled at him. “How long ago was that?”

           “Two months ago,” Batoor said. “The day I got the game.”

           Anticipation tingled up and down Dipper’s arms. He felt himself lift back off the ground. “Oh? Why not? It’s an excellent game.”

           “He said I was too intense.” Batoor picked under his fingernails at imaginary dirt, but Dipper could still see the grin on his face.

           “Oh,” Dipper said again. Then, he said, “Well, we should finish that paper as quickly as possible, shouldn’t we? I doubt that you’re more intense than I can be.”

           “We’ll have to see,” Batoor said, eyebrows raised.

 ________________________________________________________________

             They did not, unfortunately, get a chance to see. Writing papers was harder than Dipper remembered, and Batoor had chosen to write about anti-preter sentiment in Ireland two hundred years ago and the impact of the laws enacted during that time had in the centuries following. There weren’t too many papers on the matter in Dashto, and any articles that they could find were harder to understand the further back they were, so Batoor was stuck with English and translated Gaelic sources.

           Halfway into Presumption of Guilt: How Lawmakers Built a Sinister System in the Absence of Politically Powerful Preternatural Citizens that Resulted in the Summer Riots of 3784, Batoor’s dorm buzzed. They froze.

           “Hey, Batoor!” Dipper heard. He swung his head around to look at Batoor, who met his gaze. “Why you lock the door? You got company?”

           Batoor flushed. “No!” he yelled, voice cracking a little as he flapped his hand at Dipper. “I just was studying!”

           Dipper snatched what remained of the delicious snacks that Batoor had traded and stopped just short of blipping out. “When are we going to play Red Rider?” he hissed quietly in Dashto.

           Apparently Batoor’s roommate had very, very good ears. “Batoor?”

           Batoor leveled the nastiest glare that Dipper had been subject to from him. Dipper threw up his hands in frustration and tried to communicate, with his eyes, that he was just asking, no need to get pissy about it! To which Batoor shook a finger at Dipper, waggled his eyebrows in I-told-you-we’d-get-to-it-when-we-get-to-it, and gestured for Dipper to stay quiet for good measure.

“I was only talking to myself!” Batoor yelled back. “Let me get the door for you—”

           Dipper felt a tug in his gut. Thankfully, he let himself follow the summons, twisting out of existence from Batoor’s Irish University dormroom and—

 December 4th, 9:44 PM EAT

           —into a small bedroom with sparsely decorated walls, a pale tile floor worn right to the edge of minor neglect, and a small child sitting on a patterned rug right at the edge of his circle.

           Dipper swallowed back his customary greeting and instead asked, “What’s up, kiddo?”

           They hugged their knees closer to their chest, squashing what looked to be a very sentimental stuffed manticore. “Sshh,” they said, so quiet that Dipper had to readjust his hearing. “Aunty Adi is asleep.”

           “Oh,” Dipper said. He sat cross-legged a half-inch above the wobbly chalk lines. After a moment, he whispered, “I like your scentless candles.”

           The child ducked their face into their knees and the stuffed manticore’s fuzzy mane. “Thanks,” they said, but then said nothing else for a long time. Their aura shifted between embarrassment and hesitation and quick flashing bursts of smothered pride. Dipper made the decision to wait for them to speak, and instead cast out his senses more to assess his new surroundings. There was a small bed in the corner, third-hand but well maintained, a nice new desk bought at a bargain, temperature-regulated sheets, a little bookshelf that was crammed overfull, a tablet for children open to what seemed to be a digital copy of a centuries-old summoning how-to that had never been legally published but had found its way around anyways. Down the hall to one side there were three other signatures—two more children, one adult, each in separate rooms, and to the other seemed to be a living space complete with kitchen and a harmless little snake that curled up in a hole in the wall, sleeping off its latest meal. The night air was cool in such a way that suggested the previous day had been hot.

           “Are you really a demon?” The kid asked.

           “Yeah,” Dipper said, wiggling his claws at them. Their eyes were big and dark in the candlelight from right over their knees. “Alcor the Dreambender, at your service.”

           Another very long pause. Dipper waited.

           “The book said you were nice,” they said. Dipper tilted his head. The book had been distributed during one of his nicer, more mentally present phases. Fortunately for this child, he’d had over a decade of recent socialization with human beings, so he wasn’t super tempted to take advantage of what the kid thought.

           “Right now I am,” he said. “What you want, then, kiddo? People usually don’t summon me unless they have a deal in mind.”

           They looked away and buried themselves further into themselves. The minutes passed. Outside, bugs sang and small lizards rustled in pursuit. The candles flickered, burned wax into vapor that wafted away, slow and lazy but inevitable. Dipper kept himself breathing, steady.

           “…Aunty Adi doesn’t like me,” they said.

           Dipper blinked. “Oh?” he asked, and looked closer. No broken bones, a bruise on their knee (legitimately tripped and fell), short curly hair (useful for the heat), crooked fingers (an accident when they were two years old), missing tooth (their adult teeth were coming in). Whatever it was, it wasn’t overt physical abuse. Dipper narrowed his eyes. “What does she do? Where are your parents?”

           They shifted one foot over the other. “I act funny,” they said instead. “Mom and Dad are busy working in Lilongwe, so they left me with Aunty Adi.”

           There was a lengthy silence. Dipper had started getting that uneasy prickling along the back of his neck, the one he got when kids weren’t safe and happy, and he had to breathe in deep and out slow to stop himself from getting ‘intense,’ as Torako put it.

           “Other kids don’t like me either,” said the kid. “I don’t get it, I laugh when they want me to and follow all the rules, the ones they don’t say but are there anyways, but they still don’t like me.”

           Lonely crept over them like a purple shroud, heavy and dark and bruiselike. Dipper watched it settle and shift for a few moments, and turned the words over in his head. They waited.

           “Do you want a friend?” Dipper asked, finally.

           A heartbeat, two, and then a nod.

           “Do you want me to be your friend, tonight?”

           A double nod.

           “I’ll need something in exchange,” Dipper said, because it was true (though not really, no, he could totally absorb the backlash that came with spending a night playing with a kid but this wasn’t Mabel) and the kid should know that, but also— “maybe some candy? Kids have candy, right?”

           He’d really, really prefer the manticore. He almost asked for it. Then he thought of what Torako would say and do to him if she found out he’d taken a beloved stuffed animal from a lonely, friendless child and figured that stealing candy was a comparably minor offense.

           Their wide dark eyes stared into his, and then they very slowly nodded, and even more slowly pointed in the direction of their desk. “In the drawer,” they said. “Milk drops.”

           Dipper tilted his head over at the desk and blinked. “Okay,” he said and extended his hand. “Is it a deal?”

           After a short moment, they nodded and extended their hand over the shaky, weak chalk lines of their summoning circle. “Deal,” they said, their hand in his, blue fire flaring up between them for a second before dying down.

           Dipper tilted his head, blinked into something a little softer (more comfortable, something that would set the kid at ease) and asked, “So, kiddo, I’m yours to play with for a while. What you wanna do?”

           The kid didn’t smile, but hesitant happiness spread like frail roots through the heavy purple lonely in their aura. “Well,” they said, quietly, “there’s this—card game, that I got to play once…”

_______________________________________________________________

           It took several hours of very quiet playtime for the kid to finally get tired enough to fall asleep. Dipper tucked them—tucked Pili—into their bed, sang a slightly off-key lullaby until their tired eyes finally blinked shut and their chest rose and fell softly and their grip on their Manticore (Nadine) loosened. He thought for a moment, then summoned a Dream to curl up next to them and a Nightmare to stand guard until Pili woke in the morning.

           “You keep an eye on them, alright?” Dipper said. The dream baa’d and snuggled in close to Pili, who relaxed further. Himmwichlint, the Nightmare, blinked its five eyes independently and huffed out a derisive what, you think I wouldn’t at Dipper. Dipper huffed back and rolled his eyes.

           “I’m not saying you can’t or won’t,” Dipper complained, crossing his arms. He was wearing a very soft sweater that Pili had exclaimed quietly over before stroking for a solid five minutes. “I’m just saying what I want you to do.”

           Himmwichlint rolled its eyes back at him. The effect it had was really similar like those plastic googly ones that Belle had once used to bedazzle a pair of sneakers into a constantly-rustling horror show. She had worn them every day for a month to class. Dipper had ended up making a deal with Lionel to have them disappear.

           “No respect,” Dipper complained. “What is it with everybody in my life refusing to show me respect? I am a very powerful dream demon, you would think people would remember that more.”

           The Nightmare chuffed low in its gizzard, and its wool shook in laughter. Then it turned itself around to lay on the ground at the side of the bed, very purposefully looking away from Dipper.

           Dipper threw up his hands. “Unbelievable,” he whispered, turning around himself to leave the room. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

           He very quietly swung the door open and then stepped into the quiet hallway. Another step, and he shifted from the soft sweater and comfortable sweatpants he’d put on for Pili into a sharp black suit, dark and imposing and shadowy. He didn’t need to close his eyes for more than a few seconds to know that he wanted the room at the very end of the hall. He walked forward on the thin air just a hair off the ground, passing by several pictures on the walls and a totem lodged in an inset shelf near the ceiling. It was supposed to protect the inhabitants, but the spirit that was supposed to be there was missing. It had been missing for years at this point.

           Not that it could have done much of anything if it had been there, Dipper thought to himself with a little grin. It could not have stopped him from having a little chat with Auntie Adi. He doubted that it would have even tried.

           In moments, he reached her door. The insects outside had fallen silent. He pushed the door open, soundless, and entered her room.

           It was dark. A thin sliver of slightly-overcast moonlight drifted through the crack between the curtains. In the middle of the room was a wide bed, thin summer blankets draped over a sleeping figure. When he looked around, the room wasn’t overly different from Pili’s—the same well-cared-for furniture, clothing bought at a bargain and a few priceless treasures (gifts, or inheritances, or simply items loved to the point of powerfully tempting)—but there was something about it that cradled the sleeping figure. There had been a lot of love in this room. There was a lot of love, and care, and fondness. Pili’s room seemed so much emptier by comparison.

           Alcor made his way to the edge of the bed. He flicked out his cane, threaded his hair back into a ribbon-tied ponytail, and then sat down.

           Adi didn’t respond for several moments, still deep in sleep. No matter. He knew that the deep part of her responsible for living, for detecting danger and escaping from it was slowly waking up. With every breath, it was pulled closer and closer to the surface, a buoy rising to the surface of a wide dark sea, dragging consciousness up with it. Her brow started to furrow. The soft lines along the edges of her mouth began to deepen. Her eyes tensed. Inhale, exhale, and her eyes fluttered open.

           It took two breathing cycles for her to register that there was a strange person in her room, sitting on her bed and looking down at her. She jerked into motion, opened her mouth, and screamed.

           Alcor smiled into the silence. He had already borrowed—not stolen, he might still give it back—her voice. “Now, now,” he said, softly. “You shouldn’t disturb the children’s sleep. Let’s be quiet, all right?”

           Her eyes are wide. The sclera is bright against the darkness of the room. Her hand feels at her throat, which is bobbing with fruitless effort to speak.

           “I know this is frightening,” Alcor said. His grin widened. The fear shooting up from Adi in sparks set him on the most wonderful edge. It buzzed against him, just enough to turn his teeth a hair past sharp and blow his pupils a clawtip longer. “But really, this is quite important—can I trust you not to scream?”

           She nodded. What a fool—he already knew he couldn’t. He knew she would scream as loud as she could, and then her children would come in, and then Alcor would have to figure out how to deal with them in non-lethal ways. What a mess that would be. Instead, he chuckled before reaching out and tracing a claw against the bottom of her jaw. Adi froze. Her chest barely moved, quick and light.

           “Don’t worry,” he drawled, leaning in a little. Her eyes darted from his teeth to his eyes and then back down again to his teeth. “I already know I can’t. Anyways, this will be a far more productive conversation if you aren’t doing any of the talking.”

           With a sharp inhale, she clenched her fingers in the blanket pooled at her waist. Alcor tapped her chin. She nodded again, this time short and jerky. Her fear really was quite exhilarating, Alcor thought to himself absentmindedly. He’d have to make sure to milk as much out of her without compromising his position, or Pili’s.

           Ah, yes. Pili’s. A no-name soul that he hadn’t had any meaningful prior relationships with. But children were children, and no-name souls could earn names, couldn’t they? Lionel and Torako and Georgi were all excellent examples. He would have to keep an eye out for Pili—make sure that Adi didn’t do anything unfortunate.

           “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here,” Alcor said, leaning back a little. Adi exhaled shakily, and nodded again. “Well, it has to do with your nibling. Did you know that they’ve managed to access quite the outdated collection of demonic academia? Their circle was a little wobbly, but it’s supposed to be simple enough for a child to draw with a bit of effort, if they’re desperate enough.”

           Alcor noted the sudden tension in Adi’s shoulders, the sourness of jealousy that rose up among misplaced gangrene anger, the mist-like waft of dark guilt that drifted off as quick as it drifted in.

           “You see,” Alcor said, crossing one leg over the other and wrapping his hands leisurely around his knees, “children have to be desperate enough to draw my circle. That’s not even taking into account the effort many go to in order to get the information needed to draw my circle, and say the incantation, and gather the necessary supplies. Children, you see, don’t often have the resources or freedom an adult does. Please, do me a favor and consider—how desperate must young Pili have been to go to the effort of all that?”

           Adi’s anger flashed and deepened. She lifted her chin, eyes narrowed, and opened her mouth to retort before she tried to speak and remembered exactly who it was she was talking to. Fear drowned out the anger. She curled back in on herself, shifting back on the bedsheets with a near-silent rasp.

           Yes. This was what he deserved. This was the respect he had earned, that he had been deprived of the last few hours. He breathed it in deep.

           “I know you haven’t laid a hand on them,” Alcor drawled. His eyes crinkled in a smile. “Trust me, we would be having a—different conversation at that point. Perhaps off in the desert, where you could scream and I could enjoy it without having to worry about your spawn ruining everything. But that’s also the problem, because—you haven’t laid a hand on them in love, either.”

           Silence. Her aura spoke volumes. He let it balloon up between them, bobbed his foot as she swallowed past a rabbit-quick heartbeat. The pale moonlight coming in through the crack in the curtains glinted off the shiny cap on the toe.

           “Your nibling summoned me because they were desperate for a friend,” Dipper said, very very quietly. “They wanted somebody to play with. To love them, even if that love wasn’t as real as what they really needed. Even just for a night. You, as their guardian, have failed them. You have neglected them, for terrible, petty reasons that have nothing to do with who Pili is, and have everything to do with who somebody else is—one of their parents, I’m assuming.”

           Adi bristled again, shoulders drawing up and back in indignation. Her sleeping cap shifted, exposing some of the kinked hair it was protecting. Alcor reached over. She stilled, heartrate jack-knifing as he pulled the cap back into place.

           “You don’t have to be their friend,” Alcor said. He smiled. “But it would be such a shame if you didn’t learn how to be kind to them and how to be supportive of them. Such a shame indeed. There are always…repercussions, you see, for these kinds of actions.” He leaned over, resting his chin in one palm, fingers curled in a precisely calculated mimicry of danger. Adi trembled, swallowed. Sweat tricked down her brow and along the lines of her slender neck. Dipper watched it drip down, and felt her terror spike.

           “What a shame indeed,” he said. He glanced up, still smiling, and caught her eye. The shallow inhale she was taking hitched. Her pupils shrunk despite the darkness. Alcor tilted his head to make sure the light glinted across his sharp teeth. Then, he drew back.

           “But I suppose it would be better for Pili and your other children if I actually gave you the chance to learn,” he said offhandedly, and looked at his claws. The next exhale broke out of her, ragged and loud in the silence. “I’m trying to be a better person, you see, and I suppose you haven’t done anything egregiously worthy of…such harsh retribution.”

           Alcor stood. He picked imaginary lint off his shoulder, pulled his eight-ball cane back into the physical realm, and leaned on it. “I don’t suppose I have to inform you that if things don’t get better, I will know,” he drawled. Adi’s hands were clutching at the fabric over her heart. “But, for the purpose of all transparency…if they don’t, I will know. I doubt you’ll enjoy what happens afterwards.”

           With a grin that was satisfyingly wide, Alcor bowed and faded out of sight. A moment later, he released his hold on Adi. He watched her place trembling hands over her mouth and hyperventilate for several minutes. She eventually calmed enough to slide out of bed and stand on shaking legs, though it took her a few tries to be steady enough to walk on her own. She checked her eldest son’s room, then her daughter’s, and then finally –with no little hesitation—her nibling’s.

           Alcor grinned as she stifled a gurgling scream at the sight of Himmwichlint curled up in front of Pili’s bed. Himmwichlint lifted its head, blinked its five eyes at Adi, and then yawned on purpose to show off its incomprehensible but terrifying teeth and its two whipcord tongues. Adi whimpered and stumbled back. Alcor, upside-down on the ceiling, hummed and grinned wider.

           Himmwichlint tilted its head up, made eye contact with him, and huffed.

           Alcor rolled his eyes back at Himmwichlint. He did not need to get out of here, not when this woman’s reactions were absolutely hilarious. He hadn’t been front-row seats to a horror show with so little blood in ages.

           Himmwichlint snorted, looked back at the woman, and nestled itself back in. On the bed, Pili sighed and snuggled the dream closer. The dream obliged.

           Aunt Adi dropped her fist, just a little. She stared at her nibling, eyebrows furrowing. Soft surprise echoed out in the spaces between her terror and horror. If he looked closely, he could see the beginnings of wonder peeking out from behind the residual film of jealousy and anger.

           Oh, he thought. Maybe she would learn. What a disappointment, almost to the point he was the slightest bit mad about it. He’d been looking forward to eking out some more terror from her, maybe indulging in snacking on a finger or two, possibly a kidney, nothing life-threatening. Her actually cleaning her act up was going to ruin things for him.

           Oh, he thought after another moment. Maybe—maybe he did need to go somewhere—else. Dipper closed his eyes and as quietly as possible, tessered into the mindscape, lay in the grass among his Nightmares and Dreams, and simply was.

________________________________________________________________

§¢ɷʘϠϰѬ  ҈۝†‡₰  ʯ͚:ͼǂ  Nightmare Realm

             It was nice, for an indeterminable amount of time, to let the manic buzzing energy and self-righteous anger and the hunger for justice (revenge, the kind that benefited him and him alone) seep out of the front of his mind and down into the back. A couple Dreams nestled up to his sides, and one had decided that his chest was the best place to curl up on. It chewed on his lapel absentmindedly. Dipper would have minded more if it a) wasn’t easy to fix, being made of thought, and b) weren’t the case that the Dream was in the top tenth percentile of cute Dreams—which were altogether adorable as it was.

           The Nightmare taking advantage of the situation to snuffle into his hair was another thing entirely.

           “Erschie,” Dipper said, eyes closed but eyebrows furrowed down. “What are you doing.”

           A pause, then Erschie snorted warm sulfuric air directly into Dippers mostly-made-up scalp. Dipper waited a few seconds for something else to happen, then opened his eyes. The moment he did, he felt Erschie’s fangs and sharp front teeth start to scrape at the top of his head.

         “Gross,” Dipper said, even as he felt the skin slice open just a little. “Disgusting.”

           Erschie paused, then withdrew. Dipper blinked. Erschie then licked at Dipper’s hair with all the gross slobber in Erschie’s dumb gross mouth.

           Dipper bolted upright, the Dream on his chest now in his arms and the other two left to flop into the grass and baa irately over the sudden lack of support. “ERSCHIE!” Dipper screeched. His hair stood up on end. He could feel the slobber starting to trickle down the back of his neck. “WHAT THE FUCK.”

           Erschie blinked up at him, closed its eyes, and then let out a wool-rustle throat-croak hoof-stomp that Dipper knew to indicate Erschie’s general amusement at being a nuisance in Dipper’s life. The Dream snuggled into Dipper’s arms. This, unfortunately, limited what response Dipper could take.

           In order to demonstrate to Erschie that he was a dangerous, serious, terrifying dream demon, Dipper opened his mouth, displayed all his rows of teeth, and hissed at Erschie. For some reason, that just made the Nightmare express Amusement more exuberantly.

           “You’ve been conniving with Himmie, haven’t you,” Dipper said. He resisted the urge to stamp his foot. “You’re both out to show me as much disrespect as possible.”

           Erschie clacked its teeth together and flicked its ears.

           “What do you mean it’s not hard?? I am Alcor the Dreambender, Devourer of Souls and Lord of Nightmares, King of Darkness, Destroyer of Light, the Infernal Star! I’m literally the Scourge of All Beings Living and Dead and you say it’s not hard to disrespect me??”

           With an exaggerated snort, Erschie dipped its head down and up twice before flicking its ears in succession.

           “I do not embarrass myself!!” Dipper howled, throwing his arms up in the air. The Dream previously occupying them fell to the grass with a disgruntled bleat, and glared up at him as ferociously as it could manage. Dipper looked down at the Dream and winced.

           Erschie performed its most vigorous Amusement dance yet.

           Dipper pointed at Erschie and glowered. “Shut up,” he said.

           Predictably, but disappointingly, Erschie did not listen. Erschie continued to do its best to convey its Amusement at Dipper, adding insult to injury by throwing in a mirthful head-shake.

           “Can’t get any respect around here,” Dipper grumbled, squatting down and papping the Dream to show his remorse as was only appropriate. “They’re all out to get me. But you won’t be like that if you ever become a Nightmare, will you? You’ll be appropriately respectful, unlike that ungrateful troll over there. Yes, I could eat it, but no, I am merciful and abstain like a good demon. And this is the thanks I get.”

           The dream looked up at him and blinked. It turned its head to take in Erschie, who was now turning around in a circle as it continued to mock Dipper. Then the dream looked back up at Dipper and flicked its ears just like Erschie was.

           Dipper stood and put his hands on his hips. “Wow,” he said. “The rebellion really does start early. I can see I’m not welcome here, in my own Realm.”

           Erschie blew a raspberry. All three Dreams watched Erschie in clear curiosity, then turned around to Dipper and did the same.

           “Rude,” Dipper growled, and pulled himself away into another place chosen on a whim.

________________________________________________________________

December 5th, 1:58 AM, AZT

             Dipper found himself outside a small home with a bright blue door. The outer walls were made of corrugated metal that had also been painted blue, and a birdhouse had been set between two of the windows. It was cold. Dipper breathed out, then in, then suffused heat into his next exhale just to see the condensation rise and dissipate into the air.

           He turned around, looked down the footpath that meandered down the slope the house was set into. There were more houses, roofs illuminated by moonlight, windows largely unlit. It was 2 AM in this small town of Laza, after all. There wasn’t very much to do, unless he really wanted to terrorize the inhabitants by tap-dancing on their ceilings or whispering traumatizing thoughts into their dreams. He thought maybe that might just possibly be a not great thing that Bentley would get quiet and frustrated with him over, though. Instead, maybe he could just eat some of the goats that one of the houses kept down below. Dipper hummed and tapped his finger on his chin.

           Eating goats was probably something he would get in trouble for, on second thought. He could just terrorize the goats. That was still fun, but didn’t hurt any people. Actually, Torako would get a kick out of some selfies, he could do that. Tempt her into another passport-less road trip, for the fun of it. They could take Bentley too, this time. It would be much lower stakes. Yes, a picture would be good. Dipper took a step forward, absentmindedly casting his mind around to count the souls in the vicinity, and then froze.

           He turned back around, looked at the blue house with the blue door and the birdhouse set into the side of it. A gust of wind blew through him, then around him as he made himself just a little more solid. In turn, he stared through the house and at the soul on a couch. The soul had dozed off while watching the news, which had turned off automatically an hour ago. Dipper stared, then—because he really didn’t have anything better to do—blipped from outside to just in the living room.

           She had become an old, old man, this time, Dipper realized. A very well-groomed and well-dressed old man, even in sleep. She didn’t seem rich this time, he thought to himself, taking in the heirloom table and the rugs worn with age and use, but then again, Pacifica tended to bounce up and down the economic scale from life to life.

           Dipper took a seat in the thin air above the table, on which there was a lone, empty cup that had held coffee at some point. He tilted his head at the old man, watched him breathe in (a little raspy) and then out (almost a snore) for several minutes. Dipper closed his eyes, and saw Pacifica’s death—

           Tunar, in a hospital bed, age 146, seven weeks and two days before his birthday. He breathes in, and then out, and then in, slower and shallower each time. The heartbeat monitor chimes weakly, but steadily. His nephew holds his hand, an old man himself, and his great-great-grandniece is smoothing down the sparse hair on Tunar’s head.

           Tunar does not open his eyes. He has already said goodbye, said it in the hour he was awake before he slept, said goodbye the same way he always did before falling asleep—with a soft ‘I love you,’ a kiss on the forehead or on the hand or on the cheek, and a small little sigh as he set his head into the pillows and closed his eyes again. His other grandnibling has gone with the rest of their family to get something to eat and bring food back for the two who stayed behind. This is probably for the best—there are nineteen of them, you see, because Tunar had loved well and was well-loved in turn.

           His death is slow, as easy as death is capable of being. Medicine has brought the human body far, but there will never be immortality. There never is immortality, not for humankind, not for the dayflies who are born at dawn and die at dusk, not for the oldest of vampires or the fairest of dragons or the coldest of yukionna. All things die, eventually. All things pass.

           Tunar takes a slow, slow breath in, lets it out, and does not inhale again.

—and opened them only to see that the old man had woken up, 137, still nine years left to him, and was looking right at Dipper.

           Dipper startled a little, but didn’t move. The old man did not startle, but instead stretched after a moment in the way that old people do to get stiff muscles to cooperate again.

           “Ah, I fell asleep on the couch again,” Tunar muttered. His hands shook a little as he clapped them once. The lights came on, dim. “I really should stop doing that, it’s very bad for my back and for my sleeping schedule. This face isn’t getting any younger, you know.”

           Dipper cocked his head. “Do you want it to?” he asked.

           Tunar scoffed and pushed himself to sit up straight before reaching for an elegant white cane. His hands, wrinkled and adorned with liver spots, wrapped thin fingers around the gently curved top of the cane. “You think you’re so smooth,” he said, narrowing thick eyebrows at Dipper. “I know better than to make a deal with you, Soul-Devourer.”

          After a brief pause that stretched on to the edge between acceptable and too long, Dipper said, “Actually, it was mostly curiosity.”

           “Mostly,” Tunar drawled, leaning back into the cushions and looking down his nose at Dipper. Dipper was reminded almost viciously of Pacifica and how she would stare at him, unimpressed, after whatever shenanigan he’d pulled recently that pissed her off. It froze Dipper for several long seconds, his heart in his throat as he couldn’t stop seeing her face over Tunar’s. Then Tunar sighed, and the spell was broken.

         “I suppose you’re not actually here to reap my soul for whatever reason, though.” Tunar tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “I know you caused a big hullabaloo a few countries over several months ago, but they’re saying that the river is purified and that there were minimal casualties, which really is quite surprising.”

           “Well, old man,” Dipper drawled, leaning over, “what makes you think that would stop me from taking what I want?”

           Tunar blinked, looked closely at Dipper, and said nothing for a long time. His eyes were dark, if a little clouded, but piercing in a way that had Dipper twitching his foot. The light buzzed overhead. The clock in the other room slid nearly-silently to the next minute. Outside, Dipper could hear grass rustling in the wind if he concentrated enough, or too little.

           A hum brought his attention back to the Pacifica in front of him. Tunar had leaned forward, placing his face and throat closer to Dipper, close enough he could reach out or lunge if he really wanted to.

           “Well then,” Tunar said, smiling, his prosthetic teeth shining somewhat brighter than the few natural ones he had left, “seems to me that you don’t want to eat me.”

           That wasn’t completely accurate—it never was—but it was accurate enough that Dipper found himself flushing. He withdrew and hunched his shoulders, looking at the pictures set into the wall as though he’d never seen anything like them before. Fingers wrapped around his knee, he managed to respond, “Says who?”

           Torako would have gleefully needled the truth out of him. Bentley would have stared at him, arched an eyebrow, and said “Says me,” with the slyest little grin on his face. Pacifica would have lifted fingers to her mouth and chuckled, eyes half-lowered in a kind of superiority-fueled amusement.

           Tunar snorted, eyebrows shooting up higher, and leaned back. “Can’t believe I thought you were some kind of suave, smooth-talking master-villain,” he said. “You’re a dumbass.”

           Dipper scowled at Tunar. Tunar grinned unapologetically, sharp at the edges. “You suck,” Dipper said, finally.

           With a cackle, Tunar finally lay his cane across the top of his legs. “I’m thirsty,” he said, finally. “Make me some coffee.”

           “Make—you have a demon in your living room, and you’re telling him to make coffee??” Dipper said, voice momentarily going shrill.

           “That’s right,” Tunar said, eyes creased in a self-satisfied smile.

           “I could—I’ve manufactured deaths for less offense,” Dipper said, even though it wasn’t much of an offense.

           “I’m a hundred and thirty seven years old,” Tunar said, archly. “Even if I thought you would do that, I wouldn’t be frightened. I’ve lived a long time.”

           Dipper stared. “Unbelievable,” he finally said. “I can’t believe it. I’ve been dealing with this kind of disrespect all day. You don’t even know me.”

           “You just have that kind of face.” Tunar reached out with his cane and poked Dipper in the arm. Dipper’s jaw fell open. “Now. Coffee. I like mine with heavy cream and a scant spoonful of cane sugar. Get to it.”

           It took Dipper several moments to get his jaw closed. Then, he stood up, feet firmly on the rug below the coffee table, and walked into the kitchen to do as Tunar said. He was never, he thought to himself, introducing Tunar to Torako or Bentley. Never.

________________________________________________________________

           In the middle of a story about the time that an acquaintance, unaware of the fact that Tunar wasn’t particularly interested in romantic or sexual entanglements, tried to set Tunar up with xir grandchild ten years Tunar’s senior when Tunar was 23, Dipper’s phone rang. The lyrics to Dancing Queen blared in the air between them before Dipper could answer it.

           Tunar tilted his head. “You have a phone?”

           Dipper sent a glower at Tunar, then answered the phone. “Yes?” he asked, in an approximation of what passed for English these days.

           “Oh, thank goodness you answered,” the voice on the other end of the line said. Dipper blinked and took a second to place the voice—Reynash, right. “Listen, Lata’s sitter dropped out on us again, he was supposed to pick him up from school today but we just got the call that he didn’t, could you—”

           “Yeah, yeah, no, give me five, ten minutes,” Dipper said, tipping his head and calculating the closest point to Lata’s new school that he could feasibly tesser to and remain anonymous. “I’d teleport right to him but that might be a bit—”

           Reynash laughed, a little too tight to be completely sincere. “Ahaha, yeah, no, we would appreciate—no, thank you, I’ll let the school know that Lata’s Uncle Tyrone will be coming to get him.”

           “Sounds good,” Dipper said. “I’ll message when I pick him up, okay?”

           “Thank you again,” Reynash said. “I’ll be home after five, maybe five-thirty, so if you could keep him company until then—”

           “Yeah, no problem at all!”

           “You’re a lifesaver,” Reynash said. “Thanks again, see you.”

           “See—” Dipper only managed to get out one word before the dial tone sounded. He looked down at the phone, and then said, “Well then, he really is busy I guess.”

           “Alcor the Dreambender has a mundane social life?” Tunar said, droll. Dipper relaxed, purposefully, then tilted his head at Pacifica’s latest incarnation. He looked at Tunar through half-lidded eyes, Stan held in the back of his mind—Pacifica did like her fame, he remembered absently. She liked being the center of attention, and what better way to be the center of attention than to have a juicy news scoop to sell to the highest bidding news agency?

           Tunar took one look at Dipper, humphed, and then smacked Dipper in the knee with his cane.

           “Hey!” Dipper protested. “What the fuck?”

           “Don’t you get snippy at me,” Tunar said, wagging a finger in Dipper’s face. Dipper was seized by the childish urge to snap his teeth at it. “I could see you getting all paranoid on me. On me! After I’ve spent the last unbelievable amount of time talking to you about my life and all the personal details in it. I even let you slide on reciprocating. The least you could do is let me have this.”

           Dipper narrowed his eyes at Tunar. “You going to tell anybody?”

           Tunar snorted. “Tell people that Alcor the Dreambender came by for coffee and a chat and ended up taking a phone call in my presence? I’d either end up with terrified Demonologists tearing up my house or being prescribed a variety of medication for hallucinations and fits of fantasy. Perhaps I would have been tempted in my youth, but these old bones are done with all that drama.”

           He watched Tunar’s aura, saw it peppered with the lightest of lies—Tunar was plenty tempted now—but it was enough that Dipper leaned back into the couch and took a final sip of his coffee. “Okay,” he said.

         There was a beat of silence. “So,” Tunar said, “you have to leave, I’m supposing.”

           “Yes,” Dipper said. He leaned forward, set the cup in its saucer with a light a clink as he could manage, and stood up. “My apologies for intruding.”

           With rolled eyes, Tunar set his cup on its saucer as well with far less care than Dipper had taken. “Bah, you’re not sorry. I expect to see you here next week—though possibly at a more reasonable hour. My Doctor says that I really need to keep myself on a better sleep pattern.”

           Dipper’s hands stuttered over where they were needlessly straightening out his collar. “Next…week?”

           “Of course,” Tunar said. He stood with the help of his cane and grunted with the effort. “What, you think I started that story with the intention of leaving it unfinished? No, you will be back next week. And—you have a phone. Call me before you come so that I am ready for company.”

           Dipper could only blink. “But I don’t know—”

           “It’s written on the stasis fridge, top left corner. Take a look at it when you bring the cups in to the dishwasher.”

           Spluttering, Dipper said, “I—you expect me to wash the cups?!”

           “And you can let yourself out, I assume,” Tunar said. He turned a genial grin on Dipper, but Dipper was savvy enough to see the slyness in the corners of it. Also, the amusement in his aura helped matters a lot. “Seeing as you let yourself in.”

           “...I am an all powerful demon, and you expect me to wash your cups for—”

           “That just means I am all the more assured you are capable of such a simple task,” Tunar said. He reached out a slightly shaking hand, patted Dipper on the shoulder, and then said, “Well, I am off to bed. Again, I expect you next week. Do try not to show up in the middle of the night again, it’s not good for my heart.”

           With that, Dipper watched Tunar shuffle off around the coffee table and down the hall beyond the other side of the television screen. He blinked a little, completely blindsided—though he probably shouldn’t be. Pacifica also had a tendency of bulldozing through most of her social interactions.

           Sighing, Dipper reached down, gathered up the teacups, gave them a little rinse with the sink tap before setting them in the washer, and entered Tunar’s number into his phone. He looked down at it, displaying up at him with deceptive innocence, and furrowed his eyebrows. Then, he saw the time, said, “Oh, crap,” and blipped out of the darkened kitchen.

December 4th, 4:13 pm, PDT

             Lata screeched with joy as he barreled into Dipper with all the force of an exuberant six year old, face pressed into Dipper’s waist and arms flung around Dipper’s legs. Dipper, dressed up in his nicest, most disarming and charming human persona, grinned down at Lata.

           “Hey buddy,” he said. “How are you doing?”

           “I was so bored,” Lata said, nearly yelling the last two words. “But now you’re here so I’m not! Can we go get ice cream?”

           “Ah,” Dipper said, before deciding fuck it and nodding his head. “Yeah, sure, but I have to sign you out first and let your dad know we got you, okay?”

           Lata appeared to have stopped listening after ‘sure,’ and released Dipper to go have a good old jump-and-punch-the-air-in-victory dance. Dipper re-evaluated the intelligence of giving this already hyper child more sugar, then shrugged because he wouldn’t have to deal with the fallout, would he?

           “Uncle Tyrone, I presume,” the secretary said, grinning a little. At first glance, she looked like an older middle-aged woman, but Dipper saw the fangs and the sunglasses and thought vampire. She tapped a few buttons, and a screen lit up in front of her window for Dipper. “Please verify your identity with this security question chosen by the child’s guardians and then sign.”

           Dipper peered down at the question. What did you suddenly yell at Reynash Pines that one time that had him scream, launch a full package of Choco Piecies into the air, and tumble back over his home office chair which meant he had to go to the hospital and get three stitches behind his right ear?

           He blinked, then toggled the keyboard to input, What U Cravin. The system thought for a moment, then blinked green before showing him the field to write in his signature. Dipper took hold of the stylus it materialized for him, signed, and then said goodbye to the secretary.

           Lata had, in the meantime, decided that he needed to be crawling around on his feet and hands like some kind of humpbacked bear cub. “Are you done?” Lata asked, turning around in a circle, still not standing. There was dirt on his hands. Dipper resolved to get Lata to wash them as soon as they could find a public restroom.

           “Yes, I’m done,” Dipper said. “You wanna ditch this lame joint?”

           “It’s not lame,” Lata said, twisting his head to look at Dipper in such a way that Dipper wondered how he wasn’t snapping his own neck. “School is really really awesome, it’s just that everybody’s already gone home and I could only just wait for people to come pick me up, and waiting is boring.”

           “That tracks,” Dipper said after a pause. Lata looked back down at the ground and then started walking forward, down to where the entryway doors were. “You gonna keep walking like that buddy?”

           “Yeah,” Lata said. “This is the bear walk! We learned it today in Activities. We also learned the frog leap –though I already knew it—and the lizard crawl, and the earthworm, and the kangaroo hop. Nobody believed me when I said I went to Australia to see the kangaroos, though. They said that you can’t just go to Australia, because there are big spiders.”

           Dipper paused a moment to take in that information. He opened the door for Lata, watched him crawl down the front step and onto the rougher—colder—pavement. Lata frowned at the ground, but kept going. “Your…teacher said this?”

           “No,” Lata said in his best are you stupid voice. Dipper felt affronted that he was turning it on Dipper, his most favorite Uncle Tyrone. “You and Mom and Dad all said not to tell any adults, so I didn’t! But kids don’t count, so I told them. And they didn’t even believe me!”

           Letting the door close behind him, Dipper politely ignored the person walking their dog that stopped in their tracks to first stare at Lata, then turn away with their hand over their mouth and their aura splashed all over with viridian amusement. “Well, maybe that’s a good thing,” Dipper said. “You don’t even have a passport yet.”

           “What’s a passport?” Lata asked. His steps forward were far more ginger than they were earlier, inside on the tile flooring of the hallway.

           “It’s, uh,” Dipper said, looking down at Lata’s animal-print backpack. It had shifted over entirely to one side of Lata’s back, unbalancing him a little. He reached down, adjusted it, and continued. “Well, it’s a special document—like a little book, I think, though maybe that’s changed—that they scan at Ports when you go from one country to another country.”

           “Huh,” Lata said. He took another step, stopped, and then stood up. At the sight of his hands, Dipper moved hand-washing even further up the list of priorities. If he’d thought inside was bad, it was nothing compared to the brief jaunt down the path up to the school. “Do you have a passport?”

           “No,” Dipper said.

           Lata looked up at him, tilted his head so that the leaves on his antlers bobbed a little. “But you have to, to go to another country, right?”

           “Most people have to,” Dipper amended. “It’s expected.”

           They passed by a couple arm-in-arm, a single long scarf wrapped across both their necks. Dipper looked down at Lata. “Where’s your scarf?”

           “In my bag,” Lata said, like that was the best place for it on a chilly December afternoon.

           “And your gloves?”

           “In my bag, duh,” Lata said, rolling his eyes.

           “Hey,” Dipper said. “You really want to pull an attitude with somebody who said they’d get you ice cream in such cold weather?”

           Lata hummed, his finger on his chin in thought. A cold breeze had him shivering a little before he answered, “Maybe?”

           Dipper sighed. “Well,” he said, really elongating the word in a way that immediately caught Lata’s attention. “Maybe we don’t need ice cream after all. It’s about 3 degrees Celcius right now, after all.”

           Lata gasped. “No, you can’t take it back! No take-backs! You said we’d go for ice cream!”

           They were now by the public bathroom that Dipper had initially blipped into. “Let’s wash our hands then,” he said, pointing, “in preparation for ice cream.”

           Lata screeched in victory, did a little dance, and then started running towards the bathroom. “First one there gets to eat as much as they want!”

           Reynash would demolish him if Dipper let Lata eat as much ice cream as he wanted. Dipper burst into a very graceless, very hasty run, and didn’t really consider that he wasn’t beholden to any deal he hadn’t verbally agreed to.

________________________________________________________________

           “I cannot believe I let you get all that ice cream,” Dipper said, having blipped them to a nice ice cream place down in New California before bringing Lata and their spoils to the Pines home.

           Lata giggled and stuck his spoon into his Custom Mouse Sundae, complete with five scoops of ice cream molded into the shape of a mouse and topped off with two round waffle cookies that made the mouse’s ears. He dug out the piece of chocolate that made up the eye and stuck it in his mouth, kicking his legs.

           “I would’ve beat you if you hadn’t used your superpowers,” Lata said, trying to pout but failing in the face of the massive, self-satisfied grin that kept breaking through. “You had to be nice to me. It’s only fair.”

           “Your parents would hate it if I had let you eat the Turtle Family Sundae, the Spaghetti Ice Cream Set, and the Mouse Sundae,” Dipper said, pointing his spoon at Lata from across the table. He had gotten a custom ice cream Mega Bowl, and had filled it with a variety of ice creams and toppings. Lata kept glancing at it with unashamed interest.

           Lata leaned back in his seat—Dipper reached across and pulled the chair back onto all four legs with his foot—and groaned. “But it would have been so delicious,” he said. “So worth it. It’s not like they can do anything to you! They can’t ground you, or take away TV privileges, or game privileges, or have you write letters of Recon-ciliation to exchange with each other.”

           Dipper blinked. “Letters of Reconciliation?”

           Lata carefully carved the tip of the mouse’s nose, cherry and all, off from the rest of the ice cream. “Yeah,” he said, before taking a break to stuff his mouth.

             “What’s that?”                

           “It’s when we have a disagreement, and I write a letter saying what I thought and how I felt about the thing, and Mom and Dad write a letter saying what they thought and felt about the thing, and we give them to each other and read them and then talk about it. It’s so boring.”

           Rain tapped against the roof and windows—rain might be a bit of a misnomer for the half-rain, half-ice slush that was falling from the sky, but nevertheless Dipper was glad they hadn’t been caught out in it before heading down to NewCal. That would have been super messy, and cold, and gross. Dipper scooped up a bit of ice cream, swallowed it almost immediately, and then responded. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” he said.

           “Ugh, you’re such an adult,” Lata whined. He leaned down and pulled one of the cookie ears out of the mouse with his mouth. When he bit down, the part of the cookie that wasn’t in his mouth fell onto the ice cream below, which was starting to melt a bit.

           “You’ve gotten sassy since entering Kindergarten,” Dipper said, narrowing his eyes at Lata. “Where’s the little monster that kept saying things like ‘rawr’ and ‘I’m a nibble monster’ and all? Also, I’ll have you know that I am essentially eternally twelve. That’s not an adult.”

           “But it’s still old!” Lata yelled, suddenly. He leaned back on the rear legs of his chair. Dipper reached out with his foot and pulled his chair back down with an ease that was somewhat frightening after so many years of not parenting. “You’re old! I asked Dad how old you were and he said you were thousands of years old! That’s so many years. I watched him write out all the zeros, and then we counted out rice and it was so much rice and took so long.”

           Dipper scowled and crossed his arms. “I bought you ice cream, and this is how you repay me?”

           “I’m just saying the truth,” Lata retorted. “It’s the truth, so you can’t be mad about it.”

           Dipper snorted. “Now that’s not how things work,” he said. “Plenty of people get mad about the truth. They do it all the time.”

           Lata blinked at him. “But why? It’s the truth. You can’t get mad at something that’s true. Hans told me so.”

           As Lata began licking the ice cream, hands fisted on either side of his take-out bowl, Dipper hummed and tapped the flat of his spoon against his own ice cream. He cycled through the examples in his head—everything died, but plenty of people sought immortality—it was true that if you caught a knife to the throat, you would not last long but people got so upset about that—people worshipped or didn’t worship in many ways, and yet there were those who decided that those ways were wrong and got mad—kids grew up, and there were some dumbasses who resented how those children grew up into their own skins with their own experiences and opinions instead of staying malleable, agreeable, naïve—preternatural citizens existed, and yet—governments weren’t perfect, but—and finally hit upon one he thought Lata would understand.

           “Well,” he said, slowly, “have you ever watched something on TV and gotten mad about it?”

           Lata maintained eye-contact while licking across the ice-cream-mouse’s head. Savage. “Mom says that we have to look up stuff that they put on the TV sometimes, because it’s not always right, and when it’s not right then of course I’m allowed to be mad about it. Because it’s not right.”

           Right then, maybe not that. Perhaps he ought to take a different approach here, let Lata provide the basic scenario. “Okay, buddy, how about you tell me all the things that make you mad.”

           With a hum, Lata took a huge bite right out of the scoop of Fudge Mountain Caramel Surprise in front of his mouth. Dipper watched and wondered how effective that technique actually could be. “Um,” he said, completely ignorant of the melted ice cream smeared over his nose and lips and even chin, “well, I guess I get mad whenever Ri-Ri lies to me about the places she goes with her parents. And when Toma writes on my papers when I tell zir not to. Or when the lady on International Animal Discovery Channel is absent and her coworker comes in and covers for her, because he’s stupid and gets stuff wrong all the time. And when I have to go to bed at eight thirty, even though all my friends get to go to bed later. It’s so stupid! Why do I have to go to bed earlier? It can’t just be because it’s good for me because I’m a kid, because if it was my friends would go to bed earlier too! And also when Mom says she can’t come pick me up at school because she has an emergency meeting, like today, because she goes to work before I go to school and I don’t get to see her until I get out of school. And—”  

           Dipper swallowed the entire scoop of classic mint before holding up his hand and waving it. “Okay, okay, I think I have enough to work with there, thank you. Let’s talk about bedtime, okay? You’re mad because you have to go to bed earlier than your friends, right?”

           Lata slumped and poked his ice cream with his index finger. “Yeah,” he mumbled, before sticking his finger in his mouth and sucking the melted ice cream off of it. “I guess.”

           “Right,” Dipper said. He paused, suddenly doubting that he was the right person to tell Lata about this part of life. This seemed like a very—very parent-to-child conversation, not an Uncle-to-nibling conversation. It was kind of heavy.

           He paused too long. “So?” Lata said. Dipper looked up to see that Lata had resorted to grabbing the ice cream with his full hand and was licking it out of his palm. What a mood, Dipper thought, but instead narrowed his eyes at Lata.

           “Hey, use your spoon, not your hands,” he said. “And actually—here, use this napkin to clean your hand off. If you put your hands on something, it’ll get dirty and then we’ll both have to deal with the consequences, aka your parents.”

           “Okay,” Lata said, reaching with his dirty hand to take the napkin Dipper had pulled out from the 100% biodegradable takeout bag he’d gotten at the ice cream shop.

           “Probably should get the ice cream on your nose and chin while you’re at it,” Dipper said absentmindedly, watching Lata scrub at his hand with the paper napkin. Lata was a good kid, Dipper thought to himself. Lata would understand what Dipper was trying to say. This wouldn’t be too hard.

           Lata wrinkled his nose, but got most of the ice cream off his face. Good enough, Dipper thought, and then he launched into his little speech.

            “Right, so, it is true the kids need a lot of sleep, because they’re still developing their brains and bodies. The reason that babies sleep so much is that they’re growing and learning so much, and everything is new, so it’s exhausting. You’re still learning a lot of new stuff, and your brain is,” Dipper squinted at Lata and tilted his head, “currently, it’s learning how to handle complex and somewhat abstract concepts such as time, numbers, is expanding its capacity for vocabulary, and is beginning to develop the pathways needed to understand things such as life and death and your place in the cycle. You already have a very good grasp on concentration and a decent awareness of places existing outside of your home and school, though, that’s pretty impressive at your age.”

           Lata’s eyes went a little unfocused. Dipper dialed it back. “Point is, your brain is working hard, and it needs that sleep to recharge, refresh, and retain—keep—all the information that you’ve been learning. Your friends should probably be going to sleep around the same time you are if they’re waking up when you are, though every kid is different and every family is different.”

           Slowly, Lata tilted his head at Dipper. “What?”

           “Your parents are right,” Dipper said after a short but deep inhale, “that you should go to bed at 8:30. Your friends also need the amount of sleep that you do. It’s the truth. Are you still mad at it?”

           Lata thought for a moment. “Kind of,” he mumbled.

           “Why?”

           Lata grumbled, “This is worse than Reconciliation Letters.”

           “Why thank you,” Dipper said, grinning a little, “So? What’s got you so mad then? It can’t be that your friends are right and your parents are wrong for sending you to bed early, right?”

           “I think you’re like all the wrong people on the TV,” Lata said, frowning, not meeting Dippers’s eyes. “I think if I look it up you’re going to be wrong.”

           “I’m an all-powerful omni—I mean, all-knowing demon,” Dipper drawled, quirking an eyebrow at Lata. “I know things that Ping never would, and I know all the things that Ping is wrong about. Wanna try again?”

           For a long time, Lata stayed quiet. He kicked his legs under the table and glowered at his ice cream. Resentment breathed slow, auburn in his aura, and frustration sparkled at the edges like dew on stinging nettle. Dipper sat on the urge to interject what he wanted Lata to learn, and waited.

           After a whole six minutes, twenty-three seconds and four-hundred ninety-eights of a millisecond, Lata said, “’Cause I wanna watch Seawitch Adventures like Ri-Ri and all the others get to.”

           Dipper had not known about Seawitch Adventures, but it made sense. He translated, “Because you don’t like it. It goes against what you want the world to be like.”

           Lata tilted their head in a shrug and papped at the dining table surface with their hands. There was still a residue of ice cream lingering on the one hand, but Dipper decided that was whatever and Reynash or Kanti could deal with it later. He was doing awesome at this conversation thing.

           “People don’t get mad when things are factually wrong. They get mad when things aren’t the way they want them to be. And that’s okay!” Dipper said, after a length of time. “Everybody does it. The problem is when you choose to take that anger out on other people, people who don’t deserve it.”

           Lata paused, and looked up. “Do you do it? Take it out on other people.”

           Dipper felt his heart stutter in his chest. “…Sometimes.”

           “Is that why Daddy and Mommy were afraid of you?”

           Dipper held a desperate lie against the back of his many teeth before closing his eyes and letting it melt away, unheard. “…yes.”

           “Don’t you know it’s a problem, though?” Lata asked.

         Dipper shies away from that truth. He gives a not-quite-lie. “I forget, sometimes.”

           Rain splashed against the roof, the windows. The stasis fridge hummed in the kitchen. Lata had stopped drumming against the table. Dipper felt almost compelled to pick it up in his stead.

           “…what did you do?”

           “A lot of things,” Dipper said, quietly. He opened his eyes. “A lot of very bad things that I forgot were bad.”

           Lata stared at him. His dik-dik horns, so much smaller than Henry’s, than Paloma’s, seemed to embody all of Dipper’s regrets and failures for a brief moment. Dipper felt the phantom slide of a soul down his throat. He swallowed, met Lata’s gaze and tried to push the feeling away. Lata’s eyes looked right into Dipper’s until Dipper looked away, a little scared of what Lata was reading in them. Scared, maybe, that Lata might just see his own soul between Dipper’s teeth, even though that was impossible. Anyways, the only soul Dipper had between his metaphorical teeth was—

           “Even now?” Lata asked, again.

           “No, no, now is better. I forget…less,” Dipper said after a beat. Thoughts of souls faded to the back of his mind. They never really left, though. The temptation was always there, like the background hum of a generator, or the near silent slide of the second hand of an analogue clock. “Now is—I can control how mad I am. I remember that it’s not right to take my anger out on innocent people. I understand that sometimes I’m mad at the wrong thing. Usually I can pull myself back. I never remember to pull myself back when I’m…when I’m like what your parents learned about.”

           “Oh,” Lata said. They were quiet for a long time, the two of them. The ice cream in their bowls continued to melt. Dipper stared at his, watched the strawzzleberry cheesecake ooze into the peanut butter fudge scoop.

           “I yelled at Mama when she made me go to bed,” Lata said, in a quiet voice. “I said I hated her.”

           Dipper winced. That had always hurt—his children, his sister, his niblings saying they hated him in fits of anger. He’d known they didn’t mean it, usually, but it still hurt. Sometimes it hurt more than others. Sometimes he’d lashed out in response. And sometimes, a very few sometimes, he had hurt them far more than they had.

           He shied away from the thought. “How—what did your Mama think of that?”

           Lata shrugged, poked his ice-cream soup with his spoon. “She frowned at me and said I was going to bed no matter that I hated her.”

           Dipper remembered putting on a strong front. He worried lightly on his bottom lip. “Ah,” he said.

           After a few moments, Lata looked up at him. “Do you think I hurt her?” he asked. He shifted in his seat, but kept looking Dipper right in the eye.

           Dipper opened his mouth to say yes, because he’d always been hurt (even if just a little bit), but Lata looked so small and worried, undertones of dark guilt hovering around his shoulders. He swallowed the yes, then said, “Maybe. Maybe not. You—you have to ask her.”

           “Oh. Okay,” Lata said.

           They sat in silence. Rain hit the window, the roof. Dipper stared at his own ice cream soup for a while, colors having swirled into a muddy mess. He passed his spoon through it once, twice, a few more times, before sticking it in his mouth with a sigh. In his periphery, he saw Lata blink at him. Incredulity lanced over his head. Dipper stifled a grin and set down the spoon on the table with a light clack. Hyperaware of Lata staring at him, he sighed in exaggeration before picking up the ice cream cup and pouring the contents down his throat.

           “Ew, gross,” said Lata.

           Dipper swallowed and licked his lips, glancing up at Lata. “What? It’d be a waste to throw it out. You don’t want your own sugar soup? I’ll drink it for you.”

           Lata screwed up his nose at Dipper, then pushed the cup at him. His guilt was still present, but disgust and also amusement were sliding over it, burying it from the moment. Soon it would be nothing more than an aftertaste, something Dipper would have to concentrate to be able to sense. “All the flavors are mixed now, it’s so gross.”

           “Excellent,” Dipper said, before taking the ice cream and swallowing that, too. There are soggy chunks of cookie in it. It’s not particularly appetizing, but it’s also not a rule breaker, and the mixed flavor is a mystery on his tongue. He closes his eyes and tilts his head, swishing the last of the mixture around in his mouth to try to figure out what was in it.

           “Ewwww, what are you doing,” Lata said, giggling. “It’s not mouthwash!”

           Dipper swallowed. “Definitely Raspberry Crunch and Honeyed Alfalfa,” he said. “You got something chocolaty in there, right? Some kind of—fudge, fudge something, oh! Fudge Mountain Caramel Surprise, right?”

           “You can’t taste everything,” Lata accused.

           “If I work hard enough I can,” Dipper said, opening his eyes and smirking. There’s a tug at his navel that means summons, but honestly this is more important (and probably more fun). “Five scoops, right? And I’ve already figured out three of them.”

           Lata pushed himself to kneel on the seat of his chair, semi-sticky hands flat on the table and eyes wide. “You can’t,” he breathed.

           “Can so.” Dipper hummed and thought to himself. “There was a nutty kind of flavor in there, nutty and a little salty, but it wasn’t cashew, it was a little less fatty, it was—right, I remember you pointing to the Wonderful Salted Walnut.”

           “Noooo!” Lata leaned forward even further. Dipper cast an absentminded eye at the pressure that was placing on the front legs of the chair and whether they were likely to tip and smash Lata’s face into the table. It was pretty low, only 28%, so he let it be. “That’s still not all! There’s still one left!”

           Dipper cackled and spun the empty ice cream carton on one talon. With a nudge from his mind, it balanced perfectly and continued to spin unnaturally fast. The summons tugged again at his stomach, but he smothered it. It wasn’t anybody he knew. It wasn’t important. “I think you mean only one.”

           He closed his eyes to focus on the last flavor, and that can be the only reason that he only realized they weren’t alone when he heard, “And what are—did you have ice cream??”

           “Oh shit,” Dipper said without thinking, eyes flying open.

           Lata said, with the absolute worst timing known only to children under the age of ten, “Oh shit! Welcome home, Papa!”

           Reynash Pines leveled him with the most incredulous glare he’d seen in a while. “Ice cream and swearing?”

           Suddenly, the importance of the summons skyrocketed from rock bottom to very near the top of his priority list. Dipper dropped the carton on the floor. “Oh, hey, Reynash, buddy, how’s it hanging, uh, sorry to skip out but I actually just got a summons, you know how they are haha, can’t help that work life, on call twenty-four-seven, see you later hope you’re not mad byeeeee!”

           Reynash spluttered. Water dripped off his bangs and onto his forehead. “No, you can’t just bail on—Dipper!”

           But Dipper had already clenched the connection to the summons in one metaphorical hand, had tugged, and was gone.

 _______________________________________________________________

December 4th, 9:39 PM BRL

             The first thing Dipper noticed was that the candles were scentless. He billowed up from nothing in the most dramatic smoke he could think of, pulled the reverb in his throat to mild extremes, and said, “Who presumes to call upon Alcor the Dreambender?” into the dark of the blue-lit room.

           The second thing Dipper noticed were the chalk lines—exact angles, minimal differences in stroke width, painstakingly duplicated symbols. Its perfection was mathematically precise, and there were even three layers of binding spells woven into the circle. Dipper casually pulled his cane out of thin air, coalesced his top hat from residual smoke curling into the space above his head, and smiled to himself. Binding spells weren’t much more than a nuisance to deal with.

           The third thing Dipper noticed were the people in the room—elegantly dressed adults in formal suits and skirts, beautifully crafted silver masks over their faces, hair coiffed and pressed and sprayed. Their arms were uplifted, frozen in the moment they’d succeeded in summoning him. There were nine of them. Dipper glanced over them, saw their determination and hard-edged stubbornness and solid righteousness in their auras, the colors subtly different for each person.

           “Lord Alcor,” one of them said. Dipper blinked, and knew they were he. “We come to offer you an exchange: a solution to our troubles for a worthy sacrifice.”

           Dipper hummed, leaned on his cane, and didn’t let them in on the fact that he’d already surreptitiously snapped one of the binding circles. “Oh?” he drawled, a lazy little grin curled into the corners of his lips. “Tell me, what are your troubles?”

           “Our beloved country,” the Speaker said, “is being cast into ruin and shadows by those currently in charge. We seek only to remove the…obstacles facing our country’s future.”

           “I see,” said Dipper, and then he really did. He was in Brazil, in New Fortaleza, and the government was currently making social reforms that benefited those in the lowest economic tier. There were many people pushing for those reforms from places of influence—born into and risen up to alike. He raised his eyebrows. “And…what would your idea of a fair exchange be?”

           The Speaker turned his head and nodded to the woman next to him. She nodded back, then turned around to head away from the circle and towards the stairs at the edge of the wide space they had chosen for his summoning. Dipper watched her go, and did not blink. Absentmindedly, he slid his power around and under the second barrier spell. This one would be a little trickier—raw power would only alert them to its failure, so he would have to play a subtler hand.

           One of the summoning group shifted xir weight almost imperceptibly. Dipper blinked to look xir way. Xi made eye contact through the mask and flinched.

           “Be steady,” the Speaker said. “Lord Alcor, it would not go unappreciated were you to…refrain from any posturing or intimidation tactics.”

           Dipper chuckled, refocused back on the Speaker. “Condolences,” he murmured, pitching the tone so that it echoed off the far walls regardless of the volume. “I cannot control how much terror your…acquaintances feel. I am a demon. Instilling fear in those who look upon us is an unavoidable part and parcel of this existence, you understand.”  

           The Speaker said nothing, but swallowed. Dipper counted that as a victory in and of himself—he was getting the sense that this man enjoyed talking, and enjoyed even more than that the chance to hear himself talk.

           The soft whir-click-swoosh of a door being unlocked and opened echoed through the empty room. It whispered off the walls. Dipper watched the Speaker’s aura twist in uncertainty before determination smoothed it out, hot shmellow oozing over dirty blue-green until it was smothered. He held the Speaker’s gaze until the footsteps started echoing around the room too—the steady tread of the woman’s shoes, followed by a hesitant, uneven, sometimes scraping cacophony of quiet noise. The breath halted in Dipper’s useless lungs. Nobody seemed to notice; his chest had hardly been rising and falling anyways.

           Nine children followed the woman. He could hear their shallow breaths, their hitching hiccups, barely restrained tears. He could smell the acrid-sweet scent of fear, the way it spiked and swelled when he leaned back on thin air. The second barrier snapped, and he was just barely aware enough to stop it from flickering with bright thunder. He wanted this. He hated this.

           The Speaker waited for Alcor’s attention to shift to the children, but when he didn’t comply, he swept an arm out to call attention to the newcomers. “Nine lives, from nine of us, for nine whose lives must be cut short to prevent ruin to our country. We have learned that you…like…children, and their lives would be yours to do what you see fit with.”

           It was strange that these types always learned all the wrong lessons about children, he thought absentmindedly, almost vapidly. It was strange that they always dismissed the possibility of more ethical sacrifices, like candy or sentimental items or factories worth of ice cream. Dipper cast his gaze over the children, his face frozen in that way it was when he felt like he was on the cusp of something terrible. They were cleaned—recently, from the faint hint of chemically-recreated pomegranate on the air—but some of them had clearly had better care than others. He skipped from terrified face to terrified face. The youngest of them was—six, dark curly hair, bought from desperate parents like human lives were commodities, teeth digging into a bottom lip and eyes welling with tears. Then there was—seven and petit, ten and too tall for her age, eleven and barely scared enough the fear drowned out the anger, two eight-year-old twins with vitiligo on their palms (and no, Bentley didn’t have vitiligo, but the splotchy color difference was enough to make him burn colder, right in his chest), nine and born blind, six-and-a-half and missing a finger, and a twelve year old on the cusp of turning thirteen. Tomorrow was xir birthday.

           The Speaker’s voice turned soft. “Jamilla, come.”

           The twelve year old inhaled sharp and quiet, but went. Xir hands twisted in xir gold shift. Blue fingernail polish flashed in the light, like all the other children’s. Dressed up pretty, their individualism smoothed away as best as possible, for the very ends of their lives. “Papa?”

           The Speaker waited for Jamilla to come to him. Alcor kept his eyes on Jamilla every step of the way. He watched how xi quivered, how xi glanced over at him over and over. He thought about thirteenth birthdays and never reaching them, thought about his puffy blue vest and that stupid pine-tree hat that he had loved with all his heart, and how it was hard to even think about wearing things that casual for very long. His power rolled over to the third barrier and began to eat at it.

           “This is my own child,” the Speaker said, setting his hands on Jamilla’s shoulders. “Xi knows how important the future of our country is, and was willing to sacrifice xirself for it. While most of the children here are orphans, or as good as, this is a token of my dedication, of my seriousness.”

           “…I see,” said Dipper. He tilted his head. Jamilla shivered and averted xir gaze, but did not move otherwise. “Dedicated indeed, to sacrifice somebody you love. Very powerful.”

           He cast his eye, slowly and deliberately, over the other children. He tried to catch their gazes where he could. Everything around him felt—slow, almost. He stared into the eyes of the angry-scared eleven year old, whose name was Leilani and whose ambition was to become a child caretaker because children deserved people who protected them and nurtured them and loved them, whose anger had left silvery scars between her knuckles from how many times she’d split them over on somebody else’s face or gut or kidney, whose eyes were dark, furious brown and who could have lived to forty-one, dying young and tragic but not as young and tragic as this.

           “Indeed,” the Speaker said. “Now, do you agree to the terms laid out?”

           Dipper held Leilani’s gaze a moment longer, before breaking away to fix his attention on the Speaker and his child, his poor, youngest child (who had been loved and cherished but raised with the knowledge that this may happen someday, who had been prepared and taught to step into xir own death of xir own fledgling, undeveloped will). Dipper smiled.

           “Nine lives, from the nine of you, for nine whose lives must be cut short to prevent ruin to your beloved country, correct?” Alcor passed a whisper of blue flame between his fingers as he spoke.

           The Speaker waited a moment. His hands tensed over his child’s shoulders as he thought the words over. “The nine lives we offer you, to do with as you please, for the lives of those on this list.”

           Alcor looked down on the list. Two career politicians who had slowly turned over new leaves, a charismatic rabble-rouser, three underpaid and overworked lawyers with a talent for defending their wrongly-accused clients, a university professor whose lectures were widely distributed and widely influential, an old farmer with a penchant for speaking up loud and proud in defense of reforestation and traditional farming methods, and a janitor who had convinced their coworkers to unionize and strike for better wages. Influential in all the ways the Speaker and his cohorts disapproved of.

           As few as twenty years ago, Alcor would have taken advantage of the situation to cause as much carnage as possible while keeping the children safe. He would have gotten 18 souls and probably an additional nine life-debts from the children, to cash in as he pleased, when he pleased. Ten years ago, he would have settled for 9 souls, 9 bodies, and 9 traumatized children placed at the nearest orphanage.

           Today, Alcor remembered being angry, and terrified, and determined in the face of the world ending. He remembered the terror of being watched, the nightmares about rearranged faces and deer teeth. He remembered dying.

           “Like I said,” Alcor drawled, eyebrow raised. “Nine lives, from the nine of you, for nine whose lives must be cut short to prevent ruin to your beloved country. Or, if you want me to be a little more transparent, nine souls in here for nine lives out there and a whole lot of chaos thrown in.”

           The Speaker hesitated. “Chaos?”

           Alcor laughed, leaned on his cane a little more. The third barrier dissolved under his power at last with a flicker that he disguised by flaring his flames just a bit higher. Fury burned colder and deeper in his chest, at the very core of him. “What do you think nine people dying suddenly is going to cause?! Especially nine people as influential and high-profile as the ones on your list, and all at the same time! It’s going to be unbelievably chaotic. You might have a little trouble controlling the investigation that follows, but I’m sure you can squash things like freedom of the press and the people’s right to assemble in a jiffy, what with your very powerful positions. I’m all here for that, props to you!”

           “You’re taking their souls?” One of the other politicians said, a quiver of trepidation in their voice. Hesitation and guilt began to seep through their aura, dark and damp and almost physically heavy. “But I thought…”

          “Young souls are the best,” Alcor said. He had—he shied away from the thought, comforted himself with the many many times that other demons had spouted the same things he was now. “They’re very soft, not nearly as entrenched in their fleshvessels. Absolutely delicious.” He swallowed the drool that had begun to pool at the back corners of his mouth.

           “I…”

           “Enough,” the Speaker snapped, hands tightening on his child’s shoulders again. Xi was beginning to have terrified second thoughts. The only thing keeping xir where xi stood was xir father’s presence behind xir and years of conditioning convincing xir that this was the right thing to do. “Alcor the Dreambender, do we have a deal?”

           Alcor grinned, extended a hand that arched in a graceful, almost indolent line in the air. “I thought you’d never ask,” he purred.

           The Speaker flushed with a victorious, vicious kind of pride, then reached out to shake Alcor’s hand. The flames licked up between their palms, and Alcor grinned even wider.

           “It’s a deal,” Dipper said, before he took a step forward and plunged his hand down the Speaker’s throat and hooked his claws into the soul nestled at the base of the man’s neck, cradled in the hollow of his clavicle. As the others in the room started screaming, as fear saturated the air around them within seconds, Dipper looked into the Speaker’s confused and angry and terrified, determined eyes, lifted the soul up to his lips, and sunk his teeth into it.

           The Speaker screamed, physically, metaphysically, and collapsed as though suddenly boneless. His child screamed and went down with him, panic and terror readily apparent even if Dipper had been unable to see xir aura. The other children stumbled back, one twin tripping and scraping his palms against the ground, the eleven year old stepping in front of the seven year old with an angry snarl on her face. Dipper paid them no mind. He was too busy licking his fingers to catch any residual soul energy that had leaked out when he had bit down. After he had finished cleaning them off, he looked up to see that some of the summoners were making for the opposite door. He cocked his head. Energy thrummed through him. He laughed, high and maybe a little unhinged, before following.

           He had eight more souls to collect here before he could get to work, after all, and they’d gone to all the trouble of summoning him to fix their country in the first place! It would be—disrespectful, he considered as he tore open the ribcage of the closest summoner for no other reason than he could, if he wasn’t as diligent as possible.

________________________________________________________________

December 4th, 11:12 PM EST

           Dipper blipped into bed and shifted into elegant pajamas in one smooth motion, still a little buzzed from all the souls he had eaten and all the life debts he had collected over the past hour and a half. Finding the children suitable homes had been—difficult enough that he had burned off a lot of the energy gained from the deal, but he was still twitchy and half-guilty over how he had acted in the basement. Right after he had lectured Lata about acting out of anger! Lata was never finding out about what happened.

           Next to him, Bentley shifted from half-asleep to half-awake. “Huh? Dipper?”

           Dipper hummed. He wiggled so that he was curled up against Bentley, set a still-clawed hand against Bentley’s sleep sweater (he wore sleep sweaters now, it was terrifying that he kept being so cold even when he should be warm) and curled it so that the fabric was in his loose grasp. He had to fight to keep it loose. Everything was—too bright, too sharp, and he felt like he was balancing on the edge of that precipice again, that if he fell it would be too easy to go back to him half a century ago.

           “Dipper, you okay?”

           He felt an arm reach over him, a hand rub at his back. On Bentley’s other side, Torako snuffled in her sleep, snorted, but didn’t wake up. Dipper pressed his face into Bentley’s chest and nuzzled the fabric without giving a solid answer. The world dulled down to something almost manageable.  

           Bentley’s chest expanded and then contracted with a sigh. He wiggled down just enough that Dipper’s head fit under his chin. Something seemed—off, in that moment, because Dipper could swear that his feet should be below Bentley’s in this position, but when he reached out with his toes they brushed Bentley’s shins.

           “All right,” Bentley said, the sound of his voice reverberating against Dipper’s forehead. “All right, not tonight. It’s—it’s late anyways. You can tell me what happened tomorrow, okay?”

           Several moments passed before Dipper felt relaxed enough to nod. All the while, Bentley’s hand rubbed up and down his back.

           “Okay,” Bentley breathed out. Dipper didn’t want to see the relief in his aura, so he kept his eyes shut and just focused on the warmth surrounding him. Then, Bentley said, “You wanna sleep between me and Torako tonight? I can move you if it’s too much trouble.”

           There was something weird about that statement too, because Bentley was strong but it could be awkward for him to haul something larger over his own body, but Dipper thought about how nice it would be to be sandwiched between two souls he loved (one was his, the other may as well have been but he would never, ever, ever take it, because look at what happened to Henry even though he loved Henry?) and the weirdness of the situation melted away. He nodded again.

           “Right then,” Bentley murmured. Dipper felt him wriggle his left arm under Dipper’s chest to wrap around his back. There was a pressure at the spot right above the space between his wings, and then they were turning over, Dipper’s legs pinned lightly between Bentley’s. Seconds later, Dipper’s back was to Torako’s front, and his face was still smooshed up against Bentley’s chest. Dipper hadn’t even had to open his eyes. He let out a soft breath. His hand unclenched from Bentley’s sweater to curl up against it instead, knuckles brushing wool.

           “There we go,” Bentley said. He pressed a kiss to the top of Dipper’s head. There was a rustle, Bentley’s body shifting against his, and then he heard Torako groan a little before she was flush up against his back, breath fanning the back of his head. She was snoring lightly, and Dipper couldn’t help but smile a little.

           “There we go,” Bentley said again, a little quieter. He rubbed his hand up and down Dipper’s back for a long time before he finally fell asleep.

           Dipper listened to them. He took in a deep breath, let it out, and let himself be home.

[whatareyousearchingfordean]

Imperium Locus

Summary: Dean wasn’t supposed to feel the way he did about Donna Hanscum. On paper, the pair were never meant to be, but what happens when he dares to let his guard down.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Donna Hanscum

Word Count: 5.7k+ (I’m so sorry)

Warnings: Language, show level violence, character death

Square Filled: Enemies to Lovers

Author’s Note: Written for @spngenrebingo​.  I honestly have no idea where this came from. Probably because I’m absolute Winscum trash. I have no regrets. Also, I’m not 100% sure this is even enemies to lovers. I tried though, therefore none of you can criticize me. I hope you all enjoy this, as always I love to hear what you thought. xoxo Alex. 

Check out Alexandra’s Library for more works by yours truly!

A camera flashed outside the main door to Imperium Locus as clients flooded inside. The lights inside were low, reflecting against the crystal that hung from almost every open space of the club. There was chatter from the locals intertwined with the jazz that the band created from the stage. 

“Mrs. Scott is a tramp, everybody knows that. Well, except for Mr. Scott.” Laughter rang out around the table as Dean was making his rounds. He made eye contact with his buddy at the table, squeezing his shoulder and bringing him up to stand next to him. 

“Hey, Garth, how about we keep the gossip for the column, eh? People are trying to enjoy themselves tonight.” Dean patted down his wrinkled tie and raised a single brow at the journalist.

“You won’t have to worry much longer Dean. I’m working on something big right now, you’ll see.” Garth’s words were slurred as they came from his mouth. “They’ll all see!”

Dean once again patted his friend’s shoulder, leaving him to be with the group he had shown up with. Garth was always on about how he had some big story that he was working on, and it almost always ended up as some sort of fluff piece in the local paper. Dean had no worries about the strange fellow he called a friend, but it wouldn’t hurt to cut him off before he could no longer walk straight. 

As he made his way to the bar, a shot was slid across the wood and into his ready hand. Dean tipped it back, allowing the whiskey to burn down his throat. Ash stepped down the way to wipe the counter in front of his boss. 

“Only water for Garth from now on, okay? He can come to me if he’s angry but I don’t need him getting himself into trouble on my account.” 

“Got it, boss.” Ash nodded his head once at the club owner before refilling his shot. Dean threw it back again without hesitation. “By the way, isn’t Jo supposed to be on by now?”

Both men turned their heads to the stage devoid of the Imperium’s star performer. Though it wasn’t unlike her to be a little late to the stage, her absence never sat right with Dean. He glanced down at the watch on his wrist and hummed, “Yeah, let’s give her a couple of minutes.” 

As Dean spoke, the lights dimmed in the club as the stage lights grew. The head of his jazz ensemble came onto the stage to announce Jo’s arrival, and the crowd broke out into applause and whistles. 

“What a dame,” Ash sighed from beside Dean. 

“She gets ‘em every time.”  Dean agreed. The pair of them watched the charismatic woman charm the crowd like she did every other night since joining the staff at the Imperium. Jo was the secret to Dean’s recent success with the club. Ever since the paper did a column on her show, people from all around the greater area were coming to see her perform. The small, spirited woman had a way with the music that captivated even the most skeptical and frazzled customers. 

“Dean,” Ash’s face fell as he glanced towards the front door. Dean caught his gaze and followed it, only to be hit with the last thing he wanted to deal with tonight. His place was more packed than ever and more than that, he wanted a peaceful evening that didn’t end in a bloodbath. 

Walking in the front doors of his club was none other than Fergus MacLeod, the notorious jackass that pretty much owned the town just a mile south of Lawrence. He was flanked by his usual henchman, Gordon Walker. None of that pissed him off more than the woman on his arm, Donna Hanscum. 

Donna was a girl that had grown up right here with his little brother Sammy. Just a few years younger than himself. She was quiet and kept to herself in school mostly but what had always caught his eye was her beauty. Her soft blonde curls were always in place and her mother never failed to pick out a dress for her that didn’t bring out the amber in her eyes. She was a sweet girl. That is until she married Doug. Somehow, that was where it all went downhill for the young woman. Ever since her association with Doug, the pair had been attached to MacLeod’s side. Even after Doug left her, Donna stuck around the vile man that Dean assumed was less than human. They were the dynamic duo of Pleasant Grove, ironically enough. But everyone knew of the back door dealings they tried to hide. Not to mention all the trouble they have caused the Winchester family. Fergus wanted to take over Lawrence, where the real money was to be made, and he had tried to use John’s death as a means to get inside. Dean had been warned by his father of the MacLeod’s long before he was murdered, and had sworn to protect Lawrence from them at all costs. So that’s what he does, protects the town he loves from the evil they can’t even begin to comprehend, and now, here MacLeod was, in his late father’s club, and that pissed Dean off. 

“I’ll take care of it, but call for Benny.” Dean tapped the bar with his knuckles before pushing off of it and leaving Ash to head to the back of the house. Dean licked along his lower lip, his eyes narrowed at the people in his house. Donna caught his line of sight, her head tilting up and a sly smile appearing on her lips when she realized he was staring at her. She pulled on her sky blue gown as she went down the steps into the lounge area, the slit in the satin reaching far higher than anything Dean had seen before. 

Fergus gripped her elbow and guided her to a table behind Gordon. The henchman tapped the shoulder of the paying customers at the table and shooed them away with a tip of his hat. He pulled out the chair for Donna who sat down next to the man that was evil personified. Her eyes still on the green-eyed club owner. 

“Well well, if it isn’t little Cassie Robinson.” Donna turned her attention away from Dean and towards Fergus, where he now had the arm of a young woman trapped in his grasp. “You have the money you borrowed from me?”

“Not yet, but I have something in the works.” She flashed him a brilliant smile, but one that was laced in fear and embarrassment. Her eyes averted back and forth, hoping no one in the area was paying any attention to her predicament. 

“Not yet? Well, that was a glass of mighty expensive champagne I saw you drinking over there.” Fergus’ lips twitched into an evil smirk. 

“Well, a lady has to keep up appearances.” 

“Your appearance is gonna suffer if you don’t get me my money. Twenty four hours.” His voice dropped dangerously low and Cassie ripped her arm from his fingers. A frown fell onto her face as he sneered at her, the young woman stomping off without another word. Donna looked away as Cassie passed her, ashamed that she couldn’t help the poor woman. She couldn’t even save herself, so what was she to do for Cassie?

The young woman in trouble knocked into Dean’s shoulder as he passed on his way to MacLeod, and he watched her run off with a sigh. 

“Can I help you?” Dean stopped next to Donna, his eyes on the man whose vile leached out into the atmosphere around. 

“Wow, Dean Winchester. What a pleasure.” MacLeod did nothing to hide the sarcasm in his voice, a smile still on his lips. Dean pushed back his suit jacket and slipped his hands into his pockets as his gaze flicked to Donna for half a second. “You know I actually thought this was my club for a while, considering that’s my singer up there.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to inform you, but your club is down the road,” it was Dean’s turn to smile now, “The one lacking customers.”  

“Hmm, funny.” Fergus pretended to ponder over his thoughts. “Give me my girl back, and I’ll let you live.” 

“Jo is free to do whatever she wants, and she wants to stay here.” Dean turned as he spoke his next words, his forefinger pointing towards the main entrance. “You, on the other hand, are free to go.” 

MacLeod laughed, an earnest chuckle, “You know this club had such class when your father ran it. You know it’s too bad your mother and John had such a horrific accident, I mean your mother was always so,” Fergus licked his lips, his eyes narrowing, “Hospitable.” 

“I think it is time for you to get out of my club, or I will throw you out.” All hint of amusement was gone from Dean’s face. His blood was boiling underneath his skin, and it took everything in him not to sock the man staring up at him. 

Fergus didn’t take his eyes off Dean, both men were intent to size the other up. “Gordon,” 

Dean turned just in time to see Gordon smash a bottle against the table, holding up the jagged edges to the club owner’s face. Dean didn’t back down, his jaw ticking as he stood his ground. The music around them faded away as all eyes in the club had been drawn to the commotion. Even Jo stood watching with bated breath from the stage. 

“Hey,” Benny now stood at the entrance to the club, his gun resting in plain sight on his hip. He was flanked by Dean’s other right-hand man, Castiel, who also was accompanied by his piece. “I think that’s enough for tonight.” 

Gordon dropped the glass with a small nod from his boss, who stood then, taking his coat from Gordon and slipping it back on his shoulders. The three walked by Dean, all eyes on them as they made their exit. Fergus paused in front of Dean, looking out towards all the hesitant faces. “Thanks for the lovely evening.” He sneered before continuing out. 

Donna stopped to watch him return to her, letting him pass by out the door. Her gaze landed on Dean one last time and he couldn’t help but wonder if he detected something in her eyes this time. Was it fear? Or maybe it was a concern? Either way, it set Dean Winchester on edge, and that was not an easy feat. 

Dean followed them until the trio disappeared behind the doors, turning back around to his still silent club members. “Sorry ladies and gentlemen, round on the house!” Dean flourished his arm towards the stage. “Jo Harvelle!” He signaled towards the band to start up again, wanting nothing more than for the little scene with MacLeod to be over with. He took a deep breath as the attention turned back to his star performer. 

~

The Mercedes rolled to a stop outside MacLeod manor as a fog settled in the small town. 

“Give us a minute, Gordon.” Fergus caught the eye of his driver in the mirror and waited for him to exit the car. Donna turned her attention on the man, a confused tilt in her brow. Fergus took a deep breath and looked off out the opposite window. 

“I saw you making eyes at Dean tonight,” he stated. 

Donna forced a smile on her face and breathed out a chuckle, “I was doing nothing of the sort.” 

“I know what I saw, don’t make a liar out of me.” Fergus gripped her bicep in his stubby fingers, his nails digging into her soft flesh. The pair exchanged equally heated stares, Fergus with his teeth bared and Donna on the verge of tears. “You are only still alive right now because you have been useful to me. The second that changes, you are done. Now go to bed.” 

Fergus leaned over her to push open the car door. The blonde climbed out of the Benz without a word, her heart hammering deep in her chest. She knew his words were not just a veiled threat, but a promise. 

Gordon pushed open the gate as he pulled the toothpick from between his plumps lips, “I believe you, Donna, I know you only have eyes for me. Sweet dreams,” he sneered, taking it upon himself to smack her behind as she walked past him without comment. 

~

The crowd inside the Imperium was thinning as the night came to a close. Dean helped Garth out, making sure he headed in the right direction towards home before coming back inside. 

“Last chance,” Cassie purred as she walked up to the eldest Winchester, handing over her fur shawl to him. 

“Good night, Cassie,” Dean smiled as he helped her into her shall. “Oh and Cassie, those were nice days we had.”

“Sure they were,” she sighed. “Sorry I had to break your heart.” And with those teasing words, she was gone, her smile faltering as she exited the club. 

“Are you sure you can still handle your whiskey, Chief?” Benny came up behind Dean as he watched the dark-skinned woman go. 

“Yeah, I’m sure. Why?” 

“Cause you just let Cassie Robinson walk out of here without paying her tab.” Benny held up the slip of paper to his boss, a quirk in his brow as he stared at the frowning man. Dean took the slip from between Benny’s fingers and ripped it in half. “Wow, I’ve been working with you for over ten years and I have never seen you tear up a bar tab.”

“Ah, she’s just down on her luck. Mark my words, Benny, someday Cassie Robinson is gonna change the world.” Dean patted his buddy’s shoulder and walked off to make sure his employees began their closing duties for the night. He slipped off his jacket as he set out to help clear the tables and go through some of the night's paperwork. He was leaning against the bar, rifling through his mail when the doors opened, revealing the long legs of Miss Hanscum. The club owner pushed off the bar and made his way to stop her before she could get too far inside. 

“Sorry, but we’re closed.” He breathed out as he came up the three stairs to the foyer. 

“I know,” she smiled. “My car broke down.” 

“Right, so you can lure me outside and Fergus and his goons can work me over.” Dean cocked his head, stopping a safe distance from the woman before putting his hands into his pockets. He straightened his shoulders. “No thanks.”

As Dean turned to leave, Donna raised her voice, “Fergus isn’t with me.” she cast her eyes down to where her feet were planted, the silver of the straps a sharp contrast to the dark tile below. Dean turned back to her, an incredulous look in his eye. He did not believe the lady standing in front of him. He had seen all too well with his own eyes the things that those two got up to. “Promise.”

The two stared at each other for a second, though it felt like minutes to Dean. Donna had a glint in her eye that was making his stomach churn, but there was something about the upturn in her smile that calmed the storm inside him. For some reason, he believed her. “Let me grab my coat.”

Donna led Dean outside to the street just in front of the Imperium as he slipped his hat onto his head. A sleek black Mercedes Benz was parked right against the curb, identical to all the others that the MacLeod legion used. He assumed it was a loaner for her. 

“Let me see what I can do, I’m not really the mechanic type,” He drawled as he lifted the hood to the car. The tall man bent over the engine, peering inside and fiddling with some things that seemed out of place to him. “The advancement of these things is amazing. How much did this set you back?” 

“Oh hundreds,” Donna leaned against the cool metal, watching as Dean’s white button-down stretched over the muscles of his arms. Dean smiled to himself, knowing damn well this woman next to him had no clue how much the car in front of him truly cost. “What about you? What do you drive?” 

“I don’t, not ready to give up on old fashion walking.” Dean turned to catch her eye as he finally succumbed to the fact that he truly had no idea what he was doing. A silence fell between the pair for only a moment before Donna spoke. 

“You know, no one has ever stood up to Fergus like that before,” Her words were nothing more than observation but even she couldn’t hide the curiosity that lingered beneath them. 

“That right?”

“Mhmm, and to be perfectly honest, I think that confrontation made him respect you. That’s how he judges people, you know, are they weak or are they strong? It’s his way.” Donna turned her back to where Dean was puzzling at the engine of the car, her gaze off in the distance down the road. 

“It’s not my way. I’m a kind man unless you give me a reason to be otherwise.” Donna turned to look at him as he stood up straight, seeing the sincerity in his eyes as he spoke. A bashful smile replaced his serious face, “I’m sorry, my Uncle Bobby was the mechanic in the family.” Dean reached above his head and closed the hood of the car. 

“It’s okay, leave it. But you wouldn’t mind a good old fashioned walk home, would you?” Donna mocked his earlier tone, offering him back his coat that she held in her arms. 

“Sure,” Dean slipped the coat on, stumbling over his next words. “I can do that, where do you live?” 

Donna peered behind her, her eyes going south down the main road in Lawrence. “That way.” 

“Alright,” Dean agreed, coming to walk next to her as the pair made their way down the street. 

The moon was high in the night sky as they made their way out of the sleeping town. There were no other pedestrians on the street as they reached the bridge on the outskirts of town, the last obstacle before leaving Lawrence. The string of lights hung along the white bridge, bringing the wooden walkway to life in the night. 

“I don’t know how I feel about the war,” Donna mused as Dean watched his feet moving against the aging wood. “I mostly just worry about our boys. I could fight you know, or be a nurse. What do you think?”

“I guess,” Dean hummed. Donna wanted more out of Dean than one-word answers. The man that had always been an enigma to the young blonde. He had taken up duty looking after his city when his Daddy died and he did it well. It was like she had said, no one had ever stood up to Fergus as he had, not even John Winchester.

“Do you think I’m pretty?” She blurted out, hoping to God that he didn’t leave her alone on that bridge in her idiocy. 

“I don’t think I know you well enough yet to say something like that.” 

“Well, you certainly don’t talk much yourself. Why would you agree to walk me home if you weren’t going to talk?” 

“Not much of the gabbing type.” Dean’s voice was even as the woman pushed him. Sure he had agreed to walk her home, but he wasn’t ready to open up his heart to the woman. After all, the only thing he was sure of was she worked for MacLeod. That meant that she was a threat. 

“What’s a girl got to do for some interesting conversation?”

“Fine,” Dean stopped his trajectory and adjusted the hat on his head. Donna continued on a half step before she noticed he had stopped. She turned to look at him, the deep look in his eyes making her smile falter. “Tell me, why do you associate yourself with a guy like MacLeod? He’s scum. Everybody knows the types of things he gets into. People disappear around him. And yet, you let him own you.” 

“Nevermind,” Donna husked out, a grimace now on her face. 

“Oh no, now you said you wanted to talk. Here I am walking you home, against his wishes I’m sure. I’d just like to know.” Dean shook his head at the woman as she attempted to evade the conversation she had started. 

“It’s a long story,” 

Dean looked off to the road ahead of them, “I’ve got time.”

“I was in love once, Doug was my whole life. But he was also an idiot... and a dog. He got into trouble with Fergus, money trouble, and I being a naive young lady threw myself on the fire to save him.” Donna admitted without hesitation. It felt better than she could ever explain to tell someone how far she had fallen. The pair continued towards their destination as she explained to him the turmoils of her life. 

“You’re a slave,” Dean stated.

“I’m an employee,” she tried to correct him but even she didn’t believe her own words. 

“Call it whatever you like, a dog is still a dog.” Dean was fighting every instinct in his body telling him to reach out and touch her, instead choosing to ball his hands up inside his pockets. 

“What is a girl supposed to do? I laid my life on the line for a man that ran off as soon as he thought he was free of me. I haven’t been free for most of my life.” Donna explained, the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. 

“I’m not sure if you expect me to help you with that,” Dean worried.

“I’ve made my bed, Dean. More than anything I need to feel the freedom of the wind in my hair, but I can’t expect anyone but myself to do that for me. I don’t need some-”

“You are,” Dean interrupted her tirade. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“Earlier you asked me if you were pretty. You are.” The pair locked eyes as he said the words aloud. “But it’s your heart that makes you beautiful. 

“Thank you,” Dean couldn’t believe himself that he had blurted out that admission. In the small amount of time it took him to walk her home she had somehow wormed her way into his heart. Maybe he bled for her a little, understanding the loss she must have been feeling, or perhaps it was the fact that he now understood every action she had ever taken since walking into Fergus’ life. Donna was a fool, but she was not a cold-hearted person. “This is me.”

Both of them stopped outside the apartment on Main street. It was just as quiet in this town as it had been in Lawrence. “No one else knows that story about Doug, not in the whole world. Just me, him, and now you.” 

“I won’t say a word,” He promised. Donna gave him a soft nod back in thanks. “You know, there is a sign above the door in my club, it says ‘stay awhile, have a nightcap’. Maybe you and I could do that sometime?” 

“Have a nightcap?” 

“Whatever you’d like.” He mused. Donna and Dean shared playful smirks on their faces, both of them equally unsure of what had transpired though they may be for different reasons. But there was something stirring deep inside Dean’s belly, and he couldn’t have stopped his next words even if he had tried. “Would it be alright-”

“Shut up and do it already,” Donna chuckled and Dean had to shake his head at that. What more surprises could this woman possibly have in store for him tonight? 

He leaned into her, Donna meeting him halfway in a pressed kiss. It was short, but it left something burning inside him. “Good night, Donna.” 

Donna nodded, turning without another word to enter her home. Neither of them noticed Cassie Robinson in the shadows. 

~

Three cars were parked across the bridge just outside of town, their engines running, ready for a quick getaway. The lights from their headlamps are the only thing illuminating the night. 

“Just had to go snooping where you didn’t belong, kid. That’s what will get you killed.” MacLeod was standing in the middle of the bridge, eyeing up the scraggly reporter that was bound and stuck into a cement bucket. The henchman around him laughed at the horrendous snide, eager to appease their boss at whatever cost. 

“Stop it! What is this?” Fergus turned his head as Donna came rushing towards him. One of his henchmen moved to halt her advancement. “Get your hands off me,” She shoved him aside. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I followed you here. I had a feeling you were up to something, but I never fathomed…” Donna trailed off. Somewhere deep down she always knew the truly horrendous things Fergus got up to in the night, but she let herself believe it was all a lie so she could sleep at night. 

“What about you? How’s Dean doing, whore?” Donna stumbled back from his words as if they had physically assaulted her. 

“He killed John Winchester. I said I was on to something and I was right. He murdered him.” Garth spoke up from his confines, his mouth already bloodied. Fergus hollered to shut him up and the henchman obeyed, giving two swift punches to the gut. 

“Is that true?” 

“Go wait in the car!” Fergus ordered, but Donna was far too lost in her distraught, instead choosing to grab his arm.

“Is that true?!” She bellowed this time, only to be treated to a smack across her face. Donna stumbled on her heels, her hand coming up to wipe away the blood now on her lip. Fergus ordered her to the car again, looking back to his previous task. Donna took her opportunity and ran. She ran straight to the first person she could think of for help. 

Dean was preparing his club for the night’s festivities when she came barreling through the door. The clicking of her heels on the tile caught both his and Benny’s attention.

“They have Garth, they’re gonna kill him.” She blurted out. 

“What?”

“He found out that Fergus killed John.” Dean’s eyes went wide before his gaze was lost somewhere far off in the distance. “Dean I didn’t know, I’m sorry.” 

Dean was fishing for something under the bar before she could even try to explain herself. He pulled out a small gold box, flipping the lid open to reveal a single revolver. “Benny, go. Find Cas and get back here.”

“Chief, what are you doing?” 

“Let’s just go,” Donna whined. 

“Listen to her. Cas and I can handle this.” Benny tried to reason with his boss. 

“You’ll get hurt.” Donna tried again. 

“He hurt me when he took my father away from me. He’s hurt everybody, including you. He needs to be stopped once and for all.” 

“Oh, Dean,” Donna’s tears were making tracks in her makeup along her cheeks as she took in the one man that could help her even if she didn’t think that she needed it. 

Dean looked back at Benny, nodding for him to go before walking past Donna and out of the club. But they were too late. A car came towards them on either side of the road effectively blocking their escape plan. 

Gordon climbed from the car first, “Get over here, Donna.” He ordered. “Donna now!” 

“She’s with me.” Dean stood his ground, blocking Donna from the man now stalking towards them. Gordon laughed a good laugh before reaching for his pistol. Dean was faster on the draw, pulling the trigger of his revolver before Gordon even knew what had hit him. He hit the ground hard, blood soaking his gold shirt as it poured from his wound. Dean walked over, kicking Gordon’s dropped gun from his reach. 

“Why does everything always have to be so messy?” The sound of a car door closing had Donna and Dean snapping their attention to the other car. Dean aimed his gun at Fergus, unrelenting in his stance against the man. 

“Alright,” Fergus put up his hands and turned around, an evil smirk on his face. “Not even I would shoot a man in the back, Dean. That’s not true, I’ve shot several men in the back. Most of them deserved it, but I wouldn’t recommend you do it. Cause I have a surprise for you.” 

Dean’s attention was diverted to the car door opening again, this time revealing a grim Cassie Robinson. The confusion was all it took for Dean to let his guard down for a moment, giving Fergus ample time to reveal his own weapon. Dean was forced to relent, putting his hands up and dropping his gun. 

“That’s a good boy.” Fergus laughed. “Alright Miss Robinson. Finish your job and your debt is clear.” He sneered as he offered the gun in his hand to her. She took the metal weapon with shaking fingers, continuing to keep it pointed at Dean. 

“I’m sorry, Dean.” 

“Cassie, we’ve all had hard times. You don’t have to do this.” He was stepping backward away from where she was shaking. 

“Yes, I do. I should have done this a long time ago.” A smile etched itself across her face before she spun around and pulled the trigger on the weapon only to be met with thundering silence. 

“Yeah, I thought so,” Fergus mused. He reached out and slapped Cassie, sending her barely onto the wet concrete below. Donna gasped as he turned back to her and Dean, another gun already in his hand. 

“If you want something done right-” The sound of the gun being fired rang out in the small city street. Benny threw himself onto Fergus in that same moment, not having enough time to draw his weapon before Fergus had discharged. Dean flung his weight towards his gun to point it at Fergus. Both Benny and Dean had him in their sights, guns trained on his head when a small whimper of Dean’s name had him spinning around. 

Donna stood there, clutching her abdomen where warm blood was now pouring out of. “Donna?” Dean reached for just as she collapsed, both of them falling to the ground. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” He tried to reassure her as her eyes no longer focused on anything. “It’s okay, you are gonna be okay.” She was gasping as she looked up at him, her body fighting to live. 

“We are gonna leave, yeah, just you and me,” Dean had one hand pressed against her wound and the other was cradling her head, forcing her to look up at him as he spoke. “C’mon.”

Donna sucked in one last breath, uttering a soft exhaled “I love you,” up at the man cradling her in his arms. Dean dropped his head as the heavens opened up above him, letting down the rain that had been in the forecast all night. Her body was now limp in his arms and he no longer felt the need to fight the tears in his eyes. He leaned in to rest his forehead against hers, his eyes falling shut as he did so. 

“You’re free now, Donna.” He whispered to her before a sob racked his body. 

A hollered shout of his name had him snapping his head up, unaware of where the voice had come from. The thunder shook the world around before he heard it again. With the blink of his eyes, his little brother Sammy came into view, the world suddenly much brighter than it had been before. 

“Dude, why do you even agree to watch movies if you are gonna fall asleep?” Sam had kicked down the footrest of Dean’s lounger. He had to blink a few more times to allow his surroundings to come back to him, the credits of the black and white film Sam had chosen for movie night still playing on the television. 

“I wouldn’t have agreed if I knew you were gonna pic this boring shit.” Dean groaned, the reality now crashing over him. Sam frowned at his older brother before stalking off without cleaning up, leaving Dean to deal with the mess. 

The eldest Winchester rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his heart pounding in his chest. There was this emptiness in the pit of his stomach that the dream had left behind, a nagging feeling that he knew all too well. Unfortunately for him, this wasn’t the first time Donna had found her way into his dreams, and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last. 

The hunter wasn’t exactly sure when it had all started. Time had always been hazy to him, but now as he found himself lucky to live another day, time was meaningless. Maybe it was then that the plucky sheriff from Minnesota had found her way into his heart. Dean had let his guard down a long time ago, and with it went the walls around his heart. Donna had a way about her that never failed to make him laugh, and she sure knew the storms raging in his head before anyone else. Donna was a badass and everything he could see himself needing in a woman. The only problem was that he couldn’t let himself have her. Not when the universe's largest target, God himself, was out for his blood. No, she deserved far better than a broken hunter who likely won’t even be able to save himself in the end. 

Dean stretched out his limbs as he climbed from his chair, his body creaking from years of abuse. The hunter couldn’t be bothered with what his brother had left in the movie room, instead, flipping the light off as he exited, his mind elsewhere as the black and white credits droned on in the now dark room.

Forevers: @polina-93​​ @22sarah08​​ @callmekda​​ @hobby27​​ @​tranquility-or-chaos​ @dawnie1988​​ @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​​ @sleepylunarwolf​ @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan​  @akshi8278​ @superfanficnatural​ @malfoysqueen14​ @deanwanddamons​ @waywardbeanie​ @emoryhemsworth​ @talesmaniac89​ @winchest09​ @katehuntington​ @flamencodiva​ @janicho88​ @anathewierdo​ @ellewritesfix05​ @mrsjenniferwinchester​ @jensengirl83​ @lyarr24​

[innuendostudios]

The newest installment of The Alt-Right Playbook - Endnote 4: How the Alt-Right is Like an Abusive Relationship - is a little different. This installment was presented live at Solidarity Lowell, and includes a bonus Q&A section. This video expands on the ideas put forth in How to Radicalize a Normie.

If you would like more videos like this to come out, please back me on Patreon.

Transcript below the cut.

He is intriguing, yet unpredictable. He demands unconditional loyalty. He seems to have an intuitive understanding of what people want to hear but no actual empathy; he treats others as simply bodies or objects. And he’s surrounded by a network of subordinates but the personnel is always changing.

Does it sound like I’m describing The President? Because these are, according to Alexandra Stein, qualities of a cult leader.

Hi. My name is Ian Danskin. I’m a video essayist and media artist. I run the YouTube channel Innuendo Studios, the flagship endeavor of which is currently The Alt-Right Playbook, a series on the political and rhetorical strategies the Alt-Right uses to legitimize itself and gain power. And, if that sounds interesting to you, and you haven’t already, please like share and subscribe.

The most recent episode of The Alt-Right Playbook is about how people get recruited into these largely online reactionary communities like the Alt-Right, a subject which, as it turns out, is real fuckin’ hard to research.

What I want to talk about with you today is how I go about studying a population that is incredibly hostile towards being studied. It involves finding the bits and pieces of the Alt-Right that we do have data on - the pockets of good research, the outsider observations, the stories of lived experience - as well as looking at older movements the Alt-Right grew out of, that have been extensively researched, and spotting the ways the Alt-Right is continuous with them, and trying to extrapolate how those structures might recreate themselves in the social media age.

So it’s… a lot. And, in the process of researching, I found a wealth of interesting perspectives that, by focusing the video on recruitment specifically, I barely dipped a toe in. All that stuff is what I’d like to get into with you today. But I’m trying to thread a needle here: you don’t need to have seen my video, How to Radicalize a Normie, to follow this talk, but, if you have seen it already, I will try not to be redundant. This talk is one part making my case for why I think the conclusions in that video are correct, one part repository for all the stuff I couldn’t get into, and one part how I’ve come to look at the Alt-Right as a result of this research, including some pet theories I wouldn’t feel right claiming as truth without further research, but I do think are on the right track.

This talk is called Isolation, Engulfment, and Pain: How the Alt-Right is Like an Abusive Relationship. We’re going to cover a lot of ground, from information processing to emotional development, but we’re necessarily also going to cover racism and violence and abuse dynamics. So this is an introduction and a content warning: if some of these subjects are particularly charged for you, no offense will be taken if you at any point leave the room. I have to research this stuff for a living, and it is rough, and sometimes I have to step away. We don’t judge here.

Now. Requisite dash of self-deprecation: don’t give me too much credit for all this. I am proud of the work I do and I think I’m genuinely good at it, but much of this video was compiling the work of others. Besides research I had already done and my own observations, the video had 27 sources: three books, five research papers, six articles, one leaked document, three testimonials, four videos, four pages of statistics, and one Twitter joke. I also spoke to four professional researchers who study right-wing extremism and one former Alt-Righter.

Without all their hard work, I would have nothing to compile.

OK? Let’s begin.

We’re gonna center on those three main texts: Alt-America by David Neiwert, a history of the Alt-Right’s origins; Healing from Hate by Michael Kimmel, about how young men get into (and out of) extremist groups, be they neo-Nazi or jihadist; and Terror, Love and Brainwashing by Alexandra Stein, about how people are courted by and kept inside cults and totalitarian regimes.

I began with Kimmel. The premise of Healing from Hate is that extremist groups tend to be between 75 and 90% male, and that you cannot understand radical conservatism without looking at it through the lens of toxic masculinity. Which makes it all the more disappointing that Kimmel has been accused by multiple women of bullying and harassment. I found the book incredibly useful, and we’re still going to talk about it, I just need to caveat here that retweets are not endorsements. Also, if I spoil the book for you then you don’t need to buy it, give your money to someone who isn’t a creep.

Kimmel’s argument is that extremism begins with a pain peculiar to young men. He calls it “aggrieved entitlement.” I call it Durden Syndrome. You know that scene in Fight Club where Tyler Durden says, “We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires and movie gods and rockstars, but we won’t, we’re slowly learning that fact, and we are very, very pissed off”? Yeah, that. As men, the world promised us something, and the promise wasn’t kept.

Some men skew towards social progressivism when they realize this promise was never made to women, or men of color, or queer or trans or nonbinary people, and recognize the injustice of that. Some men skew towards economic leftism when they realize that every cishet white man being a millionaire rockstar movie god is mathematically impossible. But they skew towards reactionary conservatism when they feel the promise should have been kept. That’s the life they were supposed to have, and someone took it from them.

Hate groups appeal to that sense of emasculation. “You wanna feel like a Real Man? Shave off your hair, dance to hatecore, and let’s beat the crap out of someone.” Kimmel notes that the greatest indicator someone will join a hate group is a broken home: divorce, foster care, parents with addictions, physical or sexual abuse. The greater the distance between the life they were promised and the life they are living, the more enticing Real Masculinity becomes. Their fellow extremists are brothers, the leaders father figures.

The group does give them someone to blame for their lot in life - immigrants, feminists, the Jewish conspiracy - but that’s not why they join. They’re after empowerment. According to Kimmel, “Their embrace of neo-Nazi ideology is a consequence of their recruitment and indoctrination process, not its cause."

But once an Other has been identified as the locus of a hate group’s hate, new recruits are brought along when the group terrorizes that Other. Events like cross burnings and street fights are dangerous and morally fraught, and are often traumatic for a new recruit. And experiencing an emotional or physical trauma can create an intense bond with the people experiencing it with him, even though they’re the ones who brought him to the traumatic event in the first place. The creation of this bond is one of the reasons some hate groups usher new recruits out into the field as early as possible: the sooner they are emotionally invested in the community, the faster they will embrace the community’s politics.

This Othering also estranges recruits from the people they are supposed to hate, which makes it hard to stop hating them.

So there’s this concept that comes up a lot in my research called Contact Hypothesis. Contact Hypothesis argues that, the more contact you have with a different walk of life, the easier it is to tolerate it. It’s like exposure therapy. We talk about how big cities and college campuses tend to be liberal strongholds; the Right likes to claim this is because of professors and politicians poisoning your mind, but it’s really just because they’re diverse. When you share space with a lot of different kinds of people, a degree of liberalism becomes necessary just to get by. And we see that belief systems which rely on a strict orthodoxy get really cagey about members having contact with outsiders. We see this in all the groups we’re discussing today - extremists, cultists, totalitarians - but also religious fundamentalists; Mormons only wanna send their kids to Brigham Young. They are belief systems that can only be reliably maintained so long as no one gets exposed to other people with other beliefs.

So that’s some of what I took from Kimmel. Next I read Stein talking, primarily, about cults.

Stein’s window into all of this is applying the theory of Attachment Styles to what researchers calls totalism, which is any structure that subsumes a person’s entire life the way cults and totalitarian governments do. Attachment is a concept you may be familiar with if have, or have ever dated, a therapist. (I’ve done both.)

So, for a quick primer:

Imagine you’re walking in the park with a three-year-old. And the three-year-old sees a dog, and ask, “Can I pet the dog?” And you say yes, and the kid steps away from your side and reaches out. And the dog gets excited, and jumps up, and the kid gets scared and runs back to you. So you hold the kid and go, “Oh, no no no, don’t worry! They’re not gonna hurt you! They were just happy to see you!” And you take a few moments to calm the kid down, and then you ask, “Do you still want to pet the dog?” And the kid says “yes,” so they step away from you again and reach out. The dog jumps up again, but this time the kid doesn’t run away, and they pet the dog, and you, the kid, and the dog are all happy. Hooray!

This is a fundamental piece of a child’s emotional development. They take a risk, have a negative experience, and retreat to a point of comfort. Then, having received that comfort, feel bolstered enough to take a slightly greater risk. A healthy childhood is steadily venturing further and further from that point of comfort, and taking on greater risks, secure in the knowledge that safety is there when they need it. And, as an adult, they will form many interdependent points of comfort rather than relying on only one or two.

If all goes according to plan, that is Secure Attachment. But: sometimes things go wrong when the kid seeks comfort and doesn’t get enough. This may be because the adult is withholding or the kid doesn’t know how to express their needs or they’re just particularly fearful. But the kid may start seeking comfort more than seems reasonable, and be particularly averse to risk, and over-focus on the people who give them comfort, because they’re operating at a deficit. We call that Anxious Attachment. Alternately, the kid may give up on receiving comfort altogether, even though they still need it, and just go it alone, developing a distrust of other people and a fear of being vulnerable. We call that Avoidant Attachment.

Now, these styles are all formed in early childhood, but Stein focuses on a fourth kind of Attachment, one that can be formed at any age regardless of the Attachment Style you came in with. It’s what happens when the negative experience and the comfort come from the same place. We see it in children and adults who are mistreated by the people they trust. It’s called Disorganized Attachment.

According to Stein, cults foster Disorganized Attachment by being intensely unpredictable. In a cult, you may be praised for your commitment on Monday and have your commitment questioned on Tuesday, with no change in behavior. You may be assigned a romantic partner, who may, at any point, be taken away, assigned to someone else. Your children may be taken from you to be raised by a different family. You may be told the cult leader wants to sleep with you, which may make you incredibly happy or be terrifying, but you won’t be given a choice. And the rules you are expected to follow will be rewritten without warning.

This creates a kind of emotional chaos, where you can’t predict when you will be given good feelings and when you will be given bad ones. But you’re so enmeshed in the community you have noplace else to go for good feelings; hurting you just draws you in deeper, because they are also where you seek comfort. And your pain is always your fault: you wouldn’t feel so shitty if you were more committed. Trying to make sense of this causes so much confusion and anguish that you eventually just stop thinking for yourself. These are the rules now? OK. He’s not my brother anymore? OK. This is my life now? OK.

Hardly anyone would seek out such a dynamic, which is why cults present as religions, political activists, and therapy groups; things people in questioning phases of their lives are liable to seek out, and then they fall down the rabbit hole before they know what’s happening. The cult slowly consumes more and more of a recruit’s life, and tightly controls access to relationships outside the cult, because the biggest threat to a Disorganized Attachment relationship is having separate, Securely Attached points of comfort.

And at this point I said, “Hold up. You’re telling me cults recruit by offering people community and purpose in times of need, become the focal point of their entire lives, estrange them from all outside perspectives, and then cause emotional distress that paradoxically makes them more committed because they have nowhere else to go for support?”

Isn’t that exactly how Kimmel described joining a hate group?

Now, these are commonalities, not a one-to-one comparison. A cult is far more organized and rigidly controlled than a hate group. But Stein points out that this dynamic of isolation, engulfment, and pain is the same dynamic as an abusive relationship. The difference is just scale. A cult is functionally a single person having a very complex domestic abuse situation with a whole lot of people, #badpolyamory.

So if we posit a spectrum with domestic abuse on one end and cults and totalitarianism on the other, I started wondering, could we put extremist groups, like ISIS and Aryan Nations, around… here?

And, if so, where would we put the Alt-Right?

Now, I have to tread carefully here. There are reasons this talk is called “How the Alt-Right is Like an Abusive Relationship” and not “How the Alt-Right is Like a Cult,” because the moment you say the second thing, a lot of people stop listening to you. Our conception of cults and totalitarianism is way more controlled and structured than a pack of loud, racist assholes on the internet. But we’re not talking about organizational structure, we’re talking about a relationship, an emotional dynamic Stein calls “anxious dependency,” which fosters an irrational loyalty to people who are bad for you and gets you to adopt an ideology you would have previously rejected. (I would also love to go on a rant puncturing the idea that cultists and fascists are organized, pointing out this notion is propaganda and their systems are notoriously corrupt and mismanaged, but we don’t have time; ask me about it in the Q&A if you want me to go off.)

So I started looking through what I knew, and what I could find, about the Alt-Right to see if I could spot this same pattern of isolation, engulfment, and pain online funneling people towards the Alt-Right. And I did not come up short.

Isolation? Well, the Alt-Right traffics in all the same dehumanizing narratives about their enemies as Kimmel’s hate groups - like, the worst things you can imagine a human being saying about a group of people are said every day in these forums. They often berate and harass each other for any perceived sympathy towards The Other Side. They also regularly harass people from The Other Side off of platforms, and falsely report their tweets, posts, and videos as terrorism to get them taken down. (This has happened to me, incidentally.) I found figureheads adored by the Alt-Right who expressly tell people to cut ties with liberal family members.

We talked before about Contact Hypothesis? There’s also this idea called Parasocial Contact Hypothesis. A parasocial relationship is a strong emotional connection that only goes one way, like if you really love my videos and have started thinking of me almost as a friend even though I don’t know you exist? Yeah. Parasocial relationship. They’ve been in The Discourse lately, largely thanks to my friend Shannon Strucci making a really great video about them (check it out, I make a cameo, but… clear your schedule). Parasocial Contact Hypothesis is this phenomenon where, if people form parasocial feelings for public figures or even fictional characters, and those people happen to be Black, white audience members become less racist similar to how they would if they had Black friends. Your logical brain knows that these are strangers, but your lizard brain doesn’t know the difference between empathy for a queer friend and empathy for a queer character in a video game. So of course the Alt-Right makes a big stink about queer characters in video games, and leads boycotts against “forced diversity,” because diverse media is bad for recruitment.

Engulfment? Well, I learned way too much about how the Alt-Right will overtake your entire internet life. There was a paper made the rounds last year by Rebecca Lewis charting the interconnectedness of conservative YouTube. (Reactionaries really hated this paper because it said things they didn’t like.) Lewis argues that, once you enter what she calls the Alternative Influence Network, it tends to keep you inside it. Start with some YouTuber conservatives like but who’s branded as a moderate, or even a “classic liberal.” Take someone like Dave Rubin; call Dave Rubin Alt-Right, people yell at you, I speak from experience. Well, Dave Rubin’s had Jordan Peterson on his show, so, if you watch Rubin, Peterson ends up in your recommendations. Peterson has been on the Joe Rogan show, so, you watch Peterson, Rogan ends up in your recommendations. And Rogan has interviewed Gavin McInnes, so you watch Rogan and McInnes ends up in your recommendations.

Gavin McInnes is the head of the Proud Boys, a self-described “western chauvinist” organization that’s mostly known for beating up liberals and leftists. They have ties to neo-fascist groups like Identity Evropa and neo-fascist militias like the Oath Keepers, they run security for white nationalists, and their lawyer just went on record that he identifies as a fascist. And, if you’re one of these kids who has YouTube in the background with autoplay on, and you’re watching Dave Rubin? You might be as few as 3 videos away from watching Gavin McInnes.

There’s a lot of talk these days about algorithms funneling people towards the Right, and that’s not wrong, but it’s an oversimplification. The real problem is that the Right knows how to hijack an algorithm.

I also learned about the Curation/Search Radicalization Spiral from a piece by Mike Caulfield. Caulfiend uses the horrific example of Dylann Roof. You remember him? He shot up a church in a Black neighborhood a few years ago. Roof says he was radicalized when he googled “Black on white crime” and saw the results. Now, if you search the phrase “crime statistics by demographic,” you will find fairly nonpartisan results that show most crimes are committed against members of the perpetrator’s own race, and Black people commit crimes against white people at about the same rate as any other two demographics. But that specific phrase, “Black on white crime,” is used almost exclusively by white racists, and so Roof’s first hit wasn’t a database of crime statistics, it was the Council of Conservative Citizens. Now, the CCC is an outgrowth of the White Citizens Councils of the 50’s and 60’s which rebranded in ‘85. They publish bogus statistics that paint Black people as uniquely violent. And they introduce a number of other politically-loaded phrases - like, say, “Muslim fertility rates” - that nonpartisan sites don’t use, and so, if Roof googles them as well, he gets similarly weighted results.

I have tons more examples of this stuff. I literally don’t have time to show it all. Like, have you heard of Google bombing? That’s a thing I didn’t know existed. The point is, the same way search engines tailor your results to what they think you want, once you scratch the surface of the Alt-Right they are highly adept at making it so, whenever you go online, their version of reality is all you know and all you see.

Finally, pain. This was the difficult one. Can you create a Disorganized Attachment relationship over the internet with a largely faceless and decentralized movement? I pitched the idea to one the researchers I spoke to, and he said, “That sounds very plausible, and nearly impossible to research.” See, cults and hate groups? They don’t wanna talk to researchers anymore than the Alt-Right wants to talk to me. Stein and Kimmel get their data by speaking to formers, people who’ve exited these movements and are all too happy to share how horrible they were. But the Alt-Right is still very young, and there just aren’t that many formers yet.

I found some testimonials, and they mostly back up my hypothesis, but there’s not enough that I could call them statistically significant. So I had to look where the data was.

My fellow YouTuber ContraPoints made a video last year - in my opinion, her best one - about incels (that’s “involuntary celibate,” men who can’t get laid). Incel forums tend to be deeply misogynistic and antifeminist, and have a high overlap with the Alt-Right. If you remember Elliot Rodger, he was an incel. Contra’s observation was that these forums were incredibly fatalistic: you are too ugly and women too shallow for you to ever have sex, so you should give up. She described a certain catharsis, like picking a really painful scab, in hearing other people voice your worst fears. But there was no uplift; these communities seemed to have a zero-tolerance policy for optimism. She likened it so some deeply unhealthy trans forums she used to visit, where people wallowed in their own dysphoria.

And I remembered the forums I researched five years ago in preparation for my video on GamerGate. (If you don’t know what GamerGate was, I will not rob you of your precious innocence. But, in a lot of ways, GamerGate was the trial run for what the Alt-Right has become.) These forums were full of angry guys surrounding themselves with people saying, “You’re right to be angry.” And, yeah, if everywhere else you go treats your anger as invalid, that scratches an itch. But I never saw any of them calm down. They came in angry and they came out angrier. And most didn’t have anywhere else to vent, so they all came back.

I found a paper on Alt-Right forums that described a similar type of nihilism, and another on 8chan. What humor was on these sites was always shocking, furiously punching down, and deeply self-referential, but it didn’t seem like anyone was expected to laugh anymore, just, you know, catch the reference. I found one testimonial saying that having healthy relationships in these spaces is functionally impossible, and the one former I talked to said, yeah, when the Alt-Right isn’t winning everyone’s miserable.

So I think it might fit. The place they go for relief also makes them unhappy, so they come back to get relief again, and it just repeats. Same reason people stay with abusers. I wanna look into this further, so, I’ll just say this part to the camera: if there are any researchers watching who wanna study this, get at me.

Finally, I read Alt-America by David Neiwert, a supremely useful book that I highly recommend if you wanna know how the Alt-Right is the natural outgrowth of the militia and Patriot movements of the 90’s and early 2000’s, not to mention the Tea Party. Neiwert also does an excellent job illustrating how conspiracism serves to fill in the gap between the complexity of the modern world and the simplistic, might-makes-right worldview of fascism.

Neiwert also provides an interesting piece of the puzzle, suggesting what people are actually looking for when they get recruited. He references work done by John Bargh and Katelyn McKenna on Identity Demarginalization. Bargh and McKenna looked at the internet habits of people whose identities are both devalued in our society and invisible. By invisible, what I mean is, ok, if you’re a person of color, our society devalues your identity, but you can look around a room and, within a certain margin of error, see who else is POC, and form community with them if you wish. But, if you’re queer, you can’t see who else in a room is queer unless one of you runs up a flag. And revealing yourself always means taking on a certain amount of risk that you’ve misread the signals, that the person you reveal yourself to is not only not queer, but a homophobe.

According to Bargh and McKenna, people in this situation are much more likely to seek online spaces that self-select for that identity. A fan forum for RuPaul’s Drag Race is maybe a safer place to come out and find community. And people tend to get very emotionally tied to these online spaces where they can be themselves.

Neiwert points out that the same phenomenon happens among privileged people who have identities that are devalued even as they’re not actually oppressed. Say, nerds, or conservatives in liberal towns, or men who don’t fit traditional notions of masculinity. They are also likely to deeply invest themselves in online spaces made for them. And if the Far Right can build such a community, or get a foothold in one that already exists, it is very easy to channel that sense of marginalization into Durden Syndrome. I connected this with Rebecca Lewis’ observation that the Alternative Influence Network tends to present itself as nerd-focused life advice first and politics second, and the long history of reactionaries recruiting from fandoms.

So I can see all the pieces of the abuse dynamic being recreated here: offer you something you need, estrange you from other perspectives and healthy relationships, overtake your life, and provoke emotional distress that makes you seek comfort only your abuser is offering. And I found a lot more parallels than what I’m sharing right now, I only have half an hour! But the thing that’s missing that’s usually central to such a system is, an abusive relationship orbits around the abuser, a cult around the cult leader, a totalitarian government around a dictator. They are built to serve the whims of an individual. But I look at the ad hoc nature of the Alt-Right and I have to ask: who is the architect?

I can see a lot of people profiting off of this structure; our current President rode it to great success, but he didn’t build it. It predates him. It’s more like Kimmel’s hate groups, which don’t promote an individual so much as a class of individuals, but, even then, their structure is much more deliberate, designed, where the Alt-Right seems almost improvised.

Well… one observation I took from Stein is that cult recruiters often rely on two different kinds of propaganda: the winding diatribe and the thought-terminating cliche. The diatribe is when someone talks at length, sounds smart, and seems to know what they’re talking about but isn’t actually making sense, and the thought-terminating cliche comes from Robert Jay Lifton’s studies into brainwashing. So, I went vegetarian in middle school, and, when I would tell other kids I was vegetarian, some would get kind of defensive and say things like, “humans aren’t meant to be vegetarian, it’s the food chain.” Now, saying “it’s the food chain” isn’t meant to be a good argument, it’s meant to communicate “I have said something so axiomatically true that the argument need not continue.” That’s a thought-terminating cliche; something that may not be true, but feels true and gives you permission to think about something else.

Both these techniques rely on what’s called Peripheral-Route Processing. So, I’m up here talking about politics, and, Solidarity Lowell, you are a group of politically-engaged people, so you probably have enough context to know whether I’m talking out of my ass. That’s Direct-Route Processing, where you judge the contents of my argument. But if I were up here talking about string theory, you might not know whether I was talking out of my ass because there’s only so many people on Earth who understand string theory. So then you might look at secondary characteristics of my argument: the fact that I’ve been invited to speak on string theory implies I know what I’m talking about; maybe I put up a lot of equations and drop the names of mathematicians and say they agree with me; maybe I just sound really authoritative. All that’s Peripheral-Route Processing: judging the quality of my argument by how it’s delivered.

Every act of communication involves both, but if you’re trying to sell people on something that’s fundamentally irrational, you’re going to rely heavily on Peripheral-Route tactics, which is what the winding diatribe and the thought-terminating cliche are.

I noted that these two methods mapped pretty cleanly onto the rhetorical stylings of Jordan Peterson and Ben Shapiro. But here’s the question: cults use these techniques to recruit people. But can I say with any confidence that Jordan Peterson and Ben Shapiro are trying to recruit people into the Alt-Right?

The thing is, “Alt-Right” isn’t a term like “klansman.” It’s more akin to a term like “modernism.” It’s a label applied to a trend. In the same way we debate the line between modernism and postmodernism, we debate the line between Right and Alt-Right. People don’t sign up to be in the Alt-Right, you are Alt-Right if you say you’re Alt-Right. But the nature of the Alt-Right is that 90% of them would never admit to it.

So are Peterson and Shapiro intentionally recruiting for the Alt-Right? Are they grifters merely profiting off of the Alt-Right? Are they even aware they’re recruiting for the Alt-Right? Part of my work has been accepting that you can’t know for sure. It would be naive to say they’re unaware; when they give speeches they get Nazis in their Q&A sections, and they know that. But how aware are they? I suspect Shapiro moreso than Peterson, but that’s just my gut talking and I can’t prove it. Like 90% of the Alt-Right, it’s debatable.

I don’t know if they’re trying to be part of this system, I just know they’re not trying not to be.

A final academic term before we say goodnight that’s been making the rounds among lefty YouTubers is “Stochastic Terrorism.” There’s a really great video about this by the channel NonCompete called The PewDiePipeline. Stochastic Terrorism is the myriad ways you can increase the likelihood that someone will commit violence without actually telling them to. You simply create an environment in which lone wolf violence becomes more acceptable and appealing. It mirrors the structure of terrorism without the control or culpability.

And I hear about this, and I look at this recruitment structure I see approximated in the Alt-Right, and I remember something I learned much earlier in my research, from Bob Altemeyer in his book The Authoritarians. Altemeyer has been studying authoritarianism for decades, he has a wealth of data, and one thing he observes is that authoritarianism is the few exerting power over the many, which means there are two types of authoritarians: the ones who lead and the ones who follow. Turns out those are completely different personality profiles. Followers don’t want to be in charge, they want someone to tell them what to do, to say “you’re the good guys,” and put them in charge of punishing the bad guys. They don’t even care who the bad guys are; part of the appeal is that someone else makes that judgment for them.

So if you can encourage a degree of authoritarian sentiment in people, get them wanting nothing more than to be ensconced in a totalist system that will take their agency away from them, putting them in the orbit of an authoritarian leader, but no leader presents themself… can you just kind of… appoint one?

Like, if you don’t have a leader, can you just find yourself an authoritarian and treat him like one? And, if he doesn’t give you enough directives, can you just make some up? And, if you don’t have recruiters, can you find a conservative who speaks in thought-terminating cliches just because he thinks they win arguments; find a conservative who speaks in meaningless diatribes because he thinks he’s making sense; and then maneuver those speeches and videos in front of people you want to recruit? If you’re sick of waiting for Moses to come down the mountain with the Word of God, can you just build your own god from whatever’s handy?

Every piece of this structure, you can find people, algorithms, and arguments that, put in sequence, can generate Disorganized Attachment whether they’re trying to or not, which makes every part plausibly deniable. Debatable. You just need to make it profitable enough for the ones involved that they don’t fix it. This is a system created collaboratively, on the fly, with the help of a lot of people from hate movements past, mostly by throwing a ton of shit at the wall and seeing what sticks. The Alt-Right is a rapidly-mutating virus and the web is the perfect incubator; it very quickly finds a structure that works, and it’s a structure we’ve seen before, just a little weirder this time.

I’ve started calling this Stochastic Totalism.

Now, again, I’m not a professional researcher; I do my homework but I don’t have the background. I have an art degree. This isn’t something I can prove so much as a way I’ve come to look at the Alt-Right that makes sense to me and helps me understand them. And I got a lot of comments on my last video from people who used to be Alt-Right that echoed my assumptions. But don’t take it as gospel.

Mostly I wanted to share this because, if it can help you make sense of what we’re dealing with, I think it’s worth putting out there.

Thank you.

[skywillsometimeswrite]

Falling

This is my (incredibly on brand last minute) entry for @hermitcraftheadcanons writing contest! Info can be found here.

Funnily enough, I was going to do whatever random AU/headcanon that doing /random on their blog would give me and it gave me, no joke, one of the AUs that @target-block and I have very much fleshed out together. The RVB AU inspired by this ask!

A little background for anyone who doesn’t know about Red vs Blue I’ll explain a little context: Impulse and Doc are partner mercenaries who were ordered to start a civil war that the majority of the rest of the Hermits are stopping after being dragged into it unwillingly. If you have questions about this AU, I’ll be more than happy to answer! And for any extra references, I used this episode as a guide.

CONTENT WARNING: CURSING, GUNS, GRENADES, FACING DEATH, FREE FALLING

Read it on AO3

Impulse stared at Doc, the few steps above him, in the middle of the painfully annoying and colorful soldiers. He could feel the mechanical eye underneath the helmet boring into his soul and it took all his will power to stand up against it.

“Doc? What are you-” he gestured vaguely to the group around them, “What are you doing? You were supposed to kill them!”

“No. No more killing.”

“What?” he asked again, clenching his fists. “What about the mission-”

“You said it yourself. Fuck the mission. I’m not doing this because I was told to. I’m doing this because I want to.”

Locus’ voice made something inside him crack, some thread that he didn’t realize had been pulled taut snap. A wave of unnerving calm covered him and he slumped forward, replaying the words in his head again. 

“Alright. Then you can die with the rest of them.”

In one swift motion he grabbed his energy sword from his back, activating it and tossing it haphazardly at where Doc stood, watching him and Tango duck away from it. He kicked up the gun Doc had thrown at him and shot to his left, making the architechs scrambled away before bringing his shield up to deflect any incoming bullets from the rest of the group that had stopped his plans for so long. When Stress, Keralis, and Jevin had run away he lifted his shield back to where he assumed the first three would be shooting at him.

Bullets didn’t hit his shield, but rather something stuck to the outside of it. He watched through the blue tint as Mumbo reloaded a gun that he recognized all too well, and that made the beeping grenade on the front of his shield that much more terrifying. 

“Guess we did learn a thing or two from you mercs, huh?” Came Grian’s all too smug reply that Impulse would have retorted to were his mind not racing to find a way out of this situation. He couldn’t just put his shield down because then it would just fall and probably detonate-

“Hey, Impy. Catch.” Tango’s voice cut through his thoughts and he looked over, eyes widening as a grenade landed next to his feet.

“No, wait-”

The grenade exploded, sending him flying backwards off of the communications temple, plummeting down into the clouds and to the inevitable death below. His arms flailed in the air as panic refused to let any Into his lungs. There has to be a way out of this, there has to be a way to survive this-

Suddenly, all Impulse could see was red. A horrible mix of anger and fear mixed around inside of him. It reminded him of Doc’s eye. He clenched his fists once again at the very thought of his old partner. He managed to grab one of his knives out of his suit, throwing it upwards as if it would reach up and imbed itself into that traitor's head. Into that mechanic eye that used to give him nightmares. Into that robotic arm that could easily crush his windpipe if Doc had ever gotten tired of his voice. Into that brain of his that had been so willing to follow any and all orders until when Impulse needed him to the most.

The knife didn’t get very far before it fell right alongside Impulse.

He bit back against the wetness that was slowly trying to fill his eyes, and the tightness in his throat that burned and hurt more than the explosion that sealed his fate did. 

“I care about you, you’re my partner, my best friend. But if you’re going to keep going on like this, Impulse, I don’t want to be there when you fall.”

He closed his eyes against Skizz’s words, the last words his old friend had said to him. Traitors. Both of them are. Cowards and traitors and liars-

He coughed as he choked on a sob. Skizz should have seen this. He deserved to see this. He was supposed to keep Doc and him straight. Keep them from going overboard. If he hadn’t left them, abandoned them, then he wouldn’t be falling to his death right now. Doc wouldn’t have betrayed him. He wouldn’t have started this war, wouldn’t have ever met Scar or Tango or Xisuma or any of those idiots that collectively ruined his life. 

He stared up at the clouds that looked so far away and barely registered in his mind how close to the ground he was. He closed his eyes for a brief moment before refusing to go out like that, like a coward, like Doc would expect him to-

He ground his teeth and opened his eyes, turning to stare at the ground head on and take the brunt of the impact. If this was how he was going to die then he would do it with as much pride as he had left. It was all he had left.

Fuck you Doc. Fuck you Skizz. Fuck you Tango, Scar, Xisuma, False, Ren and all you other roaches that refused to die. 

His last thoughts were filled with malice, and he distantly hoped that it would be enough for the universe or whatever twisted god was out there to latch onto and form into a curse or whatever it did. Maybe, we wondered, he could come back in another life and finish them off with his own two hands. 

He smiled, the image sweet in his mind and he didn’t even register when his body hit the ground.

[lazyfox411]

For the whump prompts, head injury, any character you want. And good luck on exams! —whumperfly

I must begin,,,,with an apology because this took SO long to make. Life has been one fiasco after another, but my exams at least did go well! Thank you so much @whumperfly for your patience, and for sending me this in the first place! 

Characters are Locus and Felix from Red vs Blue

Length: 1870 words

 ~~~

Contrary to popular belief–well, mostly Felix’s belief–Locus does, in fact, know how to relax. He’s turned the lights low in his apartment, set the television to some mindless, easy to watch soap opera, and he’s on his way to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of wine.

That’s when there’s a knock at the door. 

He slides open the drawer of his desk to pull out a gun and slip it into his waistband. Truly, you can never be too careful. Some people might call him paranoid, but in his line of work, you’re either paranoid or you’re dead. 

A glance through the peephole reveals his visitor isn’t an enemy, at least in the sense that they probably won’t immediately try to murder him. Locus tucks the gun away and opens the door. 

“Felix,” he nods. “What are you doing here?”

They haven’t received their next contract yet. Felix has no reason to come to his apartment, and yet here he is, braced in the doorframe. Instead of giving a reply, Felix mumbles something unintelligible and his hand slips from the doorframe. Locus reaches out to catch him on instinct as he slumps towards the floor. Felix leans heavily against his chest, mumbling again, and now that he’s close, Locus can smell the mix of booze, tobacco, cologne, and sweat, an odor he’s no doubt picked up from a club somewhere. Felix is drunk, he realizes. 

Locus sighs. This is not his idea of a peaceful Friday evening. He wants nothing more than to shove Felix back out into the hallway and lock the door, but...well, but. They’re partners. They look out for each other.

 He takes Felix’s arm, draping it across his shoulders, and hefts him to his feet. Felix fights him all the way to the bathroom, swinging and cursing at him belligerently. 

“Fuck off,” Felix says, volatile, and it’s the most coherent he’s sounded since coming through the door. Locus pays the demand no mind, leading him into the bathroom and sitting him down on the edge of the tub. If he can make Felix take a shower, or at least splash some cold water on his face, he might sober up a bit. 

Hands free, Locus turns around to flick the lights from dim to something that allows him to see more than the basic outline of where he’s walking. Before he can even turn back, Felix is on his knees, vomiting fiercely into the toilet. 

Locus sighs, again, and wonders how many sighs he will have made by the time Felix is ready to leave his apartment. Felix squints at him, face pale, eyes hazy, and that’s when Locus notices the dark bruises forming along his jawline.

He extends a hand to cup Felix’s chin, tilting his head to examine the purple splotches. “Who did this to you?” 

Felix blinks, confused. He narrows his eyes at Locus, then glances around the room, like he’s realizing where he is for the first time. 

“What happened?” Locus presses. 

“I don’t… god, will you shut that light off? It’s too damn bright.” Felix groans, lowering his head to his hands. With an unobstructed view of the back of his head, Locus can see a bump swelling under his short hair. He’s not drunk, Locus realizes, he’s been hurt.

“You’re injured.”

“I’m fine.” 

“If that were true then you wouldn’t be here. You’re most likely concussed. You need to tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t know, it’s...fuzzy. These guys at the bar, they came at me. Took me off guard.”

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” Locus decides, and before Felix can protest, he hauls him off the floor and towards the front door.

He pauses to shove his feet into a pair of shoes and grabs his jacket off its hook. Instead of putting it on himself, he drapes it over Felix’s thin shoulders. He doesn’t want Felix to be cold, is all, he tells himself. Felix will only complain if he’s cold. 

They trudge down the hall to the elevator, Locus holding onto Felix’s arm to keep him upright. Felix doesn’t complain this time, just follows, expression subdued. Either he’s resigned himself to his fate or he’s a lot worse off than Locus originally thought. 

“Can you tell me anything about the men who attacked you?” Locus asks, hitting the button for the ground floor. 

Felix shakes his head, then winces. “No,” he says, “I don’t remember. Happened really fast.”

Locus takes a step closer to where he’s bent over, forehead pressed against the cool metal wall of the elevator. He’s obviously not, but Locus asks it anyway, “Are you alright?”

Felix’s voice is ragged. “Head hurts,” he says, “‘m’dizzy.”

The fact he’s willing to admit it is what’s most concerning. Felix is loud, and abrasive, not quiet and dull. Never vulnerable. Locus places a steadying hand on his back. “Just breathe.”

It’s a strange thing, to be so close to someone, and to be helping instead of hurting. Their job gets them into a lot of fights, he’s no stranger to getting up close and personal with someone, but it’s usually to punch that someone in the face. He feels Felix tense momentarily, and then relax.

The doors open with a soft ding, and Locus guides them outside.

Hailing a cab is easy, he’s tall enough to be seen easily and well dressed enough to look like he’ll leave a nice tip. He helps Felix clamber into the backseat and buckles up next to him. 

There seems to be an excessive amount of traffic. Locus taps his foot impatiently, wishing he could just forgo the cabbie and drive the car himself. This is taking forever. 

Felix flinches at every set of bright headlights and loud horn, huddling deeper into Locus’ jacket and turning the collar up. 

“Here,” Locus says quietly. He gently tugs on the jacket sleeve, pulling Felix towards him so his head rests against Locus’ shoulder. Felix buries his face and mumbles, “Thanks, Sam.” He sounds so miserable that Locus doesn’t even growl at him about using codenames. 

Their wait in the emergency room is brief. The doctor asks them both some questions, and then Felix is taken to a private exam room. Locus flips through a pamphlet about heart disease, thoroughly uninterested in its actual content, while he waits.

He hears Felix's voice long before he returns, sounding considerably brighter than he has all night. He rounds the corner with the doctor, waving a hand flippantly, the other holding an ice pack to the bump on his head. He's arguing with the doctor about something, what, Locus could only guess. It's Felix, he could find a way to argue with someone over the hospital's interior decorating if the urge struck him. 

The doctor wordlessly hands Locus a sheet of discharge instructions, looking very annoyed. Felix does tend to have that effect on people.

"Prick," Felix mutters after the doctor has left. 

Locus sighs, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't relieved to see Felix behaving more like himself. He's not a hundred percent, for sure, still pale and squinting at the bright lights, but he's evidently feeling well enough to sass strangers. 

"You seem better. What happened?" 

Felix rolls his eyes, wincing a little. "Said I have a concussion. Gave me some meds so my brain doesn't, I dunno, explode or something, and a prescription for more." He waves the yellow note with the doctor's signature in what Locus assumes is disgust.

"Let's go get it filled, and then we can head back to my apartment." Locus says, reading over the instructions he's been given. 

Felix looks at him like he's sprouted another head. 

"Unless you'd rather your apartment?" Locus questions tentatively. 

"I'm not going anywhere with you. I don't need a babysitter." 

"Yes, you do. It says right here," Locus points to number 1 on his sheet of Post Concussion Care, "someone is supposed to wake you every three hours and ask you these basic questions." 

"Let me see." Felix grabs for the paper and narrows his eyes at it. "Fuck, it hurts to read." He promptly tears the sheet in half.

Locus sighs, again. This is going to be a long night.

Felix slumps in a chair with his ice pack as Locus approaches the counter to get his meds. Locus managed to convince him that being alone is not in his best interest right now, but he's still being petulant as a child.

Maybe his current dose is wearing off, or maybe he's spent all his energy being grouchy, but Felix looks exhausted by the time they've got the pills and are climbing in a cab to return to Locus' apartment. 

"Rest," Locus tells him. "I'll wake you when we arrive." 

Reluctantly, hesitantly, Felix leans his head on Locus' shoulder. Locus tenses. He hadn't meant rest on me, but he doesn't say anything. Felix is out like a light within seconds.

It's a short drive, one that Locus spends the most of trying to look anywhere but the sleeping person on his shoulder and the cab driver's eyes. 

He pays the cabbie, jostling Felix just enough to wake him. Felix looks around blearily, confused, mumbling incoherently. The cab driver wishes Locus good luck before leaving them on the sidewalk. 

"Come on." Locus pulls Felix towards the building.

Felix stumbles into the elevator, relying heavily on the wall to keep himself upright. He sways as they exit on Locus' floor. Locus snakes an arm around his waist and holds him steady as they trudge down the hallway.

Felix, of course, decides he wants to be a pain once again.

“Cut it out,” he spits, struggling in Locus’ hold. He’s free for about two seconds until Locus has to catch him before he can topple to the floor. 

“Stop being difficult,” is all Locus says, before scooping him up entirely to carry him the rest of the way. 

Felix doesn't fight once he's in Locus' arms, in fact, he sinks into them like that's where he wanted to be in the first place. Locus sighs for what feels like (and may be) the millionth time tonight, juggling Felix as he fishes his keys out of his pocket. God, he hopes the neighbours aren't seeing this. 

He places Felix on the couch, delicately, as if he were a glass ornament. The jacket around his shoulders is replaced with a blanket, and Locus removes his shoes for him. He brings a glass of water from the kitchen and sets out the next dose of meds. Felix is already conked out by the time he returns and sets them on the coffee table. 

It's late. Locus turns the lamp off and heads to his own room. He'll be back to check on him later. 

A hand reaches out and snags his pant leg before he can leave.

"G'night, Sam," Felix mumbles.

"Goodnight."

3 hours later…..

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Felix."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Your apartment."

"Do you know what my name is?"

Felix peers out from under the blanket to glare at Locus. "Asshole," he answers. "Now let me go back to sleep already."

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG171!

- … Yeah, reasoning that “The Gardener” would be the worst title for a Flesh episode was a correct hunch, and the induced feeling was indeed “Ewwwwwwwwwww”.

Amazing contrast between the locus amoenus, with wind (that we could occasionally hear through the windchime), plants, maybe a stream gurgling (I think I heard some water?), Jared’s wheelbarrow, birds chirping (regarding the species, Alex said they were “Meat Birds”.)… and the whimpers, moans and sobs of pain, plus that terrifying scream followed by weeping when Jared took care of the “pruning”. Jonny, why.

- We’ve had a few unique “statement” formats in the journey: The Stranger’s poem (MAG165), The End’s coroner report (MAG168), and now The Flesh’s… botanical textbook? I felt like this one was a bit different in the way Jared really didn’t seem to exert much control over the domain (since he asked Jon to “hear about [his] garden”), unlike, for example, Oliver, who had given his own observations; and because… the victims felt so far away from a direct narration? There were layers upon layers narratively removing us from them (… although we could physically hear their moans of pain, directly in front of us): Jon giving the domain’s statement, and the domain explaining how to handle these people. The only direct glimpse of them was the small section towards the end of each case. Jared mentioned that the current rule seemed to be “just people using each other up”, which Jon repeated when proceeding with the smiting, and it really found an echo in the way the statements have felt less… subjective, and instead removed and distant? Not really allowing people’s voices to be heard, except for a brief moment? I wonder if it was a Flesh-thing, or if it’s installing something as they get closer to the Panopticon – the principle of this episode felt so Beholding, observing from afar things that were happening right in front of us…

- The domain’s statement was extremely organised every time:

* The genus and species for the plant-people (the root of their fear in Latin-ish and their own name), followed by the cultivated variety (the exterior result). It was incredibly nasty since in the nomenclature, the “species” of plants… doesn’t take an uppercase. And here it was people’s name, as if they were reduced to simple objects and common nouns.

* The way to prepare the living conditions: soil, temperature, light.

* The way to ensure growth and the necessary regular “care”.

* People’s inner experience and feelings in the state they’re in.

* The observed result, advertisement-like.

… It took me a while, and I’m really not sure about it, but I heard/understood:

* “Cultivation notes for [Fortisium] reese, commonly known as the ‘Gristlebloom Orchid’”: with the mention of “aggressive dehydration” and “they must always and forever be more”, toxic culture about the standards regarding muscle mass, with extreme and aggressive body-building. * “Cultivation notes for Gracilium patricia, commonly known as the ‘Bone Rose’”: toxic culture about thinness. * “Cultivation notes for [Sicarium] leopold, commonly known as the ‘Cutaway Tulip’”: toxic culture regarding plastic surgery, especially to remove traces of ageing. * “Cultivation notes for Supremium maeve, commonly known as the ‘Lily of the Damned’”: that one was a bit trickier, and seemed to be a mix of the pain coming from disability, and the obsession of a separation between body and soul?

I’m not sure about the names (my Latin is old, rusty, unreliable), but as far as I can tell through digging a bit, the roots would make sense for each: “fortis” (strong), “gracilis” (thin, tight, skinny, lean), “sicarius” (murderer) or “sica” (dagger), “superus” (above, higher; “supremus honor”, the superlative, referring to the last honours given to the deceased). … Except the declensions don’t work. “Fortisium” isn’t a form that can exist at all, as far as I can tell, same for “supremium”.

But you know what all of these have in common?

Latin words with –(i)um just slapped on to the end (regardless of whether that makes any grammatical sense).

- So. I need to make a whole separate Point about it, because if I’m right, it’s absolutely hilarious: The Eye, and Jonathan “Admittedly, if Martin speaks Polish in the same way he ‘speaks Latin’ then he might be talking nonsense again” Sims, might not know shit about Latin either.

(I’m not shaming anyone for not knowing anything about Latin, I’m not super confident about what I’m saying here either (it’s old stuff and I was very privileged to study it a bit!): but I’m shaming Jon HARD for complaining about Martin’s lack of knowledge of it… if it turns out that he, too, was absolutely shit at it. JON.)

- I’m not sure, but I feel like Jon’s tone has been getting more and more gleeful when telling the “statement” recently? It was a bit more pitying/sympathetic at the beginning of the journey, while there has been a form of… ravishment and tender, carnivorous pride? with The Desolation and now The Flesh. So, uhoh. Is Jon getting desensitised again along the journey, as he re-experiences the Fears…?

- The idea of Martin meeting Jared had been thrown around for fun and almost like a joke (Alex voicing two characters in the same room, interacting with each other), I’m so glad it happened! I still can’t understand 95% of what Jared is saying, even without the Distortion’s static! Yoohoo!

And the tiny thing I like about Jared is how… contrarily to Jonah’s complaints (MAG160: “I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital” – Jonah, it wasn’t because Jared was an “idiot”, it’s because YOU messed up that one), Jared is a quick-thinker, very fast at understanding the situation, very straightforwardly logical when it comes to Jon seeking him out?

(MAG131) JARED: … What do you want? ARCHIVIST: I, uh… I want a favour. JARED: For letting me out? ARCHIVIST: Yes. JARED: Alright. ARCHIVIST: Oh. O–okay. D–do you need to know… wh–what it is? JARED: Not much you could want, comin’ to me. Put summat in. Take summat out. Which is it? ARCHIVIST: Take something out. A bone. A–a rib, probably. So–something I won’t miss.

(MAG171) ARCHIVIST: You know why I’m here? [WINDCHIME IN THE BACKGROUND] JARED: I can guess. Took a bit to figure out which rib was aching. But when I did… well. Obvious, really. [OMINOUS SHIFTING, CRACKING AND POPPING] Why shouldn’t you want it back? ARCHIVIST: [SHARP EXHALE] It’s too late for that now…! JARED: Not really, but… whatever. […] So, is there any way this doesn’t end in me dead? I’m guessing that’s on the docket if you’re here. Unless you’re just here to smell the flowers.

Jared had assumed Jon was here for the rib, and it would have been a logical thought (Jon had the power to get back what was his)… and Jared immediately corrected his assumption when Jon explained that it wasn’t the case, leading to Jared deducing that Jon was just here to kill him. I’m not sure many avatars would have been able to understand this that quickly.

- Fun thing about Jared’s gym is that both Martin and Jon knew about it separately: Martin read the statements about “J” (MAG090), and Jon had been directly told about it by Jared in MAG131:

(MAG090, Ross Davenport) “It was text only, and read, ‘Your perfect body is here. Become all you can be.’ […] The man who stood there was, without a doubt, the biggest guy I had ever seen, and bear in mind I spend my time hanging out with bodybuilders. He had to hunch down to fit through the doorway, and was almost twice as wide as I was. Most of his body was covered in a loose tracksuit, and I could see clear stitch marks where it had been enlarged for him. Embroidered onto the chest was the letter ‘J’. […] J was there, standing his full height. A distended, jagged body bared in all its twisted grandeur, and he shook his head in frustration. He said something, I think, but I couldn’t make it out. It might have been ‘too soon’. I try to remember some of them in detail, the confusion of limbs and joints and muscles, but all I can remember is the happy, joyful way they called to me. Told me that the pain was worth it. It makes me sick that a small, sharp part of me wishes I’d stayed to listen.”

(MAG131) JARED: Some of my mates, the ones I helped find their proper bodies, they listened, and went to feed the hunger. Not me though. I never was that ambitious.

(MAG171) JARED: So, is there any way this doesn’t end in me dead? I’m guessing that’s on the docket if you’re here. Unless you’re just here to smell the flowers. [WINDCHIME IN THE BACKGROUND] ARCHIVIST: … No. I can’t let you carry on like this. What happened, Jared? I thought you only worked on the willing. JARED: … What? Says who? Oooh, the gym! [THROATY LAUGH] I mean, yeah. They wanted to change, but they were still scared. First at what I’d do to them, then at what would happen if the world couldn’t handle their beautiful new bodies. Not like I was doing it out of the goodness of my heart. [SNORT] Hearts.

BUT WOW JON, WHY THAT ASSUMPTION?? Jon knew perfectly well already that Jared… hadn’t limited himself to the gym, that he had been, and still was, an Avatar Of Many Talents.

(MAG017) ARCHIVIST: I asked Martin to try and hunt down Mr. Adekoya himself for a follow-up, but have been informed that he passed away in 2006. He was found lying dead in the middle of the road on the night of April 17th. Despite the fact that there were no crushing or trauma marks on the body, the inquest ruled it a hit-and-run car accident due to the mangled position in which he was found. It was a closed casket funeral.

(MAG049, Gregory Pryor) “Hector looked at the paper, typed something into his phone and threw it away as he walked off. It was an address in Stockwell, and an instruction: ‘Ask for Jared.’ […] He pulled back the tarpaulin covering Hector’s body and cracked his knuckles. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sound of him doing that. Then… he reached into Hector. No cutting, no saws, he just… reached in. And I realised why the room was soundproofed. Because it turned out Hector wasn’t dead. And it was going to be a while before Jared got around to his lungs or throat. […] There is… no way to describe what it feels like, to have bone pulled out of you through your unbroken skin. […] I slammed the door shut and ran into the street, through the people still wandering Stockwell in the evening, and away. My now empty left arm hanging limply by my side. I didn’t stop running for a very long time. […] The doctors amputated the arm in the end, and I’m getting used to the prosthetic. But I can still feel it sometimes, like it’s still there. I know it’s just phantom limb syndrome but… sometimes I swear it feels like my bone’s still out there, twisting in someone else’s arm…” ARCHIVIST: Statement ends. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to assume this butcher to be Jared Hopworth. It seems that if Mr Adekoya’s account from statement #9991006 is accurate, then Hopworth has found new ways to profit from his abilities in the eight years since his acquisition of The Boneturner’s Tale.

(MAG131) JARED: I wandered around for a bit. Worked a lotta jobs where it didn’t matter what you looked like. There’s always a spot for someone who can get rid of people. You must have heard about me. I left plenty of people scared and crying, itching to tell someone what happened to ‘em. Some of them must have made it to you. […] The letters started comin’ in about two years ago. Good white paper, large print. Nice and simple. Dunno who sent them; they were never signed, and I dunno how they kept finding me. There was never much in them; normally just a name, and a place, or a time. I ignored the first couple, but they kept coming, and eventually I got curious. So, I followed the instructions in one of ‘em. I found Regan Hasnain of 70 Clairmont Gardens, and that got rid of most of my doubts. I don’t blame people for thinking that all bones are the same, most people don’t have much experience – but it’s not true. There are good bones, and there are bad bones, and Regan Hasnain had some very good bones in her. They were solid, healthy, and they jumped at my touch. I didn’t doubt the letters again. They came pretty regular after that. And they always led to summat good. Quality bones, a new mate, or some unlucky fool who wouldn’t look at me for the fear. It got so I trusted them.

He’s been a butcher (with a bit of “artisty” vibe already, in the way he was twisting bones), he’s been a coach/gym adviser, he’s been an assassin-for-hire, and now a gardener. Terrible man, and wow, the range, the flexibility. So what the heck, Jon. Why the focus on the “willing”, you knew it wasn’t true – or at least, not all of it.

… Was it once again a case of Jon trying to hope that there were a few mostly harmless avatars? A bit like how he behaved towards Oliver? Hence the focus on the “willing”?

(MAG171) ARCHIVIST: … No. I can’t let you carry on like this. What happened, Jared? I thought you only worked on the willing. JARED: … What? Says who? […] Anyway: willing, unwilling; don’t work like that anymore, does it? You made sure of that. MARTIN: That’s… not fair. JARED: And what? MARTIN: I… JARED: [CRACK] MARTIN: I, uh… JARED: So what? Don’t really matter now, does it? ARCHIVIST: … No. [INHALE] No, it doesn’t.

After all, if avatars could hypothetically survive without causing much pain to “unwilling” people, it would mean that Jon might be able to sustain himself in another way than by terrorising “unwilling” people. It just feels a bit surprising, indeed, that it would still be a concern of Jon’s (a preoccupation that followed him for the entirety of season 4)… given that they’re in the apocalypse right now. But there is also still the underlying question of what would happen to people, and to Jon himself, if the apocalypse was to be undone and, even regardless of this, the fact that Jon seems to be evaluating which avatars “deserve” to get smote.

I mostly wonder: if they hadn’t walked on Jared causing even more pain to people, and if Jared had been more passive in the garden, would Jon have spared him? Jon presented it as his reason for smiting him, but I’m… really not sure it was his actual one…

(- Jared’s jokes… “Not like I was doing it out of the goodness of my heart. [SNORT] Hearts.”…

We knew he canonically had Many, Melanie had mentioned it:

(MAG131) MELANIE: I stabbed him in three different hearts. Didn’t work. If you want to go hunting for a fourth, knock yourself out.

But that joke… Jared, please.)

- I know there were many screams about homophobic Jared in the fandom, but personally:

(MAG171) JARED: Oh! And who’s this? Your boyfriend? MARTIN: Hum– ARCHIVIST: Yes. Actually. JARED: Oh. [A BIRD’S CHIRP FALLS FLAT] Mm. … So, is there any way this doesn’t end in me dead?

… I heard it as either “Jared would have said that anyway if one of them had been a woman” and/or Jared was Shooting His Shot with Martin.

- Jon&Martin Are Together, season 5 edition:

(MAG161) ARCHIVIST: No, it’s– [SIGH] I love you, I just… I need more time.

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: “The screams may linger on the distant breeze, and your eye may wander beyond the curtains from time to time, but you and the one you love are, it seems… safe. […] There within the thing that pretends to be a cabin is the one you love. […] The one you love is always near, so close that refuge sometimes feels a prison.

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: What do you want. HELEN: To say hello! And check up on the happy couple~ [LAUGHS AND LAUGHS, ECHOING] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] HELEN: I always knew you crazy kids would make it work!

(MAG167) MARTIN: Ssso. If you say Gertrude wouldn’t have been able to go on without a reason… ARCHIVIST: Yes, Martin, you are my reason. MARTIN: Just wanted to make you say it…!

(MAG170) MARTIN: I’m… I’m in love, eh! I am in love, and I will not forget that, I will – not – forget. I am Martin Black–

(MAG171) JARED: Not really, but… whatever. … Oh! And who’s this? Your boyfriend? MARTIN: Hum– ARCHIVIST: Yes. Actually.

(+ Technically, Jude’s “valet”: it was derogatory, but at the same time… her own frame of reference was her devotion for Agnes as a god/woman, so.)

- Martin, polite boy who says “Please” and manages to get what he wanted:

(MAG171) JARED: Right. So are we doing this or what? I reckon I can get a few good hits in before I go down. Give you a little something to remember me by. ARCHIVIST: … No you won’t. JARED: [HUFF] No. Maybe not. But you’ve gotta try, haven’t you? MARTIN: Please don’t. JARED: What? MARTIN: You’ve already made your mark. [SILENCE] [WINDCHIME IN THE BACKGROUND] JARED: [THROATY LAUGH] Fine. Consider it a favour.

(Also, really laughing that Martin is canonically “little”. At least to Jared (“Don’t fret yourself, little man.”), which, uh, might not actually say much.)

- :D The return of Jon reminding Martin to not touch dangerous stuff!

(MAG113) MARTIN: Ooh! Ooh! There’s a book in this one. ARCHIVIST: [HASTILY] Don’t… touch it! MARTIN: Ooh… OH! Right. Yes. ARCHIVIST: Let’s… not touch any books we don’t know. MARTIN: Right. ARCHIVIST: Step back.

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Either way, best not to actually climb onto the thing, if we could help it. MARTIN: Fine – by – me, eh! Never really liked merry-go-rounds anyway.

(MAG171) ARCHIVIST: Don’t – touch – anything. MARTIN: I wasn’t planning to, uh…! Are they still… alive?

Martin…

- Martin stayed for the “statement”! They learned from MAG170, to prevent him from getting lost again, uh…

- Technically, we didn’t “learn” anything new regarding Jon-in-the-new-world: he admitted since the season 5 trailer that to some part of him, the horror felt “right”. He mentioned that “guilt” was protecting him from embracing the things he was made to experience. We know he consumes fears, is fed by it. There have been multiple jabs from avatars about how Jon is tailored for this world because of his connection to The Eye and/or his role as “Archivist”(/Archive) and/or as the tool used to bring the apocalypse, leading him to be at his peak in the current events – in control, above all other avatars, all-knowing:

(MAG160, Jonah Magnus) “Don’t worry, Jon. You’ll get used to it here – in the world that we have made.”

(Season 5 trailer) MARTIN: Are you still… [SIGH] “feeling it”? Seeing everything? ARCHIVIST: Yes, I, I’m trying not to, but… all of the fear, th–the anguish, i–it just… [INHALE] It keeps coming at me in waves, rolling over me, filling my head with such… awful sights. MARTIN: … I’m sorry. That sounds… [SMALL EXHALE] That sounds horrible. ARCHIVIST: … I wish it was, Martin. I really wish it was. … But it feels… right. [MIRTHLESS HUFF]

(MAG161) ARCHIVIST: … Besides… G… [SHAKY EXHALE] Grief… is healthy. I–if nothing else, it pushes away the other feelings that that… thing wants me to experience.

(MAG163) MARTIN: … How do you know all this stuff? [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: Not sure…! I just do.

(MAG164) MARTIN: A–alright, but… but how do you know that– ARCHIVIST: I just do. I just know it. [SILENCE] [SHUFFLING] MARTIN: You’ve been knowing a lot lately. ARCHIVIST: … Yes. MARTIN: A lot more than you used to. ARCHIVIST: Y… [SIGH] Yeah. And it, it feels more… deliberate. L–like I have more control now. MARTIN: Okay. So… how much can you see? What else do you know? ARCHIVIST: Uh… Maybe everything…! MARTIN: What’d you mean, “everything”? ARCHIVIST: I don’t… Ask me a question. O–one I can’t… possibly know already. […] HELEN: Hello, Jon! [FOOTSTEPS] [THE DOOR CREAKS CLOSE] ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] How did you find us? HELEN: Oh! I thought you’d know everything by this point. […] And please: my name is “Helen”. ARCHIVIST: Like you said, I can know everything now. Including how much of a lie that really is. HELEN: Don’t mistake “complication” for “falsehood”, dear Archivist.

(MAG165) MARTIN: But. You said we needed to go through these places. … Is that even going to work here? ARCHIVIST: Uh… [EXHALE] We need to go through them… metaphorically. MARTIN: Mm… ! ARCHIVIST: Psychologically, we need to… “experience” them.

(MAG166) HELEN: We’re all here, Martin. The Stranger; The Buried; The Desolation; all of us. But The Eye still rules. All this fear is being performed for its benefit. And so, there are now exactly two roles available in this new world of ours: the watcher, and the watched. Subject, and object. Those who are feared, and those who are afraid. And Jon, well… he is part of The Eye; a very important part. And he’s able to, shall we say… shift its focus. Turn the one into the other. And for those of us whose very existence relies on being feared, well… To be turned into a victim destroys us utterly. And very, very painfully.

(MAG168, Oliver Banks) ARCHIVIST: “This report is being sent to: [STATIC FADES] The Great Eye, that watches all who linger in terror, and gorges itself on the sufferings of those under its unrelenting, stuporous gaze! And its Archive, which draws knowledge of this suffering unto itself.”

(MAG169) JUDE: You’re not scared, though, are you, Archivist? ARCHIVIST: … I can feel the pain of every person you have trapped here. My own isn’t all that different. JUDE: Yeah, but you like seeing their pain, don’t you? Their fear? ARCHIVIST: … Yes. JUDE: You and that stupid Eye, god, you make me sick! Lording it over everybody like you own the place? You’re just leeches, voyeurs, parasites on the real monsters. […] Oooh, I see! I get it. You finally get a sniff of power, and the first thing you do is try to settle some old scores. MARTIN: [LOUDER COUGHS] JUDE: Play the big man, get off on good old-fashioned petty revenge~! […] I’m happy in this world. I belong here. And so do you. MARTIN: [COUGHS] [STATIC RISING: LOW AND SPIRALLING, PRESSURING] JUDE: Uh! Listen… Listen… [BREATHLESS CHUCKLING] You’re enjoying this, right? ‘Course you are! You want to use those powers of yours to hurt people, you want to murder everybody who can’t fight back at you now? I can help you…! [DIGITAL GLITCHING SOUNDS] MARTIN: Just DIE already!! JUDE: You’re… not… better… than… me! [SCREAMS]

(MAG171) ARCHIVIST: It takes a skilled gardener to get them to grow like this. The curling, cascading intricacies of collagen and marrow… it takes devotion. MARTIN: Jon. [FOOTSTEPS STOP] [WHIMPERS IN THE BACKGROUND] ARCHIVIST: … S–sorry. MARTIN: You sound like you think they’re beautiful. [FOOTSTEPS RESUME] ARCHIVIST: Don’t you? [SILENCE] […] JARED: Anyway: willing, unwilling; don’t work like that anymore, does it? You made sure of that. MARTIN: That’s… not fair. JARED: And what? MARTIN: I… JARED: [CRACK] MARTIN: I, uh… JARED: So what? Don’t really matter now, does it? ARCHIVIST: … No. [INHALE] No, it doesn’t. […] JARED: [LONG MEATY INHALE, EXHALE] Cheers for that! ARCHIVIST: … Don’t. MARTIN: Jon, are you… alright? ARCHIVIST: Yeah, hum… Sorry. MARTIN: No, it, it’s alright. JARED: Is it really that bad? Seeing what I’ve done here? Or… uh! Is it maybe that deep down, you think it’s as beautiful as I do? ARCHIVIST: Shut up! [WINDCHIME IN THE BACKGROUND] JARED: It’s a shame…! Who’s gonna look after the garden when I’m gone? There are a few real pretty ones. Who knows: maybe they’ll uproot and start landscaping themselves…! That’d be nice. Then again, maybe it’ll just grow wild. ARCHIVIST: I don’t care. JARED: … No. You don’t, do you? ARCHIVIST: … I can’t… There’s too many. I can’t save everyone. [EXHALE] I c–, I can’t save anyone.

Jon judging that something terrifying was “beautiful” is not new: he described the Dark Sun that way… but then he was at his peak of Beholding!avatar-casually-traumatising-innocents. Right now, I’m concerned about the mix of little slips (Jon implying the garden was “beautiful” and describing it with ravishment, almost falling into statement-mode even though there was no static yet), Jon’s reluctance to try and intervene from the start, and the fact he sounds like he’s… lost hope of doing anything worthwhile or good for the situation. He was defiant and a bit hopeful back when they left the cabin (“Gertrude didn’t think so. […] But she’s dead. Let’s find out for ourselves.”) and that part seems to be eroding. We know that the statements seem to be affecting him (Martin noticed something afterwards, and was concerned again after the smiting) but I’m fearing that Jon is currently losing himself a bit, at least in… forgetting to reject the things that used to disgust him. Re-traumatisation, re-desensibilisation as they’re going through all the domains? If it’s the case, in what state will Jon reach the Panopticon…

- I’m a bit squinting at Jon’s wording here:

(MAG171) JARED: It’s a shame…! Who’s gonna look after the garden when I’m gone? There are a few real pretty ones. Who knows: maybe they’ll uproot and start landscaping themselves…! That’d be nice. Then again, maybe it’ll just grow wild. ARCHIVIST: I don’t care. JARED: … No. You don’t, do you? ARCHIVIST: … I can’t… There’s too many. I can’t save everyone. [EXHALE] I c–, I can’t save anyone. JARED: If you say so. … So.

Because it seems to me that Jon was implying that he could, in theory, save people from the domains, on a case-by-case basis? He didn’t say it was impossible per se: he first said there were “too many”, and that he couldn’t save “everyone”, before concluding that he couldn’t save “anyone”. But he managed with Martin! (I don’t think that it could work in practice: the world is now ruled by the Fears, so “freeing” someone from a Fear would likely just lead to them getting caught by another domain, or dying/disappearing/collapsing because they can’t sustain themself, etc. But, in theory, it felt like Jon was admitting that he might have the power to save punctual people with his powers?)

Jon has pointed out to Martin, multiples times, that they were in-between the domains and that it wasn’t worth it to try and interact with people. Although he has been interacting with avatars, Jon has been very reluctant to even try to do this with regular people, or even to know what was happening to them once they had left the domains:

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: I–ignore them, they’re not… Just ignore them. MARTIN: … They’re not… real? [VOICES SHOUTING IN THE DISTANCE] ARCHIVIST: [MIRTHLESS CHUCKLING] No…! They’re real; they were… normal people before the– … Before me. But now they’re here, meat for the grinder. I just mean there’s no point… talking to them. MARTIN: Don’t be a prick, Jon. Hey! I’m, I’m sorry about him. He’s–he’s going through a lot – well… we all are, I suppose, but well… “Hi”, I guess. [SILENCE] Hello? ARCHIVIST: They won’t hear you, Martin, they’re all… too busy waiting to die. […] MARTIN: What’re you doing here? [PLASTIC RATTLING] It’s dangerous. Could… get yourself blown up, like all these poor… [PLASTIC RATTLING] Who d’you think they were? Really don’t see why they can’t just… go round, picked a better place to… [STEPS THROUGH LIQUID] [SIGH] I guess there… aren’t really any “better” places anymore, are there? [STEPS THROUGH LIQUID] It’s all this. Or worse, or… or different.

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: We’re fine. MARTIN: A–are we? I mean, that place is– … I don’t, I don’t feel fine, okay, and you were there a long time doing your… y–you–your guidebook, which, you know, I get it, but that place is… I–it’s–it’s infectious, and, I don’t– ARCHIVIST: We’re not infected, Martin, that place, it– … It isn’t for us. […] MARTIN: Are we safe, traveling like this? ARCHIVIST: Yes… Yes, sort of, we’re… I don’t know how to phrase it, we’re… something between a pilgrim and a moth. We can walk through these little worlds of terror, watching them; separate, and untouched. MARTIN: [NERVOUS CHUCKLING] That’s not as comforting as you might think. ARCHIVIST: I like it better than the alternative…!

(MAG165) MARTIN: What about the merry-go-round? With her gone, is it, is it still th– ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t know! MARTIN: [CHUCKLING] Yes you do! ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t… want to know, plea– We need to go. [BAG JOSTLING] Please.

(MAG169) MARTIN: Oh, it’s not just your revenge though, is it? Destroying her… it would help all those people in there, wouldn’t it? ARCHIVIST: … Maybe? It’s… [INHALE] Like I said, I can’t see the future. It wouldn’t free them, if that’s what you’re asking. “Free” doesn’t really exist in this place. MARTIN: Apart from us. ARCHIVIST: I suppose. I–in a sense, though… [CHUCKLING] how much of that is because we are trapped in our own quest to– MARTIN: Okay, let’s, let’s not dive into another… ontological debate right now, not here.

(MAG171) JARED: It’s a shame…! Who’s gonna look after the garden when I’m gone? There are a few real pretty ones. Who knows: maybe they’ll uproot and start landscaping themselves…! That’d be nice. Then again, maybe it’ll just grow wild. ARCHIVIST: I don’t care. JARED: … No. You don’t, do you? ARCHIVIST: … I can’t… There’s too many. I can’t save everyone. [EXHALE] I c–, I can’t save anyone. JARED: If you say so. … So. I guess that just leaves revenge, then, don’t it? Can’t say I blame you. That’s all life is, really, innit? Just people using each other up. ARCHIVIST: Spare me the crude philosophy. […] MARTIN: But all the people inside? ARCHIVIST: Killing Nolan wouldn’t have made it stop. It would just leave… unsupervised. MARTIN: Mm. [MOANS OF PAIN IN THE BACKGROUND] [WINDCHIME IN THE BACKGROUND] [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] MARTIN: Jon. We are… doing good, right? Making things better? ARCHIVIST: … I don’t know if that was… ever an option.

… Technically, Jon could have known already in MAG169 what happened to an “unsupervised” domain – since it had happened already with the Not!Them. Why the reluctance to know about that? (I’m mostly wondering if there is a non-negligible Beholding part of Jon just plain refusing to make Fearful Resources disappear, thus him not even trying to improve people’s situations overall… Smiting avatars is providing a new form of fear, of entertainment to The Eye: it’s a novelty, something unique, the Feared made Fearful! It seemed good, in theory, to erase avatars from existence, but in the end… it’s still feeding The Eye, since the apocalypse is still running.)

- >w< Sobbing a bit about that exchange:

(MAG171) MARTIN: Jon! ARCHIVIST: Mm? MARTIN: I need to ask you something. ARCHIVIST: Okay. MARTIN: I meant to ask. A–after the fire, actually? But, well… Then was the house and everything, and it just sort of– ARCHIVIST: What is it, Martin? MARTIN: … Why didn’t we go after the landlord guy, in the tenement? ARCHIVIST: Arthur Nolan? MARTIN: Yeah. He’s still there, right? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] After Jude, th–the fires, I… I didn’t want to put you through anymore. MARTIN: [EXASPERATED SIGH] Don’t do that. ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: Don’t use me as an excuse. ARCHIVIST: I, I’m not! I just… It didn’t seem worth it. I didn’t… hate him, like I hated her. He never hurt me. MARTIN: But all the people inside? ARCHIVIST: Killing Nolan wouldn’t have made it stop. It would just leave it… unsupervised. MARTIN: Mm.

… since it could be two different things, although not contradictory. It could stem from Martin’s own issues regarding his self-worth (refusing to think that Jon could try to accommodate Martin out of love/worry/care for him), and/or… Martin being spot-on about Jon’s tendency to hide himself, hide his actual motivations and feelings behind “more acceptable” pretences.

Jon lies and Jon hides, including to and from himself. That’s a thing he’s been shown to do when afraid and/or ashamed. He spent a good part of season 4 trying to convince himself that The Web or Beholding were manipulating him into attacking innocents, without leaving him any choice – and he still displayed the choices of going out for walks, going out for a coffee, not warning anyone that it was happening behind their backs. It could be the same thing: Jon trying to rationalise his own actions, because he’s pushed by a new influence, that he doesn’t fully acknowledge. Martin is suspicious, at least, so I really hope that it will lead to him acting on it – re-evaluating the “use” of the smiting plan, which is now officially only for “revenge” and feels hollower and hollower every time? Martin pushed him in that direction, so whether Jon is simply following Martin’s moral stance (because he doesn’t trust his own) or actually compelled by Beholding or something, it clearly feels like a mistake by now. Martin, you’re his anchor, say something! ;w;

(At the very least, I don’t think they’ll be as straightforward with Jonah: if the smiting feels unsatisfying now, there is no way it would feel fulfilling with him at the Panopticon.)

- Compilation of Jon’s stance about the different avatars since the apocalypse, and how the smiting proceeded:

(MAG162) MARTIN: Look, Jon, I… I, I know it hurts, but you’ve just got to… ARCHIVIST: No, no, lo–look… I, I–I was listening, and I–I was filled with this… hatred. This anger; I–I wanted to leave, and hunt down Elias, a–and…! MARTIN: W–wow, okay…

(MAG164) HELEN: I’m afraid the Archivist is too powerful now. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] HELEN: If he tried to travel through my corridors, it would not go well, for any of us. ARCHIVIST: But mainly for you. HELEN: Ouuh! [CHUCKLE] Is that a threat? ARCHIVIST: No. HELEN: Mm! Pity.

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: … What did you say? [STATIC RISING: LOW AND SPIRALLING, PRESSURING] NOT!SASHA: [SHAKY BREATHES] I’m–I’m sorry… MARTIN: Jon? ARCHIVIST: You were wrong, you know. NOT!SASHA: [GASPS] [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: There is more suffering than you can ever experience, so much more. The horror of your victims… NOT!SASHA: [CRIES OF PAIN] ARCHIVIST: Their constant, senseless agony… NOT!SASHA: [CRIES OF PAIN] [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: Feel it now. Understand it. You have drawn out so much despair, and now finally, it’s your turn. [STATIC INCREASES] [DIGITAL GLITCHING SOUNDS] Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing! [STATIC INCREASES, WITH MORE PRESSURE] NOT!SASHA: No! No… Please, no…! [DIGITAL BURSTING, RIPPING SOUNDS] NOT!SASHA: [FADING] No…! [STATIC DECREASES AND FADES] ARCHIVIST: [PANTS] MARTIN: … Whoa–oh–oh! ARCHIVIST: I, uh… MARTIN: What was that?!

(MAG168) MARTIN: So, you… gonna smite him, then? ARCHIVIST: … Hum… MARTIN: Jon? … Jon, I said: are you going to sm– ARCHIVIST: I heard you the first time. MARTIN: And? ARCHIVIST: I… I don’t know…! MARTIN: W-Why not? Can’t you just do what you did what that “Sasha-thing”, make The Eye see him and all that? ARCHIVIST: I–I could, I think. MARTIN: … Cool, so what’s the problem then? Take another monster off the hit list, job done. ARCHIVIST: I–it’s not… that simple? […] I just, I don’t think he’s… [SIGH] I don’t know, I don’t think he’s evil. [CREAKING SOUND] MARTIN: Oh, yeah, sure, he’s probably a really kind, benevolent ruler of a hellish fear prison…! ARCHIVIST: It’s just… He helped me. Wh–when I was… He woke me up. […] Who knows – maybe he’ll try to stop us getting through the roots, and I’ll have to! MARTIN: Mm. ARCHIVIST: But I’m not going to… seek him out. At the very least, he’s earned not having me hunt him down. MARTIN: Fine. I suppose that’s… reasonable. ARCHIVIST: Now, if you’re quite done inciting me to murder? […] I… I feel… [FOOTSTEPS] No. I don’t want to destroy Oliver Banks. It wouldn’t do any good. I know that, and he never asked for this any more than I did. I feel badly for those that exist in his domain, o–of course, I do, but… At least, their suffering will be over, eventually. I can’t destroy everyone I cross paths with, it… [SIGH] No. If Oliver will not seek me out, then… I will leave him be. [TINY CHUCKLES] The avatar of Death… shall live. Martin’s going to be thrilled…!

(MAG169) MARTIN: … Right. [DISTANT SOUND OF SOMETHING COLLAPSING] Right… I just assumed this would be… Who was that landlord guy? ARCHIVIST: Arthur Nolan. He’s here, he has a… part of it, but it’s… huge. […] I… Oh, right. I–I want revenge on Jude Perry. I want to… “smite” her. Make her feel what… [SIGH] what all her victims have felt. But I’m not willing to force you to suffer for it. […] [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: I’d have thought that was a mindset you would appreciate. [STATIC INCREASES] Now, feel it! All the terror and pain you’ve inflicted. JUDE: Oh, piss off– [PAINED GASP] … [STRAINED] Look, look. Wait, right? I’m sorry, okay? I… shouldn’t have burned your hand. […] [STATIC RISING: LOW AND SPIRALLING, PRESSURING] Uh! Listen… Listen… [BREATHLESS CHUCKLING] You’re enjoying this, right? ‘Course you are! You want to use those powers of yours to hurt people, you want to murder everybody who can’t fight back at you now? I can help you…! [DIGITAL GLITCHING SOUNDS] MARTIN: Just DIE already!! JUDE: You’re… not… better… than… me! [SCREAMS] [DIGITAL BURSTING, RIPPING SOUNDS] [STATIC DECREASES AND FADES] MARTIN: [COUGH] [PANTING] Is it…? ARCHIVIST: It’s over. … She’s gone.

(MAG171) [STATIC RISES] JARED: Grow well, my darlings. Grow well. [STATIC INCREASES: LOW AND SPIRALLING, PRESSURING] ARCHIVIST: Feel it. JARED: [MEATY HISS] ARCHIVIST: Feel all the terror and despair as your garden grows. Let it flow through you, and blossom! [MEATY SOUNDS] JARED: [GROANS] ARCHIVIST: Just people, using each other up! [DIGITAL GLITCHING SOUNDS] Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this thing and drink – your – fill! JARED: [GROANS] [MEATY SOUNDS] [DIGITAL BURSTING, RIPPING SOUNDS] [STATIC DECREASES AND FADES] [WINDCHIME IN THE BACKGROUND] ARCHIVIST: [GASPS AND PANTS] MARTIN: [SOFTLY] … Jon? ARCHIVIST: I’m here. MARTIN: Are you okay? [MOAN OF PAIN IN THE BACKGROUND] ARCHIVIST: I’m… great. You? […] MARTIN: I meant to ask. A–after the fire, actually? But, well… Then was the house and everything, and it just sort of– ARCHIVIST: What is it, Martin? MARTIN: … Why didn’t we go after the landlord guy, in the tenement? ARCHIVIST: Arthur Nolan? MARTIN: Yeah. He’s still there, right? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] After Jude, th–the fires, I… I didn’t want to put you through anymore. […] I just… It didn’t seem worth it. I didn’t… hate him, like I hated her. He never hurt me. MARTIN: But all the people inside? ARCHIVIST: Killing Nolan wouldn’t have made it stop. It would just leave… unsupervised. MARTIN: Mm.

* Jon invoked the “Ceaseless Watcher” both with the Not!Them and Jared. It’s not absolutely unheard of, but he only called it that way once in season 4; usually, he goes more with “The Eye” or “(the) Beholding”. “Ceaseless Watcher” definitely feels more ceremonial and… reminiscent of Elias marvelling about Jon’s dreams in MAG120. So, really, when Jon does the smiting, it doesn’t feel like he’s doing it for himself – but mostly as a sacrifice to his patron? It felt even worst with Jared and Jon’s “drink – your – fill!” since… yeah, The Eye is feeding from the act, uh.

* ;; Reminder that The Eye wanted Jon to leave the cabin in MAG162 (“This place wishes to be our tomb. But The Eye does not wish that. No. [STATIC INCREASES] The Eye wishes instead that it be my chrysalis.”). Which means that Jon is supposed to be evolving… towards another state of being, once again, and something that would please The Eye.

* Jon mentioned “anger” and “hatred” about Jonah and Jude, and although understandable… it also doesn’t really feel fulfilling when there is only that. Hatred/Anger, turning into violence, smiting, and then that’s it. It doesn’t change or solve anything.

* It feels like an escalation: Jon spontaneously killed the Not!Them, went after Jude on purpose, and sought out Jared… who offered reparation. Who offered to give Jon’s rib back, and Jon discarded the idea right away:

(MAG171) JARED: I can guess. Took a bit to figure out which rib was aching. But when I did… well. Obvious, really. [OMINOUS SHIFTING, CRACKING AND POPPING] Why shouldn’t you want it back? ARCHIVIST: [SHARP EXHALE] It’s too late for that now…! JARED: Not really, but… whatever.

There is a huuuge contrast between what Jude and Jared had each done to Jon: Jude found him “annoying” so she hurt him, and told Jon that she still would have done it had she known it would help to bring this apocalypse. Jared… only removed Jon’s two ribs because Jon had asked him to (for his own benefit! To get an anchor to save Daisy, and to get Jared’s statement!). And Jared was still offering to give it back.

It’s not about the violence that is exerted on victims: Oliver was torturing Danika, Arthur Nolan (who is apparently definitely not dead, oh.) had been shown torturing and sacrificing innocent people in the past. It’s not about avatars who casually hurt Jon just because they could: Jared and Jon had made a deal, Jon had come to him for a service.

… But the thing that all three of the Not!Them, Jude and Jared share is that they all contributed to Jon’s marks. As following Jonah’s recap:

(MAG160, Jonah Magnus) “The discovery that one of The Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that “vague wrongness” you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark… it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct, and affecting, manner. Admittedly, given the advent of The Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered – but what’s the old saying about hindsight? […] Jude served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr Crew – marking you for The Desolation, and The Vast. […] I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then… Oh! You should have seen my face, when you voluntarily went to him. I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.”

Arthur didn’t mark Jon. Oliver didn’t mark Jon either – Jon was marked by The End during his coma, Oliver only brought him back from it. The Distortion… marked Jon as “Michael” technically (though it’s still The Distortion as “Helen”). Jane Prentiss, Mike Crew and Peter Lukas are already dead. The Buried and The Dark marked Jon through the Coffin and the Dark Sun; The Web through the Mr. Spider book.

… Which leaves, for potential upcoming smiting targets:

* The Distortion, if “Helen” counts.

* … Jonah for Beholding, since he made Jon sign up to become The Archivist.

* … Melanie for The Slaughter (although she has shaken it off)

* ……………………………. Daisy for The Hunt.

If Jon is indeed going after avatars who marked him, that leaves the question of Jon’s degree of control over his own actions. Is he going after them consciously? Is he trying to “unmark” himself, to exercise some degree of control over his current state by getting his revenge over the avatars who made the apocalypse possible, regardless of their willingness for it? Is something else pushing him to do that, and he only rationalising his actions?

I’m super worried for Melanie and Daisy right now ;;

(And very interested for Jon’s reaction if they stumble on Simon. Jon didn’t want to meet him, Simon liked Martin a lot, Simon didn’t mark Jon and didn’t interact with him so far… So it could go in many ways.)

  No conviction regarding MAG172’s title, but I’m mostly thinking Vast, Simon in particular? It could work very well for Web, too, but I’m still expecting Web for last brefore the Panopticon (then again… I wasn’t expecting The Lonely so soon either and we’ve already checked off that one).

The second meaning could… refer to a certain item we’ve already heard of, and/or to Jon’s current streak of smiting combined with the way he’s (over)fed by this world, I guess? ;;

[am0re-in-polvere]

Circe ranks as one of the greatest witches of mythology. A beautiful enchantress - she likes nothing better than to turn men into pigs. (Some have seen her as a bit of a feminist). It is only when the wily Odysseus lands on her island that she finally meets her match.

He and his men sailed on across the wine dark sea, until once again they caught sight of an island. They slipped their boat into a snug little harbour, and there they slept for two whole days.

The following morning, Odysseus said they should explore the island and discover who lived there. At these words, his men grew afraid. They remembered the terrible Cyclops who had kept them prisoner in his cave, and had devoured some of their companions.

Odysseus divided his men into two groups, so that if one should get into trouble, the other could come and help. He was leader of one group, and Lord Eurylochus (Yuri-Locus) was the leader of the other. They drew straws to see which group should go and explore first, and as Eurylochus drew the short straw, he and his men had to set out and explore the woods.

After walking two or three hours, the men came to a clearing. They saw a little house surrounded by wild beasts – wolves, leopards, and lions. One of the leopards sprang towards Eurylochus. He thought that he was about to die, but instead of eating him, the leopard rubbed up against him like a cat and purred.

The window of the house was open, and inside a woman was singing. Her voice was mysterious but very beautiful, and the men felt themselves being drawn towards the house, for they all longed to see if the woman was as wonderful as her voice. They walked past the fierce looking beasts, who in fact were really quite tame. Inside they were greeted by a tall and elegant woman, her black hair done up in braids – she did indeed look very lovely.

Her name was Circe and she invited the men to sit down at her table and drink some of her soup – they readily agreed.

As they drank the soup, Eurylochus said: “When I drew the short straw I cursed my bad luck, but how wrong I was! Our hostess is not so terrible after all, eh men?”

They did not realise that though she was beautiful, Circe was in fact a witch. She had slipped a magic potion into their soup, and when they had finished drinking it, she rapped the table with a magic wand and said: “Now you swine, be off to the pigsty where you belong.”

The men looked up astonished. “Madam – Did you just call us pigs?” asked Eurylochus. But Circe just laughed in reply, for the nose of Eurylochus was already growing into a pink snout, and his hands were becoming hairy trotters. In fact, all his men were swiftly turning into pigs. They tried to weep and cry out, but all they could do was to snort and squeal.

“Now do as I say,” cried Circe. “Pigs belong in the sty, not in my kitchen. Be off with you!” And off they trotted to their new home.

When the men did not return to the ship, Odysseus grew worried, and he decided to go and search for them. He set out across the island in the direction of the smoke he had seen from the cottage. While he was walking through the woods, he met a young man – more of a boy, whose beard was still soft and downy on his face.

“Stranger, what are you doing here?” asked the young man.

“I’m going in search of my men who are lost,” said Odysseus.

“No doubt they are guests of the lovely Circe. You won’t find them in her house, but outside in the pigsty. Beautiful though she is, she is really a witch and she turns men into beasts. If you step inside her house, she will turn you into a pig too.”

“My men – turned into pigs!” exclaimed Odysseus. “Is this how you treat guests on this island?”

The young man did not reply, but took a small plant out of his knapsack and handed it to Odysseus. Its stem was black and its flower was as white as milk. “Eat this,” he said. “It will make you safe against all magic tricks and potions. The name of this plant is molly. It is dangerous for mere mortals to pluck, for only gods can take it out of the ground safely.”

When he spoke these words, Odysseus realised that this was no ordinary young man, but Hermes the messenger of the gods. He ate the molly plant and went on his way.

Soon he came to the house in the woods that was guarded by wild beasts. Circe’s lovely singing voice drifted out through the window, and Odysseus walked boldly past the beasts and into the house. Inside he was greeted by the beautiful witch, who told him to sit down and try some of her soup. While she was heating it, she slipped some magic potion into the broth, for she intended to turn Odysseus into a pig like the others. She gave the soup to him, he drank it all down, and then she took out her wand and rapped the table with it.

“Now be off with you to the sty, pig-face,” she cried.

Odysseus did not turn into a pig, but instead leapt to his feet, drew his sword and rushed at Circe. She, terrified, let out a shriek and fell to his feet begging for mercy.

“Please great Lord – do not take such offence. It was just my strange sense of humour. It comes from living alone for so long, here in the woods with nothing but wild beasts for company. It is many years since I have seen a strong brave man like you. Come, let me kiss you…”

Odysseus let the beautiful witch kiss him, but all the time he was watching to see that she did not try any more of her tricks. She called her servant girls and commanded them to prepare a bath for their visitor. They brought hot and cold water and mixed the bath until it was just right. When Odysseus had bathed and rested, he found that they had prepared a delicious meal for him.

“Come, why do you look so sad?” asked Circe. “Let us eat together and wash the food down with honeyed wine.”

“How can a leader eat,” asked Odysseus, “when he knows that his companions are living outside in the muddy pigsty?”

When he spoke these words, Circe knew that there was no use pretending any longer that she was anything other than a witch. She went out to the pigsty and rubbed a magic ointment onto the animals. Then she waved her wand and they began to change back into men, only younger and better looking than they were before. They began to weep, for what they had been through was truly terrible.

When they had recovered, Odysseus went back to the ship to fetch the rest of his men. They were all united at Circe’s house and sat down to a wonderful feast of celebration.

The Greeks stayed with the witch Circe for an entire month – and she didn’t try any more of her magic tricks on them. One morning Odysseus spoke to her: “Oh beautiful enchantress – too long have we enjoyed your hospitality. We must continue our journey to our home on the rocky island of Ithaca, but unfortunately we are completely lost. We do not know these seas. Can you direct us by the safest route?”

Circe replied: “Lord Odysseus, if it were up to me, I would keep you here always – but I understand that you must be on your way to your home and your lovely wife, Queen Penelope. There is no safe route for you and your men to return home; for when you leave here, you must pass through a narrow passage between the rocks of Scylla and the whirlpool of Charybdis. Both are perilous – for Scylla is a many armed monster who yelps like a dog. If you sail close to her cliffs, she will reach down and grab some of your men and shove them into her mouth. But if you sail too close to the whirlpool of Charybdis, your entire boat will be sunk down to the bottom of the sea and all of you will drown. It is a terrible choice to make but you are a leader – so plot your course as you see best. Next, if the gods permit you to pass through that dire strait, you will come to the island of the Sun where the great Sun God, Lord Apollo, keeps his herd of sacred cows. Do as I say – steer clear of the island and do not land there. Nothing and nobody escapes the eyes of Apollo as he looks down from the sky. If you value your lives, avoid his island!”

So Odysseus and his men said farewell to the lovely Circe and sailed on their way. After three days, just as she had foretold, they reached the narrow passage that she had described. Up on the cliffs they could hear the monster Scylla, yelping like a dog that has been left tied up for too long. As they drew nearer, they could hear the terrible gurgling sound of the whirlpool, Charybdis.

“This is indeed a terrible choice”, thought Odysseus, “but is it a lesser evil to lose some of my men, than for all of us to drown? I must therefore chart my course closer to the cliffs than the whirlpool.”

He did not tell his men about Scylla, in case they lost heart and put down their oars. All his men’s eyes were on the dreadful whirlpool, gurgling like a cauldron. The men rowed as hard they could, but as they passed beneath Scylla, she reached down to the ship. Odysseus fought her with his spear, desperately trying to stab at her arms, but he could not prevent her from snatching up six of his men. The others rowed on, crying for their companions.

Once they passed through the strait, they saw the island of the Sun, just as Circe had predicted.

“Thank heavens for land!” cried the men. Odysseus tried to tell them it was no good. They must not land, but sail on – for Circe had warned him of terrible danger should they set foot on the island belonging to the great Sun God, Lord Apollo.

“Are you a slave driver?” cried out Lord Eurylochus. “In your rush to reach home, you deny us all rest. We are still grieving for our six lost companions. You cannot order us to sail on. We will surely die of sadness and exhaustion.”

Seeing that the men meant rebellion, Odysseus allowed the ship to land with great misgiving in his heart. They found that the island was covered in green fields, and that fat cattle were grazing. The men waited for Odysseus to fall asleep and then killed two cows and ate roast meat on the beach. When the sun rose in the morning, bright Apollo saw what they had done, and said to Zeus, who is Lord of all the gods:

“Great Lord – I am wronged. Those rascals and ruffians who crew the ship of that tricky Greek, Odysseus, have killed the sacred cattle that bring joy to my heart. If you will not punish them, I shall go down to the land of the dead and light up the gloomy underworld. No more shall I shine in the skies above the world.”

When Zeus heard these words he replied: “It is indeed a crime to take what rightly belongs the gods. When these men set sail tomorrow, I shall hit their boat with a burning thunderbolt.”

The next day, Odysseus told his men to set sail. When they were out at sea, the sun disappeared behind a black cloud. The dark skies filled with lightening and an electric flash shot down from the hand of Lord Zeus and hit their boat, ripping it into two. All the men fell into the raging sea. Odysseus clung for his life to the broken mast of the ship, and somehow survived the storm. The sun shone once again on the now calm waters, and Odysseus saw land. Using his last strength, he swam into the shore and staggered onto the beach, where he fell down, exhausted.

[saiilorstars]

Rise Up

Ch.4: A New Firestorm

Previous Story: It Had To Be You || Current Masterlist

Pairings: Barry Allen x Female OC

Chapter Summary: The Snarts have made their way back to STAR Labs only this time they're in need of help.

Pronunciation of OC: Bell-en. The last syllable has an emphasis so it’s not pronounced like ‘Helen’ would be.

Taglist: @ocfairygodmother @anotherunreadblog​ @maaaaarveeeeel​

Despite the team's best efforts, professor Stein was still under heavy health risks.

"Hold him steady!" Cisco shouted at Caitlin and Barry who were frantically trying to keep Stein's convulsing body still enough for Cisco to come in with a device similar to the Firestorm splicer. It was just hard to do when Stein kept spontaneously blowing blue flames.

"He's dropping out!" Caitlin anxiously said.

Cisco had managed to get in and put the splicer on Stein's chest, but his fingers fumbled trying to get it activated. "Come on, come on, come on, come on!"

"Cisco, we're losing him!"

But just then Cisco heard the splicer make a 'click!' and pulled back with a heavy sigh of relief. "Oh, Díos mío. Thank God."

"He's getting worse," Barry sighed and stared at the now unconscious Stein. It had been a cycle like this all night and they still had no real ideas on how to stabilize him permanently.

"Look, I did what I could to re-engineer Doctor Wells' original stabilizer to quell the reaction, but I don't know what he used as a power source," Cisco started out the side room. "Best I could find was the one from his wheelchair."

"And how long will that last?" Caitlin wondered as she and Barry followed him out.

"Well, that's the problem, we had already used up most of its energy trying to dampen the metas' powers during our little rogue air trip with Weather Wizard and company. I think we got a few days tops."

"And he's stuck in bed?"

"Yeah, when he wakes up, I'm gonna transfer the stabilizer to this, give him a power cane, get him moving," Cisco moved over to a table to pick up another silver device.

Barry knew that was only a temporary situation and sooner or later Stein would be in trouble yet again. "We gotta figure out a way to save him."

"I think I might know how to do that," Caitlin decided to share her spontaneous idea with them. She headed for the main desk and pulled up Stein's profile up on one of the computers across them. "When the Particle Accelerator exploded, the dark matter that collided with Professor Stein fused with the Firestorm matrix and altered the normal molecular processes that occurs within his body. Those highly reactive molecules needed something to bond with in order to stabilize. But now that Ronnie is no longer a part of Professor Stein-"

"Those molecules don't have anything to bond to," Barry realized the problem.

"And the longer he goes without merging, the more unstable he becomes."

"Ugh," Cisco foresaw a much bigger problem of finding Stein a new replacement. "All right, so, what do we do?"

"We find another... participant."

Cisco shot Caitlin a sarcastic look. "Okay, cool, so, how do we do that? Are we just gonna make a Tinder app for potential meta-humans? 'Cause I'm pretty sure merging with Stein and randomly bursting into flames sounds like the biggest "swipe left" of all time."

Barry disapproved of Cisco's lack of seriousness but did have to agree that it wouldn't such an easy thing finding someone willing to become Firestorm. "I mean, even if we could find someone willing, Stein can't just merge with whoever he wants."

"No he can't, but I have done some research, and found two potential candidates that might be compatible with him," Caitlin typed on the computer to bring up two young men's profiles. "They both were affected by the dark matter, and they were both admitted to the hospital showing symptoms of gene rearrangement mutation. And they both share the same blood type as Professor Stein and Ronnie."

"All right. I mean, this is more than organ donation," Barry felt the need to remind her. "We'll need more than tissue typing to see if their bodies are compatible."

"If I can isolate the genetic locus of the two candidates and cross-reference it with the mutations in Professor Stein, I might be able to find a match and save his life."

"What do you need to do that?"

Caitlin formed an apologetic smile, indicating she would definitely be requiring his speedy abilities.

~ 0 ~

Belén was uncomfortable. She didn't need to say it: her body outright showed it. From the way she awkwardly sat on the metal chair, to the way her hand reached for the prison phone...everything screamed "I don't know what to do here".

Luckily, Maritza had assumed the reason her sister came to visit. "I'm glad that you and Mom are salvaging the only family relationship left in this...wonky family of ours. I know that with time you'll be close, like it should've been from the start."

Belén gave a low sigh of doubt. As much as she wanted that closeness with her mother, she was aware that it wouldn't happen overnight and that it certainly wouldn't be easy. She told Maritza that and added her biggest fear: "I can't even be completely honest with her."

Maritza knew she was talking about Belén's double life as a metahuman. "Maybe it's better that she doesn't know."

Belén shrugged and looked to the side in thought. "Despite everything that's happened between us Maritza...I just want to say..." There was a clear struggle for her to say it out loud but she knew Maritza did deserve it this time. "...thank you."

Maritza blinked in surprise since she hadn't been expecting that. In fact, she hadn't been expecting any form of gratitude from Belén anytime soon - maybe not even in this lifetime after what she did. "Belén..."

"You did a lot of bad things Maritza but this was something nice..." Belén drew in a breath, "So...thanks. It's better to be friends with my mother than enemies. At least this way I get to see Axel and...he's good. Better, now, actually, since he's living with his grandmother now."

"I'm happy to hear that you're doing better now," Maritza offered a smile that Belén couldn't return. "I saw one of the newspapers with your article in it."

Belén blinked and stared at her sister with curiosity. Her article about the Azalea being alive had finally been published and was so far doing well with the public's response. They were eager and hopeful that their beloved Azalea was still alive. Belén just never expected for her sister to be one of the readers. "You read my articles?"

Maritza smiled again. "Of course I do. You're a hell of a writer and the fact you're making a comeback to the city is amazing. I'm glad that you're doing better, Belén. You deserve that. You deserve...everything."

And just like before coming, Belén didn't know what to do.

~ 0 ~

Barry intended on getting back to STAR Labs as quick as possible after he finished a bit of work at the station. If he continued to make unscheduled leaves then someone would definitely start to notice and that would be the last thing he needed at the moment. He hurried down the stairs with a needed case file in his hands, and in his rush to get to Joe, he bumped into a tall woman who then dropped her purse.

"I-I am so sorry!" Barry went to pick up the purse off the floor. When he looked up to see the woman he was met with familiar-looking brown eyes.

"That's fine," Veronica Green took back her purse with a polite smile. "I wasn't looking where I was going either." In his surprise, Barry couldn't say anything. Veronica tilted her head to examine the young man. "I know you, don't I? I've seen you…"

"Th-the...funeral," Barry stuttered to explain and seeing Veronica's confused gaze he shook his head and began anew. "I'm Barry Allen-" he stuck a hand to shake with hers.

"Oh, right," Veronica shook his hand politely. "You were my daughter's boyfriend."

"Well, not 'was'...am…" Barry watched her awkwardly process that news and wondered if the woman was about to hate him or mildly tolerate him. She didn't appear too friendly at the moment.

"Oh," was all that came out from Veronica's lips.

She hates me, Barry concluded.

"Barry? Hey!" he then heard Patty call for him and thanked every God he knew of for the distraction. It was incredibly awkward - even for his usual.

Patty came rushing up to him and Veronica, smiling widely. "You'll never guess what I found." But before Barry could even begin to guess she held up a plastic bag of teeth.

"Are those...teeth?" Barry made a face.

"Shark teeth," Patty excitedly corrected. "And I have an eyewitness that says he saw a shark walking on land-a man-shark."

"Man-shark?" this time Veronica had spoken up, letting Patty realize she had yet to know who the other woman was. "This city has man-sharks?" Veronica looked at Barry like he had the answers.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Patty inquired.

"Veronica Green," Veronica reached to shake Patty's hand. "I'm transferring from Star City."

"Oh, nice," Patty smiled as she shook the woman's hand. "Patty Spivot. I just started working here too."

"Right, I know. And I'm assuming you're working on...what are they called again? Metahumans?" Veronica's face said it all. It was an absolutely not. The things she was doing for her daughter she could not believe.

"Well…" Patty said after Veronica took an abrupt leave, "...she seems like a cheery one."

"That's actually Belén's mother," Barry watched Veronica head for Singh's office.

"Oh my God," Patty put a hand over her mouth.

"Don't worry, I think Belén knows that too."

Patty glanced at him, surprised by his statement.

Barry winced. "Don't...tell her I said that, actually."

"Only if you don't tell her what I said."

"Deal."

The two smiled at each other.

"So, um...do you think that's actually real?" Barry one again looked at the bag of teeth. He had heard and seen of all sorts of metahumans but a shark that walked on land seemed just a bit too much.

"Yeah, I mean, I know it sounds really wacko...but, I mean, nothing seems impossible now that we have meta-humans, right? And I thought it would be fun, you know, for us to work together again on a case."

"Yeah, I mean, I really- I'd love to work on anything with you. Um, it's just, you know, meta-humans aren't really my thing," Barry tried looking as convincing as ever. He didn't want Patty looking too much into the metahuman criminals lest she be kidnapped again.

"Really? I mean...I can handle it myself…"

Then again, if she was going to keep looking into it herself, alone, Barry would rather have an eye on her upclose. "No, you-look, how about I just- I'll run a test, see where the teeth came from."

Patty beamed. "That would be amazing! Thank you!" she handed the bag over to him.

Joe walked out of the office room and saw the bag of shark teeth. "How's your man-shark case coming?" he looked at Patty, amused.

"It's good. I was just gonna go and canvas the area, see what else I can dig up, and Barry here agreed to run some tests for me."

"Really?" Joe raised an eyebrow and looked over to Barry.

"Mm-hmm. So, progress," Patty beamed and said another 'thanks' to Barry before leaving herself.

"For real?" Joe inquired from Barry, eyes trained on the bag of teeth.

"If it's another meta I'd rather know first and lead Patty away from it before something like Sand Demon happens again," Barry explained.

"Mm," Joe walked over to the reception desk to leave behind some papers and then started back for his office.

"Uh, so did you hear we have a new co-worker?" Barry followed after him and glanced at Singh's office where he could see Veronica having an idle chat with him.

Joe followed his gaze to the office and nodded. "Wasn't expecting that from one phone call, I'll tell you that."

"Yeah I don't think she likes me very much…" Barry let his file flop on Joe's desk.

Joe started to laugh. "What parent likes their daughter's boyfriend?"

"Thanks," Barry said with a straight face. To his dismay, Joe only continued to laugh more. He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and pulled it up to see who it was. "Hey, you know what, I gotta go. It's Cisco. It's about Professor Stein."

"Okay, go, I'll cover you with Singh," Joe shooed him off and just as Barry turned to leave he heard the man laugh again.

It was not funny.

~ 0 ~

In the cortex, Stein tried out his new makeshift silver cane that was meant to keep him stabilized in the meantime they found a possible firestorm partner. "Well, I must admit, I never imagined the Sphinx's riddle about a man requiring three legs would ever apply to me, but if this device keeps me mobile, then I will gratefully oblige."

Caitlin smiled at the man as he took a small trip in the cortex to test out the cane. "Hopefully, you won't need it for much longer," she gestured to the two profiles of the candidates that could possibly (and hopefully) work to save him. "There was no agglutination in the blood samples, and cross-matching was negative for both, and it appears that the dark matter from the Particle Accelerator explosion mutated their genes in a very similar way it did to yours. I think they're both potential matches."

"So who do we go with?" Belén looked at the two men on the computer screen. She could see one was far younger than the other but as far as she could tell they both matched Stein. "Do we pull popsicle sticks or…?"

Caitlin chuckled and shook her head. "My first choice is Henry Hewitt. He graduated summa cum laude from Hudson University with a double major in Applied Physics and Bioengineering."

"A Hudson boy," Stein said thoughtfully. "I like him already."

"What about this other guy, Jefferson Jackson?" Barry moved up to the computer to take a closer look. "High school quarterback, 4.0 student. He's got the physical attributes. And it looks like more of his alleles match than Hewitt's. Doesn't that mean that he's more compatible?"

Caitlin reluctantly agreed but it was easy to see that she really did prefer Henry. "On paper, perhaps, but Hewitt is a scientist. Clearly, he's trying to make something of his life."

"That's a bit mean to say," Belén sarcastically glanced at Caitlin as if she were scolding the brunette.

"I'm just...I think he'd be open to something like this," Caitlin raised her hands in defense.

"I think we should meet with both of them before we make a decision," Cisco muttered, thinking both candidates would probably have to think about it really hard before being able to come up with a decision.

"That's an excellent idea," Stein agreed.

"I'll see if I can get Hewitt here," Caitlin said fast.

"All right, in the meantime, we'll go meet with Jefferson Jackson," Barry turned back, looking at Belén and Stein for agreement.

"I have to go pick up Axel and bring him to Mrs. Andrews," Belén patted him on the arm.

"Hey, that reminds me," Barry walked up to her while the others dispersed to do their tasks, "I met your mother today at the station."

"Oh yeah," Belén smiled. "She said she started on that transfer thing."

"Um...yeah, it's just…" Barry hated to be the one to tell her because she really did look happy about it, "...I kinda got the feeling she wasn't very happy that we were back together again."

Belén's smile faded a bit as she considered the idea that perhaps never telling her mother they were alright now could've had a bigger influence than she thought. "Oh, oh I'm sorry Barry. You know, that's probably my fault. Last time she heard you were the jerk that broke up with me."

But Barry wanted to say that he felt it was a bit more than just that. There was something about the way Veronica had looked at him earlier that...sort of said she couldn't believe her daughter had chosen him.

"Barry, do not worry," Belén assured him it would be fine. She set her hands on his arms and looked so sure of herself, it made Barry dread the outcome if things didn't go her way. "My Mom's a grumpy woman but she's going to try and make things work with me. Once she gets to know you - and knows how happy you make me - she'll warm up to you."

"You think?" Barry raised an eyebrow at her.

"Absolutely," Belén chuckled and leaned in to kiss him. "It'll be fine."

"Okay," Barry relented very quietly. He didn't realize how much it would bother him if Veronica ended up truly not liking him. There was something he'd been meaning to tell Belén but so far was unable to find a suitable moment and place.

Belén mistook his silence as more worry and laughed. She repeated that it would all be fine, gave him a last kiss before truly leaving. On her way out, she missed their newest E-2 visitor lurking behind.

~ 0 ~

Axel bounced on his feet while he waited for his aunt Belén to buy him that ice cream from the ice cream truck. It was his reward for getting a sticker at school that indicated he'd attempted to write his name unlike other students.

"But you know that you won't get a reward every time, right?" Belén asked after giving Axel his Bugs Bunny popsicle. "I'm happy that you're putting an effort but you don't get a reward every time."

"Mhm!" Axel practically waved her off while he licked his popsicle.

Belén playfully rolled her eyes and ushered him towards the car. While she was putting Axel into the backseat, she could've sworn she felt burning eyes on her back. She hurriedly finished adjusting Axel's seat belt then closed the car door. As she moved for the driver's seat she made a diligent look around for anything strange but as far as she could see there were only students being picked up.

Get it together Belén, she berated herself and opened the driver's door.

She missed the brunette women across the street peering behind another ice cream truck. A dark smile spread across her face as she watched Belén drive off. "Gotcha."

~ 0 ~

When Belén returned to STAR Labs, she found Caitlin in a side room excitedly conversing with one of the chosen candidates for Firestorm. Cisco was sitting at the desk with a grim face at the two.

"What's going on?" Belén dropped in the chair next to him.

"Caitlin got Henry Hewitt to come," Cisco said but sounded nowhere near happy about it.

"What's wrong with him?" Belén asked quick, garnering a confused look from Cisco. "I know you hate him. It's in your voice, stupid."

Cisco smiled and shook his head. Before he got to explaining his reason of dislike for Henry, Barry and professor Stein walked into the room. Seeing them from the side room, Caitlin brought out Henry to meet them.

"Caitlin, what's going on?" Barry frowned at the sight of the man in the room.

Caitlin seemed happier than ever. "I'm glad you're back. This is Dr. Henry Hewitt. This is Barry Allen, Professor Martin Stein and Belén Palayta."

Stein shook hands with Henry. "How do you do?"

Henry seemed in awe. "The illustrious Martin Stein. I've read all your papers back at Hudson, especially on transmutation. Fascinating. You're a legend."

"Kiss-ass," Belén mumbled under her breath but she soon realized it wasn't as quiet as she thought because Cisco had snickered beside her. Even Barry had let a smile slip.

Stein laughed shyly at the praises. "Oh, please. I think you're overestimating my contribution to the field. I-I appreciate your enthusiasm."

Caitlin happily walked to the other three. "Isn't he great?"

"He's got an ego the size of Texas-" Cisco muttered, "-but, yeah, he's alright."

Caitlin rolled her eyes at him. "So, where's Jefferson Jackson?"

"We just need more time," Barry sighed. It turned out the younger candidate was more stubborn than they thought.

"We don't have more time. I couldn't find another power source for the cane and that thing's running out." Cisco didn't really like Henry that much but Stein was running out of time.

"So then...that's it?" Belén asked. "We convince Henry to do it?"

Caitlin smiled. "Oh he's already agreed. We can do the merge right now."

"What do you mean? You told him the details of the Firestorm Matrix?" Barry gave her an incredulous look.

"Absolutely, becoming Firestorm is a huge life change. He needs to know what he's getting himself into."

They were then taken when the two scientists chanted their apparent school's theme.

"Aw, look at that, that's so cute," Cisco sarcastically rose from his chair, smiling impossibly wide. "We'll have two Professor Steins if this works."

Belén laughed. "I don't think anyone could be professor Stein. There can only be one softie scientist here."

Being settled, they gathered up the potential new Firestorm and Cisco stood in front of Henry holding the splicer in his hands, giving Henry a final instruction.

"When I put this splicer on your chest you're gonna feel a rush. That's a molecular primer being released into your body. Then you can make physical contact with Professor Stein, and Firestorm Matrix will take over."

"Easy enough," Henry nodded, but the manner in which he said those words gave the impression he thought it was simple math terms.

"Ready?" Cisco asked both men this time.

"No time like the present," Stein held his cane for Caitlin to take. "Thank you, my dear."

"Okay," Cisco put the splicer on Henry's chest. The device immediately whirred to life as it sprouted three metal bars across Henry's chest.

Both Henry and Stein turned to face each other, their hands reaching to make contact with the other. Their tips flamed on before dying out, leaving the two very much separated.

"Try again," Caitlin encouraged them after a moment of confusion.

They reached out to merge again but not even flames had appeared that time. It appeared that it was not going to work.

"This is unexpected…" Stein pulled his hand back.

"Something's supposed to be happening, right?" Henry shot the others an irritated look. "Why isn't it working?"

Belén didn't like the attitude displayed towards them like it was their fault. "Genius if we knew we wouldn't be having this problem."

Cisco stepped towards the two men to take off the splicer from Henry. "Uh, well, looks like you two aren't compatible after all."

"So all this was for nothing?" Henry now openly snared.

"Believe me, no one is more disappointed than I am," Stein despondently sighed, but Henry flatout ignored the implications of the failure.

"Yeah, don't be so sure about that. Next time, try to get your act together before you get someone's hopes up." Henry stormed out of the cortex.

The group didn't know how to react after that setback. Stein would have to continue muffling through for the moment.

"So, what happens now?" Belén dreaded to ask. She and Barry walked down the street leading up to her house. "If Henry Hewitt can't merge…"

"We have to hope that Jefferson Jackson comes through," Barry said, shrugging his shoulders.

"You met him with professor Stein today, right? Did he look interested?"

"Uum…" Barry made a face that said it all.

"Well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens tomorrow," Belén hoped this other candidate would turn out to be better than Hewitt. They walked up to Belén's front porch staircase.

"Is there anyone home?" Barry looked at the dark windows of her house. Belén told him earlier in the day her mother would be staying at a hotel in the meantime they made good on the house deed.

"No, it'll just be me and Axel," Belén moved up to the door to unlock it. "I need to start packing, actually. I'm leaving Axel with Mrs. Andrews for the rest of the day so I can get a head start."

"But you're staying alone in the night?" Barry's tone indicated his outright refusal.

"Relax," Belén rolled her eyes and opened the door, "I doubt Zoom or Datura make house visits."

"I...Bells, do we really want to push that luck? Would it kill you to just stay with Caitlin some more time?"

"No offence to Caitlin, but what exactly makes it more safe at her place than here?" Belén smiled as Barry fumbled over an answer. "It's not like Caitlin has powers. Buuuuut…" she pretended innocence, "...you know, I wouldn't be opposed to some help with packing. Without the speed."

"Oh c'mon," Barry complained but was already coming in after her. Belén giggled while he began making his case on why he should very much be allowed to use said speed.

~0~

The next day, the group was more than happy to see Jefferson Jackson deciding to meet with them. The young man was fascinated by all the scientific machinery set around and had to take a moment to really get the jist of the place.

"I thought S.T.A.R. Labs had to shut down," he remarked after a while.

"You can say it's under new management," Belén innocently waved a hand from her spot at the desk. She figured he looked more or less the same way she did when she first stepped foot in the room a year ago.

"Cool. So, let's get started," Jax clapped his hands. "You got some kind of "Billion Dollar Man" technology that gonna fix my knee?"

Barry realized the other man was under the ruse they would be bringing him back to his regular self. "Actually, Jax, this isn't about fixing your knee."

"What are you talking about?"

"When the Particle Accelerator exploded, the energy wave that collided with you is known as dark matter," Caitlin began explaining.

"And it didn't just hurt your knee," Stein finished for her. "It-it changed the molecular structure of your body."

Jax raised an eyebrow at him. "Whoa, hold on, Grey. So you're saying I'm like one of those meta-humans I keep hearing about on the news?"

Stein was not amused by the little nickname the man had branded him with. "Yes, I am. Please, call me Professor."

"We think you have potential capabilities," Cisco tried to explain next, assuming they were freaking Jax out.

"What kind of capabilities?"

"The same as Professor Stein: the ability for your body to process fission and fusion," Caitlin answered.

Cisco raised the splicer device for Jax to see. "And you can harness excess energy and turn it into these massive nuclear blasts."

"And, if it helps, you can fly," Belén added whimsically, adding a moment later in a low voice, "Wish I could fly."

Jax was bewildered and glanced at Stein sitting on a chair, looking far too, well, old to do all those powers. "So you're saying you can do all this?"

"Only during times of convergence with a willing partner.

"Convergence?" Jax concluded what they needed from him and laughed. "You and me? No, this is crazy."

"No, Jax, this is your chance to right the wrong that was done to you," Caitlin frowned at his careless reaction.

"Yeah, sorry, you got the wrong guy," Jax made a signal he was going to leave. "I don't want nothing to do with this."

Caitlin wasn't going to give up and cut him off. "Wait a second, we are giving you the chance to be a superhero, and you're gonna say no that quickly?"

"Yeah, not my kind of thing," Jax said.

Stein began pushing himself upwards from his chair "If the man isn't willing to participate-"

"Look, I saw your test scores, Jax. Your grades were good enough to get into college, but you didn't go," Caitlin continued on, sounding angrier. "Why? Is this the type of guy you are? One setback and you fold? Well, then maybe you're not the guy for us anyway."

"Caitlin-" Belén meant to stop her but the damage was done.

"Well, maybe I'm not," Jax sourly agreed and stormed out.

"Maybe this just wasn't meant to be," Stein exceptionally walked out as well.

"Caitlin you shouldn't have done that," Belén got up her chair, earning a very sharp look from the brunette in return.

"He said no to being a superhero. Who does that?" Caitlin angrily looked at the others for back up. "I mean, you didn't say no when you had the chance. Cisco, would you?"

Cisco battled through a nervous laugh. "Chance to have superpowers? Sign me up."

"Look, we're asking Jax to change his entire life, to sacrifice what he does have," Barry tried simplifying it for Caitlin, because he thought she'd been a bit hard on Jax too. "I mean, that's not a decision that can be made lightly. It took me a long time to figure out this whole hero thing."

Caitlin still didn't understand. "Exactly, which is why we need someone who wants to do this."

"Where are you going?" Belén watched the woman begin to leave.

"To get Hewitt back. We have to try again," Caitlin said loudly and stormed away.

~0~

Later that day, Barry called in Patty to give her the results of her "shark teeth". As soon as Patty heard the results, she projected grave disappointment.

"Human DNA?" she looked up from the results.

"Yup, definitely not a man-shark. Not even a land shark, Ma'am," Barry laughed but Patty seemed pretty upset.

"Well, thanks for testing it for me," Patty sighed and turned to leave.

"What are you gonna do now?"

Patty stopped and thought for a moment. "I don't know, probably file it under "never gonna happen." I have another case anyway."

"Oh, anything I can help you with?"

"No, no, no, no, Detective said definitely n-not," Patty knew she was being a horrible liar but in her defence she warned Joe she couldn't keep secrets very well. And keeping the newest case that involved apparently the deceased Harrison Wells was a big one.

Barry immediately recognized her off look and worried. "Is everything okay?"

Patty did not make things better by laughing so nervously. "Sure, why?"

"I don't know, you're just acting kind of different…"

"No! No. I'm the same old P. Spivot, you know?" Patty inwardly smacked herself for being so obvious. She needed to leave fast. "I have to go, but thank you so much for testing this, and I'll see you."

Barry couldn't even get an "okay" out when the woman had already rushed out. He decided he would go to Joe himself for some answers. Why wouldn't Joe want him working on a case with them? It wasn't like him.

As Barry was coming down the stairs, he caught sight of Veronica coming out of the main office. Thinking of their oh-so-grand meeting the previous day, Barry thought he would try it again with some better results. He knew Belén was right in that Veronica didn't know him and perhaps they just needed time but it did bother him that this woman decided - out of the blue - that she wouldn't like him.

"Ms. Green?" he called to the woman engrossed with a file in her hands. Soon as she looked up Barry could see her eyes narrow a bit. "Everything...okay?" That was a stupid question but Barry couldn't think of another way to start.

"Of course. I just finished with papers for my transfer. I start this Monday," Veronica informed.

"That's great! I guess we'll be seeing each other more often then," Barry smiled but Veronica just stared.

"Yes…" Veronica didn't have to openly say that she wasn't as thrilled as one would think.

Barry saw that and inwardly sighed. "Ms. Green, I just want to say that I'm very happy you and Bells are working on a new relationship."

"Bells?" Veronica repeated her daughter's nickname with distaste.

"U-uh, sorry, Belén. That's just...what we call her sometimes…" Barry said slowly, seeing no such progress. Veronica still did not lighten up. "Anyways, I just…" he sighed, deciding to simply be honest with how he felt and see what happened from there, "...Belén has suffered a lot, I've seen it, and I think she could really use her mother. She deserves that."

"Yes, well, she deserves more doesn't she?" Veronica openly said instead, jabbing him with her double meaning. Her knowing smile on him didn't make Barry feel any better.

~ 0 ~

"She said that?" Cisco gaped after hearing Barry's story - which was admittedly funny in some point. The two were in the cortex, watching over Axel while Belén went for some coffee in the kitchen of the building. "Duuuude…" Cisco began to chuckle, much to Barry's offence

"Why does everyone think it's so funny?" he frowned. First Joe, and now Cisco? Next thing he knew Iris would burst out laughing next.

"I mean, it would happen to you," Cisco walked over to the desk where Axel sat. He glanced at the boy who was busy attempting to write his name on paper, oblivious to their talk.

"Thanks," Barry frowned. "I get that not everyone is gonna like me but...this precise woman happens to be Belén's mother. She has to like me."

Cisco smirked as he plopped down on a chair next to Axel. "Right."

"I mean, Bells won over my Dad so quick…" Barry began to pace in front of the desk.

"Well, Belén is adorable, so…" Cisco trailed off when Barry glared for his lack of seriousness. "Alright, no time for jokes, then."

"No," Barry shook his head and came to a stop. He put his hands on the edge of the desk and sighed. "I can...see a future with Belén, I really can, and in that future...I don't see this," he gestured to the situation.

Cisco raised his eyebrows, able to barely to hold his teasing smile back. "Belén Allen?"

"Hey!" Belén had walked in, eyes wide and on Cisco. "I don't know what you were talking about but I know 'shut up' fits perfectly."

Cisco found it even more difficult not to tease. Belén placed down a mug of coffee for Cisco on the desk, handed Barry his own then took her own.

"So, dare I ask what we were discussing?" she made eyes at Barry who was busy trying not to be as red as possible.

"Auntie Belén! Look at my name!" Axel waved his paper in the air, nearly smacking Cisco on the face a couple times.

"Let me see that before you paper cut this beautiful face of mine," Cisco took the paper from the boy and looked down at the squiggly-lined name. "Well, for a four year old, it's not that bad."

"It's my homework," Axel said proudly.

"Great job, Axel," Belén mused after seeing the paper. "Least your name isn't Annah-Belén with a hyphen and everything," she shook her head and shot Barry a look. "You and I know about long names, don't we Bartholomew?"

The speedster silently glowered.

"You guys," Caitlin came rushing into the room seeming very concerned.

"What's wrong?" asked Barry, but Caitlin came directly for the computers. She said nothing as she typed and pulled up a page on the one of the computers up on the wall.

It was a news-reporter in the middle of a newscast, the byline underneath reading something about questioning a Henry Hewitt.

"What's…?" Belén blinked at the screen.

"There was a scene at Mercury Labs where apparently Hewitt showed some sort of metahuman abilities," Caitlin explained, sighing deeply. "He nearly hurt one of his bosses and the witness said he was unusually aggressive."

"But...he has powers now?" Belén looked at the others for some help understanding that.

"Hewitt's dormant abilities must have been triggered when we attempted the merger," Barry realized.

"And that could be catastrophic," Caitlin crossed her arms. "If his powers are anything like professor Stein's then he requires a grounding mechanism to stabilize his volatility."

"Yeah, he's gonna pop his top," Cisco scoffed, wondering if he hadn't done it on his own already. The man seemed to carry a temper with him anyways. "And considering he's got a long history of violence - according to his police record - we probably don't have much time."

"Police record?" Barry threw a look over to Caitlin.

"I didn't find a police record," the brunette said defensibly.

Cisco scoffed. "Yeah, of course not, it was sealed, but guess what, ya boy hacked in and-" he started on the computer, "-hold on, wait for it."

"Yowzah," Belén's eyes roamed the heavy police record Cisco pulled up for them.

"One count battery, two counts aggravated assault, court-ordered anger management therapy," Cisco listed.

"He seemed like such a nice guy," Caitlin said dejectedly.

"Looks are deceiving," Belén remarked.

"Professor Stein is getting worse. And Hewitt's like this because of me. And now Jefferson Jackson will never come back because of what I said," Caitlin felt completely guilty for the mess she thought she was responsible for. "I just didn't believe that he has what it takes."

"This isn't because you didn't believe in him," Barry made her stop for a moment. "Sometimes, great possibilities are right in front of us, and we don't see them, because we choose not to. I think that we need to be open to exploring something new."

Caitlin valued his words, she did, and nodded her head. "I'm gonna go fix it," she mumbled and turned to leave.

"We have to keep an eye on professor Stein," Cisco got up from his chair. "Time is running out."

"Yeah," Belén moved over for Axel. "We'll be back later, then. I promised my mother I would show her my new place. Which reminds me…" she started smiling at Barry, with purpose, "...I know I said no speed for moving out, but...considering I'm a bit behind��"

"I got it," Barry nodded, promising her. "I'll go in later tonight, don't worry."

"Thank you," Belén ushered Axel off his chair and the two walked off.

"So...we're just not gonna tell her that her mothers hates you?" Cisco curiously looked after Belén.

"No," Barry replied instantly. With a warning finger for Cisco to keep quiet as well, he walked out too.

~ 0 ~

As soon as Belén had gotten word from her mother she was waiting for her back in their old home, Belén did her best to get there on time. If there was one thing her mother despised it was tardiness.

"My toys!?" Axel gasped the moment he saw various boxes already piling up around the living room. "Auntie Belén, are my toys in there!?"

"Don't worry Axel, your things are in your room," Belén assured as she closed the door. "Mom?" she called, leaving her purse on a stand by table.

Veronica walked out from the kitchen with a glass of water in her hand. Axel was delighted to see his grandmother and ran forwards to hug her. "Grandma, wanna play with my toys with me?" he asked excitedly.

"Not right now, sweetheart," Veronica smiled at him, speaking a soft voice. Belén honestly couldn't see that version of her mother as, well..her mother. It was always arguments and bickering with the others.

"Aaaw," Axel pulled back and turned away.

"Axel, go on out to the backyard for a moment," Belén instructed the child.

"Okay!"

"But stay away from Aunt Belén's flowers, alright?"

"Yes!" Axel promised and rushed for the back door.

"So you've been packing…" Veronica lowered her glass to observe the room. "I checked upstairs and...you're almost completely packed too."

"Yeah," Belén shrugged. "I want to get out of here as fast as possible."

"You know I'm not kicking you out-"

"No, yeah, I know that," Belén promised her. "I just…" her eyes began to look around the familiar living room, "...don't like being here anymore. There's too many bad things, memories...I can't continue living here if I want to function normally."

"You're almost set then," Veronica gestured to the packing boxes behind them. "I'm surprised you packed so fast."

"I had help from Barry, Mom," Belén rolled her eyes.

"Oh," Veronica could not help the face expression that settled.

Belén saw it too and frowned. "Oh c'mon, are you actually not liking him? Barry mentioned it but I just thought he was being dramatic."

"He told you that?" it appeared Veronica was offended and yet, upset that apparently Barry had disclosed this information.

"Well gee, Mom, considering I'm his girlfriend and he just met my Mom who created such a negative image of him...yeah, he did mention it because he was upset."

Veronica made a small noise and shook her head. She brought her glass to her lips and drank.

"Can I just ask what is the problem?" Belén sighed, so completely done with arguments between them. "You know nothing of me, and then you have the audacity to hate my boyfriend whom you've never even properly met."

"The last time I heard he broke up with you in a very harsh way," Veronica tilted her glass, pretending to be interested in the swirling water. "And that left you so bad you decided to go to a psychologist."

"Hey-" Belén struck a sharp finger at her mother, "-that was because of Maritza, Axel, Rayan, and the frikin black-hole that appeared in the sky as well! I decided to go to Dr. Baeva for me. I decided I wanted to feel better, to be better so I went for professional help."

"Belén-"

"No, Mom, you're being unfair," Belén said softly. "I bet grandma and grandpa were against at least one of your boyfriends when you were my age. And how about Nona Enger? Remember how that feels?"

Veronica's lips twitched into a smile. "Your father's mother was an outright..." she definitely wouldn't finish that sentence out loud.

"Can't you at least give him a chance?" Belén asked. "One dinner - that's all I'm asking. You can get to know Barry and see that he's really sweet and...and dorky, I'm not gonna lie," she smiled. "But overall he is someone that I can truly think about having a future with."

Veronica's attention was drawn most by the last statement. "That much, huh?" she asked with eyebrows raised.

Belén nodded. "Yes."

Veronica gave a small nod as she thought about the deal proposed. "Okay-" Belén's eyes widened, "-I accept. One dinner-" she raised a finger, "-this weekend."

The biggest smile spread across Belén's face. "Oh my God, thank you!" she rushed up to Veronica and surprised her with a large hug.

Belén rarely hugged her.

~ 0 ~

By the time Belén returned to STAR Labs, much had happened. But it was to her delight to learn that Jax had come through and merged successfully with professor Stein, creating a new Firestorm. Unfortunately, she also learned that Henry Hewitt was up and about again attacking people. Barry and the new Firestorm had gone out to stop him.

"You sure Jax can handle this?" Belén anxiously stood behind Caitlin and Cisco at the desk. "He did just get his powers…"

"He has this," Caitlin assured with a new sense of faith in Jax.

"Plus, he has professor Stein in his head," Cisco added with a wag of his finger.

Belén agreed it was true but it still didn't diminish all her concerns.

"Hey, guys, cutting the power didn't work," Barry's voice came through the speakers. "It's like the more we anger him, the stronger he gets."

"Powers based on emotions? Hm," Belén pretended to think for a moment, "Now where have I seen that before."

"That's it," Caitlin realized. "The more powerful he becomes, the more unstable they become. Barry, make him angry, and he'll blow his fuse."

"Are you saying that I'm unstable?" Belén shot the brunette a look.

Caitlin made an apologetic face.

"Don't worry, we'll get her back when you can go full-on Azalea again," Cisco nudged Belén on the side. "Imagine what new sides you can unlock."

When all was said and done, Henry Hewitt was brought back to STAR Labs and placed in the pipeline where he would not be able to tell a soul of what he learned in the recent week. It appeared like his powers had diminished with his last fight. Now as the new firestorm prepared to leave to begin training again, the group went on to say their goodbyes.

"Why Are we going to Pittsburgh again?" asked Jax after hearing Stein mention it to Joe.

"A colleague of mine was monumental in helping train Ronald and me. She's graciously offered to help the two of us as well."

"How's she gonna help us?"

"Well, there were many aspects of our abilities that we never quite achieved. Hopefully now, we can fully realize that potential." Stein said hopefully and turned to say goodbye to Caitlin. "Oh, my dearest Dr. Snow. Ronald may be lost to us, but he will never be forgotten."

Caitlin hugged him goodbye.

"Okay but when you start flying...take a picture dammit," Belén told Jax, making him laugh. "I mean it. That view would be phenomenal."

"I think they'd have more to do, Bells," Barry came by for her.

"I was just saying...you know, if you got a chance," Belén casually waved her hand on her side.

Cisco approached them with the splicer in hand, excitedly apparently. "I went ahead and recalibrated the splicer so the merging should be even smoother now."

"Are you ready, Jefferson?" Stein asked the younger man. With a nod, Jax moved over so that the two would merge better.

"All right," Jax said after merging, still sounding surprised of his new ability. He erupted in flames and flew up into the sky.

"I really want that picture," Belén mumbled under her breath.

"Yeah c'mon," Barry tugged her by the hand. "You want to get lunch?"

"Mhm! So I can tell you the big news I have," Belén excitedly revealed.

"Interesting," Barry hummed in thought. He said a goodbye to the others and took off with Belén for Jitters.

"So, I talked to my Mom," Belén began as soon as they entered the place.

"You did…?" Barry made a face behind her.

"Yes, and I don't want you to freak out or anything but...she doesn't exactly favor you."

"No?" Barry feigned perfect surprise. "I wasn't dreaming?"

Belén sighed. "Nope. But I got her to give you a chance. You think you can do dinner with her and me this weekend?" there was a heavy alarm in Barry's face that questioned the sanity of the plan. Belén clapped her hands together, ready to plead. "I promise it will be just fine. You just have...to be yourself."

"I don't mean to be rude but I think 'being myself' is what got me into this situation in the first place," Barry released a breath he'd been holding in.

"She doesn't know you," Belén persisted. "She knows a part of you that...that wasn't you. Please say you'll do it? Pretty please?"

"Oh, sure, use that face on me, how can I refuse?" Barry sarcastically said.

"So...you'll come then?"

"Yes, of course I will," Barry nodded. "But you have to do one thing in return."

"What is it?"

"Don't leave me alone with her," Barry pleaded with a shaking voice.

Belén laughed but agreed nonetheless. Throughout the rest of their lunch, which turned out to last much later, Belén started giving Barry helpful tips for when they met with Veronica later that weekend. While Belén was confident that her mother would end up liking Barry she also thought that a little help couldn't hurt either. When they were finished, the two arrived at the CCPD for different reasons. Belén promised Patty they would have that pending coffee night - which switched to a movie night considering Belén had just come back from Jitters. Barry had a bit of work to finish before he could call it a night.

"So, any movie you're interested in seeing?" Belén asked Patty as the two walked out of the station.

"Something actiony?" Patty suggested and Belén just laughed.

"A cop wants to watch an action movie I'm not surprised!"

But the two had barely made it across the street when a loud clash stopped them in their tracks. Green vines had wrapped around trash cans and threw them towards the two women. They lunged in opposite directions to avoid being hit. Soon as Belén looked up she saw a woman in a glimmering green bodysuit and long ginger hair coming for her. There were bits of green plants adorning the corner of her eyes.

"What are you-"

The ginger made a wag of her finger and struck forwards a hand. Belén was hit with a thick vine tendril and blasted back against a street pole, effectively knocking her out.

"Oh my God!" Patty didn't waste a minute and whipped out her gun, taking aim at the ginger who was coming for them. "Put your hands in the air!"

But the ginger smirked and reached a hand out, making Patty begin to shoot. Poison Ivy swiveled with her vines to avoid the bullets successfully. Hearing the bullets, Barry appeared as the Flash to see what the trouble was and came to the horror sight instead.

"Flash," Poison Ivy's lips curled into a delighted smile. "Zoom wants you dead. But for now I'm here to collect for Datura."

"Over my dead body," Barry frowned. He sped Patty and Belén into the station and then returned. Poison Ivy had yet to even blink.

"Don't make me hunt my prey at this hour," Poison Ivy's darkened red lips curled into a sinister smile.

"Why are you hunting her in the first place?" demanded Barry.

"For Datura, of course," Poison Ivy held her hands out, ready to attack when someone blasted her with a high-tech gun. She cringed and fell forwards to reveal a hooded man.

The hooded figure made to leave just as he'd appeared but Barry sped after him. "Who the hell are you?" he grew tired of asking the same questions.

When the hooded man pulled down his hood, Barry wished he would have never asked.

The man turned out to be Harrison Wells.

From afar, the same brunette women who had watched Belén now watched the scene unfold with satisfaction. "Here we go," she glanced in the direction of the precinct with flashing red eyes.