#this is about if I was a praying mantis and I got done eating your head already yum

[kekkuda]

sticking my TONGUE IN YOUR THROAT sticking my TongE in YOUR THROAT

STICKING MY TONGUE IN YOU THROAT

A LOVELY WEDDING IN-DEED

Sweet font b’twixt thy shoulders

[https-evan2]

grover requests huh? I gotchu! here's two ideas for grover, you dont have to do both, or any. but since you were asking for requests; 1. Grover x Child of Demeter!reader. (next one is more detailed :)) 2. Grover x reader who isn't too fond of nature, scared of it, even. Grover tries telling reader about how lovely it is, and tries to get them... more comfortable in outside environments <3 hope u have a lovely day!! stay nuts and berries!! (the titans curse reference...)

I’m going to go with the second one but might do the first one later because i love ‘em both

no pronouns gor reader + no description of appearance (my fics are for everyone)

warnings: poor grammar and misuse of punctuation. Excuse me if grover is ooc!

requests are OPEN

You tried to keep your cool every time you went out with Grover but no matter how hard you tried you just could never seem to get over your fear of the wild. It terrified you just the fact that you didn’t know when or if something was going to jump up from bushes or if you’d be stepping on ground wasp nest.

You managed to avoid forests for most of your life still going outdoors just in the more open parts. But now it’s near impossible because you just so happen to be dating the lord of the wild, Grover.

You love him so much but he never realised how someone could fear nature and all its critters.

You tried spending most of your dates in your cabin or around camp but Grover was a bit bored of it.

He loves you so much so he wouldn’t even say anything at first but later when he got selected for the role of lord of the wild he realised just how much time that he couldn’t spend with you because of your fear.

He tried talking to you snd trying yk get over your fear for the entire time of your relationship but now he felt it was extra important.

One evening he tried to show you how beautiful nature could be instead of explaining.

.

.

“Grover i don’t like this…” you stammered as you were clinging onto him as if your life depended on it. With every move you jumped closer to him and you couldn’t bear to leave his side as you were shaking in his arms.

“Sweetie it’s fine, everything is completely okay” he reaffirmed as he rubbed your back tracing circles around your skin. He sat down and picked up a pretty big bug.

”look! It’s a praying mantis! This little guy has given everything hes got to the ecosystem without even knowing it! Isn’t that amazing that this small critter can help maintain all this” Grover exclaimed obviously passionate about the wildlife

“P-put it back on the ground please its legs freak me out”

You, still being absolutely terrified tried to not step on the bug he just showed you know it would decrease the chances of marriage by 50% and maybe a break up.

“T-that flower is pretty” you stutter pointing at a wild pansy. You might find nature terrifying but you had to admit thst it could be beautiful.

“And so is everything here you just got to look for it” after Grover made that statement he took your hand and you started walking around just looking for the smaller stuff as Grover pointed out some of them snd facts about them. You loved seeing Grover really get into a subject that he’s passionate about. He could easily be pushed aside at camp but when it was just you and him he felt like he wouldn’t be in the shadow.

“hey Grover, are these safe to eat?” You point at a bush of lingonberries.

“yeah there should be a bunch of edible stuff around here i like to go here when I’m hungry before dinner”

“Grover, you’re always hungry”

With that you both began picking berries and other edible goodies. When you were done you ate them together as you looked for animals around.

Safe to say nature wasn’t as bad as you thought

[tplambies]

og honey i'm home lore/honey i'm home song lore from ghost

these two images read:

tw: the stuff that's in the video + suicide and unreality

so you got your local lad, norman minecraft,

no but anyways first i'll give a rundown of the story then go back and clarify some symbolism

this guy's father believes that the world is an awful place to be, and that ascending to the afterlife is basically the equivalent of waking up from a nightmare (ironically, dad was the nightmare of this family). under this logic, he "mercy"-kills his wife. owwie:(! growing up with this mindset, norman questions whether things are even real at all. like, maybe this world's some elaborate setup and in order to wake up you need to pass away. he gets into substance abuse to deal at first, but eventually decides it's time to "grow up" and pull the plug. after all, everything would be alright it he could escape to the supposed real world. that's when god and charon show up:

god confirms norman's suspicions, but clarifies that there's so much more to the situation than meets the eye. he advises norman to stay by his side though so he can show him the truth. charon offers norman an easy way out - just kissing him will poison him. because the father was essentially the heart of this reality god "eats" father as both a notion of ending the simulation and of taking his place, becoming norman's new caretaker. norman leaves everything behind, wanting to forget all about it

upon waking up, it's learned that in the real world norman had been used for public live dissections in front of large audiences of angels

as for symbolization:

father's a praying mantis due to a) "praying" mantis hahaha funny and b) a reference to how the girls will sometimes kill and eat their mates. i know that doesn't 100% line up correctly, but it's just a small reference i wanted to make

the moth is basically norman - "a tied up moth seemed to know a different way" is kinda like norman theorizing to himself that dying really might be the only way out. the moth also foreshadows what happens to norman, since the moth's stuck in a spiderweb and it's a personified spider who kills him in the end. then the moth reappears chained to god's hand, which at first is meant to seem like a sign of trust, like "yea dude ur in good hands!" but it's kinda obvious later on that it's really symbolizing being trapped by this guy. i specifically used a moth since they can symbolize blind faith, since they like, u kno, they see a light and go Oohh Lämp and fuckign die. the species of moth used (small emperor moth) was just an aesthetic choice cus oh those are just-some pretty boys!!!!

this more so has to do with out-of-song info. but charon's name came from the greek god who transports souls to the underworld. which is exactly what purpose he serves in this story

the three voices are specifically talking about norman, charon and god - the only real people who appear in this simulation ("[they] come all alone" is saying they're the only people who exited the simulation after its destruction). i will confess gramophones nave no significance, just needed something that rhymed and fit the flow of the melody

"vivisection" has two definitions - first one used in the song is that it can mean a harsh analysis, so "a vivisection of me yielded the start of a mystery" is kinda saying that he's self-analyzed a lot of things about himself and his life only for it to get more and more confusing/bewildering. the second and more popularly-used definition is that of a live dissection, used specifically with the connotation that this practice is unethical - in the last chorus, it's used literally. in Ye Olden Days, criminals were often punished via public dissections being done on their corpses and proper christian burials were refused as a disrespect the individual. this also paired alongside the belief that if a body isn't given a proper burial it inhibits the spirit of the deceased from moving on. so i wanted to sorta link those two concents to show that god was, on top of publicly humiliating the poor guy, further exerting his control over norman by refusing to let him pass away peacefully (probably as punishment for thinking he could take control back over his life)

calling the figure "god" is actually a symbolization in and of itself (same goes for the religious themes that follow) so don't worry the song isn't criticizing/against religion :) i grew up with religious parents, so i defaulted to using themes i'm most familiar with - i do wanna clarity i think that whether religion hurts or helps is entirely up to the individual. how it's taught to them and/or how they personally interpret it. so if it does good for you, great! if not, i totally understand! this song isn't a commentary on that topic though so yeyeyeye

the religious themes in the song are more so playing on the idea that, it someone sets up a simulation and essentially creates everyone thing within it, what makes them any different from a god? the bible verse used was also actually a happy accident - the song turned out to be 3 minutes 33 seconds long, and i was like "oh lol just for funsies i wonder what bible verse that is and funny enough it.... kinda fit the theme a little too well

the angels at the end are kinda like npcs, but as a group are just....... there, watching. there's a whole bunch of em and they're all watching

the title and use of the phrase "honey i'm home" is saying that norman's come home, basically. he's spent so long theorizing about and anticipating the day he'd get out of a fake world, idolizing this real world and a god he knew nothing about, only his new home isn't much prettier than the one he grew up in.

so yea like i guess tl;dr honey i'm home is about a local lad who is led to believe he's being saved by god, only to realize it's just some fuck with a control complex running a simulation

ooh edgy

[suckitsurveys]

Look out of the nearest window. What do you see? Details, please. There is a giant dust vacuum thing (?) for the carpenter shop below us. I can also see the buildings across the parking lot. And some trees. And a stop light.

When you think of the word “posh”, what springs to mind? The Spice Girls.

When you have chocolate, do you eat it room temperature? Or are you like me and stick the bar into the fridge first? Usually just room temp, but also “chocolate” is a pretty broad term.

What’s the most shocking thing that’s happened in your part of town? Um. I live in Chicago, nothing shocks me anymore.

Which brand are your headphones/earbuds? I have no idea, I got them on Amazon lol.

Do you see planes fly over your house at all? Oh yes, we are in flight path.

Are there any constellations you recognize just by looking at them? The dippers.

Which room of your house/apartment do you spend the most time in? I mean probably the living room.

Which insect do you find the most beautiful? Praying Manti. And Butterflies of course.

Did you have crafts/woodwork at school growing up? There was a craft class but it never worked out in my schedule. I took Ceramics and Printmaking instead.

If so, what was the best assignment you did for it? I made a really cool gingerbread cookie jar in ceramics and a buncha cool prints in Printmaking.

Do you have a friend who likes to tell you everything? Sure.

What was the last thing you got very excited about? Rewatching Pete and Pete lol. You can go to any city in any country you want. Which city do you go to? Somewhere beachy.

Do you like gardening? If so, what do you grow? I do. We grow veggies and herbs in the summer. We also have some established flowers. I really want to plant roses in the front yard this year.

Do you enjoy puzzle games? If so, which one’s your favourite? I do. I don’t particularly have a favorite.

Is there a substance you avoid at all costs? If so, what is it and why? Hard drugs, for obvious reasons.

What would you absolutely hate living next door to? My brother in law.

What would you love to live next door to? A sushi restaurant.

What gives you nostalgia? So many things.

When you think of a classy drink, what comes to mind first? Martinis.

Do you prefer eating out or cooking your own meals? I love getting take out.

Which language do you think is the most complicated to learn? I haven’t tried to learn a lot of different languages so I couldn’t tell you.

Is there a place that you might call your second home? I mean, aside from my apartment, my dad’s house.

How do you imagine your later life to look like? Blah.

What is a job you would never in a million years want to do? Any job. Just pay me money to exist thanks.

Is there a piece of jewelry that you feel naked without? A nose ring or stud.

Do you ever “go commando”? Not in public.

What’s the sweetest thing someone’s done for you? Remembering little things about me.

Which wild animals are a common sight in your area? Birds, squirrels, bunnies.

What’s the weirdest building in your city? Bro there are so many weird buildings in Chicago where do I start.

How do you keep in touch with friends usually? Various social media platforms haha.

Do you get a lot of visitors? Nah.

Is there a subtle way your partner gets you excited easily? Yeah.

Do you recognize friends’/family’s vehicles by sound? I have in the past.

Which Disney villain is your favourite? I don’t have one.

On a regular day, what do you usually do at 3 o'clock in the afternoon? The weekends vary but I am usually at the gym or on my way to the gym, except for on Wednesdays when I get my nieces from school at 2:45. Then, of course, I am with them.

Which possession would you not want to inherit from a relative? I don’t know.

What is something you would never dare to do in public? I mean, the obvious ones.

Would you/ did you have a hen night/bachelorette party? Barf.

Has anyone taken you on holiday somewhere? If so, where? I mean, my family growing up? When you left the house last time, where did you go? Here, to work.

How did you spend your last birthday? Had dinner with my family and then played pool with Mark and a few friends.

[lunabonita]

My Webtoon Recommendations

These are webtoons that are all 10/10 for me. Of course it doesn’t have to be a 10/10 for you, so just a reminder, do not attack me for liking a webtoon that you do not. These are my opinions and we are not going to have the exact same taste. Please be respectful.

Your Throne

Genre: Fantasy

Chapters: 75

Status: Ongoing

-

“Tensions are brewing under the seemingly calm surface of the Vasilios Empire, a kingdom ruled by the Imperial Family and the Temple. Lady Medea Solon has lost her place next to Crown Prince Eros, but resolves to win back whats rightfully hers. Will she reclaim her throne?”

You know whats amazing about this webtoon? The summary leads you to think that what shes winning back is the prince. Wrong. Shes trying to win back the throne. I love how this webtoon doesn’t try to make it a girl focusing her goals on a man, but on power. Medea is such a strong and well written character that you can’t help but love her.

The second protagonist Pschye, who of which is the person who took Medeas place as Crown Princess, is the complete opposite of Medea. At the beginning you hate her, but as the webtoon goes on and Medea and her get a better understanding of eachother due to them switching bodies as a wish from God, you begin to root for them as they team up to take over the throne from the Crown Prince.

The art is so beautiful and I constantly found myself at awe from the amount of detail put into it.

-

The Makeup Remover

Genre: Romace

Chapters: 78

Status: Ongoing

-

“After years of being told to focus on studying, Yeseul feels lost when she starts college and is suddenly expected to pay attention to makeup. When a chance encounter with brilliant makeup artist Yuseong leads to her taking part in a televised makeup competition, Yeseul begins to question the role that makeup and appearance play in society.”

This was created by one of my favorite webtoon creators Lee Yone. Their art is just so amazing and their stories always include such good topics.

For instance, The Makeup Remover’s theme is loving yourself for who you are. It shows how people treat you based on your looks and as someone whos struggled with that kind of thing for a while, this webtoon really touched me. The main character Yeseul is such a relatable character, even when trying to reject beauty standards, she still came subject to the pressures of living up to the people around her. She struggles with trying to love her own appearance and I really like that this webtoon didn’t try to be like, ‘fuck the beauty standard im better than that screw pretty people!!!’ it actually showed realistically how people struggle with self-image. I also love the main love interest because oh my god, we need more men like him please. He doesn’t care about Yeseul’s appearance and genuinely loves her for her personality.

Also, art is amazing. The author is so talented and you should support them by reading and liking the chapters.

-

Surviving Romance

Genre: Horror

Chapters: 14

Status: Ongoing

-

“When Chaerin Eun becomes the protagonist of the romance novel she is reading, she expects a fairytale ending with the novel’s love interest, Jeha. But when a bizarre twist makes her realize the story is not playing out as it does in the book, she’ll need the help of an unlikely character from her class to defy the new storyline and find her happy ending - if only she can figure out who this ‘Unknown Extra’ is first!”

Hands down one of my favorite webtoons by a long shot. You ever see a webtoon and think, ‘oh yeah, thats going to be a good webtoon’? Thats how this webtoon was for me. It was so good that I spent hours searching for other chapters that hadn’t been uploaded to webtoon yet on other manhua websites. I discovered it because it was also by the author of ‘The Makeup Remover’.

If there is one thing you need to know about me, its that I am a huge horror fan. So when I saw that my favorite author on webtoon had a horror themed webtoon out? You bet your behind that I binged it. Let me tell you, best choice ever.

Think of it as if ‘Ino’s Law’ and ‘Quarantine’ were combined with amazing art and a badass MC.

The Remarried Empress

I love how it is set up to the point where she cannot ‘quit’ until she completes the novel. Creating scenarios where she must survive while meeting the standards in the book. It is such an amazingly written webtoon and I cannot wait for more chapters to be released.

-

Genre: Fantasy

Chapters: 82

Status: Ongoing

-

“Navier Ellie Trovi was an empress perfect in every way - intelligent, courageous, and socially adept. She was kind to her subjects and devoted to her husband. Navier was perfectly content to live the rest of her days as the wise empress of the Eastern Empire. That is, until her husband brought hone a mistress and demanded a divorce. ‘I accept this divorce… And i request an approval of my remarriage.’ In a shoking twist Navier remaarries another emperor and retains her title and childhood dream as empress. But just how did everything unfold? “

Am I in love with Navier? Yes.

I absolutely adore how this story was set up. The first chapter begins with the big divorce scene, followed by Navier saying that she was going to be remarrying someone else since he wants to divorce her. This sets up a picture that gets completely shattered as you read the chapters. How everything falls into place with the reason behind the divorce and the remarriage is just so well written. The art is so good and and everything is just so insanely well done.

I absolutely love Naviers character, from her regalness and devoted loyalty to her role as empress, all the way to her petty moments and times of sadness. She is truly a character that you want the best for, and I cannot image anyone not liking her. Also the story is just so capable of making you feel emotions. I’ve laughed, cried, and got angry during the course of reading this webtoon. I love how betrayed I felt when the emperor brought home his mistress. It felt like I was in Navier’s shoes!

This is such a well done webtoon and I'm so excited for Navier to get all of the good things she deserves in her new Kingdom and with her new husband.

-

Witch Creek Road

Genre: Horror

Chapters: 74

Status: Ongoing

-

“A survival horror about love, acceptance, death, and revenge. And sexy flesh-eating demons. Yeah, it has those, too.”

This series seriously mind fucked me. The way that this story is set up, you don’t see the full picture until the later chapters. Season two literally blew my mind. It is also very gorey so keep that in mind if you don’t like that kind of stuff, but for me that makes it all the better. It is just so wild and crass that you can feel your heart pumping in anticipation.

They even have their own website that goes further into the lore because it’s just so wild. Also the art style is just so amazing, because it complements the story and horror theme so much. You hate most of the characters because they suck, and it is so satisfying when they are killed. Also it has it’s sad moments but I think it is a nice break from the horror so it isn’t so overwhelmingly scary.

I binged this series and I recommend reading only a few chapters a day so you don’t overload your brain.

Other then that, an amazing webtoon. Seriously, go read it, support the author, so much work goes into the story and art that it’s insane.

-

Dating With A Tail

Genre: Romance

Chapters: 36

Status: Ongoing

-

“On the dawn of her 29th birthday, unlucky-in-love Yunha discovers a shocking family secret: she’s started growing a fox tail, the mark of an ancestral curse. She must find her fated love before her 30th birthday or she is destined to become a fox forever! Even with her new-found enchanting power to attract men using her scent, will one year be enough to break the curse before it’s too late?”

Oh my gosh this is just such a good webtoon. It has amazing art, story telling, and characters. The true love interest was there the whole time, the villain isn’t who you’d expect it to be, and the spirit who cursed her is just! Im not going to spoil it but go read this webtoon!! It is so good and deserves more love.

Also Yunha is just so relatable?? Like she put off finding the woodcutter (her fated love) for 29 years and waited last minute to find him. Homegirl is me trying to do a project for school. Also to get rid of the scent that makes men attracted to her, she just starts eating a ton of garlic and that is just so funny to me.

Also I would go to church for the priest anytime if you know what i mean ;)

-

Omniscient Reader

Genre: Action

Chapters: 53

Status: Ongoing

-

“Dokja was an average office worker whose sole interest was reading his favorite web novel ‘Three Ways to Survive the Apocalypse.’ But when the novel suddenly becomes reality, he is the only person who knows how the world will end. Armed with this realization, Dokja uses his understanding to change the course of the story, and the world, as he knows it.”

I cannot get over how high quality this story is. The world building is phenomenal, the art is fantastic, and the characters are very fleshed out. This deserved all the hype it has gotten so far and more.

I love the ‘mc thrown into a different reality’ trope so much. Just like with surviving romance, Dokja’s world became the story he was reading. Also a very cool aspect of the story is the level up and the fact that its like a game. Earth has turned into this show for god like creatures to watch and it follows Dokja trying to survive. I also really like that TWSA has a protagonist, but Omniscient Reader’s protagonist is not the protagonist that was in TWSA. There is just so much lore and I’ll say it again, the world building is just phenomenal.

The Ddokkaebi’s and Dokja’s interactions are also just some of my favorite moments from the story so far. And oh my goodness I would die for Lee Gilyoung. Thats it, thats the tweet. That little boy could probably kill me with his giant praying mantis and I would let him if it would make him happy.

-

Not So Shoujo Love Story

Genre: Comedy

Chapters: 45

Status: Ongoing

-

“Romance super-fan Rei Chan is ready for her first boyfriend and she knows just who it’ll be: the most handsome boy in school, Hansum Ochinchin. But her plans for the perfect story are derailed when the most popular girl in class declares herself a rival… for Rei’s heart?! This is the year her not so shoujo love story begins!”

This is just such a cute webtoon. The style is very appealing and while the humor can be childish and weird sometimes, it still has made me laugh a lot. I know the humors not for everyone but just keep in mind that it does get better as the story progresses and gets more serious.

Also its a gl! I’m really unable to find good gls these days that don’t fetishize wlw relationships. Rei being painted as a mean trouble maker whos just misunderstood and Hana being the ‘perfect girl’ who only wants Rei’s attention is such a cute dynamic. They balance each other out and better each other. Also stan Rei for constantly sticking up for Hana even if she doesn’t necessarily like her in the beginning, she has very good morals and sticks to them.

Also the defying stereotypes in this webtoon? Just god-tier. Really makes you think twice when you judge someone just on first impressions alone.

-

Odd Girl Out

Genre: Drama

Chapters: 264

Status: Ongoing

-

“After a successful winter break makeover, Nari is finally ready for her high school debut. But somehow, she ends up friends with the three prettiest girls in school! Follow Nari as she tries to navigate her brand new high school life surrounded by beauties.”

This story has made me cry multiple times. A lot, even. It is just such a beautiful tale of friendship and finding support in people who are unlike those around theme. It also tells a great story about how anybody can be the ‘odd girl out’. Be it the fat girl, the beautiful girl, the rich girl, or the laid back girl.

It goes so deep into its characters that you even feel bad for the minor antagonists. It really makes you feel for the characters and the reasons behind their actions. Also I know its long, believe me I binged all 260 chapters in the span of three days, but oh my god it is worth it. Also I know the art is kind of off-putting, in fact that’s kind of why I put off reading the story, but I’ve honestly grown to love it and the writing is so good that the art could be literal stick figures and it wouldn’t matter.

The story is amazing and also I just love Nari. She’s just the best.

-

Gremoryland

Genre: Horror

Chapters: 67

Status: Completed

-

“Six old school friends are invited to be the first visitors of GremoryLand, a new horror theme park that promises an experience as unique as it is spooky. But once this experience starts there is no turning back, and they find themselves tested beyond what they imagines, facing their most desperate fears in order to survive.”

This is definitely one of those stories were you kind of need to turn of your brain and choose to ignore ‘plot holes’ while reading the early chapters because this story definitely gets crazy if you don’t know the ending. Believe me if you stick with it it will all make sense and the satisfaction you get from finding the ending is just so worth it.

The story is so good, and who Gremory is you would literally never suspect. When it was revealed who Gremory was and how he was able to create Gremoryland is so fucking mind boggling that you would never guess. I had to do a double take. It wasn’t like one of those random characters with a vendetta type of twists, but like one you can pick out from clues throughout the story.

Its so good and twisted and just so worth at least giving it a chance.

-

These were some of my favorite webtoons on the app! Of course it’s not all of them because unfortunately there is a 10 image limit. I also made this because I’ve run out of new webtoons to read and would love if you guys commented some of your own recs. I can also do a part two with other ones I liked if y’all want more recommendations. You guys can even request specific categories like Drama or Sci-Fi and I can tell you my favorite ones from that genre.

Also a reminder - if you disagree with any of my praise of these webtoons be respectful about it. At the end of the day it’s my opinion and you don’t need to be rude when disagreeing with that opinion.

[systlinsideblog]

Part 4

I still lived. 

I was, I thought, greatly in the minority. The woman Systlin had judged warrior after warrior, and warrior after warrior had met his end at a quiva's blade. 

A great many of the sentences were carried out by the hands of the freed slave girls of the warriors. The number of these astounded me, as did the ferocity with which many of the girls fell upon their masters. 

It is a Gorean saying that a woman cannot be free until she has been a slave. It is said that a woman wishes to be conquered, that she cannot respect any man save for the man who can reduce her to nothing. 

The girls fell upon their masters with a fury I have rarely seen, and blood flowed until the grass was slick and red with it. 

A few girls did not take up the quiva. These men, once sentence of death was passed, the she-sleen on the Ubar's robe killed herself. Her face was untroubled by this, unworried, and there was even a hint of vicious pleasure in those cold eyes as she swung the sword to remove their heads.

Those warriors who had taken Free Companions and who had children, the she-sleen ordered all material goods be split equally between the  Free Companions, the children, and the freed slave girls. There were many sour faces among the Tuchuk women at that, but to my shock many more who accepted it without question. 

When night neared, scarce three dozen warriors of the Tuchuk still lived, myself included. It was us and only us who had not admitted to owning slaves, and who had no slaves to call out our names. 

A very few men..two or three, in all...had been spared by the request of their slave girls. These men were whipped, and the she-sleen commanded ash be rubbed into the whip wounds. 

"I would have them remember." She had said, eyes cold and face passionless, even as the warriors held back cries of pain. "I want them to remember their crimes, and to remember me." 

Those of us who had survived the slaughter had been unchained and taken to wagons, and allowed to eat and rest. 

"So." Kamchak had survived the culling, and his face was set and cold. "We are free, then?"

"You are not slaves." Systlin had smiled a little, a cold smile that did not reach her eyes. "But if you seek to flee, or to move against me...well." 

Behind her, I could see women chaining hunting sleen outside the wagons. Each was given clothing to smell; I noticed with a start a discarded tunic of my own among the items. The sleen began to pull and hiss, eyes bright. 

"Say, rather, that you are prisoners for the time." Systlin continued. "I've much to do, and I've no time to be worrying about one of you burying a knife in my back in my sleep." Another humorless smile. "I'm not fool enough to think that all...or any...of you are paragons of virtue. I'll get the truth in time."

Kamchak spat. "You," he informed her, "Are the most disagreeable and wrenched wench I've ever had the misfortune to meet. There will come a day, where you meet a man to bring you to heel." A smile. "I wish to be there to see it."

I felt my heart sink; they were unwise words, but then Kamchak was Tuchuk. 

To my surprise, the woman Systlin threw back her head and laughed, as if at a wonderful joke. 

"Ahhh!" She wiped tears from her eyes at last, as I stared, stunned. "When I find my way home, I will tell Foicatch that." Another laugh. "A woman isn't brought to heel. We can choose to be a partner, or to bide our time and pretend until the time is right, but brought to heel? HA! You saw that, I think, today." Another terrible grin. "I saw your faces, when the women turned on your warriors. You did not expect that, did you?"

"Foicatch?" Kamchak, ever keen, inquired. 

"My husband." Systlin said this lightly, easily. "Father of my daughter."

"Good god, you are married?" The words were out of me before I could think better of them. I tried to imagine what bedding such a woman would be like, and thought to myself that it would be much like the risk taken by the male of the praying mantis of Earth; what sort of man would marry such a creature?

"Yes. Goodnight." She shut the wagon behind her. 

There was a moment of silence. Then, Kamchak spoke. 

"It is probably a bad time, Tarl Cabot," he said. "To mention that Kutaituchuk was not the Ubar of the Tuchuks." 

"What?"

 It was surprising, Systlin thought, how many of the Tuchuk women had been willing...eager, even...to take up weapons and stand guard at her wagon. 

Not to her. No. On Ellinon, the children of the Lady would have found the ideas of the men of this 'Gor' incomprehensible, unlawful, hearsay, and downright suicidal. But to many of the women of Gor themselves, Systlin thought, the sheer thrill that came when picking up a blade or spear was new. 

She tried to picture what would have happened had Stellead found herself in this shithole of a world. Death, absolutely; her aunt had little talent in any form of Power, but she had won her place as Arms Master of Stellas Keep and as a Commander of the Bloodguard through sweat and skill. 

Even now, Systlin could only best her aunt blade to blade perhaps two matches out of three. 

If anyone...man, woman, even the gods themselves...had tried to bring Stellead to heel, she'd spit in their eye and disembowel them. 

Systlin smiled to herself. It was a stubbornness and force of will that she herself shared, and that her aunt, mother, and father had always fostered. 

The women did not know quite how to hold a spear, of course. Systlin had tried to gently insist that she didn't need an armed guard, more because she knew full well that they'd not yet be up to a fight than because she believed that. But they had insisted, and in the end she had simply advised them to stick to knives for the time being. 

The rugs and cushions and furs in the wagon were quite comfortable, and she was quite tired, but sleep was elusive. 

All of this...the rugs and furs, the sound of animals outside, the sound of low voices from the camp, the smell of dried dung fires...it was too similar to her time with the Rabi, with Sura, before Sura had become Queen of the Sands, when she'd simply been the leader of her clan. 

Sura's laugh, bright as a bell, and the taste of pomegranate wine. The light of the brazier catching glints of copper and red off of Sura's black hair, which gleamed almost blue in sunlight. 

The rugs beside her were cold, and she suddenly felt very alone. 

Her throne would be empty. She'd held the North together through sheer grit, guile, charisma, and the edge of a sword, and beaten it back into working shape after the War of the Crown had nearly destroyed it. 

Her daughter was only a girl. Foicatch, dear Foicatch, would do his best, she knew, but he was at heart a soldier, not a monarch. 

Her sister would step in, at least. 'Sina was capable. But she didn't have the fear and respect of the lords of the realm and the love of the common folk the way Systlin did. 

"Why am I here?" She whispered this in the dark, at the roof of the wagon. 

No one answered. 

"I have my own place. People who will miss me." She scowled at the dark, and anger rose hot and furious. "Responsibilities! I've not got time for...this!" She waved a hand randomly, indicating everything about this strange place. 

No one answered. But Systlin had met gods in her time, and she knew that if they cared to, they could hear. 

"Send me back!" She hissed this at the darkness, not sure who she was angry with. "Have I not done enough? Send me home! I do not want this!"

Nothing. 

Exhaustion, at last, won out, and she slept. 

She was, in her dreams, not surprised at her visitor. 

The Lady's face could never be seen. The most that could be gathered was an impression of poise, of stately calm. It was impossible even to place what color Her hair was, or her skin, though the hair floated around her like a cloud and she was nude. 

"You?" In her dream Systlin could still feel her anger, though it was a hollow ghost of what she'd felt while awake. 

Me. It wasn't a spoken word; it was felt. 

"I should have known at once." Systlin growled. "Have I not done enough? Can I have no peace?"

A laugh, chiming and musical, but which shook the very bones. You were never made for peace. 

And that was true. Systlin knew it, felt the truth of it in her soul. It was impossible to deny it, not before the Lady. 

She felt an answering whisper in her soul, as the slumbering power of what had once been the Lord of Night and Void, the God of Endings, the Fallen One, God of Conflict, Lord of Justice and retribution, stirred within her. 

Sister. The word was pointed, and almost mocking. Who denies still that you are. 

"I saved my world. It needs me; you know that damned well. I don't want to be a god."

Want. This word was definitely mocking. There is no want, sister. There is 'must'. My brother failed his duty, and corrupted it. You hold it now. In time, you will realize. Goddess of War, Goddess of Justice, Goddess of Protection, Goddess of Night, Goddess of Death, Goddess of Endings and rebirth. I do your duties for now, sister...but not forever. 

Systlin clenched her fists, and pointedly ignored this. "My people need me, damn you."

They are safe. 

Systlin closed her eyes. "You'll not send me back until I finish here." It wasn't a question. 

You could send yourself back whenever you wished, if you accepted your new place.

Systlin glared.

Another smile. So stubborn. No, I will not. Good luck, sister.

She woke. 

Within her, the power of the god she'd killed stirred again, and was once more silent. 

It was morning. She could see the sunlight under the door, and could hear the cheerful bustle of camp outside. 

"Gods damn it all to the pits." She muttered.

 The hardest thing about training the women of the Tuchuk in combat, Systlin soon found, was ingrained survival habits. 

Her aunt, in the long-ago days when Systlin had been a lanky youth still growing into her arms and legs and new to a training sword, had always said that the hardest thing about training older students was fixing ingrained and detrimental habits. 

Stellead had been referring to habits picked up from lesser arms masters...letting your shield drop, footwork that was less than flawless. Systlin wondered how her aunt would have dealt with this, as she interrupted a woman to correct her form and the former slave cringed and dropped at her feet, begging forgiveness. 

"I am sorry!" The woman was almost tearful. Systlin had been angry since she came to this cursed place, and she felt that knot of red rage flare. "I am sorry, I forgot..."

"It's all right." Systlin squatted, propping her elbows on her thighs. "Hush. It's all right. Here now." She offered her hand, and the girl hesitantly took it. Systlin stood, drawing the girl back to her feet, and then bent, picked up the dropped wooden sword, and offered it back hilt first. The girl took it. 

"Do you know," Systlin said, keeping her voice light and conversational, "how long it took me to become good with a sword?"

The woman blinked. "I...no, Ubara." 

"I started training at thirteen." Systlin smiled fondly in memory. "I first killed a wraithen at nineteen. I first killed men in battle at twenty five. that was two and a half decades and three wars ago." She tossed her own wooden sword in the air; it spun precisely one turn before she caught it again by the hilt. "Training takes time, and practice. You will make mistakes. I will never fault you for them; you simply correct them and keep training." 

The girl nodded slowly. Systlin had given the same speech to many girls over the last three weeks, but the habits learned to survive the men of this Pit of a planet went deep. It would be slow going yet; she knew that. 

"Fifty?" The question was unexpected. 

"Hm?"

"You are fifty?"

"Close enough, yes."

"Your world then has brews of youth as well?" The girl seemed curious. 

Systlin blinked. "I...no. But we're descended from the Lady, the goddess and mother of all. We live long." She considered the woman before her; she appeared to be perhaps in her late twenties. "How old are you?" 

"Oh. Sixty, I think? My masters have given me the brews of youth three times." 

The yawning pit of cold fury in Systlin's soul howled. 

"How many years of that," Systlin kept her voice carefully level. "Were you kept as property?"

"Since I was...oh, sixteen?"

The world went abruptly white before her eyes. The yawning spectre of the power she'd pulled from the soul of a slain god roared; goddess of justice, goddess of protection....

Fury, she was furious, and for a moment she knew, knew that it would be so, so easy, to rise on the wind and come down on the people who had done this. To become a storm, a furious reckoning, to scour this world clean in a night...

...No. No no NO. I will not. I have to teach them. They must take it themselves, for all I might lead them. Or it will all be for nothing...

By the time she fought it down and came back to herself she was on her knees, clutching the trampled grass with white knuckles. Sweat was soaking her, as it never did even if she fought all day. Her breath was coming short and sharp. 

"Ubara!" The voices were panicked, and she realized dimly that there were at least a dozen women around her, patting at her cheeks, offering water. 

She looked up, and saw worry, and fear, and as the god-soul inside her stirred, she saw more. She saw desperation, and so, so much pain, oceans of pain, seas of injustice, rivers of innocent blood spilled. 

And as the women of the Tuchuk looked at her, worried, she saw deep in their eyes hope. 

"Ubara?" It was  Sabra , the brave girl, who'd taken quite well to a spear. "Ubara?"

"I'm all right." She wasn't, not quite; her voice sounded rough to her own ears. "I'm all right. Keep practicing."

The hovered until she got to her feet, but once it was determined that the Ubara was not about to die, they slowly went back to their drills. 

Systlin moved a bit away, absently climbed the nearest wagon, and sat cross legged, looking out over the makeshift training grounds without really seeing. 

She'd always been a protector. Since they'd been children, and her sister's dreams had driven little 'Sina to cry and scream in her sleep. Since her father had nurtured that, and taught her that a Queen's people were her children, that her sacred duty was to protect and serve them. 

Since she'd torn the North back from the hands of the greedy and the corrupt, who'd sought to carve it apart for power and profit. 

Since she'd faced a god, putting her own body and soul between her people and the Fallen Lord himself. 

Since she'd faced a second goddess, and demanded the Lady return her daughter from beyond death. 

It was who she was, in the end. She knew it in her bones, even as she looked down at these strange people in this strange world, and felt it, that what she must do. 

"Pitting hells." She muttered this softly, and somewhere felt the Lady smile. 

 For some weeks now, the routine had been much the same; Kamchak and I, and the other men, were kept chained and carefully watched. Some men, after a measure of time should they demonstrate a contrite enough demeanor, had their chains removed and were allowed to move about the camp; they did so, casting their eyes aside from those of us who were still chained. 

I watched one man brush a bosk one evening, and oil its hooves. A slave girl should do such work, and he was clumsy at it. A girl was watching, wearing the leather trousers that had become fashionable among the women. Her hair, which was very long, was braided up and pinned in a coil on the top of her head; it was unflattering, I thought. She corrected him, and showed him how it was done properly, and he meekly listened. She smiled at him, and I thought that in silks and with hair loose she must have been quite a beauty. He smiled back, a bit tentatively. 

I snorted in disdain. There are always men that are so, those that are more akin to women than true men. 

She heard, and turned on me. There was a fierceness in her eyes. 

"See." She pointed at me, mocking. "He thinks himself better than you, Sarthak. He thinks himself too good for work about the camp, thinks it should be done only by women in chains." She laughed, and spit in my direction. "And yet he is still a prisoner in chains, while you are a free man. So who, then, is the better man?"

Sarthak grinned at me. He wore no scars, and scant weeks ago he had likely been unregarded utterly by the Tuchuk. 

"You speak true words, Lena." He agreed, and turned his back on me. She gave another laugh, and she turned back to their task. I realized with some surprise that the looks Lena was favoring the unscarred young man with were warm. 

"Disgraceful." Kamchak was chained to the other axle of the wagon, and he too was regarding the young man with distaste. "Have they made a slave of you already, boy?"

"He's a free man." Lena didn't look around. "All free men and women of able body must do their share of work. You shall too, should you ever be trusted and set free." 

Kamchak spat again, and leaned his head back against the wagon wheel. 

"It was a sad day," said the Ubar of the Tuchuk, "That that she-sleen came to the Tuchuk, Tarl Cabot." 

"Yes." I agreed. I wondered still how many she had slain in that night, through sorcery. The pyres had burned for two days and nights. 

We watched the girl teach the young man to grease the axles of the wagon. We had little else to do. 

As the evening meal was brought, we were finally given some surprise to rouse us from the deadly tedium that had marked the weeks. 

The she-sleen had a cloak now, made of red larl-hide. She wore it pinned at a jaunty angle, thrown back over one shoulder. She was wearing a leather vest over her strange scale armor today. She regarded us for a moment, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. I'd examined that weapon many times now, and I still could not place the make of it; it was no Gorean style I knew of, and the silver-blue of the blade was unlike any alloy I knew on Earth. It was somewhat shorter than most blades I had seen, perhaps thirty-six inches in all in total length. A great polished amethyst was set into the pommel, the most darkly violet stone I'd ever seen. 

It was viciously sharp. I knew this. 

"You." She said to me. The word was said in Gorean; she was learning quickly, it seemed, for all her strange magic did seem to translate for her. "You'll come with me." She nodded at the girl following her...I recognized her, I realized, it was the girl Dina I had seen around camp before, the slave reputed to be the best at the running game...and Dina brought out a ring of keys. 

Dina's hair was braided, as was Systlin's. Dina wore leather trousers, as did Systlin. Dina wore a quiva, as  Systlin wore her long dagger, and had stood and rested her hand on the hilt of the quiva in conscious imitation of the strange woman. 

It seemed to be a fashion, I noted, that many of the freed slave girls and even many of the Tuchuk women had taken up. 

I said nothing.  It had not been a request, of course, and I had little choice. My leg was healing, but I was far from my top form.

My chains were let loose. I stood, with some difficulty, and Dina's help. She was, I noticed with some surprise, quite strong. There were muscles through her shoulders that I'd never before seen so developed on any Gorean woman, and her hands were tough. 

I knew that well; my own hands were callused thus from the hilt of sword and the haft of lance. It was surprising that a slave girl had developed such in such a short time. 

I was led to the great wagon that Systlin had claimed as her own; the wagon that I knew, now, was not the true wagon of the Ubar of the Tuchuks. 

Inside, a meal of roast bosk had been laid ready for us. Systlin sat cross legged on the cushions; the maleness of the gesture still grated at my sensibilities. Seeing it preformed by one who might look quite well kneeling in silks was wrong, quite wrong. Dina helped me, somewhat ungracefully and with some pain, to sit. 

Systlin did not touch the food at once. She was watching me, and the gaze was keen and direct. I said nothing, but examined her in return. 

I am an observant man. It is one of my strengths. But I could gather little from her, save that which I had already deduced; she was strongly built, for a woman, all solid wiry muscle. Her hands were tough, those of a swordsman. Her gaze was intelligent, and I could not place her origin; the bone structure and shape of her eyes was subtly foreign, but not of any place I knew. She could have been beautiful, perhaps, were she arrayed instead in silk. She never, I noted, let her weapons stray far from her hand. 

She was used, I thought, to fighting. Used even to being attacked in the most secure of surroundings. She had said before that many men had tried to kill her; what sort of creature was this that sat before me?

"You're wondering why I brought you here." She broke the silence. Her tone was crisp, and it was not a question.

I said nothing. 

"The answer is because you are not of these people. I know that the Wagon Peoples usually slay outsiders. That means you are unusual, and I'm wagering it means you're quite skilled at arms." She examined me again, much as I'd examined her, and I saw her noting the callus of my hands. "Your accent is not like that of these people, as well. They say you are Koroban, wherever the fuck that is. I've heard that you have, apparently, traveled."

I said nothing. 

"That makes you potentially useful." She informed me of this without a hint of emotion. "I know very little of this world, and while I'm learning, I suspect that you know more than most."

I had heard her say such things before. I am quite well acquainted with such matters, of course, being once of Earth. "Of this world?" I said at last. 

"Of this world." A horrible humorless smile. "You know full well I'm not from here. This whole place is a nightmare and a travesty. You're lucky my aunt Stellead is not here; she’s less merciful than I. She'd have castrated the lot of your slavers and rapists, slow roasted the genitals, and fed them back to you a bite at a time. And to be honest, I did consider that." 

I could not help but cringe at the thought. 

"From what I have gathered," she continued, "No part of this world is not at the mercy of monsters who hold humans as livestock and use them as they please. It's that, I think, that I've been brought here to end. And you, Tarl Cabot, are going to give me information as I do it." 

The shock of her words was immediate. "Sent? The priest-kings...."

The wave of a hand, dismissive. "I've heard of them. No. Gods, no. I don't care a whit for them. If they interfere I'll deal with them. No, it's a power higher than them that's sent me." 

I blinked at her in shock. The priest-kings are feared and worshiped as gods on Gor, with reason. They are advanced beyond any human designs, and are exceptionally powerful. Yet I saw not a trace of fear in her. 

"They are very powerful," I said. "And your powers may bring their wrath yet." I hoped it, of course. They can burn a man to ashes on a whim.

A laugh. Another cold, humorless laugh. "Maybe." She said. "But I've slain gods before. What are a few more? No. You are going to give me information, Tarl Cabot, on this world. And then I am going to conquer it. Every last damned corner of it."

I stared at her in horror, and she simply smiled in return.

[hannie-snyd]

I’m a writer. I wrote a short story with a prompt for my best friend.

“You get ten wishes.” This was not a genie that had come out of a weird bottle. This did not even look like a genie. It looked more like an angelic human, and she came out of my Starbucks cup. I was walking the streets of New York City, which was my home, and I was minding my own business. I did not even care that she had come out of my cup. It would have sounded so weird if I would have told my parents about this. If I had told my parents or my ex-girlfriend about this, I would have been looked at like I was crazy. No one was around. It was a regular fall day. It was Halloween, but why would anyone care about that?

Halloween was a children’s holiday. I celebrated it when I was twelve and younger, like my siblings had now, but I did not believe in anything like demons or ghosts. I did not even know if I believed in a God. That was sacrilegious. My family did believe, and even though they were not active in a church, my mother was always worried about looking up to par with other people. This woman was beautiful. Dare I say... flawless? I looked into her eyes when she smiled at me and I shivered. I did not want her to take off my head or kill my family. 

She knew my name but I did not know hers. It was as if she had been assigned to me. Why had this woman been assigned to me, and why was she so strange? I looked back at her when she cleared her throat. I was about to throw out my Pumpkin Spice Latte and she jumped out of it. It was something out of a movie, but no one seemed to be fazed. No one seemed to care that a nineteen-year-old young man was slapped in the face by a woman who was about twice his age. 

This woman looked like she was twice my age. I did not know anything about her, and she in turn, seemed like she did not know anything about me. I knew that she probably jumped out of the street and just saw me about to throw my coffee in the trash. She now held it and she laughed a little bit. She was waiting for something. She was waiting for me to say something. 

I stuttered. I was not normally this nervous. I was not normally this scared of people, but I had a reason to be shy. I had a reason to be scared of this woman. I had a reason why she would be so threatening. “...isn’t it supposed to be three?” I asked. I nearly mumbled it, and she looked like she was puzzled. 

She took a sip off my pumpkin spice latte and she nodded. She rubbed her hands together as if she were a praying mantis going to eat an insect. She was threatening me, and I did not like that at all. I did not like it at all that she was threatening me. I looked around at everyone in New York City, on the street, and they did not try to talk to me. They did not try to make me feel more comfortable. One of them even cat called the woman. She purred, her eyes narrowing at me. She was so beautiful and annoying at the same time. I did not know why she had ten wishes for me, but when she explained it to me, I got more confused. 

“Well”, she said, “it varies. Three is the baseline for someone who is doing fine. People doing well get 1 or 2 wishes. And... if you are doing poorly... well you look like you could use more wishes.” She looked down at me and I sighed. My eyebrows went together. She pulled a paper out of nowhere, out of the cup, which was not in there when I had put it in the trash. I did not look, but obviously there was not going to be a paper in my coffee. “I read your file, Myles. You do not know your family. You know nothing about them. Come, sit with me, and I will tell you everything I know about you.”

I jerked myself away from the woman and I spat on the ground. I put my hand to the side and I started to walk away from her, down the street. No one was even looking at me still. I did not want to look at them, but I wanted their help. I did not know anything about my family being different from how I knew them. Why did I need wishes, and why did these wishes matter so much to this woman? If she was a genie or an archangel, she should have done anything to my family that she would want. This was not an invitation, but it was something to make her get away from me. She pulled me by my arm into an alleyway between two buildings and she looked down into my eyes. She was taller than me. 

She could have been 6′4″ or 6′9″, but she was huge. I did not know if I could trust her, but every instinct in me was telling me to run. Every instinct in me was telling me that she was dangerous. When she pulled me against the wall she screamed at me. She screamed like hell, as if this mattered to her. I did not need any wishes. The only one that I could wish for is that my girlfriend would take me back, but that would not even be right. I could not force someone into doing something they did not want to do. 

“Your family is full of murderers, Myles! How do you not know that?” She pushed me to the wall and showed me the piece of paper. It was completely dry as if she had held it under a blow dryer. I was shaking by now and I blinked. I looked at the paper and I frowned. I knew it said my date of birth, my name, my height, and everything else, but then it said that I had been granted ten wishes. I pushed her away from myself and I looked back at her, my eyes going narrow. I did not want her to find out that I had a girlfriend before this. I did not want her to find out about my friends’ names.

“I do not trust you, but you sound like you are trying to convince me of being a bad person. You are trying to convince me to kill my family. That is not the kind of person I am. Why would you even suggest that?” I pulled my hands up to my hair and yanked on it. My eyes went wide and I turned back to her. Were these wishes going to be used to kill people, and why would they be used to kill people? I did not want to have my parents to be killed by me, and especially not by this woman I barely knew. I did not want to agree to it, and I did not want to take the wishes. I did not want to be responsible for this, but it seemed like I was going to have to be. It seemed like I was going to have to be responsible for my family, and to keep them away from this angel or devil with so much information on them. “I am a good person. My family is good people. They do not deserve to die. My parents-”

“Oh, you think that these people are just your parents?” The angel chuckled. Who was it? My aunts and uncles were active in our lives, but I did not think that they and my cousins looked like serial killers. I did not think that my cousins looked like they could be serial killers. They were not the kind of people who would have killed anyone because they wanted to. That did not make sense to me. I did not want to ask her what she meant, but before I could, she answered me. “Your siblings are also some of the people that are being murderous.”

I wanted to say that was not true. I was still shaking, my hands starting to feel like they were going to twist off my body. I nodded my head. What did this woman want me to do? What did she think would make this better? How could I accept these wishes, and why would my siblings be killing people? My sisters were sixteen and twelve, and it made me scared to ask her what they were doing. We had to stop them, and it could not be the way that she wanted. Wishing my siblings were dead was something that I could not do. I could lock them up.

“What have my sisters done?” I pulled myself down on the ground of the street and I felt so uncomfortable now. I felt equally as uncomfortable now as I felt with anyone I did not know, but I had so much hatred for this woman I had only just met. I looked back at her when she sat down next to me. Wow, she was really tall. She looked back into my eyes when she folded up the paper and put it in her pocket. “What did they do?”

“Their kill count is over ten. Your parents’ is over twenty.” She looked back at me. She sighed and she stood up again. She called my name, but I was lost in the shock of what happened. I was lost in the shock of what she said. She was pretending. She had to be lying to me and pretending that she was this entirely powerful being. I did not know how she chose me, and why she knew so much about my family. I knew she was not a person. People did not come out of Starbucks cups. “Tell me your name. Who are you and why do you want to speak to me?”

I narrowed my eyes and she laughed a little bit. She thought this was funny? Great; she thought that this was funny. I grit my teeth as she walked towards the street again. So she knew everything about me, and she knew everything about my family, but I was not allowed to know her name? I was not even allowed to know who she was or what she was? She extended her hand to me and she told me that we needed to leave. We had to talk in a place about what my wishes were, knowing this information. Why was I going to do something to make her go away? 

I wanted to do something to make her go away and never talk to me again, but I knew I needed to walk with her and find out who she was. There was something within me that threatened me at the same time as making me feel so comfortable with me. Was she making me feel like this? Was she making my emotions become manipulated? I knew that she was trying to get me alone, and that made me more than afraid of her. I was so afraid of her and what she could have said to me.

She could have said anything to me and that would not make me agree with her. I did not need to agree with her for these things to be true, though. I did not need to agree with her for some of the things that she said to be true. They proabably were true, and I wanted to find out the things that she was saying and see the merit in her hatred of my parents. I wanted to ask her name, but every time I did she would shake her head. What if she did not have a name? I mean, this was one of the things that I would be able to think about. She probably did not have a name. 

I followed her through the streets and she told me to watch down the alleyway. 

“What?”

She grabbed my hair and twisted my head so I could see my parents hacking away at someone’s body. I shuddered. Could it be this way because of me? I held the woman’s hand as she made me watch them. They turned their heads, then they ran away. I had been an eye witness to my parents killing someone. Maybe I could have needed those wishes after all. 

[pikapeppa]

Zevran/f!Mahariel: Jellied Ham

I have no business writing for this ship yet. I HAVE BARELY PLAYED THE GAME. But I wanted to write some Alistair and Inala Mahariel being gossipy bitches, and Zev has me feeling PROTECC feels already, so here we go. (IF I HAVE READ ANYONE’S CHARACTER ALL WRONG, FORGIVE ME. I WILL RETCON AS NEEDED.) 

Read on AO3 instead; ~1800 words.

******************

Inala pushed open the flap of Alistair’s tent. “Ali, can I–”

“Hey!” Alistair complained. “What if I was naked in here? Or practicing an Antivan jig for the next time we’re bored on the road? You’d have ruined the surprise.”

Inala unrepentantly crawled into his tent. “Practicing an Antivan jig while sitting on your ass? That’s a special skill.”

Alistair nodded sagely. “It really is, and I’m really good at it. Want to see?” He started wiggling his shoulders and snapping his fingers.

Inala snorted. “Amazing. Fascinating. Really, I’m honoured to have witnessed it. Can I ask you something?”

He stopped his so-called dancing and sighed. “Since you burst into my tent like this and interrupted my dance routine, I guess you might as well.”

She settled herself cross-legged on his bedroll. “Have you ever, uh…” She trailed off awkwardly. She’d only ever talked about this with the other girls in her clan, and with Ashalle when she’d hit puberty. It was weird talking about it with a man, even if the man was just Alistair. 

He raised his eyebrows. “Have I ever what? Had a good pair of shoes?”

She tutted. “No. You know.” She gave him a pointed look. 

Alistair smiled. “I don’t, actually! Have I ever seen a basilisk? Ate jellied ham? Have I ever licked a lamppost in winter?” He wiggled his eyebrows salaciously. 

Inala rolled her eyes. He knew exactly what she was talking about. “Look, I don’t know what jellied ham is, but it sounds disgusting. I’m talking about, you know.” She waved her hand vaguely. “Sex.”

“Oh, is that what we’re talking about?” he exclaimed. “I could have sworn this conversation was about the jellied ham.”

Inala whined and poked his arm. “Come on, just tell me. Have you ever, uh, done it before?”

“All right, all right, twist my arm,” he drawled. “I haven’t ever eaten jellied ham, no. Why, have you?”

Inala gasped mockingly. “What a question to ask a proper lady.”

Alistair snorted. “That’s a no, then. Besides, you’re not a proper lady. You’re a Dalish wildwoman.”

“And you’re a smelly human brute,” she retorted.

He sighed happily. “Isn’t it so nice to recognize each other for who we really are?”

Inala snickered, then sighed and picked idly at the fabric of his bedroll. Alistair tilted his head. “Why are you asking about this? You’re not, uh, offering, are you?”

She scoffed and elbowed him. “No, you dummy. Not to you, at least.”

His eyes went wide. “So you’re going to offer to someone! Who? Let me guess, let me guess: Sten. It’s Sten, isn’t it?”

Inala looked up with a grin. “How much would you dare me to offer my virginity to Sten?”

“I would dare you…” He eagerly dug around in his pouch of coin, but his smile faded into disappointment. He gave her a hangdog look. “How about three coppers and the first viewing of my Antivan jig routine once it’s complete?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not good enough.”

He clicked his tongue. “Shame. Seriously though, are you thinking about, uh, eating jellied ham with someone?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.” She scratched idly at his bedroll for a moment more, then smiled at him. “You know who’s eaten a lot of jellied ham? Zevran.”

Alistair scoffed. “That’s hardly a secret. Jellied ham during assassinations, jellied ham when he had the flu, two types of jellied ham at once…” His eyes widened. “Wait. You’re… you’re thinking of sleeping with Zevran?”

She shrugged and looked down at her fingers, which were still scratching at the bedroll. “I don’t know. Maybe.” In truth, Inala wasn’t sure she did want to sleep with Zevran. That wasn’t to say she wasn’t interested in him; she found him fascinating, actually. He was the first non-Dalish elf she’d ever spent a significant amount of time with. Every time she talked to him, she got this strange sense of vertigo about just how different their lives had been. Marethari had always told her that the city elves had very different lives from the Dalish, but she’d never really appreciated just how different their lives were until she’d met Zevran. 

She’d also never really been attracted to anyone before she’d met Zevran. It was hard to feel attracted to anyone in her clan when she saw them all as her family. 

Or she used to, at least, before they’d forced her to become a Grey Warden. 

She pushed aside the bitterness and turned her thoughts back to Zevran. But thinking of Zevran was difficult as well, in a very different way. She liked Zevran; she thought he was handsome and charming and funny, and the way he flirted with her… Creators, no one had ever flirted with her like that before. No one had ever looked at her the way Zevran did, like she was more than just one of the boys. Like she was something… desirable. 

But the way he talked about… about sex, and about being raised in a whorehouse? She didn’t have the whole story, but the hints he’d given her were enough to chill her blood. He told amusing stories about the people he’d slept with, but if those stories had happened during jobs he’d done for the Antivan Crows, had he actually enjoyed the sex? How could he be enjoying it when it had been drilled into him as something he had to be good at rather than something to enjoy? 

But then again, who was Inala to question Zevran’s sexual motives when the only experience she had was an awkward experimental kiss here and there? 

She nibbled the inside of her cheek and shot Alistair a sideways glance. “Do you think Zevran would care that I’ve never eaten jellied ham before?” she asked.

“Are you sure you want to offer him your jellied ham?” Alistair said.

His tone was uncharacteristically serious. Inala softened at the concern in his face. “You still think he might try to assassinate us? After everything he said about those awful Crows?”

“We can’t say for sure that he won’t,” Alistair said. “I mean, I don’t think he’ll succeed, not with Sten and Shale watching, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try. And what if he tries while you’re, you know. Halfway through the jellied ham?”

Inala gave him a cheeky smile. “Well, that’s the real reason I came to you. Will you stand guard outside my tent while I eat jellied ham with Zevran?”

“Maker, no,” Alistair said loudly. “Get the mabari to do that.”

“I wouldn’t make Keebs do that!” she protested.

Alistair raised his eyebrows. “So you wouldn’t force Keebs to listen to you eating jellied ham, but you’d ask me to do it? Are you saying you value the mabari over me?”

Inala hesitated, and Alistair grunted and clutched his chest. “Ouch. You wound me. No really, I’m hurt. I’m… I’m devastated, actually. I might just take a vow of silence right now in protest.”

Inala widened her eyes. “Creators, really? Do you promise? I could use the peace and quiet.”

Alistair laughed, and Inala couldn’t help but join in. When they’d both caught their breath, Alistair elbowed her gently. “I don’t think Zevran will care that you’ve never eaten jellied ham before, for what it’s worth.”

She gave him a little half-smile, and they were quiet for a moment. Then Inala tilted her head. “Do you think Morrigan is a virgin?”

Alistair wrinkled his nose. “I think Morrigan is a praying mantis. She probably pops the heads off of her partners after sex and eats them.”

Inala barked out a laugh. “You’re so stupid.”

“It takes one to know one, my friend,” he retorted.

She tsked and punched him in the arm, and he flicked her ear. She punched him once more, then unfolded her legs and crawled over to the flap of his tent. “Goodnight, Alistair,” she drawled.

“Goodnight, Inala,” he said just as mockingly. 

She shot him a swift grin, then left his tent. Everyone else seemed to be in their tents already – everyone except Zevran, in fact. 

He was sitting by the fire and humming to himself as he sharpened one of his knives. He glanced up as she emerged from Alistair’s tent, and her heart did a little flip-flop as he met her gaze. Zevran had this way of smiling at her, like the curl of his lips and the heat in his eyes was only meant for her, and it just made her feel more confused. 

Confused about whether she wanted to offer her jellied ham to him, or whether she really just wanted to hug him and keep him away from anyone who would value him only for his ill-begotten ‘skills’. 

Her heart twisted again, but in a painful way this time, and she dropped his heated gaze. “Goodnight, Zevran,” she said. “Sweet dreams.” 

“Pray that I dream of you, then,” he said. He tilted his head and sighed. “Ah, what a sweet dream that would be.” 

A stupid grin burst across her face, and she rubbed her nose. Fenedhis, she could feel her face going hot. “I’ll… I’ll do that,” she said lamely, then immediately wanted to smack herself for the inane response.

He chuckled, and the smooth and rolling sound chased her toward her tent. Once she was in the safety of her tent, she breathed a sigh of relief, then pulled off her boots and slid into her bedroll. 

She closed her eyes, but thoughts of Zevran played through her mind. His devilish little smile and that devilish quirk of his eyebrows. The lovely rolling cadence of his accent and the lovely veins in his elegant hands. What he must have looked like as a bony underfed seven-year-old slave.  

Her gut twisted at the thought. She sighed and closed her eyes, then segued into the before-bed meditation that Ashalle had taught her when she was a moody and restless adolescent. A few minutes later, just as she was falling asleep, she had one last thought of Zevran. 

It was a memory from when they’d first met, when he was tied up on the ground after failing to kill her and Alistair. He’d been charming even then, gazing boldly up at her with that warm and mischievous grin, and there was blood dripping down his chin thanks to a punch he’d taken from Sten.  

As Inala finally fell asleep, that’s what she was thinking about: Zevran’s broad and bloodstained smile. 

[capricornus-rex]

Perseverance Over Pride (2 - End)

Requested by: @stellar-trinity​ | Prompt:

Hey Hon! I was wondering if you could do a request? No rush on this one :) I will say this one is a bit personal bc I tend to do this A LOT 😅 Cal comforting the reader after being hard on herself? Maybe the reader was working on Cal’s saber, ends up breaking it more (unintentionally) and once everyone is asleep, she locks herself in her own room and cries? Thanks hon! 🥺💖

Tags: Self-doubting! Reader

Previous | Masterlist

2 of 2

Oh no… No, no… NO! Your mind, anxious and panicked, screamed. You wanted to let the words out but you can’t because it’ll alarm the crew.

You covered your mouth with your entire hand, bottling up all of the emotions that’s thrashing and storming inside your core right now.

“No… That’s impossible! What went wrong?!” you gasped, the weapon shook in your trembling hand.

You set it down on the workbench again. You don’t know what to do first: tear it apart again and redo everything or mentally assess what steps you could’ve possibly mixed up. Though, to save your pride, you didn’t do the latter.

You were back to where you started—taking it apart piece by piece, except with the newly-replaced parts this time. You examined and inspected every single component that you’ve detached from the very structure of the saber and looked for possible errors.

Blinded by confusion, you can’t seem to find what’s wrong. Everything seemed to be in place. You can’t pinpoint what you may have overlooked. You repeated everything you did—and perhaps adjusting a little bit of the parts in each step—and then tested the ignition again.

The result remained the same: a short-lived flicker of the blade.

You couldn’t control yourself when you flung your fist to the workbench, hoping nobody from outside heard that—which they obviously did—you jerked your hand away and rubbed the sore part; all of a sudden, your heart felt heavy, your stomach churned, and your breathing was shaky and rapid.

“What’s the matter with me?”

Trying to relax even felt tedious. The doubt in your conscience was beginning to chew its way into you, but your fought it off along with the words that were gradually forming in your mind—the words that you dread to hear, even if it was just in your imagination.

Nothing.

There was no concentration, no calmness… nothing.

Your mind was in a total disarray.

“This is bad,” you muttered fearfully.

You examined the disassembled lightsaber again, thought long and hard as you stared at it, and then wagered which of the new parts must be replaced to better, functioning ones. The next places that could possibly have some components are the Imperial station near the weathered monument and the ice caves. Asking Greez to take the Mantis to Coruscant is the farthest stretch of an option, so you put that as the last resort—even if the Jedi Temple has the best selection of parts, albeit abandoned.

“It’s highly likely graverobbers have looted the temple though,” you assessed.

Afraid to show your face, and scared to be incapable of answering Cal’s questions about his lightsaber, you couldn’t dare to step out of the room—though you badly need to if you want to get your components. You took a deep breath as if preparing yourself to speed through a row of Auger pulverizers, you rehearsed your general response if ever Cal asks, and coached yourself to keep your eyes on the door.

“Okay, just waltz out. Don’t maintain eye contact, eyes on the door. Just say you’re going out to get more parts, and that’s it. Simple.”

The line became your mantra in the next three minutes. Afterwards, you pulled yourself together and followed your mantra physically to a tee.

“I’m going out again, just need more parts,”

You practically ate your words as you briskly walked past Cal sitting on the couch with Cere in the middle of a hallikset lesson. The two Jedi followed you with their eyes until you disappeared out of the ship. Cal was able to sense something from you, it was faint yet noticeable; he contemplated whether to bring it up to you or wait and see if it would worsen or subside.

You gave the shed on the edge of the landing pad a try, but it turned out to be a disappointment when it was just crates of the same materials as the ones in the derelict hangar; and so off you go to where you needed to be.

You take the shortcut at the turbine facility leading out to the ice slide before the weathered monument. You surprisingly mowed down the dispatched unit of Stormtroopers just on the other side of that blaster door.

“Okay, gotta get to that station fast,” you tell yourself.

You’ve reached your destination: the Imperial command center with a landing platform. You had hoped that with a station this big, you hoped you’d find something worth of all this short trip.

You took every Stormtrooper stationed there singlehandedly by surprise; banking their shots right back at them until all that remains is the black R2 unit strolling across the metal halls.

Now that you’re in the clear, you scoured all of the supply crates that you can find, taking apart the control panels and power terminals for possible substitutes, and even harvesting the parts of a Stormtrooper’s blaster and a Scout Trooper’s staff. By sheer luck, the staff ran on a diatium power cell and prayed that this could be your key to actually fixing the saber.

When you got back, you came in with such a burst that the crew just watched you speed past them. Understandably so, you were too indulged in getting that lightsaber fixed—but they don’t know that you’re protecting your ugly secret of busting it a second time after the Jotaz did.

Cal walked in on you and found you on your second attempt.

“[y/n]?”

You jumped, startled by the softest call of your name.

“You startled me right there!” you gasped, clutching on your chest while sucking in air.

“Oh sorry, I figured you didn’t hear me the first time so I went closer. Sorry…”

“It’s okay,” you tried to hide the saber by blocking his view of it with your back. “Look, it’s not ready yet. I thought I finished it but turns out I had to do it again. I… I’m still fitting the power cells underneath the sleeve of the second saber.”

“Look, I’m more worried about you than the saber itself. Could you please do me a favor and don’t stress out on this? Like I said: don’t rush on this.”

“I’m sorry, I… I suppose I just got a bit worked up. Won’t rest until the job’s done—force of habit.”

He raised his lips to your forehead.

“Well, there’s no need to be worked up, okay?”

You nodded and replied in a hushed tone. He dismissed himself, saying Cere owes him another hour of hallikset lessons, and then walked out of the bedroom, leaving you again with his busted saber and in your solitude.

More hours have passed, at this point in time, your confidence has deteriorated. While the power-related parts—namely the diatium power cell, conductor, power vortex ring, and inert power insulator—were finally replaced with the whole, new ones supplied by your inventory and the ones you’ve picked up, it appeared that they weren’t the answers to your question.

You repeated again, tweaking some of the parts that you assumed could have gone wrong.

The same feeling that you had on the first attempt return—only this time, it was five times worse on the third and fourth tries. You wished that you knew what the problem was.

“No… NO!” you growled, pounding the edge of the worktable out of frustration. The force of your outburst was so strong that you managed to make the thin pipe railings creak.

The crew kept it quiet between one another whenever they would hear one of your outbursts: the grunts, startled cries, and groans of frustration. An hour later, you were still stuck in the loop of trying to figure out the mistake. Cal decided to pull you away from that spiraling mess you’ve gotten into.

“[y/n]…?” he called as he knocked. “Dinner’s ready. Are you coming?”

“N-No, Cal… I… I’m not hungry,” you spoke to him through the sealed door, your voice is muffled but still coherent. “I’m not hungry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Sorry, Cal. Please, I just want some time alone to finish this,”

“Alright then. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Oh… okay. Thanks, Cal…”

Cal appeared out of the small annex to join the crew at the dinner table. Cere started to get worried when he appeared without you.

“Where’s [y/n]?”

He repeated your reason to everyone as he took his seat. There was awkward air that somehow exuded the empty chair next to Cal—where you usually sit.

Cal left some food for you and personally put them away on his own after dinner. Cere watched him prepare your serving in case you finally decide to come out of the room and eat, as he sealed off the food container, she confronted him gently.

“Cal, is [y/n] okay? She’s been acting… unusual lately. She’s been locked up in your room for hours now and missed dinner. The last time we saw her outside that room is when she came to scavenge for spare parts.”

“Something’s off about her ever since the last time she went out. She didn’t even open the door to talk to me, she just spoke through the door. I didn’t think that she’d put that much pressure on herself to repair my lightsaber… but now I do.”

“Go talk to her. I am absolutely sure she needs it,” Cere clapped him on the shoulder before retreating to the cockpit.

While they were eating, you have already gone through your fifth attempt. You’ve given up in the middle of the sixth try and ended up sitting on the floor, hugging your knees, and just succumb to crying. When Cal got close enough, he could hear you weeping in the room and that further confirmed his presumption about you.

He knocked on the door again, calling your name.

“Come on, I saved you some dinner,” he coaxed. “Greez made your favorite.”

“Please just… go away, Cal…” you replied.

Cal noticed the change of tone in your voice and the sniffles.

“No, I won’t,”

The two of you conversed with a sealed blast door in the middle. You wanted it that way because you didn’t want him to see the teary-eyed mess that you are and his still-busted lightsaber.

“Look, I couldn’t fix your lightsaber; I could have broken it but not on purpose—you should be hating me right now!”

“I don’t hate you,” he coolly said. “I could never hate you.”

There was no response from your end at the door, you buried your face in your knees in shame, letting tears pool on your pant legs in the process. He decided to open the door via the control keypad on his side. When the door whizzed open, he saw you curled up on the floor by the workbench; you didn’t look to him when he got in.

“Oh, [y/n]…” he purred, sitting on the floor and then taking you into his arms.

“I’m sorry, I thought I could do it…!” you sobbed. “I didn’t mean to break it, honest. I really wanted to fix it but I just couldn’t… I thought I could!”

He shushed. He rested his cheek over your head after kissing your forehead. “Please don’t cry. It’s okay. I’m not mad, I promise.”

“I was too afraid to ask help from you…” you hiccupped. “I was afraid you’d think of me as incompetent.”

“Aww, no,” he cooed. “Baby, no—I’d never think of you as something like that! What made you think that?”

“Cal, look at me: I’m a Jedi who can’t fix a lightsaber! I’m the perfect definition of that word. What else would I call myself if I’m incapable of rebuilding the most vital part of a Jedi?”

He cradled your head to his chest and allowed you to let it all out whether through tears or lashing out.

“You know, back in Dathomir—when I was opening the door to the Tomb of Kujet—I got myself into a Force vision,”

You listened, prompting him to continue with soft grunts.

“Master Tapal was standing there in front of me. When he saw that I didn’t fight back, he said something to me,”

“What was that?” you asked, your voice has calmed down and the sobbing hiccups have gotten lesser.

“He told me that persistence reveals the path. And you know what I’ve gotten from that?”

You look up at him to find sincere eyes staring back lovingly at you and a small yet reassuring smile. The word “What?” was a mere blow of air between your lips when you urged him to continue.

“When failure hasn’t deterred you from trying again and again, no matter how many times,” he spoke as he stroked your hair. “You’ll find your answer at the end of the path sooner than you think.”

“But I’m afraid. I’m afraid to fail… like I always have been, secretly.”

“But have you really given up?”

Your eyes wandered blankly into space, pondering on his question as well as your own answer—the true answer. Your eyebrows furrowed as you somberly reflected upon it. In response, you shake your head. You promptly stood up from the floor, Cal followed and stood by your side; you let him watch you work and to his surprise, you’ve picked up a soldering iron you found back in the Imperial command center.

From time to time, he would help out in certain parts of rebuilding it—handing out the parts and components that you need, giving you an extra hand when needing to hold something really still until you’ve perfectly fitted it into place as well as helping with a few of the trickier steps in the procedure.

The last part of fixing it was refitting the blade energy chamber—the narrow tube that bridges the kyber crystal and the emitter—and when you presume everything is finally done, Cal let you do the honors of meditating once more on the lightsaber.

“Go on,” he coaxed. “Relax and concentrate.”

“Okay…”

It may not be yours, indeed, but your connection with Cal—that you have unconsciously overlooked and shut out this whole time—was soothing the whole time up until this very moment. For a moment, that anxiety that was flooding your entire being was gone and all you could think of was thoughts that signify tranquility: the waterfalls, the sunrise at Bogano, the empty abode, and even an image of Cal himself.

Click…

Your heart skipped a beat when you hear that tiniest of sounds. You fought off the hesitation of opening your eyes. In face value, the lightsaber looked normal. You stared blankly at it, not even realizing that your hand was gravitating to it; once again, your fingers clamped around the handle and lifted it up from the workbench placemat. You shoot a look at Cal.

“Together?”

He placed his hand over your hand, his thumb over yours on the switch.

“Together.”

He squeezed on your thumb downwards, subsequently doubling onto the pressure applied on the switch button. A sharp buzz snarled out of the polished hilt. Cal removed his hand from the hilt and stood back, while examining the beam of light that shone in the room. You exchanged glances with him, you swallowed the nervous lump in your throat, and your heart was pounding that you couldn’t catch up with your breathing. Steadily, you waved the weapon around the small space where you stood.

More than ten seconds have passed and the blade of light didn’t die out. Your official sixth attempt finally was a success!

You exhaled laughingly. Finally! You thought. We did it!

You looked over the blade and found Cal smiling with a sense of pride in you. You pressed the switch again and the blade retracted back into the emitter to set it down on the workbench. You hopped toward Cal and—in an uncontrollable urge—threw yourself in his arms.

“We did it!” you beamed, relieved and happy.

“But you did most of the work, I only helped on the sidelines,”

“Don’t be silly. Well… I was silly myself,” you shrugged. “I guess I had too much pride earlier. Thanks, Cal, you’ve helped me a whole lot—more than enough, in fact.”

You yawned and rubbed your eyes, apologizing thereafter.

“It’s okay, sweetie, rest as much as you need. I’ll be here,” Cal planted another kiss on your head as he cradled you like a baby, trapping you in an embrace as your puffy eyes felt heavy. He continued to stroke your hair until you drifted off to sleep. “I’ll always be here. I promise.”

[thepixarenthusiast]

A Bug’s Life (1998)

Pixar’s second animated feature film takes us to the insect world.  A colony of ants spend their days collecting food to appease the predatory grasshoppers, who visit once a year to keep the ants in line (heh) and feast on their offering of seeds and grain.  The ants oblige out of fear of being squashed and/or eaten? by the grasshoppers.  (A quick google search tells me that grasshoppers, in fact, do not eat ants.)  The consequence of what happens if the ants do not provide for the grasshoppers or why grasshoppers were chosen as the nemesis of the ants is not exactly clear here, but nevertheless, they make a pretty seedy gang who would certainly make me jump in fear.  

Sorry, are those crickets I hear?  Are my puns bugging you?  Haha ok, no seriously I’ll stop now, but the writers of this movie must have enjoyed the bug puns too because the movie was crawling with them, from the slapstick stick bug, the mosquito ordering a Bloody Mary at the bar fashioned out of a tin can, and “flea circus” led by none other than, P.T. Flea.. Yeah, I think you get the gist.  How I would have loved to be a fly on the wall in that writer’s room.  

Ok, I’m done, I promise.  

In all seriousness, the details and jokes were funny and clever and there were a lot I didn’t notice as a kid.  I liked how the circus tent was an old umbrella laying in the grass, the “city”  was made out of old snack boxes and takeout containers, the lightening bugs lit up the traffic lights, and the circus train was made out of animal cracker boxes. It was all very clever. I’m sure you could watch it a dozen times and always find something new. 

Back to the plot summary. Our hero is Flik, a misfit kind of guy, an inventor who thinks outside of the hive, err, anthill...and marches to the beat of his own drum.  It’s your classic tale about the kid who doesn’t fit in, whose flaws end up being the strengths that help him save the day.  A Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, if you will. 

Flik’s well-intentioned inventions keep getting him in trouble and stressing out the anxious princess Atta, so to get rid of him for awhile, she agrees to let him leave to find warrior bugs to fight off the evil grasshoppers.  Of course, Flik mistakes some circus bugs for warrior bugs, and we meet our crew of misfits who keep the antics rolling.  We’ve got a walking stick who is constantly used as a prop, a classy black widow spider, a dung beetle who doubles as a helicopter, a hippie moth and praying mantis husband and wife pair, a fat caterpillar with a German accent, a duo of feisty pill bugs who speak another language, and a lady bug who is actually a guy, to ensure endless comedy.  They’re really the best part of the movie.  They’re cute, funny, and have some of the best lines.  Heimlich the caterpillar becoming a beautiful butterfly still gave me a good chuckle as an adult.  

Of course, all chaos breaks loose when the ants find out that the warrior bugs turn out to be circus bugs, but in the end our misfits band together, rise up against the evil grasshoppers, and restore peace to the ant colony. 

So it’s a story we’ve heard before, and it certainly follows the Disney formula, but it’s still entertaining and creative enough with some memorable characters that make it fresh.

Final thoughts. 

Pixar’s sophomore film was an enjoyable 95 minutes.  Was I wowed by it?  No.  It was a relatively straightforward family comedy with a familiar story line and a few memorable characters.  As a kid, I loved this movie.  I remember watching it often, probably even more so than Toy Story, but that was also probably because I was a bit older when this movie came out, when I could understand a bit better. Watching it now as an adult, I can probably imagine my parents taking us to see it, being glad it wasn’t a total bore to sit through, maybe even laughing a few times, and then mostly forgetting about it.  For kids, though, especially ones particularly interested in insects, this movie holds up great.  It’s perfect for young ones who may not understand all the adult themes in many of Pixar’s later films like Up and Soul.       

Overall, it was fine. It was a non-offensive, relatively entertaining way to spend my afternoon.  I probably won’t be revisiting it anytime soon, though, which makes sense as to why out of all the Pixar films that came out during my childhood, this is the one that I have re-watched the least as an adult. 

Fun Fact:

So I just looked this up and turns out that the inspiration for A Bug’s Life comes from an Aesop’s fable titled “The Ant and the Grasshopper,” in which a grasshopper begs an ant for food when winter comes and the ant refuses.  The moral of this fable is supposed to be about the virtues of hard work and planning for the future.  So there ya go! That’s why grasshoppers were chosen as the enemy of the ants, even though they are not predators to ants in real life.  Neat! 

Best Character: 

I’m going to give this one to Flik. He’s a lovable and relatable hero. 

Honorable mention: Dot. Atta’s kid sister, and (this will make you feel old), voiced by a 9-year-old Hayden Panettiere. She is very cute and believes in Flik from the beginning, when the other ants don’t. Dot genuinely loves Flik, even when he screws up, which Atta doesn’t really seem to until he proves himself. 

Tear-Meter: 

0/5 Teardrops. Haven’t experienced any waterworks, yet.

Current Ranking:

2/2

It’s good, but not as creative or interesting as its predecessor.  Toy Story holds the top spot for now. 

1. Toy Story 

2. A Bug’s Life

[malicedragoness]

Kama sutra challenge with Kombat guys

So my dumbass accidentally deleted this.. 

So this was a challenge with Cosmo magazine, to do 77 different positions from the Kama Sutra within 77 days. By the end of the exercise, you must have done all the positions, with a feeling of more intimacy and trust in the relationship. You can do multiple positions in one day.

So this begs the quest. How would the guys react to you asking them to do this challenge?

nsfw below the cut ---

You walk up to your man and sit down next to him, with a little colorful book in your hand. They ask what you have with you. And you tell them about a 77 day challenge that involves doing a position in the Kama sutra every day. And you were wondering if they were interested...

Erron Black - He completely freezes in the middle of cleaning his guns and looks at you. Did you just ask him to have sex with you everyday? That’s the best idea he’s ever heard. Erron gives you that heart stopping smile of his, while he takes off his gloves and pulls you into his lap. His hand runs up your leg as he whispers into your ear, asking when his sugar wants to get started and what do you want to start with first. You can’t really concentrate as you flip through the book because his thumbs are drawing circles on your inner thighs and he’s kissing your neck. He picks you up and takes you to the bedroom, saying you’ll just open the book at random and start from there.

Favorite positions: The thing about Erron is that he’s a pretty kinky guy. He loves it rough. Biting, scratching, choking, hair pulling, being tied up. And although he likes to switch, he prefers it when you’re on top. For him, it’s insanely sexy to have a woman control and dominate him. You know how a female praying mantis will bite the head off the male? He's into that type of shit. He doesn't want to die, but he doesn't want to be entirely sure he's gonna live either. I mean he dated/slept with Skarlet and Nitara. He loves the danger and kinky factor.

He would enjoy The Supernova the most since he’s hanging off the bed, blood rushing to his head, and you’re riding on top of him while scratching his hips. He’s such a masochist, he can’t help it. And since he’s a leg/thigh man, he would also enjoy The Lap Top. He loves your legs wrapped around his neck. What he didn’t expect, was to be turned on by the closeness you two share in this position and the eye contact. He gets a good look at your face as your writhing in pleasure, and goddamn if that doesn’t push him over the edge.

Other notes: You know what happens once a month? Your period. Is that gonna stop this cowboy? He’ll nah. He’s not saying he’s gonna put his face down there, that’s just gross. But it certainly isn’t going to turn him off. If you’re not comfortable with it, he understands and he won’t push it at all.

However, if you’re willing to give it a shot he’ll grab some towels to put under you and tell you “Let’s make a mess baby doll.” And once you’re done, he’ll run a shower, give you some aspirin, and bundle you up under the covers. He’ll never do anything his darlin is not comfortable with.

What he does experience through the more close and intimate positions, is that he genuinely does care about you. It scares him. Sure he loves being with you, but now he feels like he has a deeper connection with you. He’s not sure how to handle all these new emotions and he feels confused.

One day, he packs a bag and tells you he’ll be back in a few days, he’s got a job he needs to take care of. Erron saw it as an opportunity to clear his head and try to think about all these ‘goddamn feelings and shit.’ If it’s his Black Dragon days, he’ll talk to Kabal even though he knows he’s going to tease him about it. If he’s working with Kotal, he’ll find help in the unlikely source that is Ermac. He does have ten thousand souls living in one body. And they all have have their own opinion.

While he’s gone, all he can think about is going home to you. After listening to either Kabal or Ermac, he realizes that he needs to cowboy up and confront his fucking feelings for once. When Erron returns, he sweeps you up in a bone crushing hug. He doesn’t say anything, he just presses his forehead against yours and looks in your eyes. Erron will eventually apologize, though he says he's never going to do that again, the prideful little shit.

He loves you and wants you to continue to stay with him. You were all he could think about when he was gone. And of course you accept his apology with a kiss. Which then leads to him throwing you over his shoulder and walking to the bedroom. You’ve got two days left and ten positions left to do. Time to get busy!

Kabal: pre burn- His jaw dropped and he stares at you with wide eyes. After a minute of you explaining that it’s supposed to bring more intimacy to the relationship and help you feel closer to each other. Kabal’s perfect mouth turns into the most shit eating grin you have ever seen! You want to have sex with him everyday for two and a half months? Of course you do! He’s already horny just thinking about it. 

Unlike Erron, he takes his time looking through the little book trying to find the most outrageous position to do first. “Look at this one called the Spider!” The two of you are giggling and joking while flipping through the book.

“How do their bodies do THAT?” 

“Princess, you’re gonna have to learn how be flexible real fast to get your leg up that far.”

“How are we not supposed to fall off while doing this?”

As much as he wants to push you back on the couch and ravish you right there, Kabal wants to take this a bit more seriously since it means a lot to you. It’s supposed to bring you two closer together. So he decides to take you out on a date that night, wherever you want to go. He also gets you some roses, and sets the room up with some candles and mood music. He wants you to feel like an absolute princess.

Post burn- Kabal is in complete shock. You can’t see it behind his mask, but he’s blushing and hyperventilating. You two haven’t been as intimate after his accident, but now you want him to do the horizontal tango 77 different ways? It’s a lot to take in, and he’s not overly confident in his abilities anymore. He just now started to take off his mask around you, and he can’t believe you want to see and make love to him like this. You grab his hands and tell him it wasn’t your intention to overwhelm him. You thought this would help bring you two closer together again and strengthen your relationship. And to show him that he is still the same man you love, whether he’s burned or not.

He agrees, albeit very shyly. He loves you and he wants to make you happy in any way that he can. He misses touching your skin and feeling you pressed against him. This is may be a good way to start.

Favorite positions: Pre burn- Now, other people headcanon him an ass man...and I have to agree. He loves your ass. Him and Erron have actually argued about this. They busted out charts, graphs, and Venn diagrams about what is the sexiest body part: ass or legs/thighs. That lasted a few hours, and is an entirely different story.

But it goes to show he loves your junk in trunk. And he would mostly enjoy positions where he can see and grab your butt, such as The Prone Tiger. While you’re moving up and down on him, Kabal isn’t gonna let you do all the work. He’ll grope and spank you and tell you how sexy you look. His fingers might join his cock inside of you, or they’ll be playing with your clit. 

Kabal loves to be more in control during sex, and he doesn’t mind trying something outrageous. Which is why he likes The Sphinx. He gets to be on top controlling the pace, while your sweet ass is bouncing against him, and he gets to either talk dirty in your ear or kiss your neck. It’s a winning position for him.

Post burn- The two of you start off with more simple positions. The Kneel has you both kneeling, your legs on each side of him. Kabal is able to run his hands over body and kiss you passionately. When you’re not kissing, he can’t help but gaze into your eyes and be mesmerized by the way you’re looking at him. He always thought you were beautiful, but now you look like a goddess, and he can’t even believe that you’re actually real.

Other notes: If it’s that time of the month, he’s not going to be receptive to period sex. He’ll roll you up into a burrito, make you some tea, get your favorite snacks, and cuddle you while you watch some Netflix. He’s kind of weirded out by the prospect of your blood on his dick.

Pre burn, he does feel there’s more intimacy in your relationship than he did before and he truly cherishes the bond you two share. It makes him think about a possible future with you.

Post burn- as the weeks go by, he does start to feel more confident in himself. Almost like the man he was before, but more wiser. He also feels eternally grateful to have someone like you in his life, to love him no matter what he looks like. He won’t be able to let you go.

Kuai Liang - “Kama Sutra? Is that another clan? Is that a fighting style?” You stare at him as you realize you have to explain that the Kama sutra is a book about really neat ways to have sex. So when you open the book to show him, he drops his cup of tea.

Kuai is flustered. He didn’t see that coming. At all. He’s cleaning up his spilled tea while trying not to meet your eyes.

He’s not exactly that adventurous when it comes to sex and his drive isn’t that high. So it’s going to take some convincing. His life as a grandmaster is very busy, so he wants to be able to dedicate some of his time for you, but he doesn’t want to promise you something and not be able to commit to it. You both agree to take it week by week, and see what nights he can put aside solely for you.

Favorite positions: Kuai is more into a slow yet passionate pace when it comes to sex. Yes he’ll eventually pick up the pace. But he’s not going to go crazy and get rough. He sees sex as a way to express his love and adoration. He’s a pure cinnamon roll.

So he’s very much into positions that slow things down and take his time. The Zen Pause and The Lotus Blossom allow for both of you to be close to each other, and he gets to set the pace. Another thing Kuai loves is to admire your body. He loves seeing your naked form and will always tell you how beautiful you are. One position that he loves is The Glowing Juniper. Your legs are on his sides while you’re on your back splayed out for him, where he can admire and caress you.

Other notes: Not doing period sex. At all. He would rather take care of you and make you some tea. He loves you but he is nowhere near that freaky. He’s an innocent boy, let him stay this way.

Although you don’t complete everything within the restricted time frame, you and Kuai have still tried new positions a few days a week and eventually completed what you set out to do. He does feel more comfortable being intimate with you and isn’t as shy about it.

While you’re around company, he’ll definitely smile more when you approach and may even try to give you little touches here and there. It could be something as simple as gently placing his hand on your arm and giving you a small smile. Whereas before he would keep everything strictly professional while out in public.

Kenshi - Kenshi could tell there was something naughty you’ve been thinking about lately. He doesn’t mean to pry, but when you have such loud thoughts it’s impossible to not hear them. He was only waiting for you to bring it up. When you finally approach him, he already had a slight smirk on his face.

Of course he’ll do it, anything for his love. However, he does warn you that by him agreeing to this, he gets to do things his way. Kenshi will whisper in your ear that if he wants to do or use something to amplify your pleasure to bring you to a whimpering mess then he’s going to do it. He wants you to have complete trust in him. But you know, if you think you can handle it that is.

Favorite positions: Kenshi definitely likes to be in charge of everything. He knows your body and your wants better than you do and he loves it when you feel completely vulnerable in his hands.

The Waterfall has him sitting on a chair with you on top of his lap, bent all the back with your head almost touching the floor. It makes you rely completely on the man for thrusting and setting the pace. However Kenshi is going to blindfold you and have you both levitating above the ground, while smirking and talking dirty to you. He’s a kinky bastard that way.

He also likes how The Ape has you on top with him penetrating you deeply, while he’s able to pull your hair ever so slightly to keep you in the exact place he wants you. For something more closer and intimate, he enjoys The Basket. It allows him to grab your ass and suck your nipples as he pleases, and say filthy things to you.

Other notes: Kenshi is a grow man. He’s not afraid of period sex. Like Erron, he won’t stick his face down there. But it won’t turn him off one bit. If you’re having bad cramps, he won’t even ask for sex. He knows exactly what to get you to make you happy and comfortable. If not, he will ask if you want to continue.

During and after this exercise, the two of you will have a much deeper connection with one another. You never knew you could feel so much love and trust for a man before and it feels absolutely divine. And now whenever Kenshi is around you, you can’t help but turn into a pile goo when he smirks at you.

Kung Lao - He stares at you...and keeps staring. His face goes red. So red you’re afraid he’s going to get a nosebleed. Kung Lao may be a boastful flirt, but when you boldly flirt back with him, he’ll stumble over his words and start blushing. And the fact that you approached him with wanting to have a lot of sex in different kinky positions...his mind is so broken that his penis was in control when he nodded his head.

He’s a bit vanilla when it comes to sex, but that’s only because he spends most of his time training and hasn’t really experimented. Once he’s finally able to communicate, he’ll express how excited he is by cupping your face and giving you the sweetest kiss you’ll ever receive. Lao will look you in the eyes and tell you he’s ready whenever you wish to start. And then he’ll smirk and say if you can handle him that is. His confidence finally coming back.

Favorite positions: One thing about Kung Lao is that he loves to show off. And the fact that he’s doing something so intimate, to him this is the best chance to impress you with his physique and how flexible he is.

The Bridge is the perfect way for him to show that. He’s on his hands and feet while his body is bent backwards forming an arc. While you’re on top of him, pushing off the floor with your feet. But of course he won’t let you do all the work. So he’ll at some point have you stay still while he tries to bounce you up and down by moving his hips. If you’re a moaning mess it’ll really inflate his ego, and he’s going to be smirking and egging you on. “You like that? You like how I get so deep in you?”

He may think he’s in charge, but he loves girl on top positions. The Rocking Horse let’s you sit on top of him and he supports himself on his hands while leaning back. Once again showing off his strength. He loves watching your face and being so close to you like this, it creates a lot of intimacy between you two.

Other notes: The thought of doing period sex makes him squeamish. However, if you want endless cuddles, sweet kisses, and someone to play with your hair, then he’s your guy. Anything for his sweetheart.

After everything has been said and done, your relationship has a much deeper intimacy than it did before. Kung Lao is definitely more confident and he’s able to back up his words now. He won’t be blushing as much when you flirt with him, but he won’t be able to take his eyes off of you now.

----

I had way too much fun writing this.Sorry for the long post.But if y’all have anything you want to see me write, feel free to drop a request! I want to write more. :D

[razieltwelve]

Feed (Final Rose)

There was something very disturbing about watching an almost adorable miniature Ragnarok dismember and then eat an A Tier Grimm.

The Grimm in question was a hulking beast that used monomolecular claws that also secreted some kind of powerful corrosive agent. A team of relatively skilled huntsmen or huntresses would normally have been necessary to deal with it safely, but Diana had simply hurled herself at the creature with nary a care in the world.

The creature’s first slash had ground to a halt against the sub-dermal layer of armour that Diana had formed with her Semblance. Likewise, the corrosive agent was neutralised by the cocktail of substances that infused the thin layer of flesh above the armour. In the split-second it took the Grimm to realise that its opponent had not been split in two, Diana’s tail lashed out.

Lightning had seen Diana use that tail to cling onto Averia. She’d also seen her use it to eat popcorn while still keeping both of her hands on a video game controller. Instead of the strong but relatively harmless appendage she had grown used to, Diana’s tail shifted in mid-flight. It became thin, almost-ribbon-like, and its normally smooth edges were suddenly covered in microscopic saw teeth.

Diana’s tail wrapped around the Grimm’s front right leg, and then she pulled. The limb came loose in a shower of gore, and the creature gave a grunt of pain and surprise before it lashed out in a bid to knock Diana away. The blow would have reduced a bus to scrap, but Diana simply ignored it, the sub-dermal armour absorbing the force and redirecting it to a series of glowing organs that sprang to life along her tail.

A beam of plasma powered by the attack relieved the Grimm of another one of its limbs. As it tumbled to the ground, Diana hopped onto its back. Despite the gross disparity in size - Diana was only about three and a half-feet tall - whereas the Grimm was well over twenty feet in height, the monster still panicked. It was right to be concerned.

Diana’s tail, already several times her height, swung out again, latching onto another limb and cutting it loose as well. At the same time, her claws blurred forward, digging into the Grimm’s back and ripping loose chunks of flesh. Lightning managed to keep from wincing as her daughter simply gobbled the flesh down the way she would a particularly juicy hamburger.

A moment later, Diana’s claws shifted, adopting the same crystalline sheen as the Grimm’s before a faint glow surrounded them. No. It wasn’t a glow. Diana was already combining the monomolecular crystalline edges with another genetic template, something that allowed her to vibrate the claws at a tremendous rate, thereby increasing their apparent striking zone.

Within moments, the Grimm had been sliced to ribbons - and Diana was busy eating as much of it as she could.

“It is kind of freaky, isn’t it?” Vanille drawled.

Lightning turned to the Faunus. “I think that is an understatement. It’s like she’s visiting Gary Burger for the first time in months.”

“Well, direct consumption of the enemy does give her complete and immediate access to all of its genetic material, which she can then use to recreate and repurpose anything useful it can do.” Vanille shrugged. “Why do you think Fang took her hunting as soon as Diana got Ragnarok? The first thing she did was feed her some useful critters to ensure she had a nice foundation for the future.”

Diana lifted one of her newly modified claws up to examine it more closely. Seemingly dissatisfied with it, the limb began to shiver before becoming something closer to the scythe-like forearm of a praying mantis. Good grief. The amount of damage she could do with a monomolecular edge to her new claw would be insane. Along her body, ridges of crystalline material began to appear before shifting into a substance that Lightning didn’t recognise.

“Oh… that’s interesting,” Vanille murmured.

“What is it?” Lightning asked. She could have activated Saviour, but Vanille seemed to know what was going on.

“One of the issues with monomolecular material is that if it chips, the edge is lost, and chipping can be quite easy with such a narrow edge. The material Diana has on her body resembles some of the spines I’ve seen on certain species of sea urchin. In those species, the spines fragment after stabbing into anything attacking the sea urchin.”

“So when they break off after being struck, whoever hit Diana is going to find themselves riddled with shards of material that have been honed to a monomolecular edge?”

“Yep. It’d be like punching a grenade.”

“…” Lightning sighed. “I guess I know why Diana wanted to look for sea urchins the last time we went to the beach.” She frowned as the flesh on Diana’s back erupted outward. “That… is very odd.” Vast, feathery wings emerged, only for the feathers to change, becoming the same unusual substance that Vanille had just explained.

“Ah. Nice. Grimm typically have highly flexible biologies that are mostly compatible with each other. Diana’s already eaten a Nevermore, so she’s using its wing structure as a base and modifying it using the material she’s just created.”

“How much of this is instinctive?” Lightning asked.

“Most of it, at this stage, anyway. She knows what she wants, and her Semblance goes digging to see if it’s got anything that works for it. Diana thinks flying is cool, and being able to fly and shoot feathers that explode into monomolecular shrapnel is even cooler.”

“I’ll have to keep an eye on that.” Lightning watched as Diana’s tail shortened, shifting into something better suited for flight. “Diana,” she said. “No. We’re supposed to be going to the card store to pick up those Gary cards you ordered in fifteen minutes. Finish eating, or we’ll be late. No flying around.”

The miniature Ragnarok huffed but went back to eating the downed Grimm.

“Well, I suppose this does help keep the grocery bill down, and we are helping society,” Lightning said. “And you’re recording all of this, aren’t you?”

Vanille nodded. “Yep. I wasn’t able to study Fang’s Semblance at this age due to lack of equipment and knowledge, but I’m in a better position now.” Diana dripped what looked to be a copy of Grimm’s corrosive fluid onto some of the flesh. It was not affected. “Hmm… she’ll probably find a use for that somewhere.”

“I’m just glad she’s eating more neatly,” Lightning said with a sigh. “The first time she found something she really wanted to eat was… troubling.”

“I’ll say.” Vanille winced. Diana had basically transformed into a whirling ball of claws and teeth and basically blenderised the Grimm she’d wanted to eat. Apart from the sheer quantity of gore flying everywhere, it was one of the few times that Diana had abandoned anything even vaguely resembling a humanoid form. it was, in many ways, a disturbing reminder that although Ragnarok generally maintained a humanoid form there was no reason it had to. “Well, she’s just about done.”

And Diana was. There was very little of the Grimm left, and Diana finished off that last portion before transforming back into her usual self and skipping over to Lightning. “Can we get something to drink on the way home?” she asked. “I’m kind of thirsty, mom.”

Lightning patted Diana on the head and then sighed. Unlike Fang, Diana had yet to master the fine art of not shredding her clothing. Thankfully, Lightning always carried around spares. “We can get something on the way back from the card store. Here. Put on your spare clothes.”

X     X     X

Author’s Notes

Ragnarok can eat things to gather information that it can use to create or modify genetic templates. It’s become something of an inside joke in the family that some Grimm are so bad that ‘they’re not even worth eating’.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

You can find my original fiction on Amazon here.

[thejunkelemental]

Visitor

It is cold in the copse.  The dead ash creak their ghostly murmurs and the old leaves still crunch beneath my soles.  It is a hollow place I come to where the trash on the ground suggest stories they never confirm.  A child’s doll, three shotgun shells, a paint bucket slung carelessly over the jagged wood of a missing limb. They all begin stories or, perhaps, hint at middles or ends.  I can make no sense of them. “Here again.” There is no wind.  Breeze sometimes meanders its way past the trees but the wind never comes here.  So I cannot mistake the voice for the wind, not the sickly wet syllables.  It always sounds like it is drinking, taking a moment between a long gulp to speak.  Its mouth must be an ocean but I do not think I want to see what fills it. “Here again.”  I answer back.  This time it is above me and I feel that were I to angle my jaw up toward the hidden moon, I would see its long, branching limbs clawed into the side of a trunk or tangle of vines.  It would be too close to me, far, far too close and I might see too much.  I would gasp.  My heart would thunder. And it would hear it. And that would be that.

I’m glad my last meal was between friends.  We cleaned the kitchen in silence afterward till not one speck remained.  I left the leftovers with them. “Its heart.  Still beats.  Such a.  Sad melody.” Sometimes I imagine its jaw is like the mandibles of some immense insect.  It must be agonizing to be devoured by it.  Once I kept a praying mantis for the winter till she revealed her gender by dying in childbirth.  She ate crickets with mechanical efficiency, there was no mercy and no cruelty.  She would eat them how she caught them, from the head or from the abdoman.  Their suffering was nothing. But this is different.  This predator hates the taste of suffering. “Stronger, maybe?” It chirps and clicks, “Finally let.  Her go?” “Not yet.”  I kneel to pick up a stick.  It feels heavy in my hand, solid.  But I just wanted some distance.  If I don’t stand up soon it will move to fill the empty space so I don’t stay crouched longer than a moment.  “Maybe I’m not cut out for this moving on thing.” “Poor human. So heartbroken.”  Maybe it heard someone sound sincere once and wants to mimic it.  But it gets the tone all wrong.  “Look at. The facts.  She chose. To Leave.  You.  She will. Not speak.  To you.  Do you.  Dream she. Will find. Freedom less.  Satisfying than.  Your embrace?” “I don’t need you to lecture me about what I already know.”  I take a few experimental swings with it.  I can imagine so many ways it would crack against that gaunt body.  I would be dead after a single swing. If I got that far. “I came again.  You asked.  I came.  The third night.”  I take a deep breath.  “Will you take me now?” Click.  Click.  Click.  Its talons click on the wood. “No.” I didn’t expect to feel disappointed, but I do.  “Oh.” “Where is.  Your strength?”  It asks me quietly, “Where is.  Your hope?  No fear.  Only sorrow.  Your offering.  Is unnacceptable.” I knew that.  I knew that, of course.  But for a moment I was hoping it could be done. “Why not?”  I won’t look at it.  I won’t disresepct it.  I want it to consume me, crack my bones for marrow and leave so little behind this forest won’t remember any part of the story.  No one will remember.  “Please.” “Do not.  Ask for. Death.” It rasps, “I am.  Not a. Cliff or.  A bag.  Of pills.”  It bristles and I can tell it has been offended.  I wonder if it will be here next time.  I hope it will.

I feel it descend.  There’s a something in the space above me that feels like the prow of a ship gliding across a black ocean.  It is silent but present.  I expect more reprimands but perhaps its silence is enough.  Perhaps this judgement passed by a gaunt specter of death is what I deserve for standing here, asking again for it to take me off my own hands.

“Do you. Want a.  Hug?” I didn’t expect the tears but they trace my cheeks and fall into darker places.  They roll out of me like this ocean of regret and sorrow that will not abate.  I wish I was home right now, wrapped in her warmth and illuminated by the flickerglow of the television set.  I wish my mind swam with new dreams and wonders.  I wish I was with her to explore them. But I am here in the copse of woods my neighbor owns.  The creature will not eat me no matter how many times I have asked.  I fear it, at least some distant primal part of me does, but that does not stop me. And yet. And yet. “Yes,” I croak and my voice is sobs, “I would really like a hug.” Its skin is cold as frost kissed on a metal pole, but its arms are strong. I sob there in the dark. Maybe next week. Maybe next week.

[anthropwashere]

i’m still, still dreaming magnificent things (part 2)

chapter 1

AO3 || FFN

Man, remember when I said this was going to be about 12k total? Remember when I admitted yeah, okay, scratch that, but there’s only going to be two parts and an epilogue? Forget that too. Here’s part two of who-knows how many parts now, it alone is just shy of 19k, and I sure hope you’re in the mood to be distressed about Alphonse again! I don’t have any idea what I’m doing here but boy I sure am having fun with it. \o/

=

Another year, another visit for maintenance. Ed's reliable in this at least; he breaks his automail as if he needs an excuse to visit the only family he's got left.

"Limping again? You're really starting the new year off with a bang, aren't you?"

Ed, of course, doesn't react, but it’s 1914 now. Alphonse has long since grown used to being ignored. Still, he wants something, so he reaches over and sticks an arm through his brother's side. He's rewarded with a shiver, a sharp hiss of pain, and Ed's hand jumping to his ribs.  He almost feels guilty for a moment—the limp might not be just a mechanical fault after all—but he shrugs it off. He's learned to ignore that old pain as a matter of self-preservation.

"Lousy goddamn drunk," Ed growls to himself, dropping his hand and picking up the pace again. So that narrows down the list of causes running through Alphonse's head. An accident, more than likely. He wonders if any of Ed's ribs are broken.

"It's your own fault," he tells Ed airily as they walk up the hill to Rockbell Automail. "You're too reckless. If you're not going to bother looking both ways before you cross the street, you have to face the consequences. And that's nothing to say of how often you come limping back after a mission either. Face it, Brother; at the rate you're going, you're gonna be one skinny streak of scar tissue before you're twenty."

He's only being honest, after all. The years since that night haven't been kind to Ed—or perhaps it's more honest to say that Ed hasn't been kind to himself. He's picked up a habit of high collared jackets and gloves to hide the worst of it—always black, the only thing he ever wears that isn't black is that flashy red overcoat. He can't hide the scar on his chin that needed nine stitches (Alphonse had counted, appalled), his crooked nose, or the ever-present shadows under his staring eyes. In photographs or in person Ed always looks haunted, and Alphonse could just laugh.

"You're useless on your own," he tells Ed, because it's true, and because no one can admonish him for being petty. What's the sense in being polite, in holding back, when no one can hear you? If he doesn't look at Ed's face on the way up he can't see it tighten with pain. He shouldn't have to convince himself not to feel guilty. It's not like he could have done anything to stop it.

Winry, bless her, can do all the shouting at Ed he can't. She's his favorite.

"Were you hit by a car?!"

Ed scowls, slapping her hand away from the raw scrape across his cheek. "A truck, actually. And before you start—" She scoffs loudly, but he barrels on before she can get another snide word in. "—it wasn't my fuckin' fault. The asshole was drunk."

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "You usually have better reflexes than the average drunk asshole."

He shoves past her, limping down the hall to his room. Winry follows a step behind. "Yeah, well, wasn't like I was expecting him to jump the goddamn curb, now was I?"

"Hmph. You did go to the hospital, right?"

"Course I did, I'm not an idiot—"

"You sure as hell act like one most of the time. Stubborn as a mule—"

He shoulders his bedroom door open. There's a dent in the wall from the doorknob banging off it he quit repairing with alchemy ages ago. "—and I'm fine, thanks for asking. Now can you get off my back so I can change?"

"What? You just got here, why don't you relax for a little while?"

"Next train's in two days and unless that asshole really fucked my leg up I plan on being on that train. I don't want to be here any longer than necessary."

"God, Ed, do you have to make it sound like it so horrible to come home now and then? I can't remember the last time we didn't see you beat to hell."

"What do you care? I'm your best customer."

Winry throws her hands up in defeat. "Oh, for—! I don't know why I even bother sometimes."

"Me neither. Now get out."

Ed slams the door, bracing against it in case Winry tries to jimmy it open. There's a loud bang that sounds like she gives it a solid kick on principle, but then she huffs and stomps off down the hall. Ed remains tense a few seconds longer, then sinks against the door with another hiss of pain. His breath hitches, his eyes scrunch tight, he bares his clenched teeth in a snarl he doesn't allow himself to voice.

Alphonse watches this display of pain curiously. He can't quite remember what pain felt like anymore. It's one of those intimate details of life—of living, of being alive—that slipped away when he wasn't paying attention. He looks at his hands, reviews the scars that he died with, that will be with him forever. If he concentrates he can remember being hurt—a finger broken while sparring, bruises, scraped knees, a time he burned his hand on the stove. There's a pink scratch on the back of his left hand—from a cat, probably. An older sun-kissed scar on his right wrist—that one's from Yock Island. White twists across three knuckles—the eventual wear and tear of sparring everyday with Ed.

He can remember being hurt, he can remember the shock that came with being hurt, but the actual pain eludes him. It's like trying to remember what hunger or thirst were like; he remembers that these things were unpleasant, but the acuteness of them, the visceral concern... it's beyond him now.

So he watches the living. He reflects on the care they take to avoid unnecessary pain. He watches Ed cross the bedroom with the same hesitant, wrong-legged walk of a praying mantis creeping along a garden wall. Ed limps to the bed like he doesn't trust his automail or his balance or the floorboards or gravity. He drops the suitcase to the mattress, eases out of his overcoat, pulls off his gloves, pauses. He breathes. He grits his teeth. He unclasps his jacket, tugging it off one sleeve at a time. His black shirt is last. He only uses his right arm to pull it over his head, holding out the left like he's trying hard not to jar it—

Alphonse sighs. "Oh, Brother."

Ed's whole left side is a patchwork mess of deep purple bruises, only just beginning to green at the edges. His ribs stand out starkly where the bruising skips across the bones. His left arm is just as battered, and the ginger way he moves it must mean it’s a miracle he didn’t need a cast. God, did he go under the wheels of the truck? If he didn’t make it habit to wear so many layers, how torn up would he be otherwise?

At least it’s unlikely he’s earned himself any more scars this time.

Alphonse winces normally whenever he sees Ed undressed. He’s too skinny, never mind he eats like it's a competition he intends to win whenever he's in Resembool. But it's not just the jut of his ribs that makes Alphonse worry (Don't military bases have cafeterias? Doesn't anyone pull Ed away from his research to make sure he eats regularly?). It's his damage.

Ed is a good fighter, there's no question of that. But he's hot-headed, he never watches his back, and he doesn't know how to defuse a bad situation before it can come to blows. He fights too much, too often. It's obvious. One look at him without a shirt on is enough to know Ed's in over his head more often than not. These marks on him, all over him, down his arms and across his back, his ribs, marring all the places he'd left himself open to a knife or knuckle dusters or debris or who-knows what else—these marks tell the stories Ed refuses to. They tell of the victories that came at a cost.

The easy wins, the times Ed walked away with nothing more than another headline in Central Times exulting the People's Alchemist, leave no marks that Alphonse can measure easily. There's only the cracks in the brutal, foul-mouthed front he puts up. Every time he comes back to Resembool he's fractured a little more in this broken glass, red-edged raw kind of way that never leaves his frantic, unblinking stare.

Alphonse stands by the bookshelf that bends quietly beneath the weight of all the books Winry collected from their house one armful at a time during Ed’s rehabilitation. His forced dismissal of Ed's pain falters here behind the privacy of a locked door, in the quiet spells where Ed has no audience to put a front on for. Here, in this room that's the closest thing Ed has left to a home, Ed's just a kid again; alone, lonely, hurting.

It's obvious that Ed is always scared these days. More and more, Ed is scary too.

He watches Ed toe his boots off, undo his belt, shimmy out of his trousers. He watches Ed pull on a pair of workout shorts and a long-sleeved shirt. He hears Ed's breath hitch; he tries not to wince along with him, feels guilty for the need of it, forces his useless hands to remain at his sides. He watches Ed tiptoe around the edges of his pain. His leg is as damaged as the rest of him; the knee doesn't bend as it should and the shin plate, when he pulls it out of his suitcase, is warped enough to look as if it had been sheared off its bolts.

"Does it hurt to walk?" Alphonse asks. "Or is the limp only because it's broken?"

Even if Ed could hear him he doubts he'd get a straight answer. It's not like he ever gives Winry one after all, and she's the one who built his leg. Ed ought to realize by now that he does more harm than good by being cagey about how the automail feels or operates. Winry doesn't need to be coddled; she needs accurate data to keep him on two strong legs.

Oh well. Winry's smart—a hell of a lot smarter than Ed, though whether Ed will ever realize that or not is a different story. She'll see the bruises on his other leg and make him do laps around the yard to gauge the damage by eye if he won't tell her outright. Stubborn mules, the pair of them.

"It's good to see you," Alphonse says quietly.

The thing is, it should be good to see Ed. It should be good to see his brother with his own eyes, to know for sure Ed's survived the latest wild story that's made headlines and busted his leg again. But it isn't. These short trips for maintenance only emphasize the years that separate them now. Alphonse has watched Ed grow up in spurts, like a badly edited film reel. Despite how Winry and Granny tease, Ed is growing. He's more than a foot taller than Alphonse now. He never cuts his hair, just braids it back and shakes his bangs irritably out of his eyes. It falls nearly halfway down his back now when he lets it down. He's put on muscle, gone wiry and lean, gotten strong enough by necessity to handle whatever madmen he meets on the missions he's sent on. But he's only fifteen. He's got years of growing up left to do, but he acts like he's already checked the whole untidy affair of puberty off his to-do list.

"Shut up and eat," is a common retort out of Granny whenever Ed visits. She worries about him too. Ed's face always reminds Alphonse of Yock Island; of being too weak to defend themselves against Mason, of Ed being so out of his mind with hunger he thought a line of ants looked like fancy chocolates. He's glad Granny glowers at Ed until he's cleared his plate at least twice.

It hurts—in a manner of speaking—to see Ed when he comes home again. Fracturing day by day, too skittish to linger, dooming himself to break down far from the rolling hills of the childhood he shelved after that terrible night.

Being a State Alchemist is going to get Ed killed one day, Alphonse is sure of it. Each time the radio blares praises for the Fullmetal Alchemist a part of him expects Ed to come home in a pine box with the Amestrian flag draped over it like an apology. Tommy Granger was buried like that last year, just a couple weeks before Ed came back for maintenance with a mostly healed burn all down his right forearm he refused to say anything about. Tommy Granger, who used to sleepwalk in unhurried circles in the market, who told the pair of them off for wandering around in the middle of the night, who used to send money home to his mom every month. Tommy Granger was killed in some skirmish a hundred miles away and all Mrs. Granger got for it was a pretty medal to hang on the wall beside Tommy's boot camp graduation picture.

That could be Ed one day. Buried too young beside Mom's first grave, with his pocket watch and some letter that goes on out about "services rendered in defense of our nation" given to Winry and Granny because there’s no one else left. If Ed dies maybe Granny will use the money they'll give to finally give Alphonse a headstone too. An empty grave is better than nothing. Sometimes he wonders if Granny would be morbid enough to take a photograph to add to the corkboard in the kitchen. The family Elric; deceased.

It hurts too, to see the way Winry flinches whenever Ed snaps out something ugly and barbed so she'll leave him alone. Alphonse doesn't get why Ed's so intent on pushing Winry away, especially after all the things the other kids their age have said about the both of them. She's always bruised easier than Ed, has always taken the cruelty of others to heart. Ed makes an effort to salt the half-healed hurts Winry picks at on her own when Ed is far away risking his life for some half-cracked cause (Just like her parents, and why doesn't Ed ever realize that's why Winry worries?). He stomps off to sulk and leaves Winry with the piece of him he's dumped in her lap again with barely more than an apologetic trinket to bribe her with and a, "Sorry, thanks, wasn't my fault, put that down holy shit—"

But the thing is, Ed's kind of an idiot. He bristles and bares his teeth and calls her names and thinks she's stupid for caring about him, but Winry's brilliant. She's twice as smart as the two of them ever were together and she sees right through the worst Ed ever slings at her. Yeah, it still hurts her. Yeah, Ed's upset her to tears more than once. But Winry is something Ed isn't. She's adaptable. Ed is steadfast and unyielding; he draws his line in the sand and demands the world meet his expectations (and fractures a little more every time it doesn't). Winry takes the hits the world throws, turns the other cheek for another, and no one—especially his idiot brother—ever thinks to pay any attention to that throwing arm of hers.

Ed's turned vicious over the years, it's true. But Winry gives as good as she gets, firing Ed up and kicking him when he's down and belittling him to the point where Ed's only option is to go hide up a tree until dinner, spare leg or no. Bickering is too kind a word for the fights they get into all up and down and around Rockbell Automail. They scream. They push and pull and hit. They've gotten mean with each other, and no matter how many times he sees these fights break out Alphonse just can't understand it. It's just the three of them left, Ed and Winry and Granny, and Granny won't be around forever. They're the only family they have, so why are they so intent on tearing each other apart?

He knows they can’t hear him—he knows, he knows, he knows—but he still can’t help but try and stop them when they get like this. It isn’t right, to hurt each other like this. Ed’s not even been back a day and they’re at each other’s throats. As far as he can tell it started with elbows on the table and an innocuous comment about being raised in a barn, and now somehow it’s escalated to insulting each other’s dead mothers, never mind how much that hurts themselves just as much as it does each other.

“Stop,” he shouts. “Would you two stop! You were both raised better than this, what the hell’s the matter with you?”

He makes a grab for Ed’s wrist, trying in vain to hold him back. Ed shivers bodily when his hands passes through him, snarling out, “—and I hate being stuck in this drafty goddamn house for that matter!”

Alphonse turns to Granny, begging, “Do something.”

Granny's mouth has gone thin and pinched again, the way Alphonse has learned means she's at a loss for how to rein these two in. Worse still, it means she's disappointed. "Enough," she barks, startling them both. Ed's got a lock of Winry's hair in his fist and she's shoved him up against a wall, purposefully pressing on all the bruises Ed's pretending don't exist. They blink at Granny like they'd forgotten she was still in the room. "Not in the house," Granny says, voice sharp as a slap. Even Alphonse shies back a little. "Our three o'clock is due any minute. Winry, try and make yourself presentable for company. And Ed?"

Ed scowls. "Yeah?"

"I'm sure you've got better things to occupy yourself with than trying to scalp my granddaughter?"

"I wasn't—!"

The glare she levels over her glasses could curdle milk. Ed's an idiot, but he's at least smart enough to duck his head in an apology he's too stubborn to voice. "...Sure, yeah."

He shoulders past Winry to beat a hasty retreat to his room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle pictures on the wall. Winry opens her mouth, no doubt to shout something nasty after him, but Granny puts a stop to it. "I said that's enough!"

"But he—!"

"Has a lot on his mind, as well you know."

Winry chews on her lip, glaring down the hall. "He doesn't have to take it out on us."

Granny puts on a smile that doesn't fool Alphonse for a second. "Who else is there?"

Den starts barking out in the yard; their three o'clock has arrived right on time.

Two days later Ed's on the train bound for East City just like he wanted, a whirlwind that comes and goes and never says thank you for all trouble. Normalcy is restored.

In the years since Ed burned their house down, Alphonse has had to find ways to keep himself distracted. He spends his days wandering; always moving, always restless, always wanting more. He's been bored for so long he can't remember what it's like to be satisfied with sleepy mornings or sun-soaked afternoons, of finding peace in the still hours. He spent the ten short years of his life making as much use of his waking moments as he could, working towards the day he and Ed could finally get their lives back on track once Mom was alive again. Now? Now he can't so much as doodle on a piece of scrap paper because he isn't real enough to touch anything.

There are only about a thousand people in Resembool, mostly clustered together in the town proper. He didn't know all of them by name before he died, but he could recognize most of them in that absent, automatic way the human mind categorizes people after you've seen them enough times. But he died years ago now. His life ended in bloodshed and ruin, and all of the distractions of his life have been excised from him. All that's left is an unflinching eye for detail and a restlessness impossible to sate. The people here are his only entertainment, and in the years since Ed earned his pocket watch he's learned to love them all for a hundred different reasons, a thousand, for far more than he could ever quantify.

He's learned the names of every single person, the complexities of their family trees and the intricacies of their social circles, their favorite candies, their least favorite chores. He knows the gossip mongers from the shut-ins, the hard working and the frenzied from the lazy and the slovenly. He'll chose someone to follow for days on end, memorizing the way they speak with their hands as much as the tone of their voices, all they ways they'll laugh, who they avoid and who they seek out gladly. He memorized their lives, from the celebrations to the inanities to the pitfalls, and loves them for every moment they shine.

He watches families rise for each day, house by house, room by room. Siblings and only children, toddlers and kids and teens, all loud laughter and roughhousing and first times for everything. Young mothers and old wives, young fathers and old husbands. Spouses who hold hands over their morning coffee. Spouses who put on a front of a loving marriage but sleep in separate bedrooms and never speak to one another otherwise. Grandparents who outlived their spouses once, twice, three times, sitting alone on their narrow beds and looking at their wizened hands with weary astonishment. The handful of MPs in the cramped barracks on the east side of town, with the sour-faced lieutenant stuck in command of old sergeants who look down their noses at this would-be hard-charger. He watches people stumble out of bed, yawning unabashedly wide, scratching and picking at themselves in bathroom mirrors, holding quiet conversations over breakfast, making to-do lists to check off another day of their lives.

He loves them all, from the oldest (Cadogan Pugh, who's going to be 103 this September, who still speaks with the thick accent of his home country though he immigrated to Amestris when he was 26) to the youngest (Lorena Rudaski, only three weeks old; Alphonse had been there when her mother had named her). He has to love them because the alternative is too ugly to consider; how could he dare envy any of them? He died because of his own choices, his own mistakes. He has to love them because they can do all the things he no longer can. He watches them cook and clean, eat and sleep. He reads over their shoulders, devouring newspapers and trashy dime store novels and medical textbooks and personal diaries without bias. He walks through storefronts and sitting rooms, barns and bathrooms, eager always to listen in to any idle conversation or hushed argument. Sometimes he does walk in on something people wouldn't want anyone else to see, let alone a ten year old boy. But he doesn't mind, not really, and a little embarrassment now and then keeps things lively—in a manner of speaking, any way.

Resembool is a little town, reluctant to change. Granny's photographs of fifty years past show a town nearly unchanged. Just the people change. Faces, fashions, the brikabrak inside each home. The day-to-day drudgery blurs and crystallizes to his eyes. Kids go to school, farmers tend to their fields, mail is sorted, coffee made, rips mended. So it goes.

He learns the little things adults do to keep their chins up when they have to put on a good face for their neighbors. He learns how low people can be brought by personal demons as invisible to him as he is to them. He learns who needs a touch at the elbow to remind them that it's alright to take breaks, and who needs that touch but has no one there to do it. He chills their hands until they grumble and fetch a fresh cup of coffee, and he smiles to himself for a job well-done.

The people almost make his loneliness bearable.

Of course, there's more to find than people in Resembool.

"Good morning, Mister Tafano," Alphonse calls out on his way past the post office.

"Graaaaaagh," Mr. Tafano replies.

To be fair, Alphonse doesn't think Mr. Tafano ever spoke Amestrian when he was still alive. He's fairly sure the other ghost was a native of whatever country claimed this valley before Amestris came along. The few words he can coax the man to grumble sound a little like they might be Aerugan, or at least a near dialect of it. It's difficult to tell if it's the language barrier or a simple lack of inclination that leaves Mr. Tafano a slouched and snarling thing curled up in the roots of the oldest tree in town proper. It took Alphonse four months just to learn his name, and he hasn't gotten much more out of him since.

In retrospect he's a bit embarrassed by how much shouting he did back then. But back then, just days after Ed burned their house down, he hadn't known about the other ghosts of Resembool. In the year of Ed’s rehabilitation he never left Ed’s side, barely going beyond the hill Rockbell Automail is perched on. He'd shied away from town, from people who would walk right through him and tug at their jackets against the chill. He spent the days clawing at the invisible wall that stands between him and the rest of the world—and far more importantly, from Ed—and the nights at the edge of the burnt-down ruins of their house. He avoided Winry and Granny, sunk lower and lower into his own misery until....

Well, until the day he didn't hurry through town quite so fast as he usually did, and he looked up and saw a monster looking back.

Alphonse once thought time couldn't touch him anymore. Mr. Tafano and all the others have since taught him otherwise. Time, in its own way, wears all things down to dust and less than dust. People die and their bodies decompose quietly in boxes beneath the earth, but ghosts are torn apart one papery layer at a time until there's nothing but a shadow left of the people they once were.

Mr. Tafano must have died at least three centuries to go, and every year of it shows. There's no telling what he used to look like, if he'd been fat or thin, brown-skinned or pale, dressed richly or in rags. Now he's a red-eyed, skeletal, toothsome thing that growls like an ill-tempered dog at the living that can’t hear him. Still, he's not all bad. He's content enough to let Alphonse spend a few hours with him now and then. He won't say much, and if he does speak at all it's gibberish to Alphonse, but they'll sit together in the shade of the old oak tree, watching the people go to and fro through the square, and it's… nice. It really is nice. Mr. Tafano doesn't look like a person, not like Alphonse or any of the others do. He's like a child's scribbled charcoal drawing with two hot coals for eyes, but Alphonse is pretty sure that has to do with how long he's been dead rather than out of any malicious intentions. He's the oldest ghost Alphonse has found still capable of any sort of recognizable speech, though not the oldest ghost in Resembool.

There are several wisps out in the western woods, curls of dim gray smoke with the vaguest suggestions of hands and fireflies for eyes, that can only snarl and shriek when he draws near. There's one more just outside the invisible barrier that weeps when Alphonse calls out to it, its tears wrung dry of meaning a long, long time ago. He doesn't know who they were or how long they've been there. They can't touch him anymore than he can touch them, but he keeps his distance anyway. He prefers the ghosts who can speak his language, even if they're just as much of a warning of what awaits him as Mr. Tafano and the shades.

The next oldest ghost he’s found was a few years younger than Alphonse when she died. Uschi lives—more or less—in the overgrown ruins of a gristmill about two miles out of town. She speaks a stilted, old-fashioned sort of Amestrian, and it was her parents' generation that settled in this valley and gave it the name it has today. She was one of the last ghosts he found but the most helpful in understanding this limbo he's trapped in; what she can't explain in words she shows him, giggling and grinning for the pleasure of his company.

She's the one that showed him gravity is a state of mind, that walking on the ground is optional, that he  could trail his unfeeling hands along the bellies of clouds if he dared to. It's not flight, not like how birds and bats and insects work to defy gravity with a grace that only appears effortless. He can just—do it, simple as that. It's thought. All he has to do is think, Up, and he's left the waving grass and tilled fields of his home behind. There's no stomach swooping terror, no thready rush of adrenaline, no heartbeat knocking wildly in his chest. Up and up, as high as he dares, until Resembool is laid out like a watercolor painting beneath his kicking feet.

He could go higher than that, if he dared. He could rise and rise until the clouds were cream-colored streaks beneath him and all that was above would be the blue-black nothingness glittering with innumerable stars. The thought of what might be beyond there, up beyond the barrier around Resembool, grounds him always. How high could he go before the last reluctant finger of gravity loosed its grip and just—let him go?

(He never dares to find out. He's still ten years old at heart, and there will always be a part of him that's terrified of the dark.)

Uschi is old, not in the years she lived but in the years—centuries—since her death. He would have thought she'd know everything there is to know about Resembool, from the days when Granny's father established Rockbell Prosthetic Limb Outfitters, back when automail was in its primitive infancy. But she doesn't know anything, not about the Rockbells or any of the other families that have been here since she died. She doesn't know when the church or the smithy were built, when the railroad extended this far into the mountains, not anything.

Well, no. That's unfair. She knows the seasons and the years they count. She knows the river's freezes and thaws, the migration patterns of birds, where the gnats will swarm on sticky summer afternoons, and a thousand lonesome things besides.

She never leaves the ruins of her home. Alphonse isn’t sure she can. He’s never asked.

There are several other ghosts Alphonse has found over the years. He's about positive he's found all of Resembool's restless dead by now, but he holds out thinking that for certain. It's a little town, sure, but it's got a long history. There are a lot of ways people can die, a lot of nooks and crannies where a ghost might pace.

There's Mr. Beckenbauer who lurks—it's really the best word for it, he lurks—over his granddaughter Felicity Hildebrand, her husband Elias, and their son Barnabas out in their farm by the eastern hills. He died before Felicity was born and Barnabas is 23 now.

Mrs. Morgenstern drowned in the flood of 1873, when she was 39 years old. The thaw claimed six lives that spring, but she was the only one who lingered.

Steffie was 19 and married only three months when her house burned down. Her husband, Owen, survived to remarry a few years after that. He lost one son to a border skirmish, another to a farm accident in the neighboring town, and died himself in the bombing of Resembool station. His second wife and third son, Victoria and Conrad Sauter, own the clothing boutique on Main Street.

Ada Nichols had been the nurse at the clinic in town, taken by an epidemic over a century ago. She'd been 27.

Walt Teller had thrown himself under the train in the first year after the railroad was built. He'd been 51.

Isaiah Shriver had been an MP, killed by another soldier in an accidental misfire when they’d been drinking at the pub. He’d flirted with Granny back when she’d been 20 as well, but that was a long time ago.

Gil Cuttler lost both legs in a border skirmish—a different one than Owen and Victoria Sauter's first son, Alphonse had asked—been outfitted with automail by Granny back when Uncle Yurie had been Ed and Winry's age, then drowned in the storm Teacher saved the town from. His ghost still has automail limbs, a touch less blurred than the rest of him, a touch more solid somehow. He died within shouting distance of Mrs. Morgenstern, and he visits her on every day it rains.

Sleepy little towns up in the mountains don't have much in the way of bloody excitement, and that's something the ghost stories got right. Violent deaths. Life torn out of a body in a bright burst of pain and terror. Nobody who died old lingers over the families they left behind, nor those who died of sickness nor disease.

Alphonse has clung to that realization like a drowning person to a life preserver.  They killed Mom, that night. She died bloody and torn open, gasping her last even as her new lungs tried to find purchase in her broken ribs, but she didn't leave a ghost behind. Her first death had been slow, untreatable, expected. She died in her bed trying her hardest to comfort the both of them right up to the end. None of the ghosts he'd asked knew for sure if a piece of herself had lingered after her first death—none of them wandered out as far as their old house—but he hoped. He hoped her first death balanced out the second. Better that she died too quickly to have felt any pain. Better that she choked quickly and went back to whatever comes after for the peaceful death, if there really is something so nice as an after.

He had been so afraid of Mr. Tafano when he first saw him. Uschi too, scared him pretty badly. He knows better now than to be afraid of old ghosts. They're the only ones who can see him, and they light up when he comes to talk to them. None of them wander as far as he can, not even Mr. Cuttler, the youngest ghost before him.

Maybe its' a fluke of how he died; deconstructed by alchemy, his atoms scattered. Maybe one day, long decades from now, he'll be like the others. Trapped in the overgrown ruins of the house his long-dead brother burned down. Maybe he'll always be able to walk the full breadth of Resembool as he can now. Either way, he’s going to become one more skeletal, grumbling shade that won't be understood by the future ghosts of Resembool.

That, he knows, will come in time.

Time passes, as it does.

Alphonse, as always, remains attentive for any mention of Ed in the newspaper, on the radio, or from any of the out-of-towners who make it to the end of the tracks. By necessity he’s learned to piece together the stories that Ed refuses pointblank to share.

There is, of course, the sensationalism that dogs—pun very much intended—Ed's footsteps wherever he goes. He’s famous these days, and not just for being the youngest State Alchemist in history anymore. Journalists and reporters have nothing but glowing words for him, even if it's all wrapped up in adroit alliteration and positive propaganda for the military as a whole (Granny's scoffing reaches new depths of pessimism every week, it's as impressive as it is hilarious). The gossip that makes its way by word of mouth to Resembool is so much fluff and nonsense. There's never much in the way of details and Alphonse is, as always, left wanting more. But if nothing else it's always good press for Ed.

More often than not Ed puts his missions and his myth-hunting on the back burner to save those little towns because no one else will. Ed saw a demand and became the supply, and the only thing he demands in return from the people whose lives he's bettered is that they keep moving, that no matter how bad things get they mustn't stagnate. Don't slip, don't fall, don't sink into the mire, never drown.

People all across the country have taken to calling him the People's Alchemist. All these little backwater towns he's saved from brigands and corruption and disaster, just like Teacher saved Resembool when they were kids. Is she who he aspires to be ? Did everything she taught them set the groundwork for the kind of man Ed might want to be? Alphonse wonders if Teacher pays as much attention to what the military-funded media channels pump out as he does. What she thinks of her stupid pupil's antics? Does she ever wonder why Alphonse's name doesn't crop up alongside Ed's?

Ed has never mentioned Teacher since that night, at least not anywhere Alphonse could overhear. He's never brought up Dublith or their training, or even the Southern region at large. Sometimes Alphonse wishes Ed would seek Teacher out, never mind she'd skin him alive and strangle him with his own tanned hide for good measure. Whatever punishment she'd dole out would be worth it for Ed to have another alchemist not allied to the military to talk to.

Alphonse understands why Ed hasn't gone back there, and certainly doesn't envy Ed the day he does darken Teacher's doorstep again. There was one thing she hammered again and again into their heads—the great flow, the cycle of life and death, the finality of a headstone, the brutal slap of the past tense—and what did they do?

(Alphonse can't feel anything anymore, but he shivers anyway whenever he thinks about how furious Teacher would be with them.)

Winry and Granny are almost as obsessive as he is about keeping an ear and eye out for Ed's name. They’ve put together a photo album to catalogue all of his exploits that make the paper. There are the front page stories, full-color photographs, interviews, and even the little blurbs that amount to little more than the latest FULLMETAL SIGHTING that make Ed sound like some kind of rare bird. It's obvious Ed's not doing any of these good deeds for the fame; the interviews always come across like Ed's irritated by the journalists for wasting his time, and the journalists always come phrase their questions like Ed's knife collection is on full display by question three.

Ed scares Alphonse. He really does. He's a shadow of the kid he used to be. He's not growing up so much as breaking down, like he's swallowing every bit of broken glass he snatches away from the people he's saved so they can't hurt themselves with it. He's all cut up inside and outside both and still, still he's convinced that this path is the only one allotted him. Worse, it's the only one he'll allot himself.

But still—still—Alphonse is proud of his brother. Ed's photo album is nearly full of all the wonderful, astonishing thing he's accomplished in a few short years, and every one of them could have killed him and didn't. Ed could have broken down so much worse than this cracking, ramshackle cage he's made around his heart.

He’ll survive. He’ll survive as long as it takes him to realize the futility of his goal, and he’ll throw his pocket watch in Colonel Mustang’s face and build a better life for himself, free of brigands and corruption and disaster. He’ll come home to Resembool, he’ll reach out to Teacher, he’ll find something better to focus his brilliant mind on for the rest of his long, long life.

He has to, because the alternative is too much for Alphonse to bear.

There are a dearth of Fullmetal sightings for a while, which as always is as much of a relief as it is cause for concern. No news is good news, sure, but news is the only way he knows where Ed's at and what he's doing.

During these quiet interludes Alphonse likes to imagine Ed squirreling himself away in some dusty old library or another. Barricaded behind a wall of precariously leaning tomes and research journals, his fingers stained with ink, as content as he ever permits himself to be. He hopes Ed has a lot of good days like that, just Ed and alchemy and a pervasive quietness that might ease the tension always working in his jaw.

Of course, the interludes never last. One evening on the cusp of spring Ed's title blares out of the radio, startling the Powell family's mid-dinner. Alphonse just so happens to be perched on their mantle, having been eavesdropping on their oldest son’s plans to go study engineering at East City University.  Mr. Powell turns the volume knob and the lot of them listen intently for the latest on Resembool's poster boy.

The latest, as practically babbled by an audibly shaken newscaster, sounds like something straight out of a science fiction novel. Glaciers have formed up out of the canals of Central City, tearing apart infrastructure and homes, converging on Central Command in an unmistakable attack on the top brass and perhaps even the Fuhrer himself. Fullmetal is on the scene—when had he traveled to the capital?—doing everything he can to stop the alchemist responsible. Alongside him are two other State Alchemists, Flame and Strongarm, as well as what sounds like every soldier in the city working to keep civilians out of harm's way. The Powells forget their meal entirely, breathless with shock—"Every canal?" Mrs. Powell asks the room weakly—and Alphonse hovers over their heads, hugging himself tightly. The newscaster goes on to to explain that this impossible display of alchemy is—somehow—the work of only one man; a former State Alchemist named Isaac McDougal who had been given the entirely apt title of Freezer during the Eastern Conflict.

"But there's no way," Alphonse says to himself. "There isn't. One alchemist couldn't possibly freeze an entire city's water supply!"

But—But there could be a way. If this McDougal had somehow found the Philosopher's Stone....

That's got to be it. It has to be! There's no other way one transmutation circle could span a city, let alone one as large as Central. And there's Ed, right in the thick of it, fighting tooth and nail to stop this guy from destroying Central Command or whatever his insane plan is. If Ed's as smart, as fast, and as brutal as he's learned how to be out there on his own, then maybe this is it. Maybe his hard work will pay off. Maybe, maybe—!

Flame and Strongarm work together to break the array to stop the flow of the ice. They succeed and the ice shudders to a standstill, apparently right at the moat encircling Central Command. Elsewhere, Fullmetal and Freezer come to blows. Fullmetal injuries Freezer, Freezer injures Fullmetal, Freezer books it, and none other than the Fuhrer himself cuts him down. The newscaster assures those listening in at home that the Fuhrer wasn't injured in the altercation, that Fullmetal's injuries are minor, that the full damage done to Central will have to wait to be determined until the ice has melted. State Alchemists across the country will be called in to hasten it along, with Flame directing them as the best-suited to the task.

As the emergency report jingle fades out Alphonse sags with relief, his feet dangling through the Powells' dining table. Ed's—okay. He's okay. He went up against someone who must have had a Philosopher's Stone and walked away. The Stone is real. This is the proof, one madman doing something truly, unmistakably impossible. Even if his plan was stopped, the fact that he came so close as the base of Central Command—freezing half of Central to do it—is irrefutable proof of the Stone's existence.

But it's unlikely Ed had a chance to take it from McDougal, not if McDougal hurt Ed and then ran off. Did he have it when he went up against the Fuhrer? Surely not; the Fuhrer's 60th birthday is this year. He might still be an accomplished fighter, but one man against the same myth that destroyed a country? That almost destroyed the capital tonight? So the Stone was lost, or destroyed, or—something. So that puts Ed—almost—at square one again. Nearly, but not quite, because Ed’s not hunting a myth anymore.

The next Fullmetal reporting only warrants a four-paragraph article in the Times, and not even on the front page.

(The top headline that day belongs to a State Alchemist's murder, the sixth since the new year, and the whole of Resembool worried for Ed.)

The article briefly describes Ed's hand in dismantling a corrupt religious order in a city called Liore. There’s some property damage, as always, including the church itself being brought down to its foundations. Typical. Ed's rejection of God, all the trappings of faith, and his inability to keep his damn opinions to himself has gotten him into trouble again . Still, from the sound of things this Church of Leto was up to some shady business, so good on him.

There's no telling from such a small article if this was a mission Colonel Mustang sent him on, or if Ed had thought there'd been something suspicious about the head priest's "miracles." Alchemy has often been mistaken for magic and miracles in the past, after all. Still, apart from the destroyed church it doesn't sound like Ed got into too much trouble on his own. (Funny, how blasé he's gotten over Ed's penchant for property damage; even Winry and Granny just roll their eyes and cluck mild disapproval as Winry pastes the article into the photograph album.) He doubts Ed's going to come back for maintenance, and the next lull proves that.

Despite his attempts to convince himself not to, Alphonse worries. He second-guesses his previous dismissals of Ed ever finding a real Philosopher's stone, and lingers over the now uncomfortable thought of what Ed will do with one once he does. What if he'd gotten McDougal's? Or the possible one in Liore? What if Ed—far too reckless, completely unapologetic, forever gnashing his teeth impatiently—tries to perform human transmutation without testing the Stone's abilities on a smaller scale? What if he makes some clever variation on the array they made together and decides the risk of losing another limb—or limbs—is worth the reward of bringing Alphonse back? What if it's not a limb the next time? What if the next time kills Ed and his ghost is left haunting the streets of East City or some other far-off place? What if they'll both persist for centuries, unseen, unheard, out of reach forever from one another?

Each time his thoughts bear down this path he tries to wrench himself elsewhere, distract himself with a different household, a different person, a different taste or texture he tries to remember. He has to believe Ed's alright for this lull, the same as he has been for all the previous ones, the same as he'll be for all the ones that come after. Just because there's a vanishingly small chance Ed might have found a Philosopher's Stone in the coffers of some money-grubbing priest doesn't it make it automatically true. The Central Times would be all over it if the famous Fullmetal was hospitalized, or worse, went missing under mysterious circumstances. This is a lull, a pocket of benign banality.

Picture dusty libraries. Picture corner cafés and over-sugared coffees. Picture those uniformed coworkers of his known only by ranks, last names, and the odd anecdote shared offhand during maintenance visits. Picture them all getting dinner together after work, scolding Ed for not taking better care of himself, teasing him over some other kid his age making doe eyes at him despite his atrocious fashion sense and foul temper.  Picture Ed getting enough sleep to chase away the shadows under his eyes.

Ed's fine. Ed's always fine. He has to be.

The lull ends, as usual, with a great deal of fanfare and belated metaphorical heart attacks. This time Alphonse is in the Taylor residence when the emergency report jingle interrupts the afternoon news program. Fullmetal single-handedly took down a faction of the Eastern Liberation Front which had hijacked a train bound for East City. Their goal had been a hostage exchange; a major general and his family on the train for the leader of their political extremist group. Colonel Mustang is mentioned as having met Fullmetal at East's train station to apprehend the twelve men. From the sound of things Ed got away unscathed, and only three passengers—including the major general—required medical treatment upon arrival in East.

So, that's—good. Not Ed fighting twelve armed men in a moving train full of hostages. But Ed saved the day, and he won't have to be hospitalized (again) for his efforts. It's good enough.

Mrs. Taylor huffs, picking up her embroidery again as the news turns to other topics. "I don't understand how they can justify putting a child in harm's way like that."

"He's not really a child," Bella, their youngest, points out. "He's a whole year older than me."

"That's much too young to be fighting armed terrorists!"

Alphonse agrees wholeheartedly, not that he's got any say in it.

"That boy's always been an odd one," Mr. Taylor grunts from his well-worn chair nearest the fireplace in their sitting room. "And he's turned out to be a real nasty piece of work ever since the accident."

Alphonse scowls.

"It's no fault of his if he went a bit strange after that," Mrs. Taylor says.

"Stranger," Bella and Matt correct in unison, then laugh. Alphonse's scowl deepens. He never did like Bella much—she used to pull on Winry's hair in class when they were little—but Matt always seemed like a nice kid. People act so much differently when they're behind closed doors.

Mrs. Taylor hushes them both. "He's been through so much, and at his age no less! Poor thing.”

"I wish he'd stay longer when he does come back," Matt says after a pause. "He and Al used to fix stuff for us all the time, you know? And they never wanted money or anything."

"Bit thick of them," Mr. Taylor says. "They could've done well for themselves if they'd charged, paid back old Pinako with interest for her trouble."

"And how much would you have paid out of pocket when they fixed your dad's watch?" Mrs. Taylor asks archly, and both of the kids grin at their dad when he harrumphs.

"Well. I suppose it doesn't matter much now, does it? They must be paying him a fortune, being a dog of the military and all."

"D'you think he gets a bonus for every bad guy he catches?" Bella asks. "He's on the news all the time; he's gotta be rich!"

Mrs. Taylor sets her embroidery down again, tangling her fingers together nervously. She hates the news, whether or not Ed's involved. Any minute now she's going to go busy herself with the kettle and smoke on the back porch until her hands stop shaking. "I wish he'd never joined the military. There's no telling what awful things he's had to do for them, or how much of what we hear is even true!"

Alphonse slips out of their home as their conversation turns to the terrorists and the trouble they've been causing up and down the eastern region for years; yet another group in in a long string of them unhappy with the current state of things. Leave the grownups and the kids that still have a chance to grow up to worry about men with guns and the price of bread. He's not interested in the big picture; it doesn’t have any bearing at all on him.

Still, he walks out of their garden with his head down and hands fist in his pockets. He can't shake what Mrs. Taylor said. About the radio, and propaganda, and the nearly-full photo album Winry and Granny have compiled of all of Ed's good deeds. He thinks about the swell of pride he hopes Ed feels when he’s called the People's Alchemist before Fullmetal. He thinks about Auntie Sara and Uncle Yurie, and all the good they did during the Eastern Conflict before they were killed. He thinks about Colonel Mustang, and how the paper likes to remind its readers that the State Alchemist program put a stop to the seven-year conflict in a matter of months. Alphonse wonders what kind of deeds a man like Colonel Mustang must have done in Ishval.

Who's to say Ed won't have to do the same one day too?

Who's to say he hasn't already?

Weeks pass. Spring shrugs off the last stubborn chill of winter. It'll be another month, maybe two depending on how much rain there is, before Resembool's rolling hills explode in a riot of bright wildflowers. In the meantime the countryside is overwhelmed by the bright shock of new grass and budding trees. Alphonse spends hours with Uschi out in the ruins of her family's gristmill, trying to help her remember what all of this beauty should smell like.

"Earthy! Come on—damp and warm, that good kind of humid smell that makes you want to curl your toes up in some mud. You know?"

She wrinkles her nose. "I think perhaps smell is first to go, when you die."

"Aw, c'mon, don't be such a downer. Think back! I know it was a long time ago—"

"Thank you, I had almost forgot."

He grins, spinning on tiptoe on the highest point of the stone wall that hasn't crumbled yet. It's kind of fun, all the places you can reach when you don't have to worry about body mass. "Uschi...."

She harrumphs, folded up in the empty space where a window used to be. The sun-bleached wooden frame would have left terrible splinters in her hands and legs if she were still alive, but that’s not something she’s had to worry about for a long, long time. "I don't remember. It's been too long!"

"But you're still way more—you—than Mister Tafano is, and you only died like, forty years after him or something. Come on, try a little harder!"

She crosses her arms over her narrow chest and scowls. Her eyes blaze like disturbed embers, shockingly bright against the grayness of herself and the home she died in. "I don't care about him. I will never know him, so what does it matter?"

Alphonse considers this. He considers her. It's true that she does look a fair sight better than Mr. Tafano, but that's hardly saying much. He can tell she died wearing a long dress with her hair plaited back, but details beyond that are hard to parse. She's a sketchy, shaking shape, all her colors bleached to the fine gray ash of a spent fire save for the blaze of her eyes. She used to scare Alphonse, but there are worse things than little girls to be afraid of.

He asks her, "Doesn't anyone ever come out here?"

And she says, "You're the only one who can."

He's back at Rockbell Automail again a few mornings later, perched neatly out of Winry's way and bobbing his head along with the radio. Granny's out weeding in the garden while Winry does the last of the washing up after breakfast. Winry hums along with the jazzy number playing, a little out of tune but neatly in time. Even the clink of the cutlery being set out to dry matches the beat. It's been a lull for them too; no new customers, no maintenance visits, nothing but fiddly stocking and prep work for worst-case scenarios.

There is, of course, always the risk of injury in a village centered around agriculture and livestock, and Granny's the only surgeon in town. Well, Alphonse amends, give Winry a couple more years to earn her certifications and Resembool will have two surgeons again. Of that, Alphonse doesn't have any doubt. She's assisted in a lot of outfittings since Ed's and her skills have improved in leaps and bounds. She's a brilliant mechanic, never mind that she and Granny both think she could do with a lot of improvement still. As far as he's concerned that's just the Rockbell streak of perfectionism at work again.

The song wraps up, but instead of a brief commentary on the composer or the band that performed that recording, the emergency news jingle jangles out. Alphonse and Winry both freeze, leaning in intently. The latest story is that of yet another murdered State Alchemist, killed just the same as all the others this year. Shou Tucker, the Sewing Life Alchemist, and his four year old daughter were found murdered in their estate this morning along with two MPs stationed outside. Tucker had been facing disciplinary charges for reasons not yet disclosed to the public as the investigation was still ongoing as of his death. There's a brief, conciliatory comment from someone from Central's Investigations who had come to East City to—

"But that's where Ed's at!" Winry yelps, bolting for the back door. "Granny!"

Alphonse is just as worried, flinging a prayer in a vaguely skyward direction, hoping he won't hear any mention of Ed this time. If this serial killer is targeting State Alchemists in the same city Ed's stationed in, then there's every likelihood that—that—

Ed's fine. No matter what happens, Ed will remain fine. He's a fantastic fighter, for all that never watches his back—

"He'll be fine," he assures Winry and Granny. "You know he's holed up in some library somewhere—or hey! I bet Colonel Mustang's sent him off on another mission! You know how Ed's always complaining he never has enough time for research, right? He's gotta be miles away from East City, totally safe from this Scar guy."

Maybe if he says it loud enough and often enough, he'll convince himself as well.

That same day the lunch hour program is interrupted again by the emergency news jingle. All three of them fall tensely quiet, praying for good news. But this time, as with any other time this shit jingle blares out of the radio, it's anything but. The serial killer known only for the X-shaped scar across his face has targeted another State Alchemist; Fullmetal is the first to have survived an encounter with this mysterious man.

"Oh god," the three of them say.

The newscaster goes on to detail a—literally—explosive chase across East City, with several streets damaged by alchemical attacks by both Scar and Fullmetal, three MPs killed, culminating in the timely arrival of two other State Alchemists—Flame and Strongarm again—as well as a team of soldiers to back them. But even with all of that firepower Scar managed to escape into the sewers. Citizens in East and the adjacent towns are asked to be on guard for a man matching Scar's distinctive description, warned not to engage as he has proven to be aggressive to anyone who gets in his way. Fullmetal declined to make a statement, but both Colonel Mustang and the Lieutenant Colonel heading Central Investigations reiterated that the military is doing everything in its power to catch this madman—

"But Ed's okay," Winry stammers. "Right? They would have said if he'd been hurt, wouldn't they?"

Granny's got an expression like she's been sucking on a lemon, which speaks volume for what's left unsaid. Not if they were intentionally downplaying how dangerous this maniac is. Out loud she says, "Of course. Knowing Ed though, I'm sure we can expect to see him in a couple of days or so. I suppose we ought to freshen up his room. It's almost been long enough since his last visit that it could benefit from some dusting."

Winry smiles weakly, so that almost makes it all okay.

There are 37 years couched between Steffie and Owen Sauters’ deaths, but they've had plenty of time since Owen's to catch up. The Sauters' first home was only a block from the train station, near enough that they can sit side by side again, holding hands and sharing stories. It's honestly a bit sweet how well they still get on.

"Your brother's a brat and no mistake," Steffie informs Alphonse flatly.

"He's not a brat," Alphonse replies, defensive. "He's just got a lot on his plate."

"Sure, and he's shoveled it all there himself. Nobody forced him to run off and fight serial killers."

Owen rests a hand on Steffie's shoulder, shooting Alphonse an apologetic look. Neither of them can feel it, of course, and their edges go a little fuzzier where they overlap, but it calms her all the same.

They both died in terrible fires, ravaged by burns, their lungs scorched to the last breath. Some days—on low days—they mirror how their bodies must have looked when they died; twisted limbs, the flesh sloughing off their cracked bones, a halo of fire devouring their faces. But not today. Steffie is more washed out, like damp watercolors, her fingertips and the curling ends of her auburn hair transparent, but her crooked smile is friendly. It's still easy to see how pretty she had been when she'd been alive. Owen's only been dead a handful of years longer than Alphonse. He looks just as real to Alphonse as his own body does.

The train whistles its arrival farther up the tracks and he slips down off the crate he'd been on. "He's worked hard for everything he's managed to hang onto. And besides, you've never seen him in a real fight."

Steffie shrugs. "Neither have you."

"I don't need to. I know him. He'd never let some psycho get the better of him. No matter what, Ed will keep going."

If he says it often enough, it might even hold true.

As if to prove his point Ed's the first off the train; impressive, considering he's on crutches. For one terrible moment Alphonse freezes, thinking of pouring rain on a black night, Ed sobbing in the mud. But no, no. That was then. This is now. Ed's moving with ease, impatience even. He practically dances out of the way as an absolute mountain of a man steps out after him. But the shock still coils in the muscle memory Alphonse clings to; he can almost feel his heart in his throat, his stomach twisting, his knees turned to jelly.

Ed's automail is gone.

His pant leg is neatly pinned out of the way to keep it from dragging, the empty space an explanation point of just how close he must  have come to—

Alphonse can't finish that thought. He can't bear to. But Scar must be a terrifyingly skilled fighter to have not only beaten Ed but to have destroyed Winry's work too. Still. Alphonse forces himself to relax, to focus on the easy smile Ed throws the large man's way. There's no tightness to his expression, no smothered pain. He isn't hurt this time. At least there's that.

"Got a ways to go yet, Major," Ed says. "They don't live in town."

"Is there a car we could requisition?" The large man asks in a surprisingly gentle rumble.

Ed laughs too lightly. "Cars haven't made it this far out into the boonies yet. Besides, I'm sick of sitting on my ass, aren't you? C'mon, we're burning daylight."

Alphonse waves goodbye to the Sauters—Steffie sticks her tongue out at him, Owen waves languorously—and trots after Ed and the major.

"You've never come back with any soldiers before," he points out. "Is he an escort? Mm, no, a guy this big, he's got to be a bodyguard, huh? That makes sense. You wouldn't be much use in a fight right now. And speaking of use—Brother. You know anyone would lend you their wagon if you asked. You don't have  to be so stubborn all the time, you great big idiot. It's okay to rely on other people sometimes, which I know you've got at least a passing grasp of, since you're letting this guy carry your suitcase."

Ed moves like an old pro on the crutches, never mind it's been years since he's had to use them on the regular. He's such a skinny thing, swallowed up by all those heavy layers he wears, that it's easy to forget he's wiry with muscle. Ed hops along with hardly any strain, just a slight breathlessness as he points out a few things or greets people around town as they walk through. The major nods, making polite comments now and then on the long walk out to Rockbell Automail. Ed doesn't sound tired or shaken, like he hasn't just survived what must have been his nearest brush with death since they night they tried to bring Mom back. He almost sounds cheerful.

"You're a shit liar," Alphonse tells him. "I hope it helps to pretend anyway."

So it turns out what's left of Ed's leg is packed up in his suitcase. It's less recognizable as a leg as it is so much deconstructed scrap metal, which begs the question of what the fuck kind of serial killer is targeting State Alchemists. The Times has provided so little detail on the previous murders, just the date and general location, along with a lengthy biography on the latest late State Alchemist. But that's unmistakably transmutation marks all along the metal exterior, which suggests someone using prepared arrays. No way Ed would have allowed himself to be held down long enough in a drawn array.

But he can wonder about that later. He listens, satisfied, as Winry gives Ed a well-deserved scolding—a little smashed up? Really, Ed?—then promises to get his new leg built in only three days. In the meantime Ed's put on a spare leg and sent out to pasture while the major—Alex Louis Armstrong, the Strongarm Alchemist in the flesh, which cements him as Ed's bodyguard in Alphonse's eyes—offers to cut some firewood. Ed putters around his room for a bit, but quickly grows restless and gets dressed again.

Alphonse follows him into town, knowing where he's going. He wishes Ed wouldn't visit the cemetery every time he came back to Resembool, wishes he'd stop beating himself up over what happened, but there's nothing to be done for it.

It's another trip to Mrs. Caddeo's flower shop, Den trotting at Ed's heels and shying away from Alphonse's cold touch. She knows better than to dare more than polite small talk, then it's out of town again, to the neat rows of headstones, to Mom's first grave all on its own. Ed transmutes the usual wreath, placing it carefully.

He lingers a long time, saying nothing.

Alphonse stands beside him, paying no attention to Mom's grave. He can look at it any time he likes. Graves don't go anywhere, but Ed never stays in Resembool a minute longer than he has to.

It's in these quiet, unguarded moments that Alphonse can best note the minute changes that have undergone Ed since his last visit. Without an audience Ed's dropped his forced cheer, set it aside like so much dead weight. Alone, he allows himself to wear his exhaustion and his fear freely. He's fifteen years old and a grown man with a list of dead appended to his serial killer's moniker tried to cut him down for—what, exactly? Why would anyone try to kill Ed? Because he's a State Alchemist? Never mind all the good he goes out of his way to do even though no one expects him to bother?

Ed looks scared. He looks lonely. He looks like a kid that's been doing a grown up's job for too long.

"I'm sorry," Alphonse says quietly. "I wish I could have been there. I wish I could have helped you."

Den whines, and that seems to be enough to shake Ed out of his thoughts. He does a stiff about face, limping quickly out of the cemetery. Alphonse and Den follow, and as always Alphonse hopes Ed won't cross the bridge at the T junction on his way back to Rockbell Automail. As always he does.

Ed's predictable, each time he visits. It's always bickering with Winry and Granny, eating three helpings at every meal, fixing anything Granny asks him to in a flashy show of alchemy, and this dead-eyed self-flagellation he insists on no matter that any living person tells him he needn't. Flowers bought and transmuted and placed on Mom's first grave, where they decided together to try and bring her back. Then a pilgrimage up to what's left of their house. He'll linger there for an hour or more, saying nothing, doing nothing. He always just stares at the burnt-black ruins with his eyes like two cigarette burns in his pinched face.

Alphonse never goes to their house when Ed isn't here. He suspects one day he won't have a choice. One day, a century or more after everyone who knew him is dead and buried themselves, the range his ghost will be able to travel will shrink so much that he won't be able to leave their house. One day he'll be like Mr. Tafano and Uschi, trapped in a scant few feet of space. One day he'll be like the skritch-scratch shadows in the woods who can only scream and weep like trapped animals.

He tries not to think about that. He avoids their house, skittish of knowing its shape too well. Still, he'll follow Ed every step he can, even when it takes him to the place where he died.

Ed never tries going into what's left of their house. Smart of him, really. What little there is left of the first floor surely isn't sturdy enough to bear his weight. He just stays in the yard, eyes caught in some distance Alphonse can't ever reach, haunted by more than the brother he can't see or hear.

Alphonse stays beside Ed, watching the ebb and flow of unuttered thoughts war on his face. With an audience—with Winry and Granny, all the townsfolk, and probably anyone he's ever spoken to regarding his reasons for joining the military—Ed is loud and stubborn, bombastic and impossible to argue with. He declares he's going to do the impossible even though their first attempt cost him his leg and that was with them working in tandem. He's consumed by the need to make right what went wrong, by a drive to break the great flow of life and death to drag Alphonse out of the nothingness his body was scattered to. He sprints for self-destruction, hopes to wipe the slate clean by undoing what he believes he did to Alphonse.

(Alphonse has long since given up trying to convince Ed of how wrong he is. He could scream until the cows came home and Ed wouldn't hear a whisper.)

But alone, here, standing before the closest thing Alphonse has to a grave, Ed—falters. Here in this place that Alphonse would do anything to avoid otherwise, Ed seems to come the closest to admitting to himself how insane his goal is, how impossible, how likely it is that it will kill him in the end.

Maybe there's a part of Ed that wants that to happen. Maybe Ed's just spinning his wheels until he's confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt that the taboo is truly impossible. Maybe once he confirms the Philosopher's Stone is out of his reach or that there is no cheating the great flow, he'll just... commit the taboo anyway. Die trying.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. That's all Alphonse has. It’s not like Ed’ll ever say anything out loud.

He sighs. "I wish you'd quit punishing yourself like this. It isn't healthy. You'd yell at Winry until you were blue in the face if she pulled something like this over her parents. Hell, Brother, she's yelled at you until she was blue in the face, and have you listened? Of course not. You're not to blame for what happened. I don't blame you. I never have. It was me. It has to have been my fault. That’s why it killed me. We were so sure we knew what we were doing, but we didn't. We were arrogant. I should have done more. I should have reviewed our work more. Somewhere we miscalculated, I know we did. I wasn't sure that night. I didn’t think we were ready, but I didn't say anything. I should have. I'm sorry."

Den whines again. Ed blinks dreamily, comes back from whatever distant hell had stolen him away. He looks down at the dog with something that might, if one were feeling generous, be considered a smile. "Come on. Let's go home."

Ed never calls Resembool home when he talks to someone who can talk back. Is he even aware he does that? Probably. Probably the same way he never says Alphonse's name aloud either.

Ed's second night back, he has a nightmare.

Alphonse always stays in Ed's room when he's here, curled up in a corner out of the way. It's calming to be near Ed while he sleeps. To hear his steady breathing, to know for sure that he's safe. But all too often his nights are disturbed like this.

(He wonders how frequent these nightmares are elsewhere, far from home, surrounded by strangers, playing a grown up's game with inscrutable rules revealed to him at only the most inopportune moments. It's no wonder Ed looks so scared—so scary—these days. Alphonse can only imagine the life Ed is forced to lead beyond the barrier he can't cross.)

Tonight Ed twitches, twists like there are embers burning him beneath the sheets. His skin gains a sheen of sweat as his breath quickens, becomes an erratic panting interrupted by a plaintive moan. "Nina," he pleads. "No. No."

Alphonse stands beside the bed, hands clasped tightly together. He could rouse Ed easily, a sudden chill just as shocking a glass of water upended over his head. But Ed's bristling shields are at their weakest when he's like this; pitiful, raw, plagued by the horrors Alphonse can only hear secondhand accounts of. This, awful though it is, is real. He listens. He watches. He wonders who Nina is, what happened to her. He wonders if her ghost walks the moonlit streets of some far-off city he can never see.

Ed grunts, startles awake like he's hauled himself bodily out of tumultuous waters. He sits there, gasping, like it hurts him to breathe at all. He hisses, hugs his spare leg to his chest, whimpers pain through clenched teeth.

It's been years, but his stump still seems to hurt him all the time.

"Who was she?" Alphonse asks. "Who was she to you?"

Ed breathes, and breathes. Eventually, he relaxes. Eventually, he gets up and limps out to the front porch. Alphonse follows him. Together, a foot and a lifetime apart, they wait for dawn.

Winry finishes Ed's new leg in three days, just as she said she would. She didn't sleep a wink to pull it off, but does Ed thank her? Of course not! He's really got no idea how lucky he is to have such a dedicated friend and mechanic that's almost as crazy as he is.

Ed, of course, immediately rushes outside to break it in the second the brace is attached. He runs through warm up exercises and several increasingly acrobatic maneuvers, getting dirt in all the joints. But he gets his comeuppance when Major Armstrong boisterously declares that he'd be delighted to assist Ed in his calisthenics with a friendly bit of sparring. Ed’s shriek when he does a ridiculous backflip to avoid Major Armstrong's huge fist is the funniest thing Alphonse has heard in ages.

But his fun has a bittersweet edge to it. Ed, as always, adjusts quickly to the new leg, and is pleased to have gotten what he came for. Because Winry worked day and night he and Major Armstrong will be able to board the train departing Resembool tomorrow instead of the one four days from now. Ed can go off and do whatever it is in Central that's had him twice as antsy to leave as usual.

Alphonse wishes for what surely must be the thousandth time that Ed would be more open regarding his research with Winry and Granny. Sure, they wouldn't get more than the gist of it, the same as he and Ed will never really grasp the complexities of automail. It's a matter of interest—or perhaps obsession is the better word for it. Still, Winry and Granny care. They're family, by bond if not by blood. They hope he excels, and are delighted when he does.

If nothing else, Alphonse sure would appreciate having more than an inkling of Ed's plans for once.

Ed and Major Armstrong had one inscrutable conversation while Winry was working and Granny was in the kitchen making lunch. There had been vague mention of a doctor they'd met on their way to Resembool, something about research notes, something about the First Branch library in Central, and something that sounded an awful like like a real breakthrough in Ed's search for the Philosopher's Stone. It must be good news, the way Ed's paced and grinned around the others.

Alphonse... isn't sure how to feel about this development, if he's honest with himself. Before Ed had become a State Alchemist—in that year of sweat and blood and feverish fervor, when the idea to hunt down a myth first occurred to Ed, and Alphonse had given up being furious with a self-destructive brother who couldn't hear his insults—he hoped. He used to hope it was true, that the Stone was real and that Ed could find it, because the alternative—an endless purgatory, beating his fists against his head in an effort to feel something because he can't touch anything else—was the worst possibility he could imagine.

But that had been before he'd met any of the other ghosts, before he learned that there would one day be a second death for him, many centuries from now. Ghosts wear thin, wear out, wear away to a mindless mist in the periphery of the living. One day, a long, long time from now, he'll be scattered on a breath of wind. The last sentient scrap of him gone forever. He's heard stories from the others, of red-eyed wisps that used to weep and snarl in other places. But they're all gone now, faded away to a true and final nothingness.

This isn't forever. This too shall pass. He knows that now, and the knowledge that forever isn't something he has to come to terms with has put him at ease in a way he once thought was impossible. An eventual, inevitable nothingness is better than lingering forever.

He doesn't want Ed to try and resurrect him anymore. The odds of the transmutation going wrong again are simply too high. Adding in a variable as dangerous as the Philosopher's Stone—if it's real, then the truth behind the fall of Xerxes must be real too—is no guarantee at all. Instead of the transmutation only—only!—killing Ed, it might destroy Resembool, or the entire Eastern region, or all of Amestris for that matter. It sounds preposterous, sure, the idea that the consequences of a single transmutation could affect an entire country, but who's to say? The myth of the Stone says that the Philosopher from the East hid it away so that no one could use it. Not misuse it, simply use it all.

One life can't be worth that risk. It simply can't. If only Ed could understand that.

Ed and Major Armstrong leave. Life—metaphorically speaking—returns to its usual order.

Weeks pass, as they're wont to do. Alphonse watches people pack away their winter clothes and bedding, don cotton shirts and dresses, throw open their windows to let in a clean breeze after a good rain. The late spring storms don't get as bad as they have in years previous; the river doesn't flood, the town isn't in any danger, nobody dies. He watches families tell each other about their days over meals, listens to their radios, reads over their shoulders, spends the nights watching the stars wheel overhead. He watches busy hands wash dishes and fold laundry, hem tears and work smithies and make sandwiches and till rich brown earth and shear sheep. He watches busy hands do all things his own can only pass through and tries to find contentment in the watching.

About two weeks after Ed left he goes out to the Stendahls' farmhouse, walking around to the narrow hole in the back porch. He lays prone and peers into the gray shadows, sees a pair of luminous green eyes staring back. He smiles and waits for the dusty little mouser named Silvia to decide whether or not she's in the mood to be bothered by a ghost today.

(He learned that night that dogs could hear him. It took longer to realize that cats could see him, but it was a delightful realization nevertheless.)

"Mrr," Silvia trills after a moment, and she blinks contentedly.

"It's good to see you too," he says. He's pretty sure cats can't hear him, but cats are funny creatures. It's just as likely that they don't see any point in bothering to answer anyone who isn't as real as them. He holds out his hand, like he used to with cats when he was still alive, giving her the option and opportunity to sniff him and find nothing to smell. Silvia stays where she is, but after a couple minutes she blinks again and starts to purr.

He crawls in on all fours, ignoring the unease his mind can't shake whenever he goes somewhere a living person wouldn't be able to squeeze through. Beyond the narrow hole, thankfully, there's plenty of space to lay without bits of him passing through anything. He sprawls on his stomach with his chin rested on his hands once he's in, smiling at the scene he finds.

Silvia keeps on purring. Out of the soft gray shadows her kittens cheep and mewl, wobbling to their little paws and yawning so widely they stagger over again. The one with fur like a tuxedo is the first to toddle over to him, big eyes staring like it can't believe this big weird thing that's showed up in its nursery is real—more or less, anyway. He passes his hand through its back and laughs when it mewls loudly in surprise. Two more kittens come closer to investigate him, wanting to be braver than their sibling. In the deeper gray shadows Silvia curls up in a comfortable loaf, happy to catch a nap without her young to interrupt.

There are so few joys left to him, but at least he has this.

Some weeks after Ed and Major Armstrong left, Alphonse walks through the front door of Rockbell Automail to find a scene of controlled chaos awaiting him. Winry's charging around her workroom grabbing all manner of wrenches and screwdrivers and tin jars of polish and oil, tossing them all into a traveling toolbox Granny bought for her fifteenth birthday. She mutters a checklist under her breath, counting out the things she's already packed on her stained fingers.

"Don't forget to include clothes along with all of that," Granny teases.

"I will," Winry replies, distracted.

"You're leaving?" Alphonse asks. "What for? What happened? You didn't mention anything yesterday."

"You've got time before the train leaves," Granny says.  "There's no need to stomp around like you've lost your head."

"I know. I just want to make sure I have time to double check I haven't forgotten anything."

"If you don't rush there won't be any need to double check. Toothbrush."

"Right, yeah, thanks."

Alphonse hops up to brush against the ceiling rather than risk startling either of them with an unexpected chill. He's too confused to remember to feel sullen about being ignored. This is all just so—sudden, is the thing. Winry's never left Resembool before. Sure, she's daydreamed about traveling to the "holy land of automail" one day, but that's always been a dream for later. She's as singularly focused on automail as he and Ed are with alchemy. It's always been a bone of contention between her and Ed, but Alphonse has learned to respect and admire her passion.

(Granted, it probably helps that he's never had to have Winry dismantle parts of him.)

"Is that where you're going?" He asks aloud. "Are you starting your apprenticeship already?"

Winry pauses in the hallway, toiletry bag in hand. "It is strange though, isn't it? He's never wanted a house call before."

Oh no.

Granny hums. "No, he hasn't. Then again, he does seem to at least try to keep his trips out here to once a month if he can help it."

Winry laughs. "For how much they pay him you think he wouldn't mind the train fare."

"Or the free room and board," Granny grins, and they both chuckle before Winry dashes back up to her room.

"What did he do?" Alphonse asks, a touch desperate. "What's happened? Is he hurt? Or is he out of leave again? Did he say for once? Granny?"

Of course Granny doesn't hear him, and of course neither of them say outright what the reason is that Winry's been called out to—wherever. They don't even say that much. Is Ed still in Central, looking for whatever-it-is that some mysterious Dr. Marcoh sent him there for? Or did he find it—or was it perhaps a wild goose chase—and he's back in East City again? Or did Colonel Mustang send him out on another mission and he's in some other far-off city, doing who-knows what all on his own again?

They don't say. Granny just makes sure Winry's packed sensibly, hands her a sandwich for the trip, and hugs her tightly before pushing her out the door. Alphonse follows Winry's brisk pace into town, watches her buy a ticket—as far as East, but she could be buying a transfer ticket once she's there—and then she's on the train and the train is on its way past the invisible barrier, where he can't go for all the wishes and curses he hurls at it.

He stays at the station a while, filling in the ghosts there on the latest Fullmetal Vagary, as Ada Nichols jokingly calls Ed's more official exploits. They comfort him the best they can, assure him that Ed's alright, that Ed will be home again soon, that Ed won't do anything truly crazy out there on his own. And Alphonse smiles and thanks them, because the alternative is too heavy a burden to share.

After that he doesn't leave Rockbell Automail again for fear of missing a phone call from Winry. Granny appears to be in the same nervous boat as him; she doesn't go into town for groceries or for a drink at the tavern, choosing to remain alone up in the house despite not having any appointments until Thursday. She smokes more than usual, the embers burning out as she stares into the middle distance with a book left forgotten in her hands. Her attention strays north again and again, and after a time she stops fighting it. She keeps the radio off.

Winry doesn't call the day she left, but that's alright. It's a long trip to East City, even longer to Central if she had to go that far, and she's sure to be busy sorting out whatever-it-is that Ed did to his leg this time (and shouting at him all the while for making her worry). After that she'll need to find an inn, and there's no guarantee the inn will have a phone, right? So there's no sense in lingering even after Granny finishes her evening tea and goes up to bed. Winry wouldn't call so late, right? So there's no reason to stay, no reason to pace the kitchen and worry. He should just go out and walk the fields. He should go watch the mousers and foxes and owls hunt by moonlight, or go sit with Uschi or Mrs. Morgenstern or—somebody. He should distract himself.

But what if there's something seriously wrong? What if Ed's in trouble? What if, what if?

He stays by the phone all night, just in case. It doesn't ring. Some small and superstitious part of him thinks it might have if he'd bullied himself into leaving. Either way, the sun rises and Granny comes downstairs again not long after. She lets Den out, makes coffee, smokes out on the porch (with the door cracked, in case the phone rings). She putters, she tidies, she keeps herself busy. She doesn't eat breakfast, has only buttered toast for lunch. She's just as worried as he is.

Dinnertime comes and goes. Granny's good and eats something more substantial, but it's clear her heart's not in it. Even if Ed is okay and they're both worrying for nothing, she's got every right to be worried about Winry too. Winry's never had any training like Ed, and she's far more trusting. Sure, she's got a terrifying throwing arm and she's hard to scare, but how far can that get her in a city as big as East or Central? Granny nurses a cup of coffee and her evening smoke, and Alphonse sits with his legs dangling off the table beside her.

It's after seven when the phone finally rings. Granny all but jumps up to answer and Alphonse hastily maneuvers himself near enough to eavesdrop without chilling her.

"Hey, Granny! It's Winry!"

A smile breaks the forced calm Granny's schooled her face into all day. "Ah, there you are. And don't I feel silly for worrying."

"I know, I know! I'm sorry. I really did mean to call yesterday, but I got kind of caught up in something until pretty late."

"I hope that 'something' wasn't Ed's automail. He hasn't destroyed your hard work already, has he?"

"N-no, no. I'm staying with a friend of his here in Central, with his wife and daughter too. It was their daughter Elicia's birthday yesterday. The party ran long and there was cleanup and everything afterward."

"That's awfully kind of them. Truth be told, I'm not sure I can believe Ed's managed to make any friends."

Alphonse snorts.

"So go on then," Granny says. "What's the damage on his leg? I expect you'll have charged him a small fortune in house call fees."

Winry—

—hesitates.

When she speaks, she's quiet. Subdued. "It wasn't that damaged, actually. His kneecap needing a dent hammered out of it and an output wire had frayed badly enough he couldn't move his toes. He couldn't come back to Resembool for that because...."

"Because what, girl?"

"Because he's been hospitalized."

"Hospitalized?" Alphonse yelps.

Granny’s knuckles whiten around her glass, its contents sloshing. "How bad is it?"

"Bad. He—he won't tell me what happened, just that he got into another fight. But he can barely sit up on his own, and his face is all messed up, a-and—"

"And what?"

"—his fingers. He's lost two fingers."

Granny sucks in a breath between her teeth, though whether that's because of what Winry's said or because Alphonse dips through her head and hand in shock is difficult to tell. He shrinks back, covering his mouth with both hands. Ed—what happened to Ed? Who hurt him so badly? What could have happened in the capital to have gone so wrong? He pictures a gurney meant for a grown man, an IV—Ed hates needles, but would he have been in any state to fuss?—and big machinery to measure his vitals. Gauze and stitches, the harsh white overhead lights like in the Rockbell's surgery room, the ones that wash everyone out and makes them look far sicker than they really are. His face—what happened to his face?

"Which fingers?" He whispers.

Winry goes on in that hushed, trembling voice about the soldiers assigned to Ed as bodyguards—not because of whatever landed him in the hospital, but because of Scar. He's still being targeted by this serial killer, might still be a target for however long it takes the military to catch him. Major Armstrong is their superior officer, and he tasked them to watch Ed while he remained in Central. They're not State Alchemists, just a second lieutenant and a sergeant assigned to Investigations, but they're the ones who saved Ed.

"Saved him from what?" Granny asks.

"They wouldn't tell me. Said it was 'regarding an ongoing investigation.' Honestly, they're not very good liars, either of them. I wouldn't put it past Ed to have ordered them not to tell me anything. He does technically outrank them."

Granny harrumphs. "And here I've been assuming Mustang hadn't actually given him any real authority to go along with that leash."

"Which fingers?" Alphonse asks again.

"At least he seems to be doing well enough to bark orders at his bodyguards. He was pretty quiet both times I visited him."

"The life that little maniac leads," Granny swears. "It's enough to make me want to drive him out of town for good."

Winry manages a slightly damp chuckle. "R-right? Well, I just—I've decided to stay a few extra days even though I got his leg sorted out. I want to make sure he's gonna be okay, y'know? Since he won't just tell me what's going on. I'd prefer to stick around and get some idea of what's happened, rather than go home imagining the worst. I mean, that serial killer's still after him!"

Granny leans forward, slapping the table smartly. "You be careful, Winry. I don't want you getting caught up in any of the ugly business the military might demand of him, you understand?"

"Of course, Granny, I just meant—"

"I know what you meant, and I also know you haven't got much experience in needing to be careful. Central is a far cry from Resembool, and some of the worst stories I've heard have come from the heart of that city. Truth be told I had my share of unpleasantness there too when I was younger, and that's saying nothing of the kind of murderer who can make scrap metal of your handiwork."

"I—" Winry huffs. "Granny, I"m not staying to track down the people who hurt him or anything crazy like that. I'm not stupid, I know that's best left to the MPs and Mister Hughes' office—oh, that's who I'm staying with. Mister Hughes is Major Armstrong's superior in Investigations. I just.... Ed's been hurt really badly. The nurse I spoke to said he can be released next week, but he'll have to keep most of his stitches for longer than that. He's gonna be okay, but I'm still worried about him. He was still a little out of it when I got in yesterday, but today he...."

"What happened?" Granny and Alphonse both ask.

"I dunno. He's... a different kind of cagey than usual. I know that doesn't make any sense. It's just this feeling I've got though. I'm hoping he'll loosen up if I stick around a little longer. His bodyguards—Second Lieutenant Ross and Sergeant Brosch, I don't think I mentioned their names either—they seem worried about him too. I just want to help him."

Granny shuts her eyes, leaning back in her chair again. She looks too old again, carved from wood, worn down to indistinctness. "I know. I'm worried about you too, though. That's all."

"I know. But I"m not wandering around in the middle of the night or anything, and the hospital and Mister Hughes' apartment are in a nice part of the city. I'm being careful."

"You're not overstaying your welcome, are you? I gave you enough money for a week's stay at any decently priced inn."

"Mister Hughes wouldn't take no for an answer when he offered to let me stay with them. I tried to pay them, but—" On the other end a man calls out something boisterously indistinct that makes her laugh. "—Right. Mister Hughes said—well I mean, they've both made it clear they won't take a cenz from me, so I'm just going to help out anyway I can while I'm staying with them."

Granny smiles. "Good girl."

"Well, anyway, I don't want to tie up their line for too long. Mister Hughes gets a lot of work calls. But I'll phone again tomorrow, okay? Same time, or would you prefer a little earlier?"

"Now's as a good a time as nay. Take care of yourself, and pass along my gratitude to the Hugheses."

"I will."

"And be sure to smack Ed upside the head for me."

Winry laughs again, warmer this time. "Trust me, I"ll be happy to do that. G'night, Granny."

"Good night."

They hang up. Alphonse falls back, his feet touching soundlessly to the floorboards again as he lets his hands drop from his mouth. "Why didn't you ask which fingers?"

Granny finishes her drink, washes out her glass, lets Den out and then back in, and goes off upstairs to bed. For all that Alphonse wants to stomp and shout, he's learned better by now.

The next several days settle into routine. Alphonse spends the days wandering. He chats with the other ghosts, riles up the dogs, spooks the cats. He eavesdrops, he watches, he reads over people's' shoulders. All the usual ways he passes each endless, interminable day. It's in this fashion that he belatedly hears about an explosion in Central that destroyed a condemned military structure. There's no mention of Ed, Fullmetal or otherwise, but it's an easy pair of dots to connect.

Come suppertime he makes sure he's back at Rockbell Automail, bouncing impatiently on his heels for Winry's next call. Every night at seven sharp she calls. For the most part she sounds happy, happy enough to be exploring the capital with Missus Hughes and their daughter, happy to be out on her own for the first time in her life, happy to have her own adventure. Whenever the conversation turns to Ed, however, her cheer falters.

He's recovering well enough, antsy to be released, as petulant with the nurses as he ever is with her and Granny. But it's like she said before; there's a new caginess to him, unlike his usual efforts to keep Winry in the dark. He refuses outright to say how he was hurt—"He told me, 'It doesn't concern you.' Can you believe the nerve of that twerp?"—and has had several conversations behind closed doors with Major Armstrong and Lieutenant Colonel Hughes. Something serious happened, maybe something truly terrible. But does Granny ask the right questions? Does Winry? No they do not!

"You're both going to drive me around the bend," Alphonse declares dramatically, glaring daggers at Granny as the pair of them change topics from vague worrying about Ed's latest shenanigans that somehow cost him two still unspecified fingers to automail models popular in Central. "Really, I mean it. I'd even go so far as to say 'You'll be the death of me,' but I beat you to that."

Den whines. Alphonse glowers at the dog too, for all the good it does. It makes him feel better anyway.

If he could he'd march right up to Central, wring Ed's neck for almost getting himself killed again, then demand every last detail of his breakthrough on the Philosopher's Stone. Because that's what this is all about, he's sure of it. Dr. Marcoh gave Ed access to his research, a couple weeks later Ed almost died fighting mysterious people, and that same night a condemned military building exploded. Major Armstrong had mentioned that Marcoh had served in Ishval, a tidbit of information given out as a simple aside over dinner one night. So, a doctor with interest in the Stone who served in Ishval adds up to a former State Alchemist, and that points toward a worrying idea that the military was funding his research.

It makes sense though, when he considers the idea more thoroughly. It'd be natural enough for the military to have at least a passing interest in the theory of recreating the myth; it would be stupid for a country as power-hungry as Amestris to ignore the power to level its neighboring enemies. But the building Ed almost certainly was hurt in wasn't given any kind of drab cover story. If they'd called it storage or a warehouse or something equally banal, no one would think twice about it. But to call whatever-it-really-was condemned, remaining vague about the cause of its collapse, and keeping the Fullmetal’s name out of the news when he’s been hospitalized with severe injuries? That suggests someone out there wants to draw as little attention as possible to whatever research Ed's been working on. And—

Hold on. Hadn't there been a fire in Central while Ed was in Resembool? Alphonse had been distracted, having his brother around again however briefly, but he recalls hearing something to that effect on the radio. He can't remember what it was, only that it had been something big. Something else with military connections. A lab? A library?

Ah, he can't remember.

Whatever it was, it’s one more tally of chaos in Central this year. Scar, destroyed military infrastructure, protests, unrest regarding the ever-present tensions with Aerugo, Creta, and Drachma. On and on and on....

Alphonse leaves Winry and Granny to their evening chat. He spends the night out in the fields, watching the stars wheel overhead, and he wonders.

Two evenings before Ed's to be released, Winry calls the same time as usual. This time, however, she's as subdued as the first night she called.

"What happened?" Granny and Alphonse both ask.

"Nothing," Winry replies too quickly. "I—well, I mean, nothing's happened. Ed just... kind of scared me today, is all."

"What did he do?" Granny and Alphonse both ask.

"Oh—jeez, I knew you'd think of it like that. He didn't hurt my feelings—not this time anyway. It's just—I finally got him to talk to me a little about what happened, which is what I hoped he'd do, but...."

Granny harrumphs. "You regret it now that you've heard him out?"

"...A little. That's awful of me, isn't it?"

"Not at all. What did he say, Winry?"

"Well, nothing that made much sense. Not to me anyway. He told me he'd made some progress on his research—" Alphonse punches the air. "—but wouldn't say anything else about it. He didn't seem happy about it though—" Alphonse drops his fist. "—just that he went somewhere for answers, and that's where he ran into trouble. He said some of the people who hurt him weren't human."

"What does that mean?"

"He said they were souls bound to a blood seal. I think like a transmutation circle drawn in blood? He wouldn't go into detail—and honestly, I'm a little glad he didn't. He went off on this tangent, really got into it, bad enough he strained a couple stitches in his side. He kept going on about a suit of armor that used to be in his house?"

"Mm," Granny says. "There were two of them. His father brought them back from one of his business trips, oh, years ago. Long before either of you were born. He liked collecting old things."

"Really? I don't remember seeing anything like that."

"They were down in the basement, if I recall."

Alphonse remembers them. A pair of towering, dusty antiques keeping watch over them when they used to fall asleep over their work down there. Ed thought they looked really cool, even if that was almost like admitting he liked something about Dad. They always gave Alphonse the creeps though. What do they have to do with what happened to Ed?

"O-oh. Sure," Winry falters. No doubt she's trying not to think of their array, of the bloodstains, of Alphonse's empty clothes. Certainly Alphonse is trying hard not to. "Well, Ed kept going on about those, and about Alphonse, and that night too. He kept saying all these awful things about himself; calling himself stupid, a coward, that kind of thing, and that he should have realized he'd 'been given a chance to save Al,' but didn't realize it when he could have done it."

"What did he mean by that?"

"I'm not sure. I was trying to calm him down by then, which I was able to, eventually. But you know him. He got embarrassed and tried to pick a fight with me instead of talking things out like a normal person, so I left pretty soon after that." She sighs again. "I know I should try and get him to talk about—about all of that, but... it scares me. Seeing him so upset really scared me, Granny."

Granny braces herself against the countertop, her eyes shuttering closed. "I know."

"What should I do?"

"Be there for him, as long as he'll let you. Don't needle him—I know you'll want to, I've seen you start the fight a hundred times if I've seen it once—but don't let him stew either. Is he returning to East City after he's been released?"

"No. He mentioned something about wanting to visit someone, but he got all weird and cagey about that too. I'll try and figure out what his plans are. In the meantime... yeah. Yeah, I think I know what to do now. Thanks."

"Of course."

"I should probably go now. Good night."

Alphonse is out of the house before Granny can hang up the phone, half-running, half-skirting the thin air, rushing as fast as he can to the one place he never goes without Ed. Home—and more than that. The one place he's never gone since Ed burned their house down.

The basement.

He hesitates at the edge of the property, where the burn edges have been softened by another spring's growth. He wrings his hands together, tries to remember the pressure he should feel, the bite of his joints, the swell of strangled veins. He tries to remember the cold pit he should be feeling in his stomach, the squeezing in his throat, the trickle of nervous sweat down his spine. He clings to the memories of things he can no longer feel, grounding himself in almosts and maybes, and in reminding himself that his fear is unfounded.

The worst thing about being a ghost—out of the long, long list of things that are terrible about this embittered, shadowed existence—is how easy it is to let go. Gravity is optional, and yet instinctual. If it's overthought, it becomes a strain. It's so, so easy to lose control if you think about it as needing to be controlled. The ground, he's learned, is a hungry thing, eager to swallow up any unwary ghost walking along its surface. Even the dead are scared of drowning, of suffocating, of being trapped in some dark hole where no one and nothing will ever pass by again. One day, he's certain, he'll be trapped in the basement for good. He died down there and a year later Ed burned their house down. Much of what didn't completely burn collapsed in on itself, and now the basement is a dark hole filled with jagged and charred rubble.

If he goes down there he won't be hurt—can't be hurt—no matter the state of it. But it won't be like walking through a door or standing in an end table. He'll have to linger down there, in a blackness that will want to choke him.

But he has to know.

So he crosses the threshold of the place where the front door once stood, takes an unnecessary breath, and lets go. He sinks. He's swallowed up as if the darkness has grown hands and has pulled him under eagerly, Panic claws at him. He lets it go. Claustrophobia holds him fast. He lets it go. Blackness blinds him. He lets it go. He opens his eyes wider, and sees.

Human eyesight is limited by the constraints of its physical anatomy, yet a ghost can see just fine without the body their soul has outlasted. Why should he be limited by the sight he was born with? He strains to see better, and is rewarded. Dim shapes make themselves known. Jutting beams, heaped stone. The crumbled height of an emptied bookshelf, a snarled heap of blackened dining tables, a charred shape that might have been the trunk that had sat at the foot of Mom's bed. He ignores these things. He ignores the imagined weight pressing in on him on all sides, the very real solidity of everything he passes through. He's not real enough to feel it. He's not real enough for it to matter.

The suits of armor. That's what he came down here for. If he can see them again with his own eyes—metaphorically speaking—maybe he'll understand Ed's train of thought. He almost had it earlier, listening in on the phone, but it slipped away from him before he grasped the whole of it. He's got to know.

They'd stood side by side in a corner. He remembers that now. But he's gotten turned around, coming straight through the floor instead of finding the collapsed staircase first. He doesn't know what corner is which now, so he'll have to check them all. The armor will be badly damaged from the fire, perhaps unrecognizable as anything that could have once held a person inside them.

He's rewarded in the third corner. There they are—what's left of them, anyway. Huge lumps of soot-blackened iron and cracked leather straps, stood apart from the wreckage of the house for the puddled shapes they'd cooled in. He forces himself to go nearer, hovering a hand over each as he tries to remember what they once looked like. They'd been severe, intimidating, covered all over with spikes and filigree. The helmet of one of them had been shaped to look like it had fangs, right? Of course Ed liked them. Everything he transmutes has fangs or spikes or waggling tongues. Alphonse wonders where Dad found these things, why he dragged them all the way home. But that's idle curiosity, something he can gnaw on like a dog with a bone later.

A blood seal, Winry had said. Iron bound to iron. An array that would remain active so long as it remained unbroken.

"A soul bound to a suit of armor," he whispers to himself in the dark. Ed had fought at least one of these... these things in Central. Probably more than that. A body of iron that could neither tire nor bleed.

It's no wonder he almost died, fighting monsters like that.

"You don't really think this could have been an option, do you, Brother?" He runs his hand over the ruined suits, wonders if its surface would be coarse and pitted by the fire, if it would be cold to the touch. Trying to bring Mom back cost him his life, and Ed his leg. If he'd tried to save Alphonse too, who's to say what that might have cost him?

Alphonse drops his hand. Better that Ed never thought to try.

[bevioletskies]

Prompt: For their wedding anniversary, Peter was about to buy Gamora this beautiful necklace that he has been wanting to get her when, while checking to see how much units he had, he gets a holo-credit report that someone spent his 300,000 units on video games. He knew that it was Groot who stole all of his units to buy those "mind-numbing" games, so, he decides to ground the teenager.

I made a few changes to fit my headcanons (re: amount of units and the type of gift), I hope that’s alright! Takes place in some arbitrary point in time, post-Avengers 4.ao3 | word count: 2.9k

Peter whistled cheerfully to himself as he entered the cockpit of the Benatar and settled into his seat, not intending to direct the ship anywhere, but rather, to use the onboard computer in private. And no, he wasn’t doing anything particularly suspicious - he wanted to buy a gift for Gamora.

In just a little over a week, it would be one year to the day that they got married, and he was determined to win the online auction he’d had his eye on since about a month ago to celebrate. Marriage had never really been that important for either of them, with Gamora especially insisting that they didn’t need a piece of paper to validate their relationship, but a few hospital incidents later, she was changing her tune. Sure, it wasn’t the most romantic reason in the world, but it didn’t need to be. Now they could visit each other in the emergency room, declare their marital status on those awfully tedious forms the Nova Corps had them fill out whenever insurance became an issue, and…well, and call each other husband and wife. It didn’t really come up in conversation all that much.

“I got you now,” Peter whispered gleefully, tapping on the screen to bring up his hidden browser tab. The photo he’d stared at for hours on end popped up, boasting a pair of impressive silver daggers. They were expensive, that was for sure, but they were in the green right now after their last job had resulted in a very generous tip. He could afford to spend a little on more than just food and ammunition.

The clock ticked down in the sidebar, and Peter’s heart sped up a little faster in anticipation. Come on, come on…another few minutes passed before it came down to mere seconds. He refreshed frantically, silently praying he wouldn’t be outbid and -

“YES!” Peter immediately shrunk in his seat, hoping he hadn’t accidentally gotten someone else’s attention. He quickly proceeded to click through to the payment page, humming victoriously as he typed in his information. Then, a pop-up appeared - payment declined. “What? That can’t be right.” Tap tap tap. Payment declined. “Oh, what the hell…”

He made a quick jump over to his bank account page, scrolling, wondering if he’d added or removed an extra zero somewhere he shouldn’t have; he was still getting the hang of balancing the books after Gamora insisted he learn how. It was only when Peter went to the transactions list that it became very clear who the real culprit was.

“GROOT!”

______

“I am Groot,” Groot said petulantly.

“I don’t care, buddy. You spent thirty-thousand units in five days!” Peter exploded, throwing his hands up in the air. “How the hell did that happen?!”

“I am Groot.”

“Of course it was microtransactions.” Peter groaned into his hands, sinking down into the seat opposite him at the communal table. “You have no idea how much trouble you’re in, dude. You think I’m mad now, wait ‘til I tell Gamora.”

“I am Groot!” Groot pleaded, suddenly sitting up in his chair. “I am Groot…”

It was then that Gamora entered the room, in search of an afternoon snack after her workout. She paused at the sight of Peter and Groot at the table. “What’s going on?”

“Groot spent a crapload of money on video games this week,” Peter said, his voice unusually bitter.

Gamora took a hesitant step closer, eyeing Groot suspiciously. “How much?”

“My card got declined.”

Her breath hitched; she immediately rounded on Groot. “What were you thinking?” she exclaimed. “We did not let you have access to the team account so you could spend it all!”

Groot shrunk even further into himself. “I am Groot,” he mumbled.

“We trusted you to use it for emergencies only. This was not an emergency,” Gamora snapped, pounding her fist against the table. “What are we going to do with you?”

“We ground him,” Peter said, narrowing his eyes. “Take away his tablet, no screens for a month. And he has to stay in his room when we’re not on jobs, no hanging out with Rocket or Mantis. You got that, kid?”

Groot nodded slowly, looking at Gamora with big, liquid eyes. “I am Groot?”

She straightened up. “I’ve never been so disappointed in you,” she said coolly, promptly turning on her heel and disappearing into the kitchen. Groot sighed, staring down at his hands despondently while Peter snatched his tablet away.

“Thought you woulda known better,” Peter said under his breath. “You know money ain’t a toy. I was gonna buy Gamora somethin’ real nice for our anniversary, and now? I don’t even think we can afford enough fuel to get to our next mission.”

Groot got up with a heaviness in his heart, slowly trudging to his bunk and refusing to look back. He knew he wouldn’t like what he would see.______

Upon telling the others what had happened, Drax was angered, Mantis was disappointed, Nebula couldn’t bring herself to care, and Rocket stalked off with the intention to yell at Groot, only for Gamora to call him back. “Hey! I know we’re all feeling anxious about the consequences of his actions - ”

“I’m not,” Nebula drawled, kicking her feet up on the table.

“ - but I think Groot already knows what he’s done. No need to rub it in his face.” Gamora briefly glared at her sister before pulling down one of the screens. “We just need to do some emergency budgeting and put a temporary plan in place. Another few jobs, and we’ll be back on our feet. Peter?”

“You’re right,” he said, moving to stand by her side. “Alright, Guardians, huddle up. Gotta make some sacrifices this month. That means no more space candy, Mantis.”

After a healthy round of arguing, as expected, they moved onto dinner and agreed to reconvene tomorrow once they had all cooled off from their heated words. Gamora glanced over at the plate full of food, still sitting on the counter. “Someone has to take that to Groot.”

“Prob’ly should be you,” Peter said quietly, glancing around the common area. The others had settled in for the evening in their usual places - Rocket, on the floor, tinkering with half a dozen different weapons and humming along with the Zune, though he’d deny it if asked. Nebula, sat close by but not too close, flipping a knife and staring at the wall, pretending she wasn’t watching Drax and Mantis by the big projection screen, playing one of Peter’s old video games (Drax was losing quite terribly). “You know he hates disappointin’ you the most.”

With a reluctant sigh, Gamora patted Peter’s arm in agreement and picked up the plate, making her way down the narrow corridor to the back of the ship where their bunks were. She knocked on Groot’s door. “It’s Gamora. I brought you dinner.”

“I am Groot.”

“Food isn’t optional,” she retorted, rattling the doorknob. “Let me in, Groot.”

“I am Groot.”

“Then you leave me no choice.” With a swift kick, Groot’s door flew inwards, banging against the wall. Groot was sat on his bed, looking at her, aghast. “Let’s try this again. Groot, I brought you dinner.” She slammed the plate down on his bedside table.

He huffed, turning away from her with his arms folded across his chest. Gamora hesitated, wondering whether to turn and walk straight out of there. Instead, she moved to shut the door and sat across from him. “I am Groot,” he instantly protested.

“No, we’re going to talk about this. Eat.” She held the plate out to him expectantly. He stared at it for a split second before snatching it out of her hands, shoveling food into his mouth like it had been days since he’d last eaten. “Groot, I know you didn’t mean to hurt us when you spent all that money. I just wish you had thought about whether you would.”

“I am Groot,” he said despondently.

“It’s okay that you made a mistake. We’ve all made plenty of mistakes, and this was hardly a noteworthy transgression, all things considered,” she chuckled dryly. “But if you don’t learn from them, then what’s the point? Why continue to perpetuate bad behaviors and consequences instead of letting them teach you the difference between right and wrong?”

“I am Groot.” He looked at her curiously.

“No, I’m…I’m not trying to equate your spending habits with what I did when…when I was with him.” Gamora swallowed. “But…you’re young and impressionable, like I was. There’s still room for you to learn. We’ve raised you from when you were just a twig in a pot. I’d like to think we’ve done it right. And that you’ll know better next time.”

“I am Groot,” he exclaimed, moving closer so they were sitting side-by-side. He clasped his hand over hers worriedly.

“Thank you, Groot.” She turned her hand over so she could intertwine her fingers with his, albeit a little awkwardly given his hand was considerably larger (and rougher). “Tell me you’ll help us fix this.”

“I am Groot,” he promised, squeezing her hand. His eyes were wide, shining with sincerity, the kind of expression that had been so common when he was a child, and so rare now. She smiled in return, holding his gaze for a moment until she remembered something else she hadn’t asked about just yet.

“By the way, do you know what Peter was trying to buy? It must have been pretty expensive if his card got declined,” Gamora commented.

“I…am Groot.” He looked at her sheepishly.

“Oh,” she groaned, tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling like it’d personally wronged her. “If you’ll excuse me, Groot…I think I have some words for Peter, too.”______

Peter was reading in bed when the door slammed open. He jumped, nearly hitting his head on the low ceiling. “Whoa - Gamora, what’s going on - ”

“How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t have to buy my affections?” She shut the door behind her just as aggressively, rattling the entire bunk while she rustled through their tiny wardrobe for her sleepclothes. Peter could only watch confusedly as she began to get changed, wondering whether he would be in more trouble if he looked at her or didn’t look at her. “The occasional flower or thrifted trinket is appreciated, Peter, but to buy something expensive for our anniversary - ”

“Oh, Groot told you, didn’t he?” Peter sank further into the pillows, shutting his book with a snap. “Dammit. Kid can’t keep a secret to save his life.”

“Peter,” Gamora said pointedly. Now fully changed, she sat on the foot of their bed, eyes narrowed at him. “I thought you learned your lesson the first time. We’d been dating for six months, and you decided the best course of action was to take me to a fancy restaurant on Kymellia.”

“It wasn’t that expensive - ”

“There were no prices on the menu!” she exclaimed. She shifted closer to rest her hand on his knee, her dark eyes compelling him to listen. “Your intentions were honest, Peter, it’s one of my favorite things about you. But there is no need to spoil me with things. There is little I’m more confident about than knowing exactly how we feel about each other, and that’s not something I ever thought possible in my lifetime.”

Sighing, he reached out to bring her into his arms, guiding her so her back was pressed against his chest, their legs tangled and stretched out across the length of the bed. “I know, I know. But I gotta say, I thought you would really like this one. It was a pair of daggers…I know they don’t sound like much, but…they had Zehoberian jewels in ‘em.”

She sat up, turning to face him. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, taking her chin in his hands. “I got trackers on all the auction sites for Zehoberian stuff. Figured you’d want a little bit of home every now and then.”

“Oh, Peter…” She ducked her head to allow him to kiss her forehead, his hand sliding down to cup the back of her neck. “Thank you. They sound really lovely.”

“They were. Sucks that I can’t give them to you after all.” He leaned back, shooting her a rueful smile. “So I guess…happy early anniversary, Gamora. Maybe I’ll make you Terran chocolate pie instead.”

Her eyes instantly lit up, though he suspected it was more an indication of her sweet tooth than anything else. “How about you teach me how to make it this time?”

He grinned, leaning in to kiss her. “Sounds like a plan.” She responded with a noise of contentment, deepening the kiss, before pulling him down into the sheets.______

The next few days were considerably better; though their money was tight, the Guardians were quick to forgive Groot once he properly apologized to them all. Peter even commended Groot for his humility - “but dude, don’t tell Gamora stuff I only meant to tell you, okay?” - and all was well.

Then Groot tentatively approached Peter and Gamora one morning while they were discussing the travel route for their next job, twisting his fingers anxiously together. “I am Groot?” he requested shyly.

Gamora looked up from the map. “What is it?”

“I am Groot.” He held out his tablet with a guilty smile. Peter and Gamora exchanged incredulous looks that Groot was, unfortunately, all too familiar with.

Peter took the tablet, the scowl on his face returning. “I thought we took away your devices.”

“I am Groot,” he admitted. “I…am Groot.”

Gamora leaned in curiously to navigate through Groot’s tablet as instructed, scrolling past all the random applications he had to the page where he kept all his games and…nothing. There was absolutely nothing there, other than a port of Defender that Rocket and Peter had built and coded themselves for Groot’s birthday. “What did you do, Groot?”

He rocked back and forth on his heels, trembling hands clasped behind his back. “I am Groot.”

“Check the bank account,” Gamora said urgently to Peter, who immediately swiped away from the map screen on the ship’s computer to bring up their finances. Green blinked back at them in triumph. “What…”

“You got most of it back,” Peter breathed, turning to look at Groot in awe. “All that from a couple of emails to the game developers?”

“I am Groot,” he shrugged.

Peter grinned. “Well, of course they’re huge fans of the Guardians. And thanks to them, we’re up twenty-two thousand units.” He softened. “Or should I say, thanks to you. This was real big of you, kid. Thanks.”

Groot slowly lumbered over, moving to sit across from them, only for Gamora to shuffle over so he could take the spot between her and Peter. His smile widened as he accepted, glancing between them. For a moment, he remembered what it had been like for him barely four years ago - hardly a foot tall, vulnerable and volatile all the same, curled up by their heads on their pillows, his breathing in perfect rhythm with theirs as he fell asleep. He smiled privately to himself and pulled out the next thing he’d been hiding behind his back - a small device, akin to a Terran record player, and set it on the table. “I am Groot.”

“What’s this?” Peter asked, poking it cautiously with his finger like he expected it to explode. “Is this where the other eight grand went?” Groot nodded. “Aw, hell, Groot, what now - ”

“I am Groot,” he said simply.

Gamora let out a small gasp of recognition and picked it up, bringing it closer to her face. “I had one of these as a child…how did you get this?”

“Seriously, what is it?” Peter exclaimed.

She turned to look at him, her eyes shining with excitement. “It’s a bit like those music boxes you told me about. My mother said she used to play Zehoberian folk songs on her bedside table while she was pregnant with me to soothe herself, and then set it by my crib when I wasn’t able to sleep. It’s been years since I thought about them.”

Gamora carefully cracked open its lid, revealing a thin golden ring that was approximately the size of a roll of duct tape, rotating slowly in the divet carved into the base of the box. A weak, but pleasant melody crackled through, soft and lilting. She let out a quiet sob of joy, her fingers trembling as she covered her mouth to steady herself. Peter moved around the table to wrap a comforting arm around her shoulders, leaning in to hear the song better.

After a full song had finished, trailing off with a sort of melancholic sweetness, Peter let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Wow, that was really somethin’. It’s gorgeous.”

“Thank you, Groot.” Gamora hastily wiped at the tears now streaking down her face. “I still can’t say I’m entirely happy about you spending so much money, but this was very sweet of you.”

“I am Groot?” he asked.

She laughed. “Yes, fine. I’m proud of you, Groot. Just don’t do it again.”

He happily curled up into her side, allowing Peter to throw his arms around both of them. Groot sighed contentedly, his face half-burrowed in Gamora’s neck, reminding him of…well, not simpler times, necessarily. Just…good memories. “I am Groot.”

Peter chuckled, squeezing his shoulder in response. “We love you too, kid.”

[suckitsurveys]

Look out of the nearest window. What do you see? Details, please. The parking lot of my work building, past this machine that pulls dust out of the work shop below. I can see a bunch of cars and people leaving to do jobs. There’s a fence around the lot. I can see the other side of our L-shaped building and another building next to us. i also see a hotel and the hotel’s parking garage. the sky is gray and there is snow on the ground. When you think of the word “posh”, what springs to mind? Victoria Beckham, of course. When you have chocolate, do you eat it room temperature? Or are you like me and stick the bar into the fridge first? Room temp usually. What’s the most shocking thing that’s happened in your part of town? Uh. I live in Chicago. Nothing is shocking anymore.

Which brand are your headphones/earbuds? I have no idea, I got them from Amazon. Do you see planes fly over your house at all? Oh yes, we are in a direct flight path and within 5 miles of the airport so the planes are lower than usual when they fly over because they are getting ready to land. Are there any constellations you recognize just by looking at them? I mean, if I actually saw stars in the sky, probably the basic ones like the dippers. Which room of your house/apartment do you spend the most time in? The living room. Which insect do you find the most beautiful? Praying manti, butterflies, bumble bees, lady bugs, moths. Did you have crafts/woodwork at school growing up? A crafts class. And ceramics. If so, what was the best assignment you did for it? i made a BUNCH of cool stuff in ceramics. I love that class. Do you have a friend who likes to tell you everything? Yes. What was the last thing you got very excited about? Possibly going on some trips soon! You can go to any city in any country you want. Which city do you go to? Some city in Hawaii. Do you like gardening? If so, what do you grow? Yes. veggies, herbs, flowers. Do you enjoy puzzle games? If so, which one’s your favourite? Sure. Is there a substance you avoid at all costs? If so, what is it and why? I mean, super hard drugs? What would you love to live next door to? Nothing. I dream of seclusion. What gives you nostalgia? So many things. When you think of a classy drink, what comes to mind first? Champagne. Do you prefer eating out or cooking your own meals? Either. There’s something special and, speaking of nostalgia, nostalgic to me about eating at a restaurant. Which language do you think is the most complicated to learn? Probably English tbh. English is fucked up. Is there a place that you might call your second home? Yes. My dad’s house. How do you imagine your later life to look like? Idk. What is a job you would never in a million years want to do? President. Is there a piece of jewelry that you feel naked without? Earrings in my top two holes on my left ear. It’s more for fear of them closing though. Do you ever “go commando”? No. I don’t feel comfortable. What’s the sweetest thing someone’s done for you? Married me. :P Which wild animals are a common sight in your area? Bunnies. What’s the weirdest building in your city? Dude Chicago is FILLED with weird, cool architecture. How do you keep in touch with friends usually? Texting and FB. Do you get a lot of visitors? Nah. Is there a subtle way your partner gets you excited easily? I don’t understand this question. Do you recognize friends’/family’s vehicles by sound? I just know when my mom is home because I hear the car alarm sound when she locks her car. Which Disney villain is your favourite? Ursula or Yzma. On a regular day, what do you usually do at 3 o'clock in the afternoon? I’m getting ready to end my work day. Which possession would you not want to inherit from a relative? I don’t know specifically. What is something you would never dare to do in public? Go around naked. Would you/ did you have a hen night/bachelorette party? I did not. Has anyone taken you on holiday somewhere? If so, where? I mean. I’ve gone on family vacations before. When you left the house last time, where did you go? Work. How did you spend your last birthday? I was in Boston!