#totally was expecting a more obvious choice before the route split

[dimitrez]

"His one regret would be never getting to see the new Faerghus his beloved king created."

[writethelifeyouwant]

Make Him Look - Ch 1 / 2

Pairing: Cordell Walker x Reader Rating: 18+ Tags: flirting, many many drinks, jealousy, dancing, slow burn Word Count: 3k Created for: @walker-bingo - In Vino Veritas | @anyfandomgoesbingo - Jealousy A/N: Written with the lovely @thinkinghardhardlythinking in mind ❤️and y'all can also blame her for the fact it got so long I split it into two 😂

Cordell swings his leg over a barstool and settles into his usual spot. The bar is busy but not crowded. There’s a few more empty stools awaiting occupants for the night, and Cordell hooks one with his foot and draws it closer, popping his hat down to save the seat for Liam, who’s on his way. But there’s no reason to wait for Liam before he orders – they get the same thing every time.

“Barkeep! Can I get some queso, hot wings, and whatever Pinthouse you’ve got on draft?”

“Sure thing, man,” the kid behind the bar drawls, his accent thick and voice lazy. Cordell would bet anything the guy had had a joint on his break earlier, but he’s off duty – tonight is not about busting people for drugs, tonight is about letting loose. He checks his phone to see if Liam had texted him that he’d left the office yet, but there is nothing there. Taking a sip of the drink that has just been plopped on a coaster in front of him, Cordell scans the room. It’s a bad habit that every law enforcement worker he’s ever met has developed. Even when he’s trying to relax and blow off some steam, he can’t help being a little vigilant.

He takes in the tableaus around him; the groups of kids from the local community college, the gaggle of mid to late aged men in awful polos that Cordell recognises as the inner city bowling league, a couple of less savoury looking guys playing pool, the cluster of women those guys keep eyeing up – he’ll keep an eye on that one.

Checking his phone again and taking another drink, he still hasn’t heard anything from Liam. He opens his brother’s contact and is about to give him a call to tell him to get his ass in gear when someone suddenly reaches down beside him, picks up his hat and drops it back on his head while they slide into the seat he’d been saving - except it’s not Liam.

“Hey you,” the stranger says familiarly, bumping her shoulder against his. “Thanks for saving me a seat.”

You shrug out of your jacket and sling it over your arm as you head up to the worn wood counter of the bar. You don’t see your friend yet, so you decide to go ahead and order a drink while you wait for her to show. She’s always late, you should have just assumed and shown up fifteen minutes from now. You play on your phone as you wait for the bartender to finish serving the gang of people at the other end of the bar. When you feel someone in front of you, you look up, about to order a glass of wine, except one is already being placed on the bar top in front of you.

You stare questioningly at the kid serving you the drink. You’d been here before, sure, but you’re hardly a regular, and even if you were you don’t recognise this server – so why does he know what you were about to order?

“Um, I didn’t–” you start but the kid interrupts you.

“From the gentleman at the end of the bar, milady,” he gave a geeky little bow, “Sorry, he told me to say it like that,” he grimaces at himself. You chance a fleeting look back to the group you’d noticed him serving a few minutes ago and to your horror, you recognise your ex, Dirk, grinning back at you. He tips the brim of his ball cap and gives you a wink, like he’s expecting you to be impressed that he remembers you drink red wine. Shit, this is not how this night is supposed to go. You’re supposed to be here to get drunk with your best friend and have a bit of a dance, not be looking over your shoulder the whole night hoping that jerk leaves you alone.

Panicking a little now, you check your phone but there’s no text from Lea telling you when to expect her. Knowing her like you do, you would bet anything she won’t be here soon, and you don’t want to wait on your own and risk Dirk coming to talk to you. Desperately, you scan your eyes around the bar, cataloguing your options and escape routes. Someone catches your eye a few seats along from where you are. Tall, broad – dark and handsome, your mind supplies unhelpfully – but what really catches your eye is the badge hanging from his belt. He’s a Ranger.

Normally, you’d pick a group of girls who you know would happily pretend to know you so you don’t have to wait alone but you know Dirk, and you know he won’t be shy enough to let any number of girls stop him from coming to ruin your night. But a guy - and a Texas Ranger at that – Dirk wouldn’t dare. He had an outstanding DUI, and he’d always been a bit of a chicken around cops anyways.

Choice made, you grab the wine he’d bought you – hey, you’re not made of money, free booze is free booze – and you march purposefully over to the Ranger, who’s checking his phone and not paying attention until you grab his black cowboy hat off the chair next to him. Clearly he had been saving it for someone, and you want Dirk to think that someone is you.

“Hey you,” you chirp, placing his hat back on his head as you slide into the seat he’d been saving, “Thanks for saving me a seat.” You smile at the Ranger long enough to see him looking at you completely perplexed before you glance back to Dirk and see him watching you with a scowl. You let yourself feel inwardly triumphant and turn back to the man you’d just decided to befriend, if only temporarily.

Swivelling back towards him, you let yourself get a good look at his face for the first time. His bright hazel eyes are staring back at you, confused but not unkind. Tall, dark, and handsome is definitely apt, and now you’re seeing him properly you’re a bit speechless. You hadn’t counted on him being this freakin’ attractive.

“Sorry,” you finally manage to choke out under your breath. “I’ll leave you alone soon, I promise, I’m just hiding from my ex,” you explain, and understanding melts across the man’s face.

“Anything I can do to help?” he asks sympathetically.

“Just pretend like you know me until my friend gets here?” you propose hopefully.

“Happy to,” he smiles, grabbing his drink and holding it out to clink against your wine glass. You tap your glass against his, relief flooding your body as you settle onto your stool a little more comfortably.

“Thank you…” you trail off leadingly, hoping he’ll fill in his name.

“Cordell,” he supplies.

“Now there is a Texan name if I ever heard one,” you giggle.

“If you’re gonna laugh at my name do I at least get the chance to laugh at yours too?” he grins jokingly.

“Y/N,” you give him your name, tucking your hair behind your ear and taking a sip of your wine.

“Well that’s no fun, how can I tease you for such a pretty name?” Cordell takes a sip of his own drink, mirroring you. Jeez, this one is a smooth talker.

-

When you finish your glass of wine, probably a little quicker than normal due to your anxious state, you check your phone again and see a missed call from Lea. “Crap,” you sigh, drawing a concerned look from Cordell, who is happily munching away on some chips and queso next to you.

“Everything okay?” He asks, muffled, mouth still full of food.

“Yeah, s’just my friend bailing on me,” you gripe, listening to the voicemail she’d left on your phone a few minutes ago. “Sorry I gate crashed your night for nothing,” you apologise, popping your phone back in your bag and planning on just going home to turn in early and watch some junky tv show in bed now that your ‘girls night’ wasn’t happening.

“Hey, you aren’t gate crashing.” Cordell shrugs, like he’s hedging his bets with his next statement. “I’ve had a good time so far.” His smile is shy and sincere, and you soften just a little in your annoyance at the world.

“I totally am though, you were clearly waiting for someone,” you gesture to the stool you’d taken up residence on.

“Just my work-a-holic brother, who, as luck would have it–” Cordell pulls his phone from his pocket and holds it up to show the message on the lock screen “–also pulled out on me.”

“Oh,” you blink, not sure what to make of that. It sounds like he’s asking you to stay but… “Well, thank you for being my knight in shining armour for a bit, seriously, but I don’t really want to stick around just to have my ex looking at me all night.”

“Well, if he’s gonna be a creep and keep watching you all night, we could make that fun, give him something to watch,” Cordell offers, his smirk incongruous with the almost hopeful expression in his eyes.

“What?” You’re perplexed.

“I mean, I don’t know what happened between you, but it’s pretty obvious to me that he wants you back, and you seem pretty pissed at him for that. I’m guessing the bastard cheated on you?” You huff in response, a little bitter that he’d read the situation so easily.

“Yeah, he did,” you admit, slumping against the bar, feeling downtrodden at the memory.

“So don’t let him chase you off,” Cordell shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “He messed you around – you tellin’ me you wouldn’t like to mess with him right back?” he raises an eyebrow in temptation, a knowing smirk twitching at his lips.

“And you’re proposing that instead of not wanting him to look at me all night–”

“You make him look,” Cordell finishes your sentence for you. “We’ve already pretended to know each other for the past–” he checks his watch “–twenty minutes. May as well just do the whole pretend date.” Cordell looks at you with so much honesty, you believe that he really does just want to help you screw with Dirk. And you cannot say the idea isn’t appealing.

“Alright,” you concede, shaking your head slightly in disbelief that you’re actually agreeing to this, and Cordell’s face splits into a wide smile. Honestly, seeing that expression alone made agreeing to this worth it. “So, if we’re on a pretend date, you gonna pretend to buy me another drink?”

“No,” you insist, shaking your head vehemently.

“C’mon,” Cordell chides, grinning madly.

“I did not agree to this,” you shake your head, finishing off the last bit of wine in your glass.

“Come on,” he urges again, leaning against the bar and tilting his head close to yours pleadingly.

“I am not dancing,” you repeat, wholeheartedly meaning it. You think if you have to come into genuine skin to skin contact with Cordell, you might actually melt into a puddle. Now three glasses of wine into your fake date, you can feel yourself loosening up and really enjoying yourself with this handsome stranger. He’s kind, and funny, and a little weird but in a charming way – exactly your type. And him begging you to dance with him wasn’t helping your self-restraint. This is a fake date, you keep reminding yourself firmly every time he flashes you that little half smile that makes his eyes light up.

“Well, I don’t know what kind of boring fake dates you usually go on, but mine aren’t complete unless I get to show off my two-step and knock back a tequila shot.”

“Oh, we’re doing tequila now, are we?” You laugh – this guy is actually ridiculous, and you kind of love it.

“That wasn’t a no,” he jumps on your ‘non denial’ and waves at the kid behind the bar. “Two tequilas, two limes?” he holds up two fingers and the bartender nods to him, quickly pouring out the shots and dropping two lime wedges onto a plate. Cordell grabs a salt shaker from the condiments rack on the bar and sets everything up between you. You let him work, watching incredulously but enjoying the show nonetheless.

“Give me your hand,” he holds out his own hand expectantly once he’s arranged all the pieces to his liking.

“Why?” your voice is nervous but your hand reaches out instantly of its own accord. Without answering he proceeds to rub the edge of the lime over the inside of your wrist, then puts the lime in your fingers and shakes some salt over the trail of juice he left behind. He does the same thing to himself, then passes you your shot, which you take in your lime-free hand.

“Right, you wanna do this the normal way or the ‘make Dirk jealous way’?” Cordell asks with a smirk once he’s oriented himself.

“I’m gonna regret asking this, but what’s the ‘make Dirk jealous’ way?” you groan exaggeratedly, like he’s put some great burden on you, but the truth is you’re really enjoying yourself.

“Like this,” Cordell steps up to you and links your right arms together. Catching his drift you smile and try to hold back the snort of laughter that bubbles up inside you – a nervous reaction to feeling the warmth of his body against yours, even through the layer of his shirt. “One, two, three,” he counts off and you go to lick the salt off your wrist except that’s what Cordell is doing. You freeze momentarily, heat shooting up your arm from where his tongue and lips are laving over your skin. You don’t think to move until Cordell puts his own wrist against your lips and you lick obediently.

Your linked arms pull you closer together as Cordell lifts the tequila to his lips and you follow suit in a kind of trance, both knocking back your shots. The tequila hits you harder than you remember it ever doing before, and you scrunch up your face, disoriented for a moment until you once again feel Cordell’s lips on your skin. This time they’re wrapping around your finger tips as he sucks the lime into his mouth. You stand frozen, the burn in your mouth and your fingers meeting in your chest and ratcheting up your heart rate as if you’re trying to run away from the oncoming flames. But it’s hopeless, you’re stuck in the blaze now.

“You want your lime, darlin’?” Cordell laughs at your stock still frame and holds his fingers to your lips, gently pressing the fruit inside and urging you to suck. You’re sure you must have physically combusted into fire by now, but Cordell isn’t jumping away like he’s been singed – he’s pressing closer. “Dance with me,” he rasps, voice hoarse from the burn of the alcohol. It’s not a request anymore, it’s an order, and you don’t question it.

Drawing his hand down the arm of yours linked with his until your fingers lace together, he pulls you away from the bar and out onto the dance floor. It’s an upbeat country song, the kind you’d normally jump around to, but he pulls you in and wraps an arm around your waist like a proper partner dance calls for – except he’s ignored the social convention of leaving room for Jesus. He pulls you after him in tiny circles and you let him lead happily. When the song changes to something a little slower he pulls you just a little tighter, and you can’t stop yourself from moving your gaze off his shoulder up to his face.

His eyes dart over your shoulder, then smile down at you wryly, and you feel yourself blush. “He’s watching,” Cordell grins mischievously. You go to look but he puts a hand on your neck and holds you still, keeping your eyes on him. His fingers are strong and warm against your collarbone, ironically causing you to shiver. “No, don’t look at him,” his voice is low as he leans in conspiratorially, “you wanna make him look, remember?”

“Why are you helping me?” The alcohol swimming through your veins is making you comfortable and fuzzy, and you let yourself lean against him familiarly, your head resting against his chest as he continues to move you both around the dance floor. You feel him shrug as his grips on your hand and the nape of your neck tighten a little.

“The truth?” he asks. You can hear the nerves in his voice, even if you can’t see them on his face.

“No, I want you to lie to me, please,” your voice manages to stay serious through the end of the joke before you burst into giggles, and you feel your laughter move into his body and trigger his own, making his chest rise and fall unevenly beneath your cheek.

“You are one hell of a gal, you know that?” You’re glad your face is buried in his chest so he can’t see just how brightly you smile at the compliment. “Truth is, I’ve been trying to get you drunk and have my wicked way with you.” You can tell by how expressionless his voice has gone that he’s winding you up, but you pull back and slap your hand to your chest in mock horror.

“Well Cordell Walker, I have never met such a rogue in my life,” you gasp in your best Scarlet O’Hara accent. It’s not a good one. Neither of you can keep a straight face for more than a few seconds, and you both double over in laughter after your minuscule standoff.

As your laughter dies down, Cordell grabs your hands again and pulls you back to him, swaying entirely out of time to the song that’s playing. He looks like he’s about to say something but the words haven’t quite found their way to his tongue, and when you catch his eyes you suddenly don’t want to hear what he has to say and you pull away from him. He looks at you, puzzled and just the slightest bit hurt as you try to find some cover for your sudden movement.

“You wouldn’t happen to be a bourbon fan, would you?”

Part 2 Here!

We’re All Mads Here: @vulgar-library @tintentrinkerin @negans-lucille-tblr @fandomfic-galore @petitgateau911 @schaefchenherde @kickingitwithkirk @little-diable @laxe-chester67 @kassyscarlett @austin-winchester67

All Walker: @lovealways-j @delightfullykrispypeach @stoneyggirl @thinkinghardhardlythinking @sams-sass @walkersbabygirl

[archived-gtronpa-account]

cld yu do shiftr!shuichi nd norm sized ouma? hhsjsjx btw i. love yr writing sm...!!!!

Thank you sm hun I'm glad you enjoy my stuff! And you've got such good taste, the world needs more of shifter anxious detective hhehehehhhahaha

____

Word count: 1700

Summary: No one else has, but Kokichi is sure he saw something strange about Saihara, and he won't rest until he's proven right or wrong about the oddity.

____

He wasn’t as surprised by sudden, uncharacteristic outburst as he was by the fact that Shuichi must have grown a good few inches while he’d been yelling.

Tense, Kokichi let his gaze wander over the class and his classmates. Most seemed discomforted by the usually meek detective’s mood shift, none seemed otherwise bothered by his changing height. Had they not noticed? Kokichi found that hard to believe. He knew to differentiate between his eyes tricking him and truth standing right in front of him; the truth of the moment was that he’d decided to sneak up on the emo boy from behind to scare him, and succeeded so well that instead of being loosely scolded like he’d expected, he’d gotten yelled at more harshly than a parent who’d caught their kid doing drugs. And while scared and angry, Shuichi Saihara had grown at least three inches in height and had been still getting taller.

Kokichi didn’t bother the boy more several days after the uncanny accident. He sat at the back of the classroom like a silent bystander, and watched. He’d heard the boy tell his pianist friend that conducting an investigation was easier when there was an answer to confirm rather than a question to answer. That much was true; it was much easier for Kokichi, since he knew, to catch the signs. Everything made more sense, from the way the ultimate detective hunched over when he felt nervous, to the way he’d straighten up when something made him smile or laugh, yet never seemed any taller or shorter despite the difference in stance.

If it was creepy at first, it became fascinating for the supreme leader to watch over his classmate and understand the logistics of his strange ability. The highlight of Kokichi’s day was to observe the others interact with Shuichi, predict what they would say and how the strange boy would react, and watch as his predictions came true and Shuichi shifted in posture and readjusted his hat; sometimes so large it fell over his eyes and sometimes too small to fit on top of his head. His changes in height seemed to follow his emotions more than his will, and the accident that had occurred between them a few days ago was a testament to that.

When his curiosity grew disproportionate, Kokichi decided to put his newly acquired knowledge to test and challenged himself to make the boy’s height change beyond any possible denial. Either he could slowly befriend Shuichi, make him feel safe and happy in his presence until he loosened up, or he could give him another good scare that would send his head flying to the ceiling. The choice was easily made.

It started slow. First, Kokichi sent a few ominous stares at the detective, which were only met with annoyance and stubborn ignorance. Then came the letters left on his desk; ‘I know your secret,’ ‘Isn’t your hat too small for your head?’ ‘Wanna watch "Honey I shrunk the kids" together?’

Shuichi didn’t come to class for two days after that. When he came back, more distant and avoidant than ever, Kokichi decided to drop the theatrics and catch him in the act as fast as he could before he slipped out of his fingers again.

By late afternoon, when most of their classmates had left, only he and Shuichi stayed in the classroom; the latter waiting for him to leave the room so he could leave safely after. When Kokichi didn’t move from his seat and made it obvious enough he wouldn’t budge, it was Shuichi who quickly gathered his belongings and slunk out of the classroom. Kokichi followed.

The hallways were dark and vacant. Four walls met neatly and threatened to enclose around the taller boy who kept his eyes downcast and pace quick. From behind, Kokichi’s footsteps echoed in the empty space. The tension was palpable and Kokichi relished the feeling, his heart pounding in his chest and blood roaring in his ears. The atmosphere had nothing to envy to a horror or thriller movie. Kokichi was starting to doubt his decision, good thing. If he felt so tense then Shuichi must have been on the verge of breaking out.

Like the most cliché thriller teen movie, Shuichi sped around a corner and tumbled in the boy’s bathroom. What a bad move, Kokichi could’ve almost thought the detective wanted to be caught like that. He seized the opportunity, and took his sweet time to follow after his prey.

Whistling a merry tune, Kokichi skipped over to the only closed stall. He knocked several times, following the rhythm of his tune for added annoyance, but Shuichi didn’t say a word. He could hear rapid breathing beyond the wooden door, and he could already see the tip of a familiar hat poking out from the top.

Kokichi bent down and peeked under the door. “Hey, Saihara? What shoe size do you wear?” He didn’t respond, didn’t move. “I don’t think even my clown shoes could fit you.”

“Kokichi, I don’t know why you’re following me, but please leave me alone.” There it was, the small, wavering voice, begging for him to keep the secret. A grin came over the leader’s face.

“Oh, fine, fine. I'll even do you a favor and tell our classmates how you can totally change height, and then they'll leave you alone, too.”

There was a sputter, the knob moved, and Kokichi backed away just in time for the door to be nearly ripped off. A second too late, and the smaller boy would have been knocked down.

Kokichi scooted back until his back was pressed against a wall, unable to control his fear for a split second. Shuichi emerged from hiding; his head met the ceiling with a thud. He was much taller than anticipated, at least four times as tall as himself. He looked like a real life giant; one that could snatch the smaller leader’s entire leg in a fist. One wrong move could cause the worst accident; one purposeful attack to him could send him to the hospital.

Shuichi gasped and stumbled a few steps back, cornering himself. His hands shot up to head level like some murderer caught red handed, face twisted in fear, and Kokichi was immediately able to push his own fright to the back of his mind, reminding himself of who exactly he was facing. Still, it was easy to remember what kind of person Shuichi was, but it was hard to keep in mind when he was still growing taller by the second.

“Please don’t-” he didn’t even look him in the eyes, instead keeping them shut as he curled in on himself and laced shaky hands over his head for protection. The ceiling whined and cracked, ready to give out at any moment under the inhumane force. Kokichi took a few steps away, staying safe and out of arm’s length of the too large boy. “Don’t freak out- Don’t tell anyone- Please!”

For a second, Kokichi felt like Bill, the lizard from Alice in wonderland. He had to get out; he didn’t want to end up like the lizard from Alice in wonderland.

Thankfully though, his emo Alice wasn’t blocking out the exit with his elbow, and Kokichi was able to slip out of the room in the next second without being stopped. Morbid curiosity kept his feet rooted right at the door, and he listened for the commotion. There was ragged breathing and feverish mumbles, the creaking and cracking got louder and louder till it reached a monstrous, terrifying peak, and Kokichi debated for several moments whether or not he should go back in. But when he was sure he would hear the ceiling fall off and his hand had already grasped and twisted the doorknob, ready to jump in action should he help the other boy get out, the commotion subsided, slow at first, until there was nothing but deafening silence lying beyond the door.

Kokichi’s grip remained tense on the knob. His entire plan had built up to that very moment. He’d made a grandiose mess, but he couldn’t leave without taking at least one last look at it; all villains looked back at their explosion in the climax.

Breath still hitched in his throat, Kokichi pushed the door open and poked his head in. Save for a few cracks on the walls and ceiling, the room looked fine. Shuichi didn’t look as fine; hunched over a sink and eyes glued to his shoes, breathing heavily and body trembling. Taunts easily came to Kokichi’s mind in dozens, but he didn’t have it in him to tease the messy-looking boy anymore at the moment. “Man…” He breathed out.

Shuichi’s eyes snapped to him, wide with fear for a second, until his gaze settled more firmly on the shorter boy’s face. Slowly, his face clenched up in a frown, the deathly pale tint to his cheeks disappeared under bloody crimson. He straightened up, shoulders tense, and breathed in.

“Get out!”

Kokichi didn’t flinch at the screech. That reaction was to be expected. Still, it wasn’t his fault Shuichi was so bad at pushing the reset button to his feelings; Kokichi had just done so at that very moment. Without another word and like a good villain owning up to his evil deed, Kokichi retreated and closed the door. Maybe he should have gone the anticlimactic route and let the boy alone.

[tsarisfanfiction]

Long Way From Home: Chapter 11

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Friendship Characters: Scott, Tracy Family

I... totally forgot to update last week.  Oops.  Lab time’s started so uni got a little distracting.  Also you guys seemed to love the hoodie thing so I figured that had you satisfied for a little while :P (if you haven’t seen it, @louthestarspeaker did some amazing art for that!)

No warnings for this chapter (wow, it’s been a while), unless you think Scott being a flirt needs a warning.

<<<Chapter 10

“So where are we going now?” Scott asked, changing the topic.

“Your call,” Other-Gordon shrugged, even though Scott was fairly sure he had a destination in mind from the way he was driving.  There was no hesitation about their route.  “We can take a break and get ourselves a bite to eat, or we can get the rest of the shopping done and find food after.”

Scott mentally ran through what they had left to get.  “How likely are the paparazzi to hound us for the rest of the day?” he asked.

“Most likely they’ll be asking around what we were buying for a while,” Other-Gordon told him.  “After that, it depends how interesting they find us, and if they can find us again.”

Scott drew the line at paparazzi squawking about his choice of underwear, and sighed.  “Might as well get those underpants now, then,” he said.

“If you’re sure,” Other-Gordon said.  He sounded dubious, but Scott glanced at him and saw concern, rather than disagreement.

“I’m sure,” he said firmly.  “Unless you’re about to tell me I’ll need fittings for that because if that’s the case then I’m sticking with what I’ve got.”

Other-Gordon laughed.  “Well, it’s lucky for all of us that there won’t be any fittings in the next shop, then,” he grinned.  “Underpants, socks and pyjamas are all in the same place.  We’re sticking with Scott’s usual haunts now,” he added.  “Less for the paparazzi to get their teeth into.”

Scott swallowed, thankful for the heads’ up.  Typically, sharp ginger eyes didn’t miss it.

“Say, we didn’t get to have that chat about a pattern yet, did we?” Other-Gordon commented.  Scott sighed.

“I should be fine,” he said.

“Scott.”  The disappointment was clear.  “I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

He was right but that didn’t stop Scott disliking it.

“If I’m expecting it, it’s fine,” he clarified, although Other-Gordon’s raised eyebrow said things were still as clear as mud.

“Expecting what.”  It wasn’t a question, but an expectation, and Scott sighed.

“People that know your brother,” he admitted.  “The paparazzi, being recognised in the streets… they’re one thing. That’s fine.”

“It’s people who know Scott,” Other-Gordon finished for him. Scott nodded.  “That explains Madeleine, but not George.  Jones…  We weren’t with him long enough for him to notice anything?”  Scott nodded again.  “So, George is the opposite?  We were with him too long?”

“Something like that,” Scott agreed.  “He saw when I slipped and tried to use the catalogue like I would at home.”

Other-Gordon made a noise that sounded a little like a suspicion had been confirmed.

“I don’t know for sure if it’ll help,” he said.  “But try to remember two things.”

Scott looked over at him again and resisted the urge to tell him to put both hands back on the wheel as one fist raised, a single finger extended.

“First, outside the airport no-one here knows Scott that well. Certainly not well enough to notice any small differences.  Even your voice might not be enough to raise most people’s suspicions, that’s mostly a precaution.  They’re not going to see one small slip and peg you as an imposter.  Scott doesn’t go shopping much, and he prefers going to Kansas or New York for the most part.  Auckland’s only for short day trips.  Anyone acting familiar outside of the airport is doing exactly that.  They’re acting.”  A second finger raised.  “Secondly, you’re Scott Tracy.  You might not be my Scott, but you’re still Scott Tracy.  Have a little faith in yourself.”

“Aren’t you watching me and logging all the differences between us?” Scott asked, and Other-Gordon rolled his eyes.  He did, thankfully, at least put his hand back on the wheel.

“That’s how I know you can pull this off,” he said.  “There are differences, but they’re ones I see because I’m family.  Tom, Dick and Harry aren’t going to notice a jot.”

“George did.”

“George saw you doing something weird,” Other-Gordon shrugged.  “No more catalogues, no more swishy fingers.”

“Swishy fingers?”

“You looked like you were conducting an orchestra,” Other-Gordon told him bluntly.

Okay, Scott could see that.

“Hold your head high and pretend you own the place,” the ginger advised. “We won’t be in this shop long.” He pulled into another car park, next to a sleek building advertising Outstanding Private Garments for the Gentleman. “But if that doesn’t work, remember four for Four,” he added.  “Three if you just need some space.”

Despite himself, Scott found himself grinning.  “Three for Three, four for Four,” he repeated.  “I can remember that.”  Associating the numbers with Thunderbirds was simple, but definitely effective.

“Whatever helps you remember,” Other-Gordon shrugged.  “But like I say, we shouldn’t be in here long.  Ready?”

In answer, Scott plucked at the lever in the side of the door, letting it open. Other-Gordon took the hint.

The inside of the shop was much more like Lemaires’, if less filled with customers, than the workshop store had been.  The class difference was painfully obvious, and Scott found himself wondering why rich meant stuffy here.  It was going to be a relief when he could shuck off Other-Scott’s clothes – still too smart for Scott’s liking even if it was clearly supposed to be casual wear – and put on something that fit his own definition of casual.

Not-Dad could scowl about undone buttons and rolled up sleeves all he wanted, but if Scott was going to suffer being in a different universe, he’d at least do so comfortably.

A salesman headed over to them, apparently drawn like a magnet to the sniff of money, and Scott contentedly stayed back as Other-Gordon repeated their spiel about a lost voice and explained what they were after.

You’re Scott Tracy.  It almost mirrored Not-Dad’s departing message remember you’re a Tracy, and Scott wondered if this was what the older man had meant.  He threw a grin in the salesman’s direction when the man looked at him, kept his back straight and hands – both of them – in his pockets.

Just doing that made him feel like he really did belong there.  It was a dangerous thought, and Scott quickly clarified to himself that by there he meant in the shop, and not in this universe, because he certainly did not belong in the latter and couldn’t wait to get home.

As the man led them down aisles, presumably towards the underwear Other-Gordon had specified, he caught a look of approval from the ginger.

It wasn’t much, just a brief curl of the corner of his mouth and a split second of eye contact out of the corner of his eye, but it lifted a weight Scott hadn’t noticed settling on his chest.

He could do this.  It was just some clothes.

Some clothes in a different universe and subsequently different fashions. Apparently this universe had not yet discovered his preferred style, or at least didn’t offer them for Gentlemen.  He pointedly ignored Other-Gordon watching him even as he nattered away to the salesman, no doubt keeping him distracted, and mentally ran through the options in front of him.

Comfort and practicality were both important, and it was with that in mind that he made his selection, hoping he wouldn’t notice the difference too much when he was wearing them.  He didn’t know how often they did laundry, but in a vain hope he wouldn’t be in this universe for too long, he grabbed a week’s worth before turning back to the other men.

Other-Gordon’s face betrayed nothing about his selection, but he did obligingly prod the salesman into leading them to the socks.

Once again, fashion differences made themselves known as trainer and ankle socks seemed to be entirely absent from the choices, leaving Scott with the simple choice of what pattern he wanted on the calf-high woollen offerings. They reminded him more than a little of soccer socks, and he kept half an eye on Other-Gordon as a yellow pair found their way into the selection amongst the blues, whites and blacks.  To his frustration, the ginger seemed to have pulled on a poker face, no doubt anticipating that Scott would try and throw him again with colour selection.

Still, even that gave him some sort of sense of normalcy, which in turn kept him calm and focused on what they needed to do, and not what anyone else was thinking of him.  Other-Gordon keeping up a stream of chatter with the salesman – whose name Scott realised he still hadn’t caught – was enough to quell the last of the what-ifs, and even selecting a few pairs of pyjamas was much less of a trial than it could have been.

Even if Scott really wished he could just wear a tatty old t-shirt and shorts like he defaulted to at home.  Unfortunately, Gentlemen apparently wore sleeping shirts made of cotton with matching full-length trousers, much like the ones he’d woken up in earlier that morning, and once again had a limited selection that seemed to mostly vary in the shape of the collar and length of the arms.

Assuming that this universe’s Tracy Island tended towards the same temperatures as his home, he opted for mostly thinner, short-sleeved choices, and ignored the many patterned ones in favour of plain where he could.  Blue, yes, but there was also dark grey and another red and black chequered pattern he couldn’t bring himself not to choose.

Amber eyes narrowed at the final selection, Other-Gordon logging it and no doubt wracking his brain for anything that might be inspiring his now second choice for that combination.  Scott was mostly hopeful he wouldn’t figure it out, but the other man had proven himself to be extremely sharp. ��There was always a chance he would.

“That seemed like it went better,” the ginger commented once the clothes were paid for and they were back in the car.  The engine purred, although the car was still in neutral and Other-Gordon was leaning back in the seat.  Scott hoped the fuel was as carbon neutral here as it was at home.

‘Went better’ wasn’t a hard thing to surmise, considering it was the first shop Scott hadn’t had a full-blown panic attack in – or any real panic at all. “What helped?”

They had one shop left to go, by Scott’s estimation, and no doubt he was going to have to interact with strangers again for it.  Even at home, shoe shopping still required checking they fit, so he didn’t dare hope it would be avoidable here.  After the reprieve of the relatively easy experience he’d just had, he hoped he could hold it together long enough to get a couple of pairs of sneakers.

“No fittings,” he said dryly when Other-Gordon cleared his throat meaningfully. “It was easier to ignore everyone else.”

“That’s not going to be possible when we get the shoes,” Other-Gordon reminded him, and he sighed.

“I know,” he said.  “But I can handle it.”

“Do you want that café break now?”

Scott shook his head.  “Let’s get this over with,” he said.  “Putting it off won’t make it easier.”

“If you’re sure,” Other-Gordon replied, but there was no dubiousness in his tone this time.  Scott suspected he wasn’t the only one relieved at the success in the latest shop. The ginger shifted the car into drive and then they were rolling out onto the streets again.  “How many shoes are you thinking of?”

“Two should be enough,” Scott shrugged.  “Both sneakers.”

“No sandals?” Other-Gordon looked surprised.  Scott shook his head again.

“I won’t need those,” he said.  “Two pairs of sneakers will be plenty.”

“Well, I suppose you can always steal Scott’s shoes if you end up needing anything else,” the other man mused.  “You’ll need protective boots before you get in the hangars properly,” he added, “but we can’t get those here.”

“I have protective boots,” Scott reminded him.

“Only when Brains isn’t prodding at them,” Other-Gordon pointed out.  “I didn’t look at your boots that closely but they looked weird.”

“I’m almost certainly going to think the same thing about yours when I see them properly,” Scott shrugged.  “They’re protective enough.  Not quite as heavy duty as Virgil’s, but they’re still superior to steel caps.”

“Sounds useful,” Other-Gordon commented.  “We’re here.”

That had been a considerably shorter drive than any of the others. Scott made to get out of the car, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

“Scott got new sneakers recently,” Other-Gordon warned him.  “So the chaps here will remember him.”

The pressure that had lifted with the last shop made its return known with a vengeance, and Scott grit his teeth.  The hand on his arm tightened, grounding him, and he glanced over at Other-Gordon.

“Will it help if I go over the story with you now?” the ginger asked, serious eyes meeting his through the shades.  “Remember, they might remember him, but they don’t know him. Behave like you did in the last shop and everything will be fine.”

“The story?” Scott asked, taking a deep breath.

“That you like them enough to want more,” Other-Gordon clarified.  “As for your hand; you slipped over by the pool and grazed it.”

Scott hadn’t even considered his hand, and that he’d need to be using it.

“Scott, are you okay to go in or do you want that café break first?” Other-Gordon asked, seriousness laced all through the words.  Scott swallowed.  Instinct told him he was going to struggle, but his pride rebelled at the idea of running away.

His lack of an immediate answer seemed to be all Other-Gordon needed as he shoved the car back into drive.

“Wait-” Scott protested as he realised they were leaving.  Sharp amber eyes looked at him.

“What did you have for breakfast this morning?”

Breakfast?  Scott blinked, caught out by the question.

“All you’ve had since you got here was Grandma’s apple pie,” Other-Gordon continued.  “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to feel mighty peckish, and I had a nice, leisurely breakfast after my swim this morning.”

Now that he’d mentioned it, Scott realised the churning in his stomach might not be entirely looming panic.  He didn’t actually remember breakfast.  There was that early morning call-out; he’d chugged a coffee during John’s briefing then gone to pluck the climber from the mountain, and then returned home with the intent of catching a couple more hours of sleep before properly facing the day.

Food, he realised, hadn’t featured at all.  He’d left One, somehow fallen through a universe collision, and then ended up here.

“Coffee,” he eventually answered.

“And?”

Scott shrugged.  “Early morning callout.  Bed was the plan when I got back.”

“Hold on a moment,” Other-Gordon said.  “You’re telling me that slice of apple pie’s the only thing you’ve eaten in… how long?”

“I ate dinner last night,” Scott defended himself.

“Gee.”  Other-Gordon shook his head.  “That settles it.  We’re going to a café and you’re going to eat.”

Scott didn’t have an argument for that one, and his stomach made its agreement known by grumbling at him suddenly.  Other-Gordon laughed.

“We’ve got all day,” he reminded him.  “We can take our time, remember?”

Scott sighed, but knew when he was beaten.  “You got a place in mind?”

“A few,” Other-Gordon said.  “Say, you don’t have any allergies, do you?”

“Nothing I’m aware of,” he assured him.

“In that case,” the ginger said.  “The Nine Bells has some private booths and a good menu.”

The name wasn’t familiar to Scott, but he hadn’t spent much time in Auckland for the sake of sight-seeing – or shopping – so he didn’t know if it didn’t exist in his universe or if he’d just never had cause to go near it.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said, and Other-Gordon shot him a grin.

“They serve apple pie,” he promised, and Scott rolled his eyes.  Even he’d noticed Other-Scott’s fondness for the food, so it was no surprise at all that Other-Gordon had his favourite dessert pegged already.  “And their coffee’s good.”

“What about their tea?” Scott asked, keeping a straight face as he got the double-take reaction he was hoping for.

“You drink tea?” Other-Gordon asked.  Scott shrugged.

“Only in England.”

Other-Gordon huffed, and Scott let the threatening grin creep onto his face. “I should have seen that coming,” the ginger grumbled.  “You’re terrible.”

“I’m a big brother,” Scott shrugged.  “Can’t let the younger ones win all the time.”

“Definitely a Scott,” Other-Gordon muttered, shaking his head. “Let’s get some food in you.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Scott agreed.  Now that he was aware of the gnawing hunger, it clearly had no intentions of letting him forget about it.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, and Scott let himself properly look out at the streets as they drove through.  Much of it was unfamiliar to him; shop fronts were styled differently, and there were no holograms lighting up sales as they tried to entice customers to browse.  That was no doubt entirely due to the difference in technologies, although he was getting the impression that even society seemed to be subtly different at times.

If Other-John and Other-Brains couldn’t find a quick way to get him back and he was stuck here for a while until they figured it out – and they would figure it out, because Scott couldn’t afford to think otherwise – he was going to have a lot to learn even though he doubted he’d be leaving the island much, at least not as Scott Tracy.  If he was going to be living here for a while, he was definitely going to get involved in International Rescue somehow.

He couldn’t imagine sitting back and watching others do what was his job without stepping in to help, and inaction was never his style.

“Everything alright?” Other-Gordon asked suddenly.  “You’ve gone quiet.”

Scott shrugged.  “Just thinking,” he answered, not looking away from the passing buildings.

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

Scott rolled his eyes.  Some things transcended universes, apparently.

“Penny for your thoughts?” the ginger continued.  Scott wondered if he was worried he was spiralling again.

“Just about-” he cut himself off, remembering that even if they were in the car they were out in public – a public that didn’t know about International Rescue’s identity.  “The family business,” he hedged.

“Yours or ours?”

“Yours, mostly,” Scott admitted.  “Where I’ll fit in.”

“Dad won’t say no,” Other-Gordon assured him.  “It’s short-staffed for obvious reasons, but those don’t apply to you. I know the two of you aren’t seeing eye to eye right now, and I won’t lie – working out where you sit in the hierarchy is going to take a lot of compromise, mostly on your end – but if you’re going to be hanging around, you might as well make yourself useful.”

It was the second time Other-Gordon had confidently said he’d be able to join their International Rescue, although Scott was well aware there’d be a lot of difficulty fitting in.

He’d been Commander of his International Rescue longer than this International Rescue had been operating.  But he didn’t know their technology, their limits and procedures. Even the jargon was different.

“I’m not afraid of hard work,” he said, and Other-Gordon laughed.

“No-one’s going to doubt that,” he promised.  “You don’t do well sitting around, do you?”

“Another shared trait?” Scott assumed dryly.  To his surprise, Other-Gordon shrugged.

“I think you’re worse for it,” he admitted.  Startled, Scott looked away from the passing buildings to regard Other-Gordon again.  “Scott doesn’t do well sitting around all the time, but that doesn’t stop him lounging for a few hours with the rest of us.”  Amber eyes glanced over at him.  “I get the feeling you’ve forgotten how to.”

That was getting dangerously close to Dad’s crash again, never mind the fact that Other-Gordon was right.  His own brothers had got on his case about it enough for Scott to know he hadn’t relaxed in years.  Not properly.

“I remember how,” he muttered, the words coming out more defensively than he’d intended.

“Something tells me you’re not going to be demonstrating that knowledge,” Other-Gordon challenged, once again right because he was entirely too sharp.  Scott knew he wouldn’t be able to relax at all until he was home and knew his brothers were all safe and well.  “I’m not going to stop you,” the ginger continued. “But don’t burn yourself out.”

“I won’t,” Scott promised.

Other-Gordon’s silence loudly proclaimed that he expected otherwise but knew better than to call him out on it.  Scott appreciated it; that was a heavy enough conversation for his liking.

There had been a lot of those on this shopping trip, despite him choosing Other-Gordon to avoid them.  It would have been so much worse if he’d come with anyone else.

Part of him wasn’t looking forwards to getting back, because then he’d have the whole island watching him again.  He also, he realised, needed to apologise to Other-Virgil for brushing him off so abruptly, even if he was glad he’d stood his ground against Not-Dad.

Dealing with Not-Dad on a regular basis was definitely going to be the hardest part of this universe.  Scott knew he was going to have to talk to the man, especially if he was going to join their International Rescue, but he looked just like Dad, and even now his chest hurt when he thought about it.

“We’re here,” Other-Gordon said, pulling into a car park in front of a large building that proclaimed The Nine Bells in a neat cursive.  It looked fancy, but then Other-Gordon had said they offered private booths, which Scott was well aware they’d need.

He followed the ginger into the building, where they were promptly greeted by a waitress.

“Good afternoon, sirs,” she chirped.  “A table for two?”  Her eyes were firmly fixed on him, and he knew he was wearing shades but she was pretty cute so he sent her a wink and a grin anyway.

She flushed red.  Good to know he still had it in another universe.

“A private booth, please,” Other-Gordon said, stepping forwards and – ow – onto Scott’s foot.  Well, if he wanted him to be himself, then he was going to flirt with the pretty girls, regardless of whether or not he could talk.

“Of course,” she stammered, still looking at him rather than the Tracy that was actually talking to her.  “This way.” Still bright red, and throwing glances at him over her shoulder, she slipped between the public tables until they came to a concealed privacy booth, no doubt for their richer customers. Scott supposed Tracys counted. She hovered as they both slid into seats, before placing menus in front of both of them – him first.  He thanked her with another grin, and got a nudge in the shin from Other-Gordon.

“Would you like a jug of water?” she asked him.  Other-Gordon jumped in with the affirmative, and she hurried off to get it.

“Must you flirt with the waiting staff?” the ginger asked after she was gone. Scott shrugged.

“She’s pretty,” he said.  Other-Gordon rolled his eyes.

“If it makes you happier,” he sighed, and Scott definitely heard the underlying relief there that something was cheering him up.

“I’ll take the small victories where I can get them,” he confirmed, pulling the menu down in front of him.  “I don’t suppose you’ll take her number for me?”

“Not under false pretences,” the other man retorted.  Scott scowled; he had a point.  Other-Gordon shook his head and grinned.  “At least you’re looking happier.”

“Until you stole my fun,” Scott grumbled, but he knew Other-Gordon was right. He couldn’t flirt seriously with anyone while he was pretending to be Other-Scott.

“Just choose something from the menu,” Other-Gordon told him.  “Several somethings, if this is really your first meal today.  Grandma will have my hide if you pass out on me.”

“I’m not going to pass out,” Scott protested, but he looked at the menu anyway.

Food, it seemed, was the same across universes.  It wasn’t much hassle to find something he liked – he’d never been a particularly picky eater, and from the amused looks on Other-Gordon’s face, the ginger could probably have ordered for him without even asking.

“The same?” he asked resignedly.

“Near enough,” Other-Gordon shrugged.  “Coffee?”

The waitress reappeared before Scott could give a verbal answer, so he nodded as she set the water and two glasses down on the table.

“Are you ready to order, sirs?” she asked, once again fixed on him as she withdrew a notebook from her apron and held a pencil up, poised to write.

Rolling his eyes, Other-Gordon placed the order for both of them.  She looked a little put out that Scott, for all his grinning, wasn’t actually saying a word to her, and clearly Other-Gordon wasn’t feeling like a generous enough wingman to tell her that he couldn’t talk.

She hovered for a moment longer after writing down the order, but Other-Gordon looked away from her in a clear dismissal, and Scott reluctantly followed suit, leaving her scurrying away a little disappointedly.

“Now I seem fickle,” Scott huffed once she was out of earshot. Other-Gordon looked amused, smirking in an annoying little brother manner.

“You’re telling me you’re not going to start smiling at the next pretty woman you see?” he asked.  Scott rolled his eyes.

“That’s not the point,” he denied.

“I disagree,” Other-Gordon retorted.  “Gee, you’d think they’d give the Olympic Champion the time of day, at least.”

“Not all the girls care about gold medals,” Scott smirked.  It was Other-Gordon’s turn to huff.

“They do when there’s no tall dark and handsome winking at them next to me,” he muttered.  “If there’s one thing that’s not so good about the job, it’s the secrecy.”

“It’s not worth the headache.”  That, Scott could say for certain.  “Trust me.”

“I’ll trust your grey hairs,” Other-Gordon agreed, and Scott scowled at him. He put his hands up.  “I promised not to ask questions and I won’t,” he said. “But if there’s anything you want to know, I’m available.”

“Here?” Scott asked, glancing around at the café.  The privacy booth at least meant he could talk, but he wasn’t so sure Not-Dad would approve of International Rescue being discussed there.

“Well, maybe not here,” Other-Gordon conceded.  “But any time.”

It was a comforting offer, especially after their first conversation where the man had physically and verbally cornered him and refused to let him near any of the Thunderbirds.

We’re on the same side.  The offer was an extension of that promise, and Scott nodded in acknowledgement.

“I still want that tour,” he said, and Other-Gordon laughed.

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” he said.  “I’ll have to clear it with Dad, but I’m positive I can convince him.”

That would be the first test to see if Not-Dad was, as Other-Gordon believed, going to be willing to let him join if they couldn’t immediately find a way to get him home.  Scott really hoped Other-Gordon’s optimism was in the right place.

The younger man reached for the jug in the middle of the table and poured himself a glass before reaching for Scott’s.  He pushed it closer with a nod of thanks and watched as it filled up before taking a drink.  He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was until the liquid hit his throat, and before he’d realised it, the glass was empty.

Other-Gordon raised his own glass in a mimicry of a toast before taking his own draft.

“You’re not going to tell me the last drink you had was that tea you kept dropping, are you?” the ginger asked.  Scott shook his head.

“Tin-Tin gave me coffee while we talked,” he said, grabbing the glass and pouring himself another measure before throwing that back as well.

“How did that go?” Other-Gordon asked.  “Was it useful?”

“I think so,” Scott said, resting his elbow on the table and propping his chin on his hand.  “Most of what we discussed were things you already knew.  Otherwise, it was mostly technology differences.”

“Did she have any theories?” the other man asked, taking another drink of his water.

Scott shook his head.

“She just said she’d take it to your Brains,” he shrugged.  “The others came back so we went back for the debrief.”

“Alan was mighty miffed with you then,” Other-Gordon commented.  Scott had noticed.  “I’m guessing he saw you two together?”

“We met him on the landing,” Scott confirmed.  “He didn’t seem happy.  Is there any particular reason he’s so…”  He trailed off, trying to find a word to describe Other-Alan’s attitude in a way that wasn’t blatantly insulting.

“So Alan?” Other-Gordon asked.  “Mostly it’s because he’s the youngest.  Your Alan’s not like that?”

Scott scoffed.  “If my Alan talked back like that he’d be grounded and he knows it.  He’s younger than yours, but I’m not letting him grow up thinking he can get his own way all the time.”

“Aw, Alan’s not so bad,” the ginger said, clearly defending his younger brother.  “Sure, he can be a bit of a pain, but he’s a little brother.  Fame went to his head a bit after he kept winning races, and you didn’t make the best first impression on him by punching Scott, or breaking Dad’s nose.”

Scott sighed.  “He wouldn’t tell me where my brothers were,” he explained.  “Of course, at that point neither of us knew about this multiverse thing.”  He eyed the younger man.  “But by that logic, I didn’t make the best first impression on you, either.”

“You got that right,” Other-Gordon admitted.  “You seemed too dangerous to let wander around, I’ll admit, but Grandma and Tin-Tin didn’t seem bothered by you and then Brains and John had their theory – which you near enough proved – and I figured I’d give you a chance, you know?”

“You interrogated me,” Scott corrected dryly.  The other man shrugged.

“Details,” he dismissed.  “You’re not so bad, you’re just out of your depth.  Can’t say I blame you.  I couldn’t say how I’d have reacted if it were me.”  He paused for a moment.  “How are you holding up?”

Scott huffed tiredly and ran a hand over his face, wincing when they snagged the shades he forgot he was wearing.

“Right now, I’m fine,” he said, his instincts rebelling against telling the truth – that the idea was enough to scare him, that he was terrified he couldn’t get home.  Worried how his family were taking his disappearance.  “Ask me again after it’s sunk in.”

“I’ll do that,” Other-Gordon promised, taking another drink from his glass. Amber eyes scanned him searchingly, and Scott met his gaze head-on, daring him to claim he wasn’t as fine as he was pretending.

If the ginger had noticed the façade, he didn’t comment.  Then again, it was at that moment the waitress returned with a platter of sandwiches.  At the sight and smell of them, Scott’s stomach growled loudly.  The waitress was too shy to giggle, but he saw her eyebrows raise and he sent her a slightly sheepish grin before picking up one from the pile and toasting her with it.

Other-Gordon kicked him in the shins again.  Scott ignored him.

“Your coffee will be ready in a moment,” she said, smiling at him with cheeks coloured a rosy blush.  “Is there anything else I can get you right now?”

Your number, Scott thought, but Other-Gordon studiously avoided any eye contact with him as he dismissed the girl – without asking for her number, or explaining why he wasn’t talking.  Little brothers were a nuisance whatever universe they were from, apparently.

Scott huffed at him once she was out of earshot and bit into the sandwich with a little more vigour than was strictly necessary.

Other-Gordon’s response was a mixture of exasperation and faint disapproval as he took his own pick from the platter to eat.  “I told you, you’re not who she thinks you are,” he reminded him. “You can send all the flirty looks you want, I’m not asking for her number for you.”

“I know,” Scott sighed, swallowing the mouthful.  “Oh, these are good.”

Other-Gordon grinned.  “I told you the food here would be.”

“You did,” Scott acknowledged, polishing off the first one and grabbing another.  He supposed that if he was going to be stuck in another universe for a while, at least there was good food.

The blushing waitress – whose name he never caught, but she didn’t offer it and Other-Gordon didn’t ask – kept coming back with more of their ordered food as they ate.  The ginger devoured just as much as he did, proving he hadn’t been lying about his own hunger, and conversation was mostly dropped in favour of sustenance.

By the time the final dregs of Scott’s coffee were drained from the cup, he estimated they must have been there at least an hour, if not more.  He still hadn’t figured out how to read the analogue dial on the watch, and was at loathe to ask while they were in public.

Still, he was conscious that there was still one shop left to go, and the sun’s steady march across the sky was unrelenting.  They only had so much time, a fact supported by the way Other-Gordon checked his own watch before giving him a considering look.

“There’s an hour left until the shops close,” the ginger told him.  “Do you want to give it another try, or should we head back to the island?”  Scott raised an eyebrow at him.  He was fairly sure the ginger knew what his answer was going to be.

Sure enough, he got a groan and a mutter about pushing yourself too hard, but Other-Gordon waved the waitress over for the bill without trying to change his mind.

Chapter 12>>>

[moved-attre]

Rewriting Cyberpunk 2077 into a bullet point list! LET’S GO!

(Disclaimer: I’m trying to be realistic. So no, “every single detail of the game changes based upon every single choice V makes” but just things I expected in an RPG from an AAA company in 2020. I take a lot of inspiration from the old trailers, and rumors of pre-2018 development.)

And this is really long, too. Sorry. 😜

Okay, so first off: Act 1 generally goes off the same as it does in canon. I’m open to other ideas, but I don’t think it’s a bad starting point. I do think V and Jackie should have had more time together, doing smaller jobs until Dex calls. Like, there should’ve been side jobs that were only available in Act 1. You have to get a minimum of 5 street cred before you get the conversation with Jackie about Dex.

The heist still goes to shit; Yorinobu kills his father, Takemura rebels against him and Arasaka factions split. V inserts the chip into their head, Jackie still dies and Dex shoots V in the head. Takemura rescues V, kills Dex, V wakes up in Vik’s and is told they have 4 months to live. (2 weeks is not enough!)

On to Act 2! The origins actually affect the game, so there’s three versions of it you can play. (Some things happen regardless of the origin, though.) For example: Corpo V has contacts in the Corpo world and pursues leads about the Relic there through their old friends. Street Kid V has contacts in the gangs, like the Valentinos or Maelstrom, who have dirty dealings with corporations and can get V in on Arasaka knowledge, Nomad V has leads out in the badlands about the corporations and gets in that way, hijacking transports to get some info. All origins can work with the corporations (like Hanako’s branch of Arasaka, Militech, Biotechnia, etc.) or against them. Like, the point is to snoop around the corporations and dig up some dirt on the Relic and Yorinobu’s Arasaka branch specifically but each origin goes about it differently?

Maelstrom vs Meredith Stout choice actually matters. It’s one point in a subplot I mentioned above, where V continually makes choices on whether they’re gonna side with the corporations or the gangs/people of NC against Arasaka in order to be rid of the Relic. Also affects V’s relationship with Johnny. You can also have a real, long term relationship with Meredith if you pick her side and get Militech support, or count on Maelstrom to help you in the main plot against Arasaka. Both sides will still attack V if they poke their nose in, meaning random encounters can still happen.

^ The subplot is like, making a deal with the devils (The corpos) or... other devils (The gangs). One person objectively could say one is better than the other, but they’re both awful. Night City is kind of rotten to the core, and V’s problems can’t be fixed by a pursuit of justice. V can still be a good person in either case, and it’s still kept kind of punk by going against the head honchos. I think this more suits the “Wake the fuck up, Samurai. We have a city to burn.” quote because V is churning up a path to the top, even if their methods are purely selfish. V themselves can be uninterested in righting wrongs, but they kind of turn NC on its head by challenging Arasaka so changes come anyway.

Point, is you fuck everything up either way. THEN, V can choose whether to trust the corporations and work with Hanako to “change the system from within” without disrupting people’s day-to-day lives (short term good choice I suppose?) or to let the gangs rise up and cause total anarchy. (long term good? since the downtrodden are rising up and maybe there shouldn’t be absolute power in the hands of a few.)

T-Bug doesn’t die. V thinks she’s dead, but sometime in Act 2 gets an anonymous call and meets up with T-Bug. She went underground after the botched heist, and isn’t eager to work with V again. Maybe you do a few missions with her, and she comes around? Or you fuck up and never hear from her again. I imagine she’d love to poke around at the Relic, if V helps her.

Giving Jackie’s body to Vik has real consequences. If you give his body to his mother, you attend the ofrenda and get his bike, his mom allows you to use his den as a place to stay... It’s basically the ‘good’ choice, if you care about the characters. If you give his body to Vik, you unlock a side mission where Arasaka steals his body to find the relic. You have to go and find it but it was destroyed(?) at some point by Arasaka. You can get his pistols (Which are, aside from Johnny’s pistol, the best weapons in the game. I don’t get why they aren’t in canon...) in this route and whole lotta angst, so his mom basically hates you because she blames you for not being able to bury her son and the bar is off limits. No getting the bike, either.

More content involving Alt Cunningham. V still witnesses the scene with her and Johnny, her kidnapping and death. But, Ghost AI Alt allows V to look into Alt’s memories for information on Mikoshi. V accidentally accesses some more personal memories. We can see Alt as more of a fleshed out actual person, not just a tragic backstory for Johnny. Some of the memories do involve Johnny, and the tone is very different from her perspective. We see that Alt has genuine affection for him, but Johnny is possessive and abusive... It’s far from the relationship Johnny recalls. Of course, Johnny can see all this too since he lives in V’s head. He and V have a heart to heart afterwards, with Johnny realising how badly he treated Alt and yeah. I wasn’t satisfied with how Alt was just used as a sob story for Johnny, but I was sent an ask by an anonymous person about how the memory was from his perspective and thus biased. It really got me thinking! If I was more creative, I’d come up with a way for Alt to live... But Johnny still needs to bomb Arasaka and Alt’s death was the reason why he did that.

You have to return one of your apartments/safe houses every few days to wash and sleep. If not, V will get a penalty that means they are less accurate when aiming and slower when breaking in a vehicle. Also some NPC’s will refuse to talk to you if you don’t bathe, because... stinky.

And you have to eat! Otherwise you get hungry, and get penalties for that too. Can’t concentrate on an empty stomach. I’d say eating once or twice a day would be enough.

Instead of fast travel points (that are supposed to be taxi services, I think...? But we never see a taxi! And why can’t we just call Del? Ugh.), V takes the metro. There are side missions that can sometimes only start once you get on or off of a train. (You meet NPC’s in the train, or waiting for one.)

Takemura and Johnny are romance options, and are available for all genders. They’re the most difficult to romance, with some (kind of obvious) dialogue choices ending the possibility. Like, for example: Takemura’s romance ends badly if you choose to go against the corporations, and Johnny’s ends badly if you go with the corporations. It’s the same with Meredith, essentially, in that going against her won’t allow you to romance her. I know a rival-mance system is possible, but I think that might be too complicated.

Takemura and V’s relationship is much, much deeper. They have more time together, and grow closer. Takemura trains V in combat, and takes over from Coach Fred in the street fights side missions. You go with Takemura to fights, he’s your coach, is very proud when you win. (He’s basically training V in the event that they have to take on Adam Smasher and Oda. Like, why did we have no training montages with Takemura?!) V is able to choose romance or stay friends with him. There’s plenty more missions with Takemura too, mainly espionage stuff against Yorinobu. Finding out his weaknesses, replacing his staff with people that are loyal to Hanako, digging for dirt on him. Lots of stake outs, hehe. 😉 Romance!™️ Also makes it that much more tragic if V doesn’t choose to trust the corporations, since Takemura will end things and leave NC.

There are garages to upgrade your cars but Panam can upgrade it further if you do her missions + befriend her, and you can find super secret parts for your cars that Panam needs all around NC by stealing them from gangs or Corpos! Like, make your car go 200 mph fast or a setting to make it hover. 😎

FOUND FAMILY TROPE... Involving the LI’s + more characters. I wanted Misty, Vik, Judy, Panam, River and Kerry to all know each other and be friends. Also, somewhere for them to hang out. Judy coming down and hanging out with Misty and Vik would’ve been so cool.

Missions involving Vik. I think he deserved his own personal missions. Also, he’s gotta be romanceable! I’ll add more to this later.

I’m still figuring out how Johnny’s romance would go. It’s a tricky one. Lots of tension, jealously if V flirts with anybody... Heart to hearts... Holding hands... Passive aggressive confessions of love...

River is introduced in the main story. Maybe you team up to hunt down somebody who knows stuff about the Relic, like Anders Hellman, or something else to do with it. River’s like “What the fuck is going on?” but V doesn’t really tell him. Then, of course, you meet him later on and recognise him in the BD given to you by Jefferson.

Meeting Kerry earlier in the story, say mid Act 2? Ideally there would have been 5 Acts, and maybe I’ll edit this to include more once I figure out how the story could have gone. AND he’s part of the main story.

Less generic, “get in, get item and get out” side missions from Fixers and more side missions like the Peralez’s and that guy who got crucified. More freaky Cyberpunk subjects like what constitutes a soul, what is “intelligence” (What makes a machine different than a human? Without shitty false racism analogies), human rights abuses (and in that: classism, racism, ableism, transphobia), pollution, more on “Cyberpsychos” and how harmful that term is, etc. Nauced and thought-provoking. Reminding us that this is a dystopia and the issues are different but not all that wildly so from today. I would’ve developed Brendan’s mission more, because it seemed like we were going to see an earnest discussion on Artificial Intelligence but instead it was just confusing and “Haha, tricked you!” 🥱 Like, what if he really was a person capable of free thought and emotion? And that company still owns him and can overwrite him? Isn’t that fucked up?! It didn’t need a happy ending, just something to unnerve me.

Adding to that, Delamain had plenty of opportunities to discuss AI and the rights of individual contructs. His “children” could be freed, but nothing really happens as a result? I wanted consequences! The emails about human staff being made redundant because of Delamain were so interesting, too. I wanted to see something about the consequences of that in a city with no basic universal income. What happened to them? What can be done to help people who are made redundant by machines? So many possibilities for truly emotional and scary side missions!

I’m gonna watch black mirror for more inspiration, but stuff like the IRL blocking feature? Freaky as hell and totally plausible. Would’ve loved if one of the side missions involved V getting involved in some dispute involving something like that. “I can’t see his face!” or the copyright stuff about people’s appearances! Imagine if there was a Johnny lookalike? Engram Johnny would either find it hilarious or get really pissed off.

I’m hoping the DLC will deliver on more Takemura, so I’ll hold my breath for critiquing the Arasaka ending.

More to come! I’ll probably edit this later, if there’s any mistakes and/or I realise I hate an idea hehe.

[romewritingshop]

A welcome interruption

Fandom: Choices, Perfect Match

Relationship: Detective Damien Nazario X Antihero F!MC (Name: Peach Park)

Warnings: Fight sequence, capitalism? Corruption. EROS, Guns.

Word Count Total: 2915

A/N: I had an idea and @ravenpuff02​ is such an inspirational help. She helped me with her reaction and I was aIso was thinking about the Halle Berry Catwoman movie. Peach is a vigilante by the name of Eclipse.

I was inspired by the prompt for the Monthly Challenge for August. This is for day 17 prompt: SURPRISE / PLOT TWIST. 

Hopefully it fulfils the prompt and is a different take on Damien. Thanks and I hope you enjoy.

There is a part 2: A not so welcome interruption

CHOICES MASTERLIST

Tagged: @ravenpuff02 ​ @choicesficwriterscreations ​ @choicesmonthlychallenge​ @kimmiedoo5​

Tonight was meant to be a day off for Peach Park, as she sat on the building ledge a little distance away from the EROS warehouse. Her eye mask scanned the building for entrance and exit routes because Sloane was unwell to do recon this week. Peach didn’t mind because Sloane was amazing at what she does so Peach owed it to her. It was early morning, around two a.m as Peach absorbed the details the digital mask presented. Ten storeys high, lots of windows and metal support beams which could help her with stealth.

The breeze was a welcome feel as she munched her packet of blue Sour Patch Kids. That blue raspberry just hit that spot and it made her recon all the more exciting, plus she expected that the Sour Patch Kids company put some additives to help her fight better and faster. So far nothing was happening at the warehouse but the guards switched positions every half an hour which was both stupid and smart. Stupid because it gives Peach more windows of opportunity to infiltrate but smart because different guards with different skills take the place.

One guard wouldn’t have spotted her but the other guard would notice something so she couldn’t take a guard out during rotation. Peach was alone because Sloane was resting and Hayden was taking care of her so she did not have any back up. Her earpiece picked up the low rumble of a lorry as she sat up attentively, turning to the direction of the sound and spotting the lorry driving straight towards the warehouse entrance.

It seems like her night was going to get interesting as the lorry parked and the warehouse doors opened. A couple of men stepped out of the doors with metal crates, and they were loading them into the back of the lorry. She creased her eyes slightly, so the mask would zoom in and switch to x-ray mode to scan the contents of the crates. It was just as she expected, special ops grade weapons which were illegal across various nations.

EROS were a lowly corporation that sold high grade weapons to terrorists, who take over a country and EROS step in as a support charity that ‘help’ the people with relief aids. Pretending to good yet doing even worse as Peach shook away thoughts that would incite her rage. She needed to keep a cool head because tonight was only to gain information, no interference even though she wanted to intercept the lorry.

After an hour or so, the lorry was filled and the doors closed, it began driving away and Peach’s eye darted from the warehouse to the lorry. Although she was only supposed to formulate a plan to break into the warehouse, following the lorry could help her establish the route EROS take to selling their illegal weapons. Her mind was made up as she downed the rest of her tangy sweets, the tanginess sending a rush of adrenaline through her body. She blinked twice to get a lock on the licence plate of the lorry.

She bagged the rubbish in her belt and walked off the edge of the shipping container, landing on the seat of her motorbike which automatically inflated with a cushion to prevent damage to Peach. Hayden was an absolute genius with the gadgets and vehicles as the cushion deflated, and she pressed her palm on the body of the bike. Connecting the data of the mask to the bike and she locked on a signal to follow the lorry.

Peach pushed her foot down hard to start her motorbike and drove through the containers with a little distance away from the lorry. She pressed a button on the side of the motorbike handle which unfolded a plastic panel in front of her bike, a camouflage shield that allowed Peach to follow the lorry without getting spotted. Hayden really thought of everything, silent engine and a shield to camouflage. Plus a compartment to store Sour Patch Kids which was the best gift she got for her birthday. After a good hour drive from the warehouse, she entered the city.

It was slightly quiet as the roads were empty save for three / four cars. An almost perfect night for Peach and it wasn’t long before the car turned down a street and Peach turned after, the lorry drove through a gated underground car park, as she parked a few meters away. It was an hour and a half long journey and this building was EROS’s offices. Peach smiled at the surplus of information she gained tonight. Her heart was demanding her to break into EROS and burn it to the ground but it wasn’t time yet.

The path she was on was the best way to ensure EROS’s permanent death. Peach deactivated the shield and drove out the street, stopping on the side, to upload her data to Sloane’s computer. Her mask vision flashed red as the sound of a broken glass echoed, she glanced behind her, her vision zooming in to see four crooks, dressed in all black breaking into a bank. Peach sighed as she took a note of the upload progress: twenty five percent. She had time but she had to wake up early the next day for work. She could not afford to fight these guys and wake up with soreness.

After a few seconds of deliberation, the Sour Patch tanginess hit her and which made her head towards the bank. This was a terrible decision but it would take off the edge from the recon she did. Approaching near the buildings, she noticed that the entire glass wall was shattered and the four perps were inside, breaking into four ATMs. The alarm hadn’t gone off which was a smart thing as Peach stepped over the broken glass and behind the guys. One bag was filled with cash and she was tempted to just take it but her fists were aching for a fight.

She straightened her eye mask and black wig, looking down at her outfit. A black bodysuit underneath deep red plastic armor which helped her withstand bullets and knives. She folded her arms and exhaled loudly which caught the attention of the four guys. They were wearing masks of the cast of Ocean’s Eight which was just demeaning to the actresses. Peach smiled as she fanned herself.

“Oh my god! It’s Sandra Bullock. You were amazing in Miss Congeniality.”

They didn’t seem to appreciate her joke as they all raised their guns at her, one of them noticed her.

“It’s that Eclipse chick that broke into the West Anderson Bank on twelfth street. She ain’t taking this job from us.”

That bank job was going to haunt her for the rest of her life as she rubbed her face with disappointment.

“Look. That was one time, and I needed money for upgrades. So fellas, we have two options here: We split the money and walk away from one another. I won't beat you up and you can settle life in San Diego. Or you shoot those guns, I beat the shit out of you and I take the money. Your choice.”

Her eye mask scanned their heart rates steadily, as the one with the Helena Bonham Carter, Cate Blanchett and Rihanna masks lowered their guns slightly. The eye mask vibrated as the Bullock mask brought his finger to the trigger and took a shot at her. A loud bang erupted as the bullet zoomed and got Peach in the left chestplate. The impact of the bullet caused her to stumble. 'Sandra Bullock' lowered his gun to see his bullet didn't even make a dent in her armor as Eclipse brushed off the bullet, standing straight and shaking her hands.

“Okay, now that’s just rude.”

At that moment, time slowed, Peach ran up to ‘Sandra’ and slid on the floor, jutting one leg out and kicked ‘Sandra’ underneath his legs to make him land on his back. He was the obvious first target because he insulted Peach and with that, she grabbed his collar to rip away the mask and send a powerful punch down onto his jaw which immediately knocked the perp out cold. Her fighting has definitely gotten a lot better and she needed to thank Hayden for his help. ‘Cate Blanchett’ decided to take a shot at Peach to avenge his fallen comrade, bringing his gun and taking a shot from the back.

They never learn as Peach felt the vibration of the bullet hit the back shoulder armor. She rolled her eyes, looking over her shoulder at ‘Cate’. Peach stood up to run at her next victim, sending a jab to his gut before swinging her elbow across his jaw which also knocked him out. She turned to find her two remaining perps running out of the bank and towards the getaway car. Wusses. She took a step when she heard the familiar sounds of police sirens approaching the open bank. She groaned at her fun being ruined as the driver door opened.

Seeing the person come out of the car made her smile widen like a cat as she took in the familiar black boots and tight fitting dark jeans, trailing up to a familiar red shirt under a black leather jacket. Long stubble and the slick backed brown hair as his tan skin glistened and she took in the fine specimen. Her favourite police officer, Detective Nazario. He had the familiar grimness to his face and he strutted towards Peach, stopping just before the wall where the glass would be, hands on his hips that made him look like a delightful menace.

“Papi! I was just wondering when you were gonna make your entrance.”

“It’s Detective.”

Peach would take any chance she could to mack on Detective Nazario: he was tall, grumpy and authoritative. Absolutely Peach’s type and the one good thing about being Eclipse, was that she could flirt without feeling embarrassed. The mask hid her real face and the truth was was that she would never have been able to go out with Detective Nazario in real life. He was too sleek and stylish to go out with her.

Detective Nazario just finished up with a day of reports which were a nightmare. They had been piling up for a week and since today was a quiet day, the Chief thought it was a good idea if he just typed up all his reports. Boredom struck him hard and after several cups of coffee he managed to finish his reports. He was driving home when he heard a report ring over the police scanner installed in his car: some fancy dress woman was breaking into Lowell bank in the Canarsie area. Damien rolled his eyes and pulled out a siren light, placing it on his dashboard and driving towards the location.

Stopping and parking the car just in front of the bank, stepping out to see Eclipse there with two guys by her feet. A black duffle bag by one of the ATM’s as he exhaled like a disappointed parent. Eclipse was a pain in his back as she would constantly break into EROS offices and now it seems to be banks. Clearly she broke her promise as Eclipse grinned at him with arms outspread. She welcomed him with ‘Papi’; although it sounded like rich whiskey dripping from her mouth, it was totally inappropriate because she was a criminal vigilante.

Peach raised an eyebrow as the Detective stepped into the bank and took in the scene. Two guys on the floor and a bag of cash must have looked dodgy to him and before he could scold her, Peach held her hands out to gesture at the guys on the floor.

“Before you say anything, these guys were stealing the hard earned money of the people of Brooklyn. They had a little accident with the glass.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Come on, you know I only steal from EROS and rich assholes.”

“Yeah, you’re a real robin hood figure. Does this mean you’re confessing?”

Peach enjoyed the game of debating morals with Detective Nazario, he would try to psych her out into confessing a crime so he can slap the handcuffs on her wrist and drag her to the police station. Soon as they would get to his car, she’d have picked the lock and run away by scaling the building with her grapple gun.

“It’s not a confession, it's a hypothetical opinion. Ever heard of ‘Eat the rich’? Same attitude, plus you need evidence.”

“Me and fifteen other cops saw you with a bag of cash at the West Anderson bank.”

The West Anderson Bank was EROS’s bank and Peach broke into it to steal all the important documents which highlighted their dealings with extremist leader, Daanish Sayeed. When she broke into the bank, the documents weren’t there but their money was and Peach was not going to give up the opportunity to take their cash and use it for good. She stole around a million from them but the place was surrounded by the cops and Detective Nazario. She scraped by to get out and stay under the radar for two months.

“That was for a good cause. Do you ever get my emails about EROS’s shady dealings with extremist leaders of the Middle East and Asia?”

“You sent those emails?”

Damien had been getting a few emails of documents from an anonymous source about EROS. He wasn’t sure who and from where but he did take it up to the Chief. The Chief then dismissed these papers false by having a forensic examiner show Damien the documents were altered. Since then, he never bothered to look into EROS. A small part of him believed she was right about EROS but the reality was, was that she was a criminal and she was accusing a charity of being some sort of organized crime organisation. She was in the wrong.

“Yes I did and I really hope you -” 

Before she could carry on, they heard a car door open. The both of them snapped their heads to Damien’s car as white paws hit the gravel. Damien’s face contorted to a bitter grimace as the face revealed floppy brown ears and black beaded eyes. A shiny black nose and an innocent aura as the beagle puppy bounded it’s way towards Damien’s feet. He had forgotten that he had picked up his sister Carina’s dog from the sitter’s. Carina had gone on holiday for a few weeks and Damien ‘kindly’ offered to dogsit with a bit of bribery.

His sister’s dog, Peanut was a small beagle pup of about fifteen weeks of age. Small for her size but she was a bright curious creature, right now Damien was confused about how Peanut opened a car door. Peach held her breath at the sight of the small puppy padding it’s way to Damien’s feet. Just when she thought he couldn’t get sexier, had a freaking dog. Correction: puppy and Peach was ready to throw her mask away and fall at Detective Nazario’s feet.

“Oh my god! It’s so fucking cute! What’s its name?”

Damien relented and told her the name, as she made her way towards the puppy to take it in her arms. Peanut welcomed her touch and brought it’s wet snout to her cheeks, it’s sandpaper rubbing on her cheek. At this moment, Peach felt she had died and was ready to go to jail if it meant seeing Damien and Peanut.

“Is she your new partner?”

“No. I’m dogsitting.”

Damien’s breath got stuck in his throat as she threw a soft smile towards him and for a moment he ignored the fact that he was a police detective and she was a vigilante. She was close and he noticed the way her costume fit snug on her body, it wasn’t bulky like he assumed it was. He wanted to take off her eye mask and absorb her face, examine the details and maybe brush his lips - wait! She was a criminal.

“You know, I’m almost tempted to throw away my mask.” Damien raised an eyebrow at her and she could tell he was amused from her words. “Almost.”

“Well maybe next time, I’d have to bring Peanut with me to get you into the car.”

“There’s a next time?”

“Although it’s against my job, I am intrigued by our encounters.”

Peanut was magical as Peach felt her guard relax. This was the closest thing to a date she had as she smiled at Detective Nazario. His face was threatening to break out into a smile and they felt a warm air swirl around them. Unfortunately their charged atmosphere was interrupted by a low groan as Peach and Damien turn to the perps on the floor. Both of them having forgotten the bank job. Damien wanted to spend more time with her and that moment he decided to let her go, he could always get her next time.

“Go on, make a run for it.”

Peach was stunned at his encouragement but gave a nod, handing Peanut back to Detective Nazario, completely ignoring the spark of electricity when her gloved hand brushed against his wrist. She sent a quick salute and jogged over to her bike, pushing the pedal hard before sending one last look to Detective Nazario.

“See you next time, Papi.”

“Don’t make me shoot you, Eclipse.”

[evilisk]

Reading Len’En Profiles Part 4

This took a while didn’t it? This is being split up into two parts since Fumikado’s profile is way bigger (with more info about other characters, including future characters in BPoHC) than initially expected. Teams, Sese, Tsugumi, Shion and Tenkai are covered in this part.

= = =

As always, here’s a quick look on the profiles for the returning characters. 

Team Profiles

Shrine Team:

I like how Yabusame’s profile mentions that they wear lighter clothes in Winter than in Summer yet the only discernible difference I can tell from their sprite is “Yabu choosing not to wear shoes”

I can't believe Tsuba’s profile casually reveals that they remodeled their body structure so they can't feel the cold. What the heck Tsuba?

Slaver Team

Kuroji’s profile is such a swerve. We went from “gotta put food on the table for my siblings” to Kuroji going full “Ameyama Telegraph style Reimu” who shakes down people [youkai] for money

Kuroji having ambitions to open a school in Mugenri is unexpected

Wait, so Kuroji, who is described as being a scholar of pre-history, wants to open a school (and presumably wants to teach at it). And Keine, from Touhou, is a were-hakutaku who can manipulate history, that teaches at a school. HMMMMMMM.....

“This is kinda dangerous” lmao at that being in Saragimaru’s profile. I appreciate how this is referenced in Yaorochi’s profile (their profile mentions that they feel like they’re being watched)

It’s revealed that Saragimaru doesn’t actually know if they are related by blood which is kinda weird? I got the impression that the one who was in the dark about everything was Yaorochi, not Saragimaru. Maybe I should take another look at their EMS profile...

Bottle Opener Team

I mentioned previously that one of the EMS profiles confirmed that Orochi was a youkai. Well Yaorochi’s profile 200% confirms that Orochi was a youkai with the line “[Yaorochi’s] a youkai very much like Yamato no Orochi” which is good to know

It’s been a while so I forgot, and ended up chuckling at, the bottle opener stuff. Especially the “Yaorochi has been training so good they’re good at the bottle opener now too!” angle

"For the sake of creativity, [Sukune doesn’t] speak like a normal person.” So that’s the reason for their accent? Lol okay

I like how Sukune’s wings are given a small explanation here. I wouldn’t have guessed that they could fly without them (I would have assumed they can’t normally fly, and that they fought on-foot in EMS)

= = =

Boss Profiles

Stage 1 / Stage Extra+ Boss - Sese Kitsugai

Original Opinion: While I find their in-game spellcards (as a Stage 1 boss) to be rather zany, I love this Bony Baby. Seriously, I cannot look at their sprite, with their cute smiling baby fangs, and see Sese as an adult (I think they’re referred to as “a kid” by some of the teams too). I am not so hot on EX-Sese as a design, but in concept? I LOVE IT. I think their BPoHC design (which I love, love LOVE, but more on that in the next post) is a better middle ground between  “base” Sese and EX-Sese, but I digress. Sese is 'Sese-rious’ fun!

Comments on Profile:

Interesting, interesting. So apparently Sese Kitsugai (or just “Sese”, according to their Wiki entry) isn’t their real name. They just thought it was a pleasant nickname.

It seems that without their skull, they don’t remember much (like their original name). It’s weird since they draw attention to Sese’s current skull helmet in Yaorochi’s route (Sukune can’t remove it, Yaorochi seems to think it’s special) but I suppose that Sese’s original skull should be WAY bigger than their current one.

Sese has a second profile which adds a lot more details. Apparently, they were scavenging bones near Harujion while that big epic fight was happening in Stage 6.

So EX Sese’s appearance is their canon true/”original” appearance. Boo. I honestly think their BPoHC design is way better. It also seems that without the original skull, Sese cannot maintain their original appearance.

Sese’s EX Profile has an extra ability: “something like conquering the above-ground”. That’s not ominous at all.

I cannot help but wonder if Sese originally fought Tsurubami and just got whooped really hard... okay, now I have the mental image of Tsurubami booting Sese’s skull so hard that they became dumb.

Oh and Sese is mentioned as excavating becoming a hobby for them. Good for Sese.

New Opinion: Y’know, it just hit me that Sese is *basically* Rumia / EX-Rumia but canon and with 200% more bones...

Regardless, Sese is so good. Just like the two other Stage 1 bosses so far. It’s crazy how good JynX is at doing Stage 1 bosses, I dislike most Touhou Stage 1 bosses (the only good ones are Eika and Nazrin).

= = =

Stage 2 Boss - Tsugumi Umatachi

Original Opinion: Tsugumi is the one character I say has aged like fine wine (to me). I thought that Tsugumi being a grumpy goon, despite being a steampunk-looking, bat wing-wearing, eggplant-riding jockey, was such a strange design choice. Then I realized that “grumpy person who dresses colorfully” is basically my real life aesthetic and I totally got it. Though I outright like Fumikado more, I appreciate their personality and their fun musical theme.

Comments on Profile:

...After reading this profile, I’m not sure what to take at face value. 

Okay so first off, they were hired by a certain someone. It’s unclear if this someone is Fumikado (the obvious choice) or Iyozane (who is technically the person who put out the bounty that Tsugumi and Kuroji are following up on in the game).

There’s some reference to boke and tsukkomi that I honestly do not understand. Like I recognize the terms from Gintama, but I’m not sure what JynX is trying to say about Tsugumi as a character when they say “Ninjas!” or that Tsugumi wasn’t born in Japan.

Also, their species is “Eggplant Jockey”. I have no frame of reference for what this is supposed to mena.

New Opinion: I... have no new opinion because I have no idea what I just read. I was going to say “oh so Tsugumi isn’t Japanese” but I just skimmed their page on the Shout Wiki and there is no reference to this fact (which makes it seem like that was just an example of this boke and tsukkomi thing mentioned before)

I got nothing :/ Tsugumi is still cool tho

= = =

Stage 6 Boss - Shion

Original Opinion: Just as Sese continues the unbroken tradition of Len’En games having incredibly good Stage 1 bosses, Shion continues the tradition of Len’En games having incredibly underwhelming final bosses 

Yaorochi and Clause both had something keeping them from being great final bosses; for Clause, its their joke character personality that lets them down, while with Yaorochi, it’s their theme. In Shion’s case, it’s the fact that they come completely out of nowhere, hijacking Fumikado’s rightful place as Final Boss that gets me all hot and bothered. (I think that Shion giving off strong “low rent Yuyuko vibes doesn’t help their case either)

It’s an absolute shame, since Shion seems to have clearly learned from Clause and Yaorochi, since they’ve got the creepy (cool) personality and the kickass boss theme. If only they had actual relevance to RMI’s plot...

Comments on Profile:

So apparently Shion is from a magical plant that can resurrect or grant immortality, it always pops up in a random place and the Senri Priests are usually supposed to cut it down when that does happen... oh dear.

Oh I see now, Shion is like Ermac from Mortal Kombat i.e. they’re a mass of souls and experiences that collectively form a new being. That’s a pretty cool backstory, actually! ...Wait, so the final spellcard that Shion has... are those like the names of the souls they absorbed?? That seems interesting.

So it goes that the souls in Shion were split at some point: the good souls formed the body while the evil souls formed the spirit. This intended equilibrium, however, was distorted by Mugenri’s barrier and instead of a split of good and evil it was just evil and more evil. Well that basically explains why Shion went from no chill to being very chill after Stage 6. Shion is mentioned as literally getting killed in all the endings (because everyone apparently went too ham). So we basically have “Evil and Eviler Shion” dying and then Harujion bringing them back as “Equilibrium of Good and Evil Shion”. Interesting, interesting.

This last part of the profile is such a mood. “[...] a good number of those voices were playing the same melody in unison, that “the world is full of malice.” “...Shion had no doubt about that claim. If their body is a miniature copy of the world itself, then they are evil itself.”

New Opinion: While I still hate that Shion hijacked Fumikado’s role as final villain, they are a way more interesting character than I initially thought. I do know that Shion is apparently a playable character in BPoHC, but have no idea how JynX intends to use them, so I’m interested to see what JynX’s plans are for them

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Stage Extra Boss - Tenkai Zuifeng

Original Opinion: I think my first thoughts went exactly like “oh god that outfit is horrible” to “oh god this fight is insane” to “oh so they’re just Tsurubami’s really, really tired friend, I dig it”. I think the aspect I appreciate most is that they’re basically the straight man character the series has been missing. Yabusame and Tsubakura are weirdos, Kuroji is a scoundrel, the Adagumos operate on weird youkai logic and Sukune lacks common, human sense.

Tenkai is your only option if you’re looking for a sensible recurring character. And this sensibility only makes the interpretation of a Tenkai who is “endlessly tired of everyone’s shit” stronger in my mind.  Beyond the personality, they have a great theme, a cool backstory and, most importantly, a really damn good shot type in BPoHC. Now if only their outfits weren’t absolutely, consistently garish. It’s like JynX heard me say “the Len’En games need more colour” and decided to concentrate it in Tenkai’s outfit which has like, EVERY SINGLE COLOUR. 

I still love my Tired Barrier Carpenter but please stop picking your own outfits

Comments on Profile: 

Okay so Tenkai is from a renowned family of barrier builders that has worked with the Senri Shrine. Note the focus on the word *builders*; apparently these builders aren’t so good at repairing barriers. Cue Tenkai getting a job to repair the Mugenri Barrier as part of her ‘training’ (at least, that’s what it seems like on the surface. It’s mentioned that this training is also an attack on Tenkai’s prestige). 

The profile mentions Tenkai pulling some prank as a way to get back at her bosses. Tenkai hating her bosses just makes tired Tenkai more and more real in my head.

From my knowledge of the routes in-game, this prank was not repairing the barrier immediately, letting the souls outside the Barrier into Mugenri and basically letting the events of the game happen (Fumikado and co. start gathering souls, Harujion sprouts near Fumikado, Shion is born, Sese transforms in the Extra etc.). I guess it’s also meant to be an excuse to test Tsubakura and Yabusame. In short, we can all thank Tenkai for the events of this game.

IIRC, I think Tenkai is referenced as being from the Outside World? Maybe? I know it’s brought up in the Kuroji / Saragimaru route. 

It’s also not mentioned in the profile I believe Lumen is responsible for punching a hole in the barrier in the first place which is HILARIOUS

Their title is of the “Old Dictators”. So basically, Tenkai is the Marisa to Tsurubami’s Reimu.

New Opinion: I already liked Tenkai, this is just cementing my headcanon of Tenkai being a very, very tired person. There’s not a whole lot to say about Tenaki since this is all just plot and worldbuilding details 

= = =

I will finally get into Iyozane (who has a small profile, but has a large role in Fumikado’s profile) and Fumikado (who has a huge, huge profile) in the next part.

[ginmo]

You're not delusional for entertaining the possibility of Brienne as YMB

“If you think anyone but [Insert Queen, most commonly Dany] is the YMB then you’re delusional” is something I have seen quite frequently, so I’ve been inspired to explain why that’s uh...well, complete bullshit.

To be delusional, you need to be spewing garbage without any reason or support and lack any sense of reality. But… there is plenty of evidence and reasoning, based in reality, to simply entertain a theory that isn’t [Insert Easy Choice].

Let me state that I'm not saying with total confidence that Brienne is YMB. I am not saying she is or is not. My claim is that Brienne is a perfectly logical candidate, and that being completely sold on a traditional choice, to the point where you’re publicly making asshole cocky comments about it, is risky af. I’m tired of people shutting down any discussion of it.

This is GRRM. This isn’t supposed to be easy (he literally said this, as shown below). There should be multiple interpretations to this prophecy. People who think it’s Brienne or Sansa or Marg or whoever may be wrong, or people who think it’s Daenerys may be wrong. Or maybe this is supposed to be ambiguous and we’ll never get a definitive answer. Maybe it’s multiple people. It all depends on what angle GRRM is going with. He could be going very literal and traditional with this, sure. Or, he could be going a more poetic route, which is also a style of his writing. Obviously by this post, I prefer the latter, but I see different angles. I’m not going to pretend I’m psychic by claiming I’m right and you’re wrong, and I’m not going misuse the word delusional. If you come after me later with, “LOL I TOLD YOU SO” I’m just going to say you missed the entire point of my post and my point is still 100% valid.

SO. Here is why you all have NO RIGHT to a) be so damn confident in your traditional choices and b) put down others for entertaining Brienne.

Hang on tight. This is long as fuck. First, you need to promise me you’ll do two things.

My two rules:

Consider authorial intent when thinking about meaning and trajectory and

Step outside the bubble and look at this story from a professional angle. A good narrative written by a professional author has structure and purpose.

Before I properly dive into this, let’s see what GRRM has to say about prophecies:

Prophecies are, you know, a double edge sword. You have to handle them very carefully; I mean, they can add depth and interest to a book, but you don’t want to be too literal or too easy…

I mean…. That should be enough to shake your confidence. He even gives an example.

In the Wars of the Roses, that you mentioned, there was one Lord who had been prophesied he would die beneath the walls of a certain castle and he was superstitious at that sort of walls, so he never came anywhere near that castle. He stayed thousands of leagues away from that particular castle because of the prophecy. However, he was killed in the first battle of St. Paul de Vence and when they found him dead he was outside of an inn whose sign was the picture of that castle! [Laughs] So you know? That’s the way prophecies come true in unexpected ways. The more you try to avoid them, the more you are making them true, and I make a little fun with that.

So you always want to frustrate our expectations, am I right?

Yes, it was always my intention: to play with the reader’s expectations. Before I was a writer I was a voracious reader and I am still, and I have read many, many books with very predictable plots. As a reader, what I seek is a book that delights and surprises me.  - GRRM

A physically beautiful Queen, or physical beauty in general, would essentially be the Lord being correct of his fate and dying in that castle. The Lord expected to die in that castle. Cersei’s only expectation to YMB is to be “cast down and take all you hold dear” by a literal beauty, literal Queen. That is obviously the reader’s expectation as well. Hello fandom! Cersei doesn’t know who this literal beauty/literal Queen is. She constantly obsesses over WHO, but is always wrong, maybe because it isn’t surface level obvious and it’s her incorrect interpretation, just like lord’s interpretation was wrong. He didn’t die in a literal castle.

See, I’m obviously so delusional for thinking GRRM might be doing, um… exactly what he said? There’s nothing from reality to support an idea that GRRM may not go the easy, literal route. There’s absolutely no reason for me to think this may not be so simple.

.

..

….

….

-__-

Right.

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-Younger, More Beautiful-

Brienne is a possible candidate for the YMB.

...it was always my intention: to play with the reader’s expectations.

For both Cersei and the readers (again hello Freefolk, Twitter, Tumblr), Brienne as the unexpected YMB is a twist to the literal interpretation, fitting GRRM’s idea on how prophecies should be written.

“But everything that has happened about the prophecy was literal so duh this has to be literal!”

The literal parts of the prophecy were marrying the King and the number of children she’ll have. Yeah… there isn’t anything subjective to that, so it’s not surprising that it’s straightforward. She asked a question, Maggy gave her an answer. Besides the part with the children dying, the bit we’re talking about was stuff Maggy added in. Also, is there like a prophecy rule book somewhere I’m not aware of? Maybe consider that we got easy literal bits mixed in so we (and Cersei) are misdirected by the actual focus? Maybe consider that it’s possible for a prophecy to have some literal elements and some not? Maybe consider that a way more subjective (-cough-beauty-cough-) part of the prophecy isn’t as straightforward?

Moving on.

“Aye.” Malice gleamed in Maggy’s yellow eyes. “Queen you shall be… until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.”- CERSEI VIII, AFFC

It’s common to see “younger more beautiful QUEEN” (YMBQ) floating around fandom. Technically, Maggy never says the person is a Queen, whether literal or symbolic. She says “another.” An equally valid interpretation of that can be, “someone else who is younger and more beautiful than you.”

“Um no, it definitely implies a Queen because the words after and because of the context.”

If you really want to argue that GRRM definitely implies Queen, well, here’s something to chew on.

I’m not going to describe how Brienne’s arc is definitely not ending as her being someone’s bodyguard for the rest of her life. That’s for another time. But that doesn’t even matter really, because it has been made intentionally clear that Brienne is her father’s only heir. Once Brienne’s father dies, even if she’s still active on the battlefield, someone’s bodyguard, or still fucking off somewhere, she will still technically be the Evenstar.

- The Evenstar -

The Evenstar was a title given to the Tarth Kings. That title is still used. Why? It’s interesting to think that GRRM gave random minor House Tarth a specific title used for Kings, and that he allowed the House to continue using that title. Because he created that title for that House and allowed them to keep it, that title becomes symbolic of their previous kingdom. This is similar to our real world where some nations or groups retain titles from their history as more of a symbol. Selwyn Tarth is still known as the Evenstar. Selwyn Tarth is a symbolic King. When he dies (which will probably happen soon), Brienne automatically inherits that title, making her a symbolic Queen. And we all know how much GRRM loves symbolic meaning.

“I still think it’s a LITERAL Queen.”

I mean, a possible theory is that the throne will be destroyed at the end of this and the realm will split back into separate kingdoms. Sooo, if that happens……………………….

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- What does Maggy mean by beautiful?-

I have a really hard time believing that GRRM wants everyone to sit down and argue over who is physically more beautiful between his characters. In every story there are themes explored and messages woven within, so each character with an arc is going to have themes and messages associate with them. One of the themes being explored with Cersei is beauty. (This theme is explored through both Jaime’s and Brienne’s arcs as well, which isn’t a coincidence.)

Cersei’s interpretation of beauty lies on the exterior This is an element of her narcissism (word by GRRM).

(“Cersei isn’t narcissistic????”

You can argue, well, does she genuinely love her children, or does she just love them because they’re her children? There’s certainly a great level of narcissism in Cersei. She has an almost sociopathic view of the world and civilization. - GRRM  

Don’t even go there)

In her eyes, a person’s worth is tied to how physically attractive they are. She is obsessed over being beautiful, and her twin being beautiful. Her attitude towards her twin changes when he returns handless. Cersei’s interpretation of the prophecy is that she will be cast down by a physical beauty, which is why she goes after Margaery (Dany most likely later on/Dany in the show). But remember this?

you don’t want to be too literal or too easy

It’s possible GRRM isn’t talking about physical beauty here. a) too literal and b) Cersei is being taught a lesson, and the readers are being sent a message. Like, you know… what good quality literature does. This is important to understand. Maggy probably realizes this about Cersei (like any classic Beauty and the Beast Witch), thus fulfilling the prophecy on her own, her own downfall being caused by her inability to recognize power with inner beauty.

“But Cersei is bringing her own downfall by obsessively trying to avoid the prophecy. As GRRM said, ‘The more you try to avoid them, the more you are making them true.”

And by obsessively going after her interpretation of what beauty is, she’s missing what’s right in front of her face.

“He took Raventree and accepted Lord Blackwood’s surrender,” said her uncle, “but on his way back to Riverrun he left his tail and went off with a woman.”

“A woman?” Cersei stared at him, uncomprehending. “What woman? Why? Where did they go?”

“No one knows. We’ve had no further word of him. The woman may have been the Evenstar’s daughter, Lady Brienne.”

Her. The queen remembered the Maid of Tarth, a huge, ugly, shambling thing who dressed in man’s mail. Jaime would never abandon me for such a creature. My raven never reached him, elsewise he would have come.

- CERSEI I, ADWD

I mean… this right here, imo, is pretty significant, but it’s frequently ignored.

We see Cersei feeling a bit threatened by her rapid fire questioning of what, why, and where.

She places emphasis on Brienne’s looks.

The use of Her. That’s rather strong. GRRM could have taken “Her” out and started her thoughts with, “The queen remembered” but there’s something forceful - as if making a point- to use Her. GRRM also made sure the readers knew that Cersei knows of this woman, and knows what she looks like. From a narrative standpoint, if Brienne’s inner beauty contrasting her outward appearance isn’t an important element in the downfall of Cersei, then there’s literally no reason why Cersei needed to have seen Brienne before. Remember my rules? Yeah, apply them to this one.

“Er, Brienne’s appearance is mentioned so that Cersei knows to not be jealous.”

…I think, “Jaime would never abandon me for such a creature” is basically saying “LOL well he did.” It’s GRRM telling Cersei, and the readers, that her answer is right there, right under her fucking nose, but she’s too dense and superficial to see it, which is the point of the Brienne theory.

“It’s there just to show that Brienne is taking Jaime away even though she’s ugly, but it has nothing to do with YMB.”

Yes, that is also the point. Again, an interpretation of a key message of the prophecy is that beauty isn’t literal, and beauty lies within. If we’re looking at the prophecy as a lesson to both the readers and Cersei, similar to The Witch in Beauty and the Beast - a tale and theme GRRM has been confirmed writing, then… why wouldn’t that be connected? “Brienne the Beauty” is literally the only character to challenge Cersei’s superficial perceptions, and the only one who has been set up to do so. In other words, for this particular theory, narcissism and superficiality drives Cersei’s downfall.

Also, I find it curious that instead of saying, “Lord Selwyn Tarth’s daughter, Lady Brienne” which would have been way more straightforward and which he could have easily done, GRRM instead used his other title, “the Evenstar’s daughter” which basically translates to, “the Princess.” A possible nod to the future Evenstar, the future symbolic (or even potentially literal) Queen, if Cersei and readers want to interpret the person as a Queen.

Reminder: that’s a fact. Not wishful thinking. Regardless of what Brienne is doing or where she is, she will literally inherit the title the Evenstar.

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- Brienne the Beauty -

BRIENNE IS AN INNER BEAUTY. This has been intentional and made crystal clear over and over. Brienne is the Beastly Beauty. A… beauty who gives a lesson by challenging Cersei’s perception of beauty and…. She is intentionally written as younger and….. she will have a title that’s a symbolic Queen and… her story is tied to Cersei’s lover? :O

Look, it’s no secret that one of GRRM’s favorite narratives is Beauty and the Beast. As mentioned above, he is writing an adaptation of Beauty and the Beast.

George R.R. Martin said what he wanted to do was to take the traditional format of Beauty and the Beast and change the roles — and also the genders. - Gwendoline Christie

[GRRM] also said that when he wrote the story of Jaime and Brienne, he was taking the formula of Beauty and the Beast and turning it on its head. He wanted to see what it was like for the man to be the beauty and the woman to be the beast and how that would play out. - Gwendoline Christie

I spoke to George R.R. Martin about this, and he said that it was always his intention with Jaime and Brienne to take the classic Beauty and the Beast story, and turn it on its head. Brienne is not ‘unconventionally attractive’, she’s ugly, and she’s ugly to society. She is the beast.- Gwendoline Christie

He’s taking the traditional format (a romance) and switching the genders and roles. The entire point of BatB is to destroy the idea that love and beauty are determined by superficial qualities.

Guys again, I’m so delusional. There is nothing to see here. None of this is from anything real.

“But that’s just for Jaime.”

There can be other characters in a Beauty and the Beast adaptation. It’s an adaptation, not word for word. Other characters can be used to deliver the message, especially if the character is uh… linked to and romantically involved with one of the BatB inspired characters. For example, in the Disney adaptation we have Gaston (who… now that I think about it, actually has a similar Cersei way of thinking, ngl lol).

Brienne is the one character who has the actual name of Beauty associated with her. She is Cersei’s opposite. Brienne is the epitome of what Cersei cannot understand. A theme explored through Cersei is beauty, which is a theme that’s heavily explored through Brienne as well. Brienne’s character has been shaped around rejection due to her appearance. Literally every page in her POV is about how ugly and undesirable she is. Therefore, it’s very possible their characters are connected by a shared beauty theme.

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- The Prophecy -

Okay, the rest of this stupid thing for YMB. Here we go.

”Will I wed the prince?” she asked.

“Never. You will wed the king.”

Beneath her golden curls, the girl’s face wrinkled up in puzzlement. For years after, she took those words to mean that she would marry Rhaegar until after his father Aerys had died.

GRRM straight up telling the readers that Cersei interprets this shit incorrectly.

”I will be queen, though?” asked the younger her.

“Aye.” Malice gleamed in Maggy’s yellow eyes. “Queen you shall be… until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.

“But ginmo, -sigh-, Cersei doesn’t hold Jaime most dear. The thing she holds most dear is power.”

Is she not always jealous and bitter over how Jaime is born to be heir and she is not? Does Jaime not represent the Lannister legacy she craves? Does Ms. “my brother is worth a thousand of your men” not lose any amount of power if Jaime stops doing what she wants? Is Jaime’s identity shift not influenced by Brienne the Beauty? Where is Jaime in both books and show? Couldn’t Brienne’s influence on Jaime mean Cersei loses power, a lover, her legacy? Jaime is power.

And then, again, there is also the straightforward route with the Kingdom splitting up possibility and Brienne the Evenstar….

Then we get this perfect little nugget.

Anger flashed across the child’s face. “If she tries I will have my brother kill her.”

I WILL HAVE MY BROTHER KILL HER I’M DYING. This is something that is repeated TWICE. Here in the prophecy and later in the chapter when she’s talking to Qyburn about the prophecy.

”...another queen, who would take from me all I loved.”

“And you wish to forestall this prophecy?”

More than anything, she thought. Even in the tent. “If she tries I will have my brother kill her.”

This is another moment to apply my two rules. There is literally no point to this being thrown in there if Jaime is not connected to the YMB, and definitely no point to emphasize a second time that she’d have her brother kill her. The words are not, “I will have her killed,” which could have left it ambiguous and easily been done. No, she (which is GRRM) specifically uses “my brother will kill her.” The irony is that, JAIME IS IN LOVE WITH HER. HE’S IN LOVE WITH THE BEAUTY.

“No, the irony is that by that time Jaime won’t listen anymore to her.”

I mean, that’s possible obvioiusly, but… yawn? That has practically zero emotional weight attached to it. I personally lean more towards this being a massive hint, that Jaime is the LAST person to kill the YMB, because he lost his heart to her, which makes it so delicious and juicy. GRRM is essentially having a massive evil laughing fit.

Another small note, during the Maggy the Frog scene, after delivering the YMB message to Cersei, Melara asks if she’ll marry Jaime. When they leave, Cersei kills Melara for wishing to marry Jaime, which is GRRM telling the readers that Jaime most certainly represents something Cersei holds dear, or else she wouldn’t be killing her. It’s not a coincidence this was right after she learned about the YMB.

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- Cersei is her own downfall -

The more you try to avoid them, the more you are making them true

In the show Cersei is threatened by Dany as YMB (since it’s possible she incorrectly interpreted the prophecy, wow what a concept that’s not possible at all). This was made clear by the script notes. Apply my rules here as well.

But what’s the meaning of Cersei being taken down by a physical beauty? That just… proves her right? That would be the Lord dying in the literal castle? It just supports Cersei’s superficial world view by sending absolutely no message to her character? From a narrative standpoint, there’s no point to have YMB be a literal beauty. Again, is it possible he’s going the literal route? YES. But considering GRRM implements a ton of metaphor and symbolic meaning in his work, that he literally said he’s writing a BatB narrative so Beauty Within is definitely present, and he straight up said he doesn’t like his prophecies to be entirely literal, I’m going to at least have fun and entertain the non-surface level interpretation, and I’m therefore not delusional for doing so.

And since Cersei is bringing her own downfall, how would Dany even fit? Dany would have been going after that throne regardless of whoever’s ass was sitting on it. Dany’s pursuit of the throne has absolutely nothing to Cersei, and everything to do with what she believes is her right. My point is, if Cersei’s butt wasn’t there, Dany would still be doing exactly what she’s doing. So how is Dany taking the throne a consequence of Cersei bringing it upon herself? Cersei and Dany are completely separate from one another. Even if AU Cersei was nice to all of her allies and Jaime, Ned knew the identity of her children, and therefore a fractured Westeros would still exist. She wouldn’t have had enough men to fight off Dany. None of that really matters anyway, because Daenerys still would have converted Houses through the use of her dragons. In the show, it’s been made clear that she thinks it’s now Dany so...… going back to my points outlined above, if she thinks it’s Dany, maybe it’s possible she’s wrong.

You know the one character Cersei will NEVER see as a threat, due to her narcissistic inability? Brienne the Beauty.

(Also for show!Cersei, I love how fandom is like “Valonqar can’t be Tyrion because Cersei thinks it’s Tyrion” and then in the same breath they go, “DO YOU SEE? Cersei thinks Daenerys is the YMB so it’s Daenerys!”..................................................... Like I said, GRRM and D&D could be going that way, but to use that logic is just…… what)

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-Book Structure-

Hey did you guys know that there’s actually thought and technique that goes into the formatting and structure of a book, especially a book series? That the structure of chapters and the format aren’t just randomly thrown together? DEFINITELY apply my two rules here.

When was this prophecy introduced? AFFC, the book Cersei AND Brienne conveniently got a POV, the book that is mostly Jaime, Cersei, and Brienne centric. Who has a POV chapter immediately after Cersei’s prophecy? Brienne. Why is it structured this way? Was it random that the book was mostly a Lannister twin + Brienne book? No...

What can that possibly imply?

The main story running through each of those characters is the same. In other words, those three are connected to the same subplot - BatB- and are therefore connected through the same themes.

POSSIBLE? Yes.

DELUSIONAL? No.

Also my favorite. Look at this chapter ending. LOOK AT IT. Feel the dramatic pause. DO YOU CLAIM THIS IS RANDOM?

I dare you tell me that there is no thought that goes into a chapter end.

I dare you to tell me that the Cersei chapter following is meaningless, like the structure of a book doesn’t go through an editing process, that chapter ends aren’t significant and the structures aren’t another element in the story telling process.

I dare you to tell me that “Brienne the Beauty” weren’t words intentionally chosen by a professional author.

We first hear about “younger, more beautiful” in CERSEI III - AFFC, and then Brienne is referred to as, “Brienne the Beauty” shortly after in BRIENNE III - AFFC. The only other time Brienne's nickname of “Brienne the Beauty” was mentioned was when Catelyn made note of it. It wasn’t in ASOS when there were plenty of opportunities, and it only came up again (...four times) right after Cersei thinks about YMB for the first time.

yEAH GUYS, DElUSIOnAL, wHat IS naRraTive StrUcTuRe AnD pROfESsIONAL fOrMAtTiNG? nOt rEaL LMFAO bRiEnNe’s nOt pOsSIbLe aT aLL

[thehikingviking]

Mt Perkins (12,566 ft), Mt Wynne (13,179 ft) & Mt Pinchot (13,494 ft) from Armstrong Canyon

After climbing Mt Sill and finishing the California 14ers, Mt Pinchot became the highest priority peak for me to day hike in the Sierra Nevada. Mt Pinchot is a P2k that stands in a region of the range which I had not yet visited. The closest I had been were Split Mountain to the north and Mt Mary Austin to the south. Rafee and I planned to try it from Armstrong Canyon during the 2021 Sierra Challenge as an alternate peak. We also hoped to tag some combination of Colosseum Mountain, Mt Perkins, Mt Wynne and Mt Fitch, but I got a two flat tires the day before. Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to complete the rough drive to the trailhead on a donut, we agreed to try the following year. It was not all bad news for me because I ended up climbing Colosseum Mountain from Sawmill Trailhead that day instead, a feat that I didn’t know I was capable of. I got my taste of the area, but I still wanted the other peaks in the group, especially the highest one. One of the first things I did when I got home was upgrade the tires on my Jeep, but Rafee and I would have to wait until the following June to finally try the loop. We planned for June instead of August for two main reasons; day light and water. We chose the weekend right before the summer solstice, giving us a total daylength of 14 hours and 44 minutes. That didn’t include twilight hours, so in total we would have over 15 and a half hours of natural light. With regards to water, I learned from Chris Kerth that the tarns along the way were completely dry when he did his own outing in August of 2021. We had another low snow year, so I expected similar conditions in 2022. Satellite imagery showed that the lakes had plenty of water in the days leading up to the hike, eliminating any water sourcing concerns. The only downside of going early in the season was I’d most likely not be in my best shape. I usually hit peak fitness in August after I’ve had several big hikes under my belt. I made sure to do some “butt kickers” in the weeks leading up to the hike.

I spent the previous night at Ray’s Den in Independence and met Rafee the next morning at the Sawmill Pass Trailhead. We consolidated into my Jeep then drove up the dirt road to Scotty Spring and then up the huge switchback towards Armstrong Canyon. There once was a giant boulder blocking the road, but some good Samaritans moved it a couple years back. It was a bumpy ride but I think any high clearance vehicle can make it. We startled a night hawk that was sleeping on the road. With light beginning to appear over the horizon, we parked at a nice overlook at about 8,000 ft. The road continues further into Armstrong Canyon, but we planned to start climbing the ridge from here.

There are several mining roads heading off in different directions. We started off following the one that switchbacks up the ridge.

Sawmill Point and the moon hung over the southern horizon.

The morning alpenglow shone over the peaks to the north.

It wasn’t long before the sun rose over the Inyo Mountains to the east.

We followed the road until it started to get too overgrown. While steep, we found it easier to climb directly up the ridgeline. It was loose at first, but the ground eventually became more solid as we climbed above the mining prospects.

The route wasn’t exactly enjoyable at the beginning, but Rafee provided good enough conversation to distract me. You wouldn’t believe all the gossip there is in the peak bagging community. After about 2,000 ft of climbing, the route finally became enjoyable.

Across Armstrong Canyon was our descent route. I couldn’t decide if the chute was impressive or revolting.

The rock underfoot was mostly solid, an obvious contrast to what we would experience on our descent, so from early on I knew we made the correct route choice for the ascent. The gossip got juicier the higher we climbed, and the time just flew by.

Before I knew it we were standing atop Peak 11738, which I’ve also seen referred to as Perkins East.

Peakbagger shows this peak having 288 feet of prominence, but my GPS calculations suggest that it has more than 300 feet of prominence, which would qualify it as an official peak by California standards. Even though my own measurements are likely wrong, I feel the peak is a worthy destination regardless of prominence. To the southeast were Mt Inyo, Keynot Peak and New York Butte.

To the south were Mt Baxter, Acrodectes Peak and Colosseum Mountain.

To the southwest was our ridgeline leading to our next peak, Mt Perkins.

We were forecasted to have a cold and windy day, and for the first time I felt chilled. I put on my cotton sweater and we started off on our ridgeline traverse after only a short rest. A good chunk of the scrambling was on metamorphic rock. I explained to Rafee how this was a rooftop pendant, created when the ancient magma chamber that would go on to form the granitic Sierra rock melted the surrounding country rock. The result was a mixture of colors and rock quality. The scrambling was a little tougher than I expected, until I realized that we were following a Grant Miller track. Dope! Once we got through the metamorphic section, the ridgeline became granitic once again and the climbing became easier. To the northwest was Mt Perkins, our next objective.

Colosseum Mountain looked very close. I could tell Rafee really wanted to tag this peak, but we would need every second of day light to complete our agenda as it was. I am happy I had already bagged this peak, or else I might have been tempted to entertain the peak myself.

Sierra primrose covered the alpine ridge.

Progress was noticeably slow. I kept checking my GPS and very little distance was being covered. It felt like we were stuck in the mud. Rafee and I talked about our favorite television show "Impractical Jokers." I thought I was the only person who found those guys funny. Humor tailored to peak baggers I guess. Finally we reached the crest where we had an amazing view of Crater Mountain.

Twin Lakes and Woods Creek flowed down towards Kings Canyon below.

We turned right and headed north along the crest. Armstrong Canyon looked quite desolate down below.

The next section of the hike took us up and around a series of intermediate high points. I recommend for others to simply stay low here and side hill along the west side of the ridge. Rafee and I found ourselves on some class 4 terrain. It was actually kind of fun, but our progress was simply too slow.

We had both expected to be on Mt Perkins by now. Rafee told me he would be okay if we skipped Mt Wynne and Mt Pinchot. Our chances were looking bleak.

The ridge transitioned from granite to metamorphic rock once again. It was pretty loose and miserable, but we only had a few hundred feet remaining.

Finally we made it to the top of Mt Perkins, marking the half way point of my journey to complete the SPS list. I felt great until that last mile, and now I found myself pretty wiped. Rafee again suggested that he would be satisfied with bagging just one SPS peak on the day, but I wasn’t. I had originally planned to continue to Mt Wynne by continuing along the ridge for another mile or so to or near Mt Fitch, but the previous mile of ridge hiking was so brutal that I wanted easier terrain even if it would cost me a few extra hundred feet of elevation. Rafee suggested that we drop directly down to the basin to our west, claiming there was a nice sand chute that led to the bottom. I thought this was a bad idea at first, but the more I thought about it the more it made sense. I made Rafee make the final call, that way if it was a bad route I could blame him. I felt very vulnerable descended further into remote wilderness when I was already tired, but I chose to take the plunge. My mind was so busy that I completely forgot to take photos from the top of Mt Perkins. I stopped my descent about 50 feet below the summit to take some near summit photos. To the northwest were Mt Wynne and Mt Pinchot.

To the west was Crater Mountain.

To the southwest were Mt Baxter, Acrodectes Peak and Mt Ceric Wright.

I didn’t quite get the sand chute I was promised, but we were able to drop down quickly enough.

Even though it was rather tedious at times, I’m glad we dropped down where we did. The rest of the west side of Mt Perkins looked incredibly cliffy, and I’m not sure if there would have been another way down unless one were to follow the ridge north all the way to Mt Fitch. 

To the southwest was Mt Clarence King from it’s most impressive angle.

As we neared the bottom of Woods Creek Drainage, Rafee and I had a divergence in philosophy. I wanted to drop down to easier terrain while Rafee wanted to maintain elevation on looser and rockier terrain. We split up here and wouldn’t see each other until reconvening at the highest tarn in the drainage.

I think my route was the better option. It lost somewhere between one to two hundred additional feet of elevation, however I was able to maintain a strong pace over solid ground. I was even blessed with some nice grassy sections which were covered with Sierra Columbine.

Rafee and I arrived at the final tarn at about the same time. Since Rafee is faster than me, I chalked this up as a win. This would be the only water source we would come across the entire day, so we would make the most out of it. We ate lunch here as well.

We roughly had about 2,000 feet of climbing remaining to get the next two peaks. If I were to bail, this would be the time, since the rest of the route was somewhat committing.

I instead took on the challenge and began my climb up Mt Wynne’s east ridge.

Strong gusts of wind became more frequent. Somehow this wind wasn’t so cold, so we were able to push through it. The first thousand feet of climbing was at a strong pace, and I felt encouraged that we would be able to pull this off. I really liked this east ridge route.

Then our pace slowed as we got higher up. The solid terrain that we experienced down below began to deteriorate. We were faced with more and more brittle metamorphic rock.

One benefit of the change of terrain was that the route became more fun. Both Rafee and I took different routes, and both of us scrambled up sections we believed were class 4. Neither of us were looking for the easiest route up the thing, instead just climbing what lay ahead. I started feeling the altitude as we crossed the 13,000 ft threshold. I had to drag myself up to the summit.

We finally made it to the summit of our second SPS peak of the day, Mt Wynne.  Down below was Pinchot Pass. Rafee spotted someone hiking along the JMT. I was too tired to look.

To the west were Crater Mountain, Pyramid Peak, Goat Crest, O'Burley Peak and Mt Ickes.

To the southwest were Mt Clarence King, Mt Brewer and Mt Ericcson.

To the south were Colosseum Mountain, Mt Baxter, Mt Cedric Wright and Mt Baxter.

To the southeast was Mt Perkins. It looked awfully small from here.

To the east were Wunupu Peak, Waucoba Mountain and Mt Fitch.

To the north was Mt Pinchot. Our route supposedly climbed directly along the top of the ridge, and from the summit of Mt Wynne that looked incredibly difficult.

To the northwest was Lake Marjorie.

Peregrine falcons darted across the sky. I felt dizzy and drained. I barely had enough energy to sign the register.

We had one more peak to climb, and in a twisted way heading to Mt Pinchot next was probably the easiest way to get back down to the car. The ridge was reportedly class 3, and even as we got closer, it seemed improbable. With careful route finding, however, we were able to pick our way through the sequence of metamorphic rock. This was maybe the most fun class 3 ridge that I have ever done in the Sierra. The highlight was an unlikely sidewalk that snaked up the ridge.

After the sidewalk the rock quality got better, which made the scramble more enjoyable. The only downside was the fact that I was extremely tired.

After the scrambling, we had one last talus heap to climb.

Clouds were starting to form to the west. Rafee was afraid it was going to thunderstorm. I could sense the nervousness in his voice, and his desire to run up to the summit without me. I assured him that there would be no thunder, nor even the lightest bit of rain, and at worst, the clouds would bring a little bit of wind. Thankfully I would end up being correct. Rafee took a more steep direct route and I kind of circled up the west side. I really had to dig deep, but I finally made the rounded summit.

To the south was Mt Wynne.

To the southwest were Crater Mountain, Pyramid Peak, O'Burley Peak and Mt Ickes.

To the northwest were Mt Ruskin and White Mountain.

To the north were the Palisade Crest, Split Mountain, Cardinal Mountain and Striped Mountain.

To the east were Wunupu Peak and Waucoba Mountain. It was a little concerning to see the strandlines of the tarn below. It was only June and the water levels were noticeably lower than normal.

I needed several minutes to gather myself atop the summit. I needed as much rest as possible, but we also needed to get moving. It was now after 4:30pm!

So we started off down the east ridge of Mt Pinchot. For a while we found a use trail and followed this as long as we could. The ridge became broken and serrated, so we dropped down to the south side of the ridge, and we sidehilled here along very loose terrain. All I wanted to do was just zone out and walk downhill, but this section required our focus.

We finally dropped onto a barren plateau. Finally, some easy walking ahead.

We stumbled across the tundra. Looking back was Mt Pinchot.

Standing a little further south was Mt Wynne.

Our return route had us walk just 100 vertical feet underneath the summit of Mt Fitch. At the time of this writing, I am disappointed that I did not got to my fifth summit of the day, however I was feeling incredibly tired and almost worried that I wouldn't make it down.

We contoured around Mt Fitch and I stopped for dinner. I shared some of my extra tri tip with Rafee which he greatly appreciated.

With some more carbs and protein in my belly, I gave myself the needed reserves to continue onwards.

We both hoped for a sand slope to run down, but we got more rocky terrain.

We were racing the sunlight. We actually caught up to it once, but in doing so we got off route.

We had to turn right and climb up a ridge to find the top of our descent chute.

From the top of the chute, we had 2,000 vertical feet to drop until reaching the bottom of Armstrong Canyon.

Holy cow, what a chute. It was extremely loose at first, and each step took a big chunk of the mountain down with us. We discussed spacing ourselves out, but the safest and most efficient option seemed to be to stay closely together. The loose rock danger here is extremely high, and if there is any reason for me to go back up to this High Sierra wasteland, I hope to do so via a different route. After a thousand feet or so of somewhat scary controlled falling, the rock became more stable.

This was still pretty miserable because the chute was still tedious and maintaining my balance took a lot of energy. The wind was howling when we finally reached the bottom of Armstrong Canyon. We emptied our shoes and walked towards the middle of the canyon to look for the creek. We never found running water, as it seems that the creek runs underground here.

We still had over a thousand feet to drop until reaching the car. There was no trail, but the off trail hiking was easy. We avoided any serious bushwhacking, and as dusk began to fall, we reached the end of the mining road that penetrates the canyon. From the road we had a mile of easy walking; the first real trail the whole day. We made it back to the car without having to take out our headlamps. At the end of the day we hiked 13.5 miles with over 8,000 vertical feet of elevation gain. Don't let the short mileage fool you; this was one of my toughest days in the mountains. The terrain was extremely rugged, yet beautiful. It took us 15.5 hours, and I suffered greatly. I'm glad I got to see Armstrong Canyon, and I'm even more glad that I likely will never have to go back. Mt Wynne was my favorite peak, yet Mt Pinchot was the most prestigious summit, notching another P2k in my belt. Along with some of my most strenuous outings, this one deserves the title of Tough Bastard™. Thank you Rafee for sticking with me throughout the day.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Countless Roads - Chapter 46

Fic: Countless Roads - Chapter 46 - Ao3

Fandom: Flash, Legends Pairing: Gen, Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, others

Summary: Due to a family curse (which some call a gift), Leonard Snart has more life than he knows what to do with – and that gives him the ability to see, speak to, and even share with the various ghosts that are always surrounding him.

Sure, said curse also means he’s going to die sooner rather than later, just like his mother, but in the meantime Len has no intention of letting superheroes, time travelers, a surprisingly charming pyromaniac, and a lot of ghosts get in the way of him having a nice, successful career as a professional thief.

———————————————————————————

Len follows the Time Masters.

It's not like he's found any other leads in this desolate place, and as long as he glides along purposefully, looking nobly distracted with serious questions about life, the universe, and everything, no one questions the presence of yet another robed figure.

Distraction is a pretty easy look to pull off.

Mick.

Fuck, Len knew this whole thing was a bad idea. He's known this was a bad idea from the beginning, this whole time travel bullshit, but coming here – Len knew this job was snake-bit cursed, and like a total idiot he went in on it anyway.

Getting swept up in ghosts and Time Masters and angels is no excuse for forgetting the fundamental principles of the job, and number one, above all else, is: if it feels like it's going bad, it almost certainly is, and that means it's time to jump ship.

Everyone always talks about how superstitious sailors are. In Len's opinion, they've got it no worse than thieves.

Mick.

Len has to remind the part of himself crying out for his partner that Mick's an adult – and more than that, a ghost, a powerful poltergeist, nearly a century old – and that he's perfectly capable of handling himself. If Mick left, and Len’s got to assume that he left voluntarily, it's probably because of that damn dream of his. And because of those damn time puppies.

Besides. Len can handle himself without ghosts, and Mick knows that. It's...unusual for Mick to ditch Len in the middle of a job, but it's not necessarily unheard of. Len's good at his job, with or without ghosts. With or without his partner.

The fact that he strongly prefers with is irrelevant.

Len’s so incredibly tempted to break his own rule on radio silence and call for Mick over the comms, but without evidence of any wrongdoing beyond Mick wandering off, he knows he can’t. It’s his own rule – he knows it, Mick knows it, Jax knows it.

A moment’s worry about a crew member, even a partner, doesn’t qualify as an emergency sufficient to break radio silence unless there’s an actual reason to believe something’s gone wrong.

Len hates his rule.

The group of Time Masters surrounding Rip split off from the Hunters, who start ushering the ghosts into what are clearly holding cells.

Len lingers for half a minute – he knows that the information he's looking for will be with the Time Masters, not here, and he can at least comfort himself with the fact that those are definitely holding cells and probably not whatever the hell they used to make people into Hunters, but he can't help the moment of worry for ghosts carrying themselves with the unfamiliar weight of solid flesh – and he hears one of the Hunters scoff and say, "Where'd they even pick you up? And why?" at Parvati.

That clinches a suspicion Len's been nursing as he's followed them all this way, watching the way the Hunters have been treating the ghosts – not like ghosts at all, but rather like people, like thieves, like no threat at all.

Parvati's eyes flash white – less a sign of power here than of sheer ghostly rage – but it's only a split second before it fades away again, drained out by the force of this place.

The Hunter doesn't notice.

Len's not surprised. If the Hunters are too mindless to properly identify the ghosts as ghosts, then obvious signs are clearly lost on them.

No, whatever they’ve managed to accomplish, the Time Masters are clearly still terrible mediums.

It's not necessarily a comfort to know that his plan would've worked if this place wasn't cursed or whatever the hell is going on with it, but it's good to know.

But in the end, there's nothing he can do about the ghosts' predicament for now. Len has to assume the ghosts will be fine – though he desperately wants to know where Svetlana is; hopefully she escaped? – and leave them where they are. Rescuing them now would blow his cover wide open, and it doesn't look like they'll suffer anything worse than cages for now.

The mission takes precedence.

So Len follows Rip, instead.

The Time Masters - one walking in the lead with Rip, flanked by three others - are clearly so confident that Rip won't resist them that they go so far as to dismiss the Hunters entirely.

That seems to surprise Rip.

"What, Rip?" the head Time Master – the same one who called the Matron about the alarm, who goes by the name of Druce, and Len thinks he might even be the one that tried to ambush Rip in the forest way back towards the beginning – asks, looking smug. "Did you think you are nothing more than a prisoner, my friend?"

He puts a friendly hand on Rip's arm.

"I- I mean - I broke the rules," Rip stammers. "As you pointed out when we last met."

"Ah, yes," Druce says, his voice still smug and condescending with the assumption of victory. "But before you did not know the truth. Once you see the truth, you will understand everything we have sought to do here, why we have done all the things we have done, made all the sacrifices we had to make." He smiles. "That is why I dismissed the Hunters. These are matters for Time Masters only."

Len wonders spitefully if they're taking Rip to the large antechamber he'd seen earlier, clearly designed for either show trials or ritualized murder. For all of Druce's pretty words about dismissing the Hunters, there are still three hooded Time Masters following them, and they're clearly there to keep an eye on Rip.

"You really are working with Savage," Rip whispers, something in Druce's manner making him believe it, really believe it at last. Perhaps it was Druce's slick, unashamed demeanor. "My family..."

"We warned you against unnecessary emotional involvements," Druce says. His voice is warm, friendly. He's charismatic and he thinks it'll get him everywhere. Len hates that type of guy. "It was for your own sake, Rip. We tried to spare you this pain."

"You caused me this pain!"

"Yes, we did. But it was in the service of a higher cause," Druce says.

"For what?" Rip demands. "For the timeline?! What, are you going to tell me that there's some devastating attack on humanity that only this course of action could prevent? What could it possibly be? Savage is a tyrant –"

"Rip, Rip, Rip," Druce says. "Please, be calm."

"If you had an argument as to why Savage's evil should've been permitted to flourish and take root throughout the world, you could have just told me," Rip says, no longer yelling, but his voice filled with hurt. "There was no reason to – to – to kill my family."

"You think too small, my friend," Druce says. "The timeline – yes, the timeline is sacred. But there are still higher causes."

Rip stares at Druce, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. He clearly hadn't expected that.

"I will show you," Druce says.

He takes Rip – and Len, drifting close behind but not too close to be noticed – to a remote outpost of the station, down long, grey corridors that all look the same.

The actual place Druce is headed to is actually a building a little outside of the main complex, surrounded by some sort of pseudo park. If parks were soulless collections of bushes put in place to make people regret being alive, anyway.

Really, the fact that Len, a city boy to the bone, has started criticizing horticultural design says everything you need to know about these people...

Of course, all that open space makes it a little more difficult for Len to follow along.

A little.

Not much.

Besides, now that they're out in the park, Len can observe that the building isn't even actually really an outpost: it's actually connected to the rest of the complex by a long corridor leading straight through it from the other side, which means that Druce just chose to go the scenic route for some reason. Worst case scenario, Len can double back and go down that route. But Len is far from needing to fall back on the worst case scenario.

Druce also unhelpfully leaves the other Time Masters as guards at the door to the outpost, but ye old "throw a rock to distract them with a noise" gag – surprisingly useful even outside of movies – works like a charm and he can slip inside.

Of course, it's only once Len's inside the building that he gets the sickening twist of nausea building up in his stomach, the horrible feeling of wrongness, of horror, of suffering, of – he doesn't know what to call it, not really, but it feels the same as being filled up with the insane angel's rotting energy. Wrong, and sick, and Len hates it immediately.

"– is that?" Rip is asking, gagging.

"You become accustomed to it, in time," Druce says soothingly, like that's not the most horrible thing that could be said about the place. Sure, you can acclimate to horror – but why would you? Willingly, even?

They're not even all the way inside yet, either; it's a small entrance room. Druce's waiting for Rip to get over himself before they pass through the internal door at the other end.

Len does not want to go through that door.

He doesn't think he has a choice in the matter.

Those goddamn time puppies had better know what they're about, sending Mick on this horrible mission.

Mick, who is – somewhere.

Mick, who can handle himself, damnit.

"Feeling better?" Druce asks after a few minutes of Rip composing himself.

"No," Rip says bitterly, but it's obvious he's not as bad off as he was when they first came in. "What is this place? I never knew of it."

"It's our holiest of holies," Druce says, smiling and calm. Len imagines that genocidal war criminals smile the way Druce is smiling right now, utterly oblivious to the blasphemies against basic humanity spilling from their lips. "We call it the Oculus."

"The Oculus?" Rip echoes.

"Oh, yes," Druce says, and he opens the door. "Our friend Savage, though, he has a different name for it."

The second that door cracks open, Len is rooted to the spot. He can't run, he can't hide, he can't maintain his cover; the only thing saving him is that Druce and Rip aren't looking back.

"He calls it a Well of Souls," Druce says, and steps through into the screams.

A Well.

The angel had spoken of a well, a pit, a valley –

Come to think of it, Len's mother had mentioned a valley the few times she'd lost her temper enough to curse in front of him - Gehenom, she called it, the valley of lost spirits, the word that when it was converted to English was mistranslated as Hell.

Len's not so sure, anymore, that it's a mistranslation.

They're screaming.

Those of them that can, anyway.

Not all of them can, though, and that's the real horror of it.

Ghosts.

So many ghosts.

Len fancied himself capable of calling armies of ghosts – he was an idiot.

This is more than an army. Numbers uncounted, numbers uncountable, more than Len's worst nightmares as a child could have even conceived of.

Len can't even see them all. The ones at the edges – Len uses the term lightly – swirl around in furious madness, trying to escape, pulled in inexorably despite pulsing with power.

And at the center –

Infinity.

A shining white light at the core, the color of ghostly rage and pain, ghosts entrenched and centered as if frozen in ice, ghost upon ghost upon ghost until they've lost all definition, boiled down to their very essence and nothing more.

It’s an abomination.

There are more dead here than there are currently living in the world. Add to that alternative histories, timeline changes, history itself, and the number of dead is truly endless. A ghost should move on, Len has always held that truism close to his heart; no matter how much he likes one or wishes one would stay, what's best for them is to move on.

And he's always lived by that, too, for all of them except for Mick, who laughed in Len's face when he tentatively suggested it, who promised that they would pass on together and who wouldn't take no for an answer, who is not here –

Focus.

Focus, Len, you need to focus or they're going to see you.

Len grits his teeth and scans the area for a hiding spot. There aren't really any good ones, but ducking behind a slight curve in the wall seems to work well enough. Druce is staring at the center of the Well - a glowing light emerging out of a pit buried beneath the building, with some sort of platform on top of it - as if entranced, and Rip's head keeps swiveling between Druce and the Well as if he were a bobble-head doll.

Len can scarcely look at it. He can scarcely look away.

He mostly just wants to throw up.

The ghosts, normally attuned to Len's presence, haven't noticed him yet, which is one small piece of luck. Len hates having to count luck in the pain of others, but they're far too frenzied to pay attention, even to him.

Or perhaps it's that they know that they could bleed him dry and it still wouldn't be enough power for them to break free of this ghastly pit.

God, king of the world, who would do something like this?

And why?

"What is it?" Rip asks, breaking Druce's almost ecstatic contemplation of the horror that is the Well, but Druce is only put off for a moment – the briefest hint of a snarl, wiped away almost as soon as it's formed – and then he's turning to Rip, all smiles and smoothness and as if that small break in his façade had never happened.

But it had, and Len's lived in the slums too long not to know what a man forced away from his addiction looks like.

"We call it the Oculus," Druce tells Rip, charisma back in full force, the charming teacher once more. "It's a wellspring of time itself - a quirk of the timestream that captures spirits in the moment before their passing –"

More than a moment. Much, much more than a moment.

"– and gathers them here, where the power of their lost lives pools together into a powerful core. It offers unimaginable possibilities – to look into time, not as visitors in the time stream, but as true masters of it. From where we stand, we can change the very flow of time itself."

"Then – that's why," Rip says, his voice strained. "That's why I couldn't rescue my family. That's why we couldn't kill Savage! You were stopping us the whole time, from here! Using this!"

"That's correct," Druce says.

"But we got close," Rip says. "Closer than you’d like. The Hunters – the time in the 1950s –"

Again, that flash of a snarl, followed by composure.

"The Oculus is a delicate tool," Druce says smoothly. "We can influence the very circumstances of events, but individuals can sometimes disrupt even the most finely calibrated adjustments."

Len translates that as meaning that the Oculus is all well and good, but free will is still free will. Good to know.

Druce doesn't seem like the sort of person who appreciates the philosophical niceties of free will, though. No, anyone who would look at the tortured ghosts of the Well and think not of helping them but of using them, and not just using them, but using them to try to subjugate time itself for his own ends –

Well. Len has words for that sort of person, but none of them are fit for polite company.

Rip's mind seems have been working along different lines. "You say it works by – by capturing the power of spirits?" he asks.

"It does," Druce says.

Rip looks around. "They're screaming," he says, very faintly.

Len shudders. If Rip – who is generally oblivious to any ghosts but the two that haunt his mind – can see the ghosts of the Well, then they must be visible to anybody. Their pain on display for all.

"Hardly," Druce says dismissively. "That sound is merely the by-product of the Oculus' working. Here, let me show you a mere taste of its power."

Len has to swallow the instinctive cry of denial. Stay hidden, he reminds himself. This is why you're here. You need to fix this.

No matter what.

Fuck, this must be why the ghosts are visible here, in the Vanishing Point; they're close enough to be affected.

Maybe even to be drawn in.

Mick –!

Mick is still outside, Len reminds himself. Mick is still safe. Right now you need to stay hidden, and watch, and learn, and once they are gone, you can figure out a way to destroy this thing.

Len finds he talks to himself a lot more, without ghosts around. He's not sure he likes it.

Druce, meanwhile, has pulled a lever or two to move the platform above the center of the Well, what he calls the Oculus, around so that it extends out a bridge from that platform straight to their feet. On the platform is some sort of giant hulking machine, and the infinite brightness of the Well pours out from beneath the platform, and as far as Len can tell the only way on and off is that newly extended bridge, an extremely narrow bridge that Len can see is shaking with the power of ghostly hands trying to disrupt it.

Druce walks over it without paying the slightest bit of attention.

Rip looks more dubious.

"Rip, my old friend," Druce says, turning. "Come now. You never used to be this cowardly."

That hits Rip right where Druce aimed it, making Rip puff up in annoyance and march forward across the bridge.

Druce looks smugly pleased at his successful manipulation; Rip, when he realizes what just happened, looks angry at himself for falling for it.

Druce puts a hand on Rip's back. "Now, my friend," he says. "Look."

The machine in the center of the platform rumbles to life, cracking open to reveal a single broad beam of light, a foot or two wide, heading up to the ceiling. And in that light –

Images.

Faces, shapes; people moving; things happening.

"All this," Rip says, struggling to keep his voice level, "for an inferior version of television?"

Len can't help a small smirk. Go, Rip.

Druce looks put out for a moment, but quickly regains his equilibrium. "Hardly just that," he says. "We can look throughout history, any moment, any era –" He smirks. "– and change it."

He reaches out and touches the beam of light, where an image of a battle plays out before them.

One of the figures staggers, distracted mid-battle, and dies from a sword to the chest.

"Why did you do that?" Rip demands.

"An example of what we can do -"

"You killed him!"

"He wasn't important to the timeline anyway," Druce says dismissively. "Rip, can't you see what this means? We can preserve the timeline, adjust it –"

"You have Time Masters for that," Rip says. "And Hunters, too, when you need them."

"This is so much more than that," Druce says, his eagerness evident. He's not just an addict, he's on a mission to convert others to his cause. "This is Time, Rip; Time itself at our command. And once we are able to access the full power of the spirits, we will be able to move through it and shape it at will, creating the history we should have had, the history humanity should have had, a glorious history –"

"You're speaking of changing the timeline for your own interests!" Rip cries out. "That's contrary to everything you ever taught me – that the timeline is sacred – the only people who change it at will are pirates – you declared me a pirate, just for trying to save my family from their fate - for changing the timeline –"

"We're not talking about changing the timeline, Rip," Druce says calmly.

"No?" Rip says challengingly. "Then what are you talking about, Master Druce?"

"We're talking about rewriting it," Druce says, and smiles that same genial, pleasant, charismatic smile. "There won't have ever been a different timeline, when we're done with it."

Rip stares at him in horror.

After a few moments, he says, "But you can't yet, can you?"

Druce frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You've been controlling the timeline all along," Rip says. "Gathering up Time Masters and using us to keep history the way you prefer, but time wants to happen and you couldn't change everything. The method you controlled time through us was too inefficient. That's why you turned to this. But you can't just start using the Oculus to change everything the way you want it, either, because you don't know how. That's why you're working with Savage – you think he can do it."

"Yes," Druce says. "His knowledge, paired with ours –"

"He'll only betray you," Rip says bitterly. "Betray and manipulate, the way he has every other empire he's puppeted. Surely you must know that."

"We're hardly novices at this," Druce reminds Rip with a genial laugh. "We know very well what he does, or at least tries to do. Do not worry. Savage will be very firmly under our control. In fact, we've even agreed to let him rule the world for a period –"

"Oh, yes, in 2166," Rip says. "When my family was killed by him and his soldiers – following the intentional release of a plague that more than decimated the world's population!"

"Yes," Druce says. He sounds undisturbed by the prospect. "Speaking of which, why didn't you and your little crew go to the Kasnia era? We'd set up the signs and hints for you; your interference there would have been most beneficial – you wouldn't have been able to bring yourself to actually kill Per Degaton, of course, it's not in your personality to murder children. But your interference would have radicalized him much sooner, leading to an earlier takeover timeline for Savage."

Rip stares at his former mentor. "And at what cost? Millions dead? Kasnia's utopia replaced by Per Degaton's ruthless rule years earlier than it should have been? An earlier start to the conscriptions, the executions, the wholesale slaughter?"

"Savage needs to take over in that period," Druce says calmly. "The loss of 60% of the world's population to the plague, Per Degaton, and Savage is better than the total elimination of humanity at the hands of the Thanagarian invasion some years later. Under Savage's unified control, the world will be able to resist them."

"And it gets him the control he wants," Rip says, disgusted. "Which in turn gets you what you really want – his help. Did you even try to find another path? Or did you just throw in all your chips with him at once?"

"Rip, Rip, Rip," Druce says, shaking his head. "You're missing the bigger picture. Once Savage helps us crack the Oculus and turn it to our use, we won't need his assistance anymore. And once that happens, we can simply rewrite the timeline from an earlier period for the betterment of all humanity so that none of that pain and loss and death ever happened. Imagine it, Rip: no Dark Ages –"

"No Renaissance," Rip shoots back. "No spread of Arabic culture with all its magnificence. No freedom, no ingenuity, no adversity – damnit, Druce, can't you see the madness in what you're proposing? And tell me, how will you guarantee that this power you're suggesting you harness not fall into the hands of madmen and dictators, who don't want the betterment of all humanity but nothing more than their own power? What happens, Druce, when you die?"

"Savage has agreed to help us solve that problem as well," Druce says mildly.

It takes Rip a second to make the connection. "Immortality," he says flatly. "You want to share in his immortality – you do know that he's obligated to go and murder two innocent beings in each of their lifetimes in order to preserve himself, right?"

"A minimal cost," Druce says with a shrug. "And one that we can work on repairing once we have the time and leisure to do so. Rip, you're not seeing – "

"The bigger picture," Rip says. "As you were always telling me when I was your student. No, Druce. This time I think I'm seeing the bigger picture just fine."

Druce shakes his head sadly. "I had such hopes for you, Rip," he says ominously.

Rip crosses his arms, trying to look intimidating or angry and mostly coming off like he's trying to ward off the blow of yet another betrayal. "So what now?" he asks. "Old friend."

"The magnitude of what we're doing here is a lot to take in," Druce says calmly. "We'll see if you come to your senses. If not, it will be most regrettable to lose someone of your skills."

"Lose," Rip says bitterly. "You mean you'll kill me."

"Likely," Druce agrees, sounding regretful but not enough to actually stop. "Or you'll be sent to Declan for modification into a Hunter."

"Modification – good lord, you mean the Hunters are actually brainwashed? I'd always thought that was some ridiculous propaganda."

"We encourage that perception," Druce says agreeably. "Now, come along."

"You expect me to just – come along with you?" Rip exclaims. "When you've just told me you intend to have me killed or worse?"

"Yes, I do," Druce says. "Because if you don't, the individuals we found stowed away on the Waverider will be turned into Hunters as well."

"How do I know that's not the plan anyway?" Rip says challengingly.

"You don't," Druce says. "But I was your mentor, Rip. I know you. If there's a chance you can save them – and there is – you won't be able to resist taking it."

Rip hesitates, clearly torn.

“You can’t win, Rip,” Druce says. “You know that. What happens after this is your choice.”

“My choice,” Rip says bitterly. “My choice – just like it was the Matron’s choice, I assume?”

Druce nods as if Rip had confirmed something. “We knew you lot had to be involved in that,” he says.

“What did you do to her?” Rip demands. “And all for what? For being the mother you made her into? For trying to defend her children from – whatever it was you were hiding there?”

“A pillar,” Druce says. “The Oculus is unstable; it requires four pillars here, in the Vanishing Point, just to keep the power of the Oculus from overflowing, and several more pillars outside to anchor it in place. The Refuge was the most powerful of the pillars – the Matron’s actions in removing it are causing tremendous instability to the entire Vanishing Point. What mother takes action that puts her children’s life in danger?”

“She was trying to protect us,” Rip says stubbornly. His eyes are narrow and he’s angry, and they’re alone. He takes a step forward. “And you went after her –”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Druce says, watching him calmly. “Whatever it is you’re thinking – that you can kill or incapacitate me, that you can escape – you know it’s not possible. There are guards outside the door, and an army of Hunters just beyond them, ready to attack if there's a disturbance.”

Rip falters. He knows.

“Listen to me,” Druce says coaxingly. “I was your mentor and your friend, Rip; I was never your enemy. The least you can do is think about what I’m offering you here. And, if nothing else, I'm offering you time, Rip; time to think about your choices. Time is the most precious thing we have."

"So you've always told me," Rip says heavily, and Len knows he's given in, at least for now.

The two of them head out, Rip's head bowed low and his shoulders slumped. It's not easy having someone you look up to turn out bad, Len knows from experience, but assuming that Druce is telling the truth about giving Rip some time, that only works to their favor. It gives the rest of them a chance to rescue him.

The two Time Masters are halfway back to the door when Druce says, almost off-handedly, "And what did you do with the rest of your crew? You said you dropped them back off in their own time, but I know that was a lie."

"What makes you think it was?" Rip asks.

"We've checked," Druce says bluntly. "You are capable of depressive moments which would explain your actions in yielding up your mission and returning here for punishment, but the fact that they do not actually appear to be in the right time period speaks volumes."

"Why do you care?" Rip asks.

Druce doesn't respond.

"It's Kendra, isn't it," Rip says. It's not a question this time. "You want to turn her over to Savage."

"He's our ally," Druce says. "It's incumbent upon us to make sure he gets what he needs."

"And you expect me just to turn her over to you?" Rip exclaims. "If you think I would ever –"

"As I said, Rip, I know you," Druce interrupts smoothly. "If you decide to join with us, you will be reinstated to your former post, with all the attended honor and respect – and Miranda will, as well."

Rip stops, his mouth agape.

"She was forced to yield up her position as a Time Master because of your relationship," Druce says. "Our rules about attachment are very strict. But once we have the Oculus working at full capacity, well. Perhaps then we need not be so strict. Think of it, Rip: you will be a Time Master once more, but this time, you’ll have your wife and your son at your side, and the remainder of your little crew left hale and hearty – all but the one already doomed to die, who will reincarnate shortly thereafter anyway. Hardly a real loss in the long run, wouldn't you say?"

Rip's eyes are filled with longing.

"But as I said," Druce says. "You'll have time to think on it."

They go out, Rip following Druce in a daze.

Len watches them go with a grimace. That's tempting, for someone like Rip – all he ever wanted, and more that he never dared to let himself dream, no doubt.

He'll just have to hope that the budding sense of morality Rip’s been developing underneath all that childhood miseducation and indoctrination is strong enough to stand up to his desire to return home.

As for Len – he has other work to do.

He raises his hand to his comms. He hadn’t wanted to make the call while Rip and Druce were in the room, for fear they’d hear him; the comms really need a silent mode, maybe something that translates sign language – Len’s sure he can convince either Gideon or Cisco to make something that would work just on the basis of claiming that they're discriminatory against the deaf and non-verbal – but now that they’re gone, he can –

He can’t.

The goddamn thing’s broken. Len pulls it out of his ear to confirm, but even someone with Len’s entirely practical amount of technological knowledge can tell that the whole unit’s fried. Hell, some parts of it have fused together.

It must be some feedback from the Well.

No back-up.

Great.

It doesn’t change what Len has to do.

Guess the time puppies weren't wrong after all. This is worth all of that pain, all of that anger, all of that, to come here, to find this. To destroy this.

Len turns back to the Well.

It's such a horrifying thing to have as pretty a name as Oculus, and it, like Savage, cannot be permitted to remain intact now that Len is aware of its existence.

He waits until he's sure the Time Masters are gone and heads in, hoping that he's correct that there are no undetectable cameras watching over the room.

Walking closer to the Well is a horrible experience.

Len can barely bring himself to do it; it's like his first experience with the unquiet dead as a small child, the creeping choking terror, the feeling of being scooped apart inside, but so much worse.

"Help us," a ghost chokes out at him, using her last bit of strength to do so, disappearing into a blur of white.

"I'm trying," Len says through gritted teeth. "Oh, am I trying."

Crossing the bridge to get to the platform is, if anything, even worse.

Len stands in front of the machine the Time Masters have built, the machine called the Oculus, and tries to figure out how to destroy it.

He knows at the first touch that his half-formed ideas of blasting it with his cold gun and shattering it are unlikely to work: this machine is made of the same material as the Waverider, tough and almost invulnerable, and likely self-repairing to boot.

No, this will require another approach.

Exactly what that approach will be, Len's not so sure. Maybe it can be rigged into some sort of bomb, or set to self-destruct? But who would have the expertise in this sort of future tech to do that, much less do it secretly enough that the Time Masters wouldn't notice someone tinkering with their holiest of holies?

Maybe there's a way to do it already.

Len prods at the machine and it abruptly unfolds again, the bright beam of light shooting straight up to the ceiling once more; Len hadn't even noticed it closing up again the first time, he'd been so distracted.

There are no images this time; Len wonders why.

Then, of course, it hits him.

It's undoubtedly set to show him what he wants to see.

Mick?

The beam ripples and shows him Mick, walking through the grey corridors of the Vanishing Point unharmed, his face screwed in concentration as if he's looking for something, one time puppy on each side of him, tugging him onwards.

He's okay.

He’s okay.

Len lets out a breath of relief at that.

"I'm gonna get you for that one," he tells the image, which for obvious reasons doesn't respond. "I'll think of something real nasty. Or better yet, I'll get Lisa to think of something; she's the real specialist in nasty pranks – "

And then his voice trails away, because the image is changing again, a different image.

Lisa.

Lisa, in her favorite date clothes, sitting in a chair in STAR Labs, Cisco Ramon at another next to her, showing her something on the computer, a wide, adoring smile on his face as he natters on about something. Barry is standing behind them, scarlet suit on and cowl pushed back, rolling his eyes at them with a grin.

Len is hit by a sudden, overwhelming surge of homesickness.

"You have fun, kids," he tells them, wishing he could be there with them. “Bet whatever problem you’re facing ain’t half as bad as the one we’ve got here.”

Cisco is frowning, now, for some reason, and he's waving Lisa's questions off and trying to focus on something.

"Now, Cisco, that just ain't nice. You gotta let the girl talk if you want her to like you. And don't think I'm gonna let you dating my sister rest," Len tells Cisco's image. "I will come and bust your chops over it. Just you watch me."

And then Cisco looks up and stares straight at Len.

Len rears back a step.

Cisco's saying something. There's no audio in the Oculus, but Len can read lips and the words 'Snart' and 'hear him' are featuring heavily.

"Holy crap," Len says, realizing what it must be. "Your stupid vibe powers. You can hear me!"

Now Cisco's mouth is forming other words, chief among them 'Where' and 'When'.

"Not sure," Len says honestly. "The Time Bastards call this the Vanishing Point; they say it's outside of time –"

Barry waves his hands. He's mouthing the word 'Gideon'.

Right, they have the other Gideon, old Eobard's Gideon, down in their basement.

"Yeah, Gideon might know where it is," Len says. "Good thinking. It’s –"

But Cisco has leapt to his feet, eyes wide with alarm, and he's pointing at Len.

No, not at Len.

Behind Len.

Len spins around just fast enough to see the Time Master holding a pulse rifle, like the ones the Hunters used, over Len's head.

He's not fast enough to avoid it coming down on his head.

And then everything fades in darkness, accompanied only by the screams of the ghosts that surround them.

[lhugbereth]

KP- I'm crying omg, Ignis almost fighting the stranger in his bed 😂 I imagine Noctis is adamant that he's too comfy to leave and says he has nowhere to go anyways because SOME asshole named GLADIO kicked him out. Ignis softens a tiny bit but is still reluctant to let Noct stay, tho he looks harmless enough he supposes, just too sassy for his own good. Cue awkward bed sharing maybe? ;) Bonus: Ignis stretching out before bed and noct pretends to be asleep but he's watching like ?! DAMN! I'M GAY!

I’m sorry this has taken so long, but at last it’s time for a side-Ignoct catch up post!! These two are almost as bad as Promptio when it comes to being totally obvious-slash-oblivious about their mutual crushing. So I hope you enjoy this post featuring flexible Iggy and Noct’s Big Gay Awakening :3 

(idk where this gif is from but it’s too appropriate not to use...?????)

Noct appreciates the view under the cut! v v v 

[The night of the Grand Prix in Altissia]

- Noctis has never been in love. He’s had flings, sure, mostly when he was in school and none of them serious. Nothing that lasted longer than a single semester. Before that, it was mostly him avoiding the people who only saw him for his name and his father’s money. At twenty, he’s already pretty sure things like love and dating just...aren’t for him.

- Which is why he doesn’t get Gladio. Like, at all. Flying both of them across the continent just to watch Prompto skate? Noct doesn’t think he could ever feel that strongly about someone else. He really, really doesn’t get it.

- So when Gladio tells him after the competition not to wait up, Noct rolls his eyes and makes his way to their hotel all alone. He takes the scenic route, admiring the city streets lit up at night and ordering a gelato from a vendor. But even the area near the canal is filled with couples enjoying the romantic atmosphere. Noct sighs, tosses his empty cup in a trash bin, and continues on his way.

- If he’s expecting Gladio back at all, it certainly isn’t an hour later and with Prompto attached to his hip. They burst into the room in a flurry of laughter and kisses, almost ignoring Noct’s presence until he clears his throat from the other bed.

- “Oh. Hey, Noct. Uh, this is Prompto -”

- “Nice to meet you!” The blonde smiles, waves, but looks a little embarrassed as he puts a half-inch distance between him and Gladio.

- Noct rolls his eyes again. He’s doing that a lot recently. “Yeah, hi. Are you guys gonna...need the room?”

- Gladio’s mouth twitches. He looks at Prompto, back to Noct, down at his feet. Next to him, the blonde flushes as he reaches into his coat pocket. “Um. You can have the key to my hotel room if you -”

- Noct is already moving. He says nothing as he snatches the card key out of Prompto’s fingers and starts down the hall toward the elevators. Behind him, the sound of the door closing follows him all the way to the lobby.

- Luckily for him, Prompto’s hotel is only a block away - a five-star kinda place called the Leville. The room is on the tenth floor, and invitingly empty with one large bed in the center. The skater’s bags are against the far wall - he seems to travel with enough stuff for two people, at least - and there’s a spa-style tub in the bathroom. Noct considers it for a moment before his exhaustion gets the better of him and he collapses on the bed without even getting undressed.

- He’s asleep when the door opens. A figure enters quietly, stops in the doorway to watch him. He doesn’t notice when the figure approaches, or even when a gentle hand reaches out to touch his shoulder. In fact, he doesn’t wake up until that same hand shakes him hard enough to knock him nearly off the edge of the mattress and onto the floor.

- Noct bolts up. There’s a man standing over him - a stunningly beautiful man, his groggy mind supplies - looking about as confused as he is and somehow even angrier. Before Noct can stop himself the words are tumbling out of his mouth. “Who the fuck’re you?!”

- Silence. That probably wasn’t the wisest choice of words if the other man’s harsh green glare is any indication, but it’s too late to take them back now. Noct waits, tense with nerves, until at last the silence is broken by the most elegant Tenebraen accent he’s ever heard. “Is that how you usually greet someone whose bed you’ve sequestered?”

- It takes a moment before the words sink in. By then, Noct has already started babbling about how Gladio kicked him out and Prompto gave him the key and he doesn’t know who this guy thinks he is but this is his room now and --

- The man cuts him off with a sigh. “I should have suspected those two. What did you say your name was?”

- “Nocti -- Noct. Just Noct.”

- Gods, this man has spectacular eyebrows. “Well, just Noct. I suppose kicking you out now would only make me as bad as them. You can stay, but forgive me for asking for the use of my bed?” Noct blushes. He actually fucking blushes at the thought of his beautiful man falling asleep next to him, this stranger who hasn’t even bothered to give his name. It isn’t until he slides over to make room that he realizes the man is gesturing to the chair in the corner. Oh. Oh.

- He’s certainly slept in less comfortable positions, but he can’t help feeling all of this is Gladio’s fault. If it weren’t for him and his stupid crush, Noct thinks, he would still be back home in his own room, with his own bed and his video games. He wouldn’t be curled up in a worn armchair with a thin blanket tucked around his shoulders, simultaneously trying to fall back asleep and keep watching the show across the room. He thinks the man must be a skater like Prompto because damn he’s flexible - stretching on the floor at the foot of the bed, one leg straight out behind him and the other in front, his body pressed flat against it as his fingers curl around his heel. Then a smooth transition into a side split, his sleep pants leaving little to the imagination when he twists and arcs his back. Noctis wonders if the man knows how good he looks. If perhaps he’s doing this on purpose to torture him, as if Gladio and Prompto hadn’t done enough. Either way, it isn’t fair - and it makes his cramped position in the chair even less comfortable (although perhaps trying to hide his boner in the bed would have been worse)

- He swears he’s never going to forgive Gladio for any of this.

[The next morning]

- Ignis finds his guest still sleeping when he gets out of the shower in the morning. While he dresses, he finds himself studying the young man curled up under his sheet in the chair. He appears to be no older than Prompto, around nineteen or twenty. Attractive (he tries to ignore that). A student, perhaps? Although he claimed the night before to be an acquaintance of Gladio’s, he certainly doesn’t strike Ignis as having the build of a hockey player. He does, however, seem like someone who has secrets.

- If there’s one thing Ignis hates, it’s not knowing something.

- He slips out of the room as quietly as he can, but the mystery continues to eat at him all morning. Even after he checks out at the front desk (hoping Noct will find his way home before he’s carted off with the linens), Ignis can’t seem to reign in his thoughts. Why, for example, wouldn’t Noct give him his full name? What was it he was hiding? And why had he looked so disappointed when he’d been kicked out of the bed? Ignis chalks his curiosity up to the strangeness of the whole situation, and tries his best not to mention the young man in front of Prompto once they arrive at the airport.

[Several days later:]

- “Oh, hey! Gladio says he can make it after all!” Prompto’s looking at his phone again, for at least the dozenth time since Ignis first told him to put it away and concentrate. At this point, he can only give up trying and plop down next to the blonde on the mat.

- “Wonderful. As if you weren’t already distracted enough this evening.”

- Prompto smiles and pats his knee. “He’s bringing you coffee to make up for it.”

- “Well, I suppose that’s something.”

- What Prompto fails to mention is that Gladio isn’t coming alone. He’s dragged his friend with him again, and the moment Noct walks through the door carrying a bag of take-out lattes, Ignis loses the capacity for rational thought. Everything he’s been trying to ignore since Altissia (those deep blue eyes, that perpetual hint of something tugging at the corners of Noct’s mouth, the inexplicable obsession/attraction he’s felt toward the kid) come back in full force.  And still Ignis knows next to nothing about him!

- He doesn’t realize he’s been staring until Noct shifts uncomfortably and reaches in the bag to pull out one of the steaming hot coffees. “Nice t’see you again. Gladio said you, uh, like double shots?”

- “Oh. Yes, I do. Thank you. Er - “ Reaching out for the gift, he can’t help but notice the “name” scrawled across the side of the cup in black marker. “‘Specs’?”

- Noct flushes as his eyes somehow grow ever more beautiful. “O-oh. I didn’t…. I mean, you never told me your name, and Gladio said I should...ask you myself….” (Nearby, Gladio is grinning and whispering something in Prompto’s ear until the blonde’s mirth grows to match) “U-um, I hope you don’t hate it. T-the nickname, I mean. It’s ‘cause of your glasses, y’know, and - “

- “Ignis.” He clears his throat when Noct blushes again. “My name is Ignis Scientia. I apologize for my apparent lapse in manners when we met in Altissia.”

- “Yeah, um, me too.” (Gladio and Prompto are, if possible, being more obnoxious than before. Prompto’s actually filming this with his phone while Gladio shoots him the thumbs up from over Ignis’ shoulder). “I’m Noctis. But Noct is fine.” And now Ignis is smiling at him - it’s subtle, more in the way his eyes soften than the barely-visible curve of his lips - but Noct thinks it’s completely unfair how gorgeous he looks when he does it.

- “Thank you for the coffee, Noct.” Ignis takes a sip (is it wrong to be jealous of a plastic cup lid??) and gestures for him to have a seat next to Gladio on the mat. Noctis watches for over an hour in awe, unable to tear his eyes off Ignis while he limbers up, runs Prompto through their basic drills, and eventually demonstrates a new beam technique that shows off both his flawless flexibility and his impressive upper body strength.

- Halfway through, Gladio leans in and with a knowing grin, tells him to pick his jaw up off the floor.

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[looselucy]

Sunflower

19 “Come in, come in!” My mother ushered the two of us inside. I was cringing at my state already, but I refused to let go of Harry’s hand. Even when my mother opened her arms to him, expecting a hug, I made the experience very awkward for him because I just didn’t let go. He leant down to her, receiving a warm welcome. “You must be Harry.” She said the obvious. “So I’ve been told.” Harry replied. He gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek before he withdrew, and I wondered if Curls just had this effect on mothers, because my mum was swooning just looking at him. He’d said four words and I could tell she was smitten.

He withdrew from her, and came and stood beside me, our arms bashing together and my fingers tightening around his, already using him as support before she’d even said anything to me. “That’s a strange outfit choice.” My mother said, her voice so bright and cheery it was like she wanted to fool me into thinking it was a compliment. “Good to see you too, mum.” I groaned. “Cheer up Florence, it’s Christmas!” She smiled. “Now come on through, make yourself at home.” She pottered off to the left-hand side of the house, into the kitchen, and Harry automatically came and stood in front of me, looking down to my miserable self with wide eyes, and I could tell that he was already confused by the greeting my mother had given me. “It’s going to get worse.” I shrugged, not looking him in the eye. “That was nothing.” “Ren, she didn’t even say hello to you.” I just shrugged again, and dropped his hand, following her into the kitchen. It wouldn’t have usually upset me. I was used to my mum greeting me by commenting on my outfit, or asking if I’d washed my hair, or asking why I was looking so pale. I was very aware she was going to say something like that, she had done for years. I guess it only bothered me because Harry was there witnessing it. Harry had an idea that my parents were going to give me a hard time, but he was there, seeing it with his own two eyes. He’d seen the very tamest thing he could, and he was shooting me this look already. This look of sympathy and sorrow, already. He hadn’t seen anything yet. He followed swiftly behind, plastering a huge smile on his face, and returning to his charming self as my mother leaned herself against the kitchen counter, watching his every move. “Your home is lovely.” Harry complimented. “Thank you very much.” My mother returned as me and Curls came to a stop at the other side of the kitchen counter. “A realtor came round last week and told us it’s worth almost a million.” “Are you moving?” I gawped. “No, we just wanted to know.” “Right. Where’s dad?” “He’s out playing a spot of croquet. He’ll be in soon I imagine.” Harry placed his bag on the chair that was tucked against the counter, and in a couple of seconds, he pulled the bottle of white wine from inside, passing it over to my mother with a grin on his face. “For having me.” He simply said. “What a gentleman.” She took it from his hands, and looked it up and down. “This is a nice bottle, Harry. It’s nice to know you have good taste.” She moved to the far side of the kitchen to place the bottle in the wine-rack, and I turned to Harry, which he felt, and turned to me. “I nicked it from work.” He whispered. “Louis said it’s a good one.” “I adore you.” I whispered back. “So Harry,” My mother grinned, moving back to us. “Florence hasn’t told us very much about you, since she never bothers to speak to us. I need to know everything.” “Well your daughters a very busy girl.” Harry gracefully flicked his hair, he had complete control. “Her manager almost didn’t grant her the time off for Christmas. I imagine the place will fall apart without her.” “Hopefully not, she needs that job.” My mother nodded. “Tell me about you, Harry?” I watched Harry’s brows flick down, just for a moment, something my mother would never take note of, but I certainly did. The little flinch, the slight crease of his features, read that he couldn’t believe that my mother had twisted his words and not found a positive in them. Harry had said they needed me at work, and all she could think about was how I needed to work. All I cared about, really, was the effort Harry was making. “I work in a high-end cocktail bar.” He began. “I’m on very good money. I have my own apartment in the city. I enjoy collecting art, and I have a cat. My dad is an interior designer and my mother is a care-worker. I once came third in a talent show, but that’s a totally different story.” “One I would love to hear at some point over the next few days.” My mum cooed. “Did you go to university?” “I did.” He nodded. “Where did you go? And did you graduate?” Her eyes shot to me for a split second, before they were back on Harry, waiting for his answer, praying it would suit her needs. “First-class honours from Nottingham University. Business Studies. It was tedious.” He smiled. He was doing everything he possibly could. He even tainted his own university time to make me look better. He’d told me himself how much he loved uni, but he added that end bit just to help me out, just in an attempt to make me look a little better in my mother’s eyes. I couldn’t believe how well he was doing. “Well, it’s very good to hear my daughter has found herself such a well put-together young man. You’re very lucky, Florence.” “I feel like I’m the lucky one.” Harry cooed, his smile fake in my eyes but probably not in my mothers, as he wrapped his arm around my shoulder. I sunk into his side, smiling to my mother, seeing the look of approval trace her features. I breathed a sigh of relief, because it was working. This ridiculous plan was actually working, and I could see it all happening in the cogs of my mother’s brain as she watched us. She was buying it. I mean… it would have been weird if she wasn’t buying it, but she was really buying it. Harry moved and kissed my temple, delicate, and then returned to his previous position. Beatrice looked very impressed. “So how have you been, Florence?” She asked next. “How’s work and… stuff?” “It’s good. I’m good. Yeah, it’s all going pretty well, actually.” “How about therapy?” She asked, her tone dropping. “Has Florence told you she attends therapy, Harry?” “She has, yeah.” Curls nodded. “It’s going pretty well. I… I need to talk to you and dad about it, at some point this weekend.” I had set myself up for it now, the chat that Dr Jackson wanted me to have with them. Mentioning it then, even if it was briefly, meant that I had to say something, at some point. I didn’t want to avoid it, so it was better for me to say something then. It made me feel like I had to do it. She nodded, accepting what I had just said even though I had been expecting her to question it. She accepted it very quickly. Everything was confusing me. “Well it’s lovely to finally meet you, Harry. Theodore is very excited too, but this is the first Christmas for three years where he hasn’t been on-call at work, so he’s taking his time to relax. Why don’t you two go upstairs, make yourselves at home, and come down when you’re ready.” “Okay, sounds good.” I shrugged. She gave a little wave, directed to Harry more than it was to me, but to be honest I couldn’t blame her. Harry engrossed an entire room without even meaning to, I’d seen it happen. My mother’s reaction to him was totally natural, and Harry was purposefully turning on the charm. She turned and walked to the back door, letting herself out of there and leaving the two of us alone again. “You gunna show me to your bedroom or what?” Harry grinned. “How many times have you said that in your life?” I sniggered. “Less than you think.” “Of course.” I rolled my eyes. We walked back into the hall and made our way up the grand staircase that lay in the centre, turning round on ourselves on the left hand side as I took him to the room where we would be staying for the next few nights. I think Harry was excited to see my room, to get a snippet of my life, to feel like he knew me a little better. So when he walked into the room, and saw how blank it was, I couldn’t help but laugh at the disappointed look on his face. The walls were blank, the sheets white, the curtains white. No books, no old teddies, no TV, no stains on the carpets, absolutely nothing. There wasn’t a thing in there that suggested a teenage girl had inhabited it for any length of time. “Is this the guest room?” Harry asked me. “No, it’s my room.” I answered. “There’s nothing here!” “I took everything I needed to uni! My mum and dad threw away everything else.” I spoke. “Then when I got my flat, they painted and stuff. I think they do use it as another guest room now, but yeah, it’s my room.” I could tell Harry was confused by that, but he didn’t say anything about it. I didn’t think it was weird, I thought that was a relatively normal thing for any parent to do once their child had moved out. He moved, throwing his bag onto the bed and opening it, routing through its contents for something or other. I took my ruck-sack off my back and dropped it to the floor, swallowing, watching Harry in silence for a few moments. “Thank you.” I said from nowhere. He lifted his head to me, some of his untamed curls falling in front of his face before he brushed them away, looking to me like he had no clue what I was thanking him for. I was realising that Harry didn’t have a clue how amazing he was. He didn’t have a clue the effect he had on people, how kind and thoughtful and inviting he was. He genuinely didn’t know. “What for?” He puzzled. “You were great, with my mum then. I just… I’m never gunna be able to say how much I appreciate what you’re doing for me. I know it was your idea but… I dunno. Just… thanks. You’re very good at being my boyfriend.” He grinned like a fool, his lips stretching from ear to ear, and I had to question why he didn’t actually have a girlfriend. He was gorgeous, good job, polite, sweet, charismatic. There had to be something wrong with him. It genuinely didn’t make any sense. He was there, with me, pretending to be my boyfriend, when I imagined he had girls at his feet, especially in his line of work, where he was handing out bloody cards with his number on. The only thing that made sense was that he loved that part of his life too much. He loved having that many choices when it came to his female endeavours. The boy was living the high life. “Well, you’re welcome.” He struggled for the right thing to say. “I’ll return the favour next week.” I promised. “You don’t need to do anything. Just be yourself. All they’ll care about is if you’re nice or not. So don’t worry about it. Just be you.” 20 We strolled into the dining room hand in hand, watching as my mother plated up the table, a soft smile on her face as she did. The early evening was dark, harsh winds making the branches of the trees outside clatter against the windows. My mother had tried to drown out the noises with piano music, but the gusts were unrelenting. Even so, walking into that room gave off a pleasant feel, candles scattered across the table, the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree in the corner giving an ethereal glow to the room. “This looks amazing.” Harry commented. “Thank you. Do take a seat.” My mother instructed. “You’re both on that side.” She scurried from the room, walking round the back of the house to get into the kitchen as we sat down and tucked ourselves in. Harry turned to me, leaning close so I could hear his low voice. “I think we should be kissing when she walks back in. Looks really natural then.” “Okay.” I nodded, giggling quietly. “Move closer then, so you’re ready.” He did just that, hovering his face just an inch from mine, ready to press his lips against mine when my mother walked back into the room. He looked directly into my glittering orbs, not shying away regardless of our close contact. “You have brown eyes.” He whispered. “My ex-boyfriend called me poo eyes.” I whispered back. “I’m not gunna do that.” He chuckled, still quiet. “That’s a terrible nickname.” “He was a pretty terrible person.” I shrugged. “We lasted about a month before we broke up.” “Well when he’s calling you poo eyes, I’m not surprised!” He gawped. “They’re more like… the centre of a sunflower.” “You’re probably the nicest boyfriend I’ve ever had.” “Honoured.” “She’s back! Kiss me!” He thrust his head forward and he planted his lips against mine, closing his eyes straight away as I rushed to catch up, propping my lips against his, breathing him in. It only lasted a moment. Once we heard my mother place the wine glasses on the table we pulled away, returning to our previous position, our chairs pulled close together. It wasn’t just that we were trying to show we were close, because in a way it had just become natural. We were used to this charade, after practicing and anticipating this. We hadn’t even planned on tucking our chairs so close that our arms were brushing, it just happened. “Are we cracking open the wine I brought?” Harry grinned, noticing the glasses. “Not tonight.” She replied, fixing the cutlery, which was apparently out of line. “We’re going to be drinking a fair amount over the next few days, so we thought we’d have a dry night.” I whipped my head to Harry, seeing his face drop. He’d really wanted to drink. He’d really wanted to get himself to a state where his dreams wouldn’t wake him. He didn’t want our first night together to be difficult, he didn’t want to wake me with his screams. He knew that alcohol would numb his racing mind, and he’d really needed that. We both knew I’d experience his dreams at some point, but he really hadn’t wanted it to be on the first night. He wanted to ease into it. His face dropped when he realised we were to be thrown in the deep end. “That’s a shame.” He tried to hide his disappointment. “I might go all shy on you.” “I doubt that, Harry.” My mother chuckled. “You don’t seem like the type.” She scuttled from the room again, shouting my father’s name and telling him everything was ready, as Harry sat beside me trying to control his breathing, looking down to the table cloth like he could find the solution to his problems woven within the fabric. “Please don’t worry about it.” I leaned closer to him. “It’s not going to bother me! It’ll be fine.” “I just wanted… Fuck. I didn’t want you to see me like that. Not tonight.” “I know. I’m sorry.” “Why are you sorry?” He finally looked my way. “I… I don’t know.” Footsteps pulled us from our conversation, Harry whipping his head behind himself to see my father enter the room, hands in his pockets and a smile on his face. Harry leapt to his feet automatically, holding his hand out in greeting. My father approached him, mirroring the action. “Nice to finally meet you, Sir.” Harry breathed, trying to return to his normal, charming self. “You too.” My father replied genuinely. “Sorry I wasn’t around when you arrived.” “No worries at all.” Harry grinned, their shake still firm. “I understand your schedule must be hectic. You deserve some time off.” “Thank you.” He moved and sat himself down at the other side of the table as my mother started bringing out the food she had prepared and my father asked about my well-being, and work, and the other basics that I just mulled over. Once everything was set up, my mother sat herself down. “This looks lovely.” I smiled, picking up my knife and fork. “Tuck in.” She instructed. I took a moment to appreciate the sight of the food in front of me, knowing that this would be the best thing I’d eaten for months. Even above everything I’d eaten at restaurants. My mother was many things, and one of those things was a damn good chef. Everyone else was already tucking in by the time I started cutting at the food, and then rushing to shovel it into my mouth, relishing the taste, ready to devour the rest in seconds. I noticed my mother watching me rush my food across the table. “Be careful how much you eat.” She said. Still chewing, I shot my eyes up to her, glaring at her across the table. I waited until I’d swallowed to reply. “What?” “Just be careful how much you eat, Florence.” “If you don’t want me to eat this much food, don’t make me this much food!” I snapped. “I’m just saying! You need to watch your weight and keep healthy!” “And I’m just saying, if you don’t want me to eat this much food, don’t plate me up this much food! I just…” I lost track of myself, shaking my head and trying to brush off the moment. I pushed some more food into my mouth, staring at her as I did. “So how did you two meet?” My father asked us, moving the conversation along. “She came into my work one evening.” Harry spoke, then turned his head to me. “You looked beautiful. I was infatuated.” “I kept him on his toes.” The lie slipped from my mouth easily, too easily. “Kept him guessing.” “She made me work.” Harry grinned, joining the lie just as naturally as I had started it. “Why would you make a boy like Harry work?” My mother asked me. “I was in the palm of her hand.” Harry answered for me. “She was just… making sure I wasn’t faking anything.” “He wasn’t!” I beamed. “There’s literally nothing wrong with the boy!” That wasn’t a lie. As far as I could see, Curls was faultless. The way he was impressing my parents and making me look so good was only lifting the pedestal I had placed him atop. Suddenly, this idea that I had been classing as insane since the second it was conjured up, was the best thing I’d involved myself in for years. I turned my head to Harry, and he was already looking at me. He shot me a wink, one that made me blush in appreciation. He knew how well he was doing, and that wink just showed that. It was nice that we could do little things like that, things that meant something completely different to us than they did to onlookers. “Well it’s nice that Florence has finally brought home a nice boy.” My mother smiled sweetly. “The last one she introduced us to was a nightmare.” “He wasn’t that bad.” “He was awful, Florence.” My mother corrected me, and she was right. “He wasn’t the best.” I sighed. “You’ll have to be on your best behaviour when you meet Harry’s parents.” My mother said. “I imagine they’ll be expecting good things.” “I can’t wait for them to meet her.” Harry answered for me once again. “They’re going to love her.” “I hope so.” I huffed. The meal continued in pretty high spirits, my parents questioning Harry on his time at university and his plans for the future. Harry bounced back with the perfect answer to every single question, and occasionally my mother would catch my eye, lifting her brows as if to say, you’ve done well, don’t fuck this up. I was really hoping I wasn’t going to fuck it up. I really was. 21 “Thank you for a lovely evening.” I heard Harry speaking downstairs. “It’s been wonderful getting to know you.” “You too.” My father replied. “I’m very much looking forward to meeting Matilda tomorrow.” Curls continued. “Hopefully she’s just as lovely as Florence.” “You’ll probably fall in love with her.” My mother giggled. I rolled my eyes as I pulled on the largest t-shirt I owned, knowing it would have to suffice due to the fact I didn’t own a pair of pyjamas. I knew my mother would never say anything, because those thoughts were low, even for her. But I could tell she was wondering why the hell Harry was with me. It angered me so much, that she thought I wasn’t worthy enough for someone like him. I wasn’t good enough for him. The most ridiculous part was, I agreed. Harry was a completely different specimen. Every word was dripped with charm, every smile and every movement was almost like he’d calculated it to be hypnotizing, but you could tell he hadn’t because it just fell from him so naturally. In the real world, under circumstances that weren’t as bizarre as ours, a boy like Harry would never choose a girl like me. My mother was right. Harry appeared in my room a few minutes later, a tender smile on his face as I lifted the sheet from my bed and began to clamber beneath it, tucking myself in before he could get a glimpse of my bare legs, watching Harry with a subconscious, sympathetic glint in my eyes, hoping he would be okay. “Day one, done.” I grinned. “A complete success, I’d say.” He smirked, nearing the bed. “Do you mind if I sleep in my underwear?” “Whatever makes you comfortable.” I knew Harry was going to despise the evenings sleep, so I wanted him to be as at ease as he physically could be. He began to unbutton his shirt as I buried myself further between the covers, attempting to keep my eyes off him as he undressed… But I’m only human. My eyes kept flicking to his body as he shuffled the shirt off his arms, revealing a mangle of tattoos that I hadn’t seen before, splattering across his body in an unorderly fashion. “Excuse my ogling,” I had to say something. “But how the hell do you stay so in shape?” “Ogling me, are you?” He lifted his brows, clicking the button of his jeans open. “Flattered.” “I asked you a question.” I brushed him off, yawning as I lay so I was facing away from him. “Yoga.” “Yoga?” “Yeah, yoga.” I heard him snicker. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you were middle-aged, single mother.” I chuckled at my own joke. Only moments later, I felt the bed dip as he slipped in beside me, predictably just in his underwear, but I hadn’t given myself the chance to watch him strip to that stage, it just felt a little intrusive, even when he was going to spend the evening by my side in that state. “You’re ridiculously sarcastic.” He groaned, getting comfortable beside me. “It’s one of my only good features!” “Whatever you say.” I turned again so I was looking at him, propped on my side as Harry lay on his back, one hand tucked to the back of his head as he stared towards the ceiling. “How do you think it went?” I asked quietly. “What?” “Today. The whole thing.” “I think we did alright.” He turned his head my way. “You were amazing.” I said honestly. “I did turn the charm on, didn’t I?” “You did.” I giggled. “What did you think of my mum and dad?” “I quite like your dad.” His voice was low, lovely to listen to. “Yeah, he’s harmless most of the time.” “Not quite sure how I feel about your mum.” I could tell he wasn’t her biggest fan. As wonderful as he was with her, I had seen the flickers of disapproval crease his features throughout the day. I had seen his reaction to certain comments she had made, things she had said to me. It didn’t sit well with him. “I guess you can see why I was dreading this so much.” “It’s just… Her comments seem so snide.” He remarked. “It’s almost like she doesn’t know she’s doing it.” “I don’t think she does half the time.” I sighed. “Kinda makes it worse. That’s just… how she feels about me. How she sees me. Through and through.” He nestled so he was on his side, looking me in the eye. His hair was stretching across the pillow and falling in his face, curls messy and untamed. Every inch of him looked soft to the touch, his personality seemingly similar. “I can’t say I know you that well,” He gulped. “But I think she’s got you all wrong.” All the words Harry had been saying about me that evening were for show, to make us seem like a real couple, to try and change the way my parents saw me and the lifestyle I was living in the city. It felt nice to hear him saying something in private, something that wasn’t for pretence. He said that for me, with no ulterior motive. That was simply how he felt. “Thanks.” I whispered. He shrugged, because it meant nothing to him. I imagined Harry was the type of person who threw around compliments and kindness just because he liked people to be happy. He wanted everyone to feel good about themselves, to surround themselves with every simple pleasure they could. I decided to return the favour. “Harry?” “Hm?” “I genuinely think you’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.” I watched his entire face change as a smile bust his lips, his lashes fluttering for a moment as he took in what I had just told him. I didn’t imagine it was the first time he’d heard those words, people must have told him all the time, or at least something similar. But I could tell he appreciated it, and I liked that. “You’re alright when you’re not being sarcastic.” He chuckled. “Thanks, I do try.” “What shall we do tomorrow?” “Dunno. Haven’t thought about it.” “It’s Christmas Eve! We have to do something.” He said. “Well, we’ll be going to the pub tomorrow evening. We always get very drunk on Christmas Eve, you’ll be glad to know.” “I am glad to know!” “But we have the day to ourselves. What were you thinking?” “Show me round your hometown.” He suggested. “It’s boring.” “I bet we can make it fun.” He smirked. “Okay.” I chuckled. “We’ll make it fun.” Naturally, I let my eyes close, the long day taking its toll as I felt sleep creeping up to me. I felt Harry shuffle again, and after a few minutes, I shot my eyes open. He was back in his original position, hand under his head, eyes open, staring up the ceiling. I watched him in silence for a few more minutes, wondering when he was going to close his eyes. It didn’t look like he was trying to nod off, in fact, it seemed like he was trying to do the exact opposite. “You okay?” I whispered. “Yeah.” “Get some sleep.” I instructed. “I… I want to wait until you’re asleep.” His voice shuddered, only slightly. “Maybe if you’re already asleep… if we’re lucky, I won’t wake you.” “I don’t mind either way!” I tried. “But I do, Ren.” He turned his head to me again. “It’s a long shot, but I just want to try. Just in case. Can we try… please?” I nodded, and closed my eyes, hating that even though we both knew it was coming, and we were getting along so well, he was still so uncomfortable and saddened by our sleeping arrangements. So worried that I was going to have to see him at his weakest. And I hoped it would work. I hoped he wouldn’t wake me, for his own sake. I hoped. 22 My eyes dozily opened to a dark room, confused as to my whereabouts at first, confused why I had woken. A whimpering sound coming from beside me reminded me where I was, and who was there with me. I stayed perfectly still as the tired state I awoke in disappeared, waiting for another noise. It happened only moments later. As my eyes became accustom to the light, I noticed a trickle of sweat bead from Harry’s neck and travel slowly down his body, dipping into the centre of his chest as his breathing became more frantic, eyes gripped shut, lips quivering. I watched it all play out in silence, absolutely fascinated. I hoped it would stay that way, just the heavy breathing and the occasional whimper. Because if it stayed that way, I could let it all pass. If he stayed in that state, I would just wait until it had ended and fall back to sleep, saving him the humiliation I knew he would feel. So I tried to ignore it as I watched him get worse, as I watched his fists grip at the sheets and his hair become damp. I tried to ignore it for as long as I could, but when the sobs got louder, I finally admitted to myself that it was only going to get worse. “Harry?” I whispered. There was a fear in my voice that I hadn’t been expecting, and it didn’t take me long to realise that I was genuinely scared. I’d never seen anything like it before in my life. His hair was beginning to stick to his forehead, his face scrunching as though he was amidst a breakdown, the muscles of his arms stretched so tightly it was like he was going to hurt himself. I couldn’t bear to see him like that. I just wanted to help him. I just really wanted to save him from his terrors. I sat myself up, looking down to his body, the sheets only reaching his hips as jolts of fear trembled his frame. “Harry, please wake up.” I whispered again. My attempts were feeble, and I think one of the reasons for that was because I knew how humiliated Harry would be if I woke him. He hadn’t wanted me to see him like this at all! Never mind to be waking him, just as panicked and scared as he was. But I couldn’t help myself. I had this need inside me to comfort him. Hesitantly, I moved my hand to his chest, placing it softly down on his skin and feeling his heart beat, alarmed by the pace. I pressed a little harder, half convinced the beat beneath my palm couldn’t be real. That’s when he screamed. He cried out into the room, low and rough, fists tightening as he shuffled. I’d never seen terror like it in my life. It was controlling his entire body just as much as it was his mind, and I needed him to wake up. I just needed him to wake up, because seeing him like that was starting to physically hurt me. “Harry!” I cried, louder that time. “Holy shit. Harry? Harry, please wake up! Please, holy fuck. Please!” I moved so I was on my knees, hovering my body over his as I clasped my hands over his cheeks, gripping to his skin and lowering my face closer to his, hating that the only reply I’d received from him was more screams, more hollow cries of fear as his body began to quiver more violently, cracking his neck backwards and puffing his chest out. “Wake up! Harry? HARRY WAKE UP!” His eyes shot open, suddenly, gasping in a swell of air as though he had been drowning. He was awake. I watched as reality began to work its magic on his body, running over him and easing every muscle that had been straining just a moment before, his eyes filling with water as he looked up to me, head still buried into the pillow. “Ren?” He mumbled, questioning my presence. The way his eyes flickered over my face suggested he still wasn’t quite sure what was real and what wasn’t. His gaze was hollow, bewildered. “I’m here!” I moved my face even closer to his, trying to smile. “You’re awake. I’m here.” I kept my voice quiet, hoping my words and my being there would soothe him, would ease him into the real world. His breathing became erratic again, but I could tell he was trying to stop it right away. I could tell he was just confused. His eyes never left mine. “Ren?” He questioned again. I nodded, taking my fingers and wiping away the sweat that had stayed on his forehead, glancing over him, still concerned about his state. The thought that he went through that, every single night, alone, was enough to make me want to share a bed with him for the rest of my life. It was enough to make me always want to be there to wake him, to look after him, to take him from his nightmares as soon as I physically could. One experience of what Harry went through every single night, summoned this existential need within me to help him get better in any way I physically could. “I was in the room again.” He trembled, his voice still broken. “I was in the blue room.” “You’re not in the blue room.” I told him. “Look at the walls. Tell me what colour you see.” His eyes darted to the side for a split-second before they bolted back to mine, gazing up to me like I was a vision, a spirit of calm and hope that he couldn’t quite comprehend. “White.” He gasped. “You’re in my room, with me, okay?” I continued. “White walls. White room. You’re okay. Tell me you’re okay.” He shook his head. “I’m scared.” His bottom lip was jutting and quaking, bright pink, swollen. Lost. “What should I do?” I asked, trying to hide the fact I so desperately wanted to cry. “Stay with me.” He instructed. “Please stay.” “Okay.” We remained that way for a while. I kept my face close to his, holding his eye contact with as much confidence as he always held mine, because I knew in that moment that I was Harry’s remedy. I was his confirmation that he was awake, that he was okay. I kept my knees bent beside his body, my back beginning to ache thanks to the position, but I didn’t care. I needed to be there for him. I watched as the mist that had clouded his eyes faded, and green returned. I had never realised how extraordinary his eyes were until that very moment. Every flick and burst of his life seemed to be held within the whirling emerald colour. Each beautiful characteristic he possessed bursting brightly as though desperate to reach further than his eyes allowed them. His eyes were as kind as his soul. We could have stayed in that position for hours and I’d have been none the wiser, but eventually, once his heart was beating at a regular pace, once his bottom lip was back to the regular plumpness I recalled, he spoke. “You have some gold, in your eyes.” His voice was so quiet it hurt. “I do?” “The petals of the sunflower.” He had been concentrating on each different stroke of my eyes in the same way I had his. In that moment, I knew having me there had calmed him. I hadn’t been expecting that, and neither had he. Harry had thought having someone there, witnessing his one weakness, would be humiliating, excruciating. And maybe on some level, it was. But in other ways, having a presence there with him, someone to calm him down and remind him where he was, had helped. “Will you have another?” I swallowed, hard. “No.” He shook his head. “It’s usually just the one.” “Are you tired?” “No.” “Do you need me to do anything?” “I need you to get some sleep.” “But-” “Ren, sleep!” He instructed. “Please sleep.” I could tell he wasn’t putting on a front. It wasn’t like he was asking me to sleep, but silently praying I would stay awake and comfort him some more. He was okay. Even if it was just for the evening, he was okay. I nodded, finally moving so I was snuggled next to him once more, gazing across as he gave out a large sigh, still wrapping his mind around what had just happened, how the entire experience had differed just having someone there. I watched as he placed his hand over his heart and closed his eyes, relaxing at the thought of now being able to get a little sleep. I couldn’t drag my eyes from him. “Thank you.” He mumbled quietly. “For making that easier.” “I wish there’s more I could-” “No.” He cut me short. “You were perfect.” I didn’t know how I’d done it, how I’d managed to keep my cool, to act in a way that didn’t end up embarrassing him or making the situation worse than it already was. Apparently, I’d been perfect. And that was all the information I needed to peacefully drift back to sleep.

[terryblount]

Catherine Full Body – Review

Before Persona 5, the development team took a side tour and made Catherine, an adult tale of relationships and the horror of infidelity. That’s also a pretty darn good puzzler.

With Catherine Full Body, it serves as both a PS4 release of the game, plus newly added content in the style of Persona 4 Golden or the upcoming Persona 5 Royal. Not a straight port, not a straight remaster.

On its own, Catherine is still an evergreen experience, but the Full Body treatment also gives strong reasons for veterans to revisit it. Especially if you like puzzlers.

Presentation

Catherine is stylised as heck. Game menus are flourished more than you’d expect, the character models looking crisp and the usage of 2D anime cutscenes by Studio 4°C makes really adds to the presentation. Catherine is not about realistic graphics. Though there are significant upgrades if you compare the original and Full Body side-by-side. The lighting is improved, for example.

The soundtrack is as expected, amazing. The default jazz tunes in the Stray Sheep bar is as comforting as it is melancholic. It’s a stark contrast to the bodacious, horrific mixes of familiar classical tunes that play during the nightmare segments.

You can play other songs from the bar’s jukebox, featuring various tracks from the game’s soundtrack and some selection from the Persona games. There are new songs too added for Full Body- the Persona 5 ones are the most fitting compared to the more chirpier tunes.

Gameplay

In Catherine Full Body, you play as 32-year-old Vincent Brooks, who can’t make up his mind if he wants to commit to marriage with his long-time girlfriend Katherine. One day, a mysterious girl name Catherine comes to the bar he frequents and they ended up in bed together.

And now he’s experiencing nightmares, where rumour has it, that it only affects cheating men and it could lead to death.

These nightmares are where the core gameplay of Catherine resides- the puzzles. It’s a block puzzle where the rules are rigidly followed rather than intuitive. It will take a few tries for you to really grasp how to move the blocks correctly to allow Vincent to climb upwards to the goal.

EDGE, EDGE, EDGE

What makes Catherine’s puzzle sections stick out is that you have to work under pressure. The lower levels will slowly collapse into the unknown and you have to keep climbing up. It makes for some tense mind-benders, though it can be frustrating if you can’t grasp the fundamental techniques.

I was stuck on the first level- the tutorial one- for about 30 minutes on normal difficulty before I can wrap around what Vincent can climb and cannot climb. From there, it was smooth sailing… until the gimmick blocks appeared.

That said, if you have no interest in the challenging but rewarding puzzles, there’s no harm with playing on the lower difficulty. Playing on the lowest Safety mode has tons of assists for you. This includes auto-complete where the game plays for you and an option to just skip the puzzles. It offers no effect on the story, so it’s totally fine if you have no interest in the puzzles.

Wine, Sake, Cocktail or Beer?

In the down times when he’s not trapped in a hellish nightmare where everyone is a sheep and a baby wants to kill him, Vincent spends his evening in the bar. You get to hang out with your buddies, or share stories with other patrons or reply text messages on your phone.

As you spend time talking, time progresses and different patrons will enter or leave the bar. Think of it as Persona’s leisure time and while there’s no specific Social Links system.

Interacting with the folks there, and your choice of Catherine, will affect your morality meter and the story outcome. It’s a story about adults being in love and dealing with relationships, with some risqué scenes peppered in.

Nothing too explicit though.

Content

The main story should be around 10-12 hours, give or take, depending on how much time is spent on the puzzles.  It has a good pace. But near the end of the story where when you thought the story is wrapping, but it kept dragging on with bigger and bigger stakes at play. Like those Persona games.

New to Catherine Full Body is the addition of another Catherine: Rin. Her inclusion is, for the most part, seamless. You won’t notice that she was never even appeared in the original game, though scenes and dialogue line that addresses Rin do stick out when they are front-loaded.

Rin also adds a new safety net to the nightmare puzzles. In some stages, she will help slow the rate of the collapsing blocks if you are too close to the edge.

There are 13 endings to discover- 5 of them are new and tied with Rin. Though if you want to see the new routes with Rin, go look up a spoiler-free guide. Unlike Catherine and Katherine, getting to her is less obvious. There are in-game vague hints, and the requirements are very specific.

If you’re an avid fan of Catherine’s puzzle sections, boy you’re in luck. In Catherine Full Body, you can play a remix of all the nightmare stages, featuring new blocks with unique properties. The in-game arcade Rapunzel, now dubbed Super Rapunzel, also has more new stages of block puzzles.

And for you competitive lots- of there’s a competitive Catherine scene– there’s online multiplayer as well as the regular two-player split-screen battle.

Other than that, there’s the Babel mode from the original game where it’s all about climbing to the top of a procedural-made tower of blocks the quickest. A test of pure block-pushing and pulling skills.

Personal Enjoyment

I didn’t play the original Catherine. I felt that the puzzles were daunting and I could just watch the story unfold on YouTube. So it took me by surprise how good the block-pushing puzzles are.

It did not immediately grab me though. The controls were a bit fiddly, I wished your character move one square at a time rather than strolling through each block. But that first 30 minutes of trial-and-error in the tutorial it finally clicked for me and it was great from there.

It’s definitely difficult, but it didn’t bother me. The story itself is full with some loaded questions someone in the late 20s will start pondering about. And for that, it’s great at presenting questions on how one should view love and relationships.

I don’t think Catherine Full Body adds that much to those who want to play it for the story, unless you haven’t done so before or just curious about how they handled Rin. Some of the cooler content that might sound desirable for another playthrough is reserved for DLC or the Special Edition. Such contents include a costume to play as Persona 5’s Joker, X-Ray glasses to see people in their swimsuits (even the men) and different voices for Catherine, which is a shame.

It’s a good thing I enjoyed the puzzles though. And for that, I can see myself to have the game still installed now that I’ve done with the story.

Verdict

Like a fine wine, Catherine Full Body aged pretty well. The story of adult relationships is still relevant. The puzzle sections are as great as it was before with cool new additions to get veterans to dip again.

Catherine Full Body is an acquired taste, but it tastes even better now.

Review based on the PS4 version played on the normal PS4

Review copy provided by Epicsoft Asia, the distributor for Southeast Asia. Find out where you can grab a physical copy of Catherine Full Body in your region here

Catherine Full Body – Review published first on https://touchgen.tumblr.com/

[robertkstone]

2019 Acura NSX First Drive: Complicated Emotions

As the chief engineer of the 2019 Acura NSX program, Satoshi Mizukami’s main goal of this year’s refresh is, as he puts it, “more emotional involvement.” Judging by my brief time with him, I’d say he’s living evidence of accomplishing this goal.

I’m riding shotgun with Mizukami as he pilots a 2019 Acura NSX around the Winding Road course at Honda’s Takasu Proving Ground in Hokkaido, Japan. Inspired by the mother of all test tracks—the Nurburgring—Winding Road is a deviously treacherous course. It features 17 corners (many of them blind) and 188 feet of total elevation change, with the majority of the circuit cloaked under a claustrophobic canopy of trees.

There’s also plenty of road imperfections, as I’m about to discover. We’re approaching a curve at a rapid clip. Mizukami stabs the brakes, saws the wheel left, then just as quickly tugs it hard to the right. The NSX straightens out just as we crest a hill and take flight.

“Jump!” he cries, as the NSX launches several feet before returning to the pavement. But the NSX, like Mizukami, is unflappable. The suspension absorbs the impact with little drama, and Mizukami rolls back on the throttle. That he’s enjoying this romp is obvious. What’s less obvious, he hopes, is the technology conspiring to make it possible.

Three years after its introduction, the NSX heads into 2019 with a raft of improvements across the board. Exterior changes are subtle: The lip of the beak above the grille is now body-colored instead of silver, while high-gloss trim replaces the previously matte finishes found throughout the body. Want even more glossy trim? Opt for one of the exterior carbon fiber packages for the ultimate in shiny, woven flair. If that’s not enough, a retina-searing Thermal Orange paint color is now available. Complete the look with orange calipers on available carbon-ceramic brakes—a $10,600 option. Gulp.

At least four-way power seats are now standard and can be outfitted in a swanky new Indigo Blue theme. Other previously optional equipment, including premium audio and satellite navigation, are also now standard, though frustratingly, there’s still no volume knob.

But, one might argue, why the need for a volume knob when there’s a 500-hp twin-turbo V-6 bellowing just inches from your head? This sensorial immediacy has always been the hallmark of a mid-engine sports car. As before, the V-6 is paired with a nine-speed dual-clutch automatic and electric motor, both driving the rear axle. Two smaller electric motors (known as TMU, or twin-motor unit) are housed in the front axle to offer additional thrust, giving the NSX a total power output of 573 hp. Operating independently, these motors can infinitely vary the torque to each front wheel in order to enhance turn-in precision around corners. This dual-axle power delivery gives the NSX through-the-road all-wheel drive.

Although power output remains the same as before, Acura made a number of handling tweaks. Stabilizer bars are larger at both ends, increasing front stiffness by 26 percent and the rear by 19 percent, augmented by rear toe link bushings that are 21 percent stiffer. New Continental SportContact 6 tires, developed exclusively for the NSX, take advantage of this stiffer setup. Acura claims that all of these improvements add up to net a lap time around the Suzuka Circuit that’s nearly 2 seconds faster than the 2017 model.

When Mizukami discusses the importance of driver involvement, it’s hard not to compare the current NSX to its groundbreaking predecessor (especially when Acura has a 2001 Type S on hand for me to sample). Although it might be most famous for being billed as the world’s first “everyday supercar,” the original NSX is also a brilliant communicator, featuring a taut chassis and a hungry-sounding, high-revving, naturally aspirated engine. Simplicity rules—there’s no barrier between the driver and the performance potential of this superb combination. But today, the rubric has changed. Demanding the simplicity of the original NSX in 2019 is like wanting a Shamrock Shake to taste the same as it did when you were 6 years old. It’s not going to happen.

Yet it evokes a sensation of raw tactility that Mizukami still wants to deliver within this high-tech package. Hybrids can be funny creatures: Those electric motors, so potent with torque, can also act as a filter to these feelings, especially when asked to play nicely with an internal combustion engine. Economy-minded cars dial in some elasticity between the two as a solution. But with the NSX, the opposite is required. Every input should feel direct, consistent, and predictable. Particularly on the track.

So in addition to the hardware, Mizukami and his team also dove into the software, fine-tuning the programming of the hybrid powertrain, magnetic-ride suspension, power steering, and stability control systems to improve, as Mizukami says, “the feel-good factor.”

As before, the NSX offers a big, fat knob in the console labeled “Dynamic Mode” with four settings: Quiet, Sport, Sport+, and Track. Track mode is the only choice here if I want to have any chance of keeping up with Mizukami as we play lead/follow around Winding Road—it quickens shifts by 40 milliseconds compared to Sport+ and administers a tranquilizer dart to the stability control intervention. Pressing the stability control button for 6 seconds would deliver a total knockout to the systems, but I’m merely feeling competitive, not suicidal. The safety net remains, albeit loosened.

Mizukami wastes no time, expecting that I’ll keep pace. I have a general rule in lead/follow situations: If the car ahead of me doesn’t brake, then I don’t, either. It’s easier said than done, especially since he knows every single one of these curves intimately, including that jump.

Oh, and about those road imperfections: They’re all done on purpose. Anyone who’s driven the Nurburgring knows that the quality of the road surface can quickly change between corners—sometimes even midcorner. It’s as much a challenge for the driver as it is for the car, and here on Winding Road, it’s designed to replicate a real-world track experience rather than the usual test-track utopia.

It’s also the perfect place to put the hybrid system to the test. A hard stab to the pedal in the first heavy braking zone is punctuated by the chop of rough asphalt. Still, the NSX tracks straight. Six-piston Brembos up front work in concert with the TMU to provide a combo of traditional and regenerative braking. Pedal feel and modulation is excellent, with no discernible transition between the two modes.

Back on the throttle to chase Mizukami on the next straight. The aural nature of the V-6 is enhanced in two ways: Mechanically, a tube connected directly to the intake manifold splits into two pipes as the sound is routed to behind the outboard of each seat. That’s augmented by active exhaust valves, transmitting full exhaust flow through all four pipes in Track mode. Feel-good factor, indeed. But the addition of electronic enhancement on top of these mechanical touches layers on a decidedly flatulent note inside the cabin at full throttle. It’s wholly unnecessary in a mid-engine car, especially when compared to the full-throated howl of an Audi R8 or the flat-plane-crank wail of a McLaren 570S. Inches from your head, remember? This added digital flourish is akin to a comedian explaining a joke.

The first seven gears of the transmission are closely spaced, cracking off shifts instantly at the 7,500-rpm redline—also the engine’s power peak. It’s nice that Acura took advantage of the spacing to keep the engine in the powerband instead of using the higher gears as impossibly tall fuel savers—I’m looking at you, Lexus LC 500. Top speed is achieved at the height of eighth gear, with ninth reserved for relaxed highway cruising.

Then—the jump. Knowing that I need to be pointed straight before I sail over the edge, I set myself up for the quick left–right combo to put me in line, where I discover that I’ve turned in too early. The active torque vectoring of the TMU sharpens my initial angle, so I pull back to correct my approach. The NSX prefers a later turn-in for a more precise attack. The effect is predictable, but it takes some getting used to. By the end of our laps, I’m charging through the corner with the same delighted fervency as Mizukami.

It’s important to note that Takasu offers more than just a diabolical road course. Also nestled within the 2,000-acre campus are replicas of European and American roadways. Honda went so far as to import native soil, grasses, and foliage to accurately re-create environments that one might find in, say, Germany or California. The patchwork nature of the asphalt I discover in the “Carpool Lane” of the American circuit is insultingly accurate. It’s also here where I test Quiet mode, which enables the NSX to cruise up to 50 mph for brief periods of time. In practice, this electrical serenity is short-lived, far below the advertised speed threshold. The V-6 kicks in even at partial throttle, acting as nothing more than a really loud generator to keep the batteries charged.

Like the origins of the proving ground itself, the 2019 NSX is but a faithful reinterpretation of the real thing, a simulacrum of what our senses see, hear, and feel. With a base price of $159,300, it might not provide a totally raw, visceral experience, but then again, it’s not designed to—at least not in the traditional sense. If Mizukami’s joy on the track is any indication, technology and emotion can happily coexist, counterintuitive as that might seem.

IFTTT

[junker-town]

The Egg Bowl is back on Thanksgiving! How do Ole Miss and Mississippi State fans feel about this?

The Mississippi rivalry has plenty of Turkey Day history.

On Thursday night, a game that’s been played on Thanksgiving Day a total of 21 times will return to the holiday prime time slot. Ole Miss will travel to No. 15 Mississippi State in their 114th meeting and first Turkey Day battle since 2013.

Although most of these games were played either on or very close to Thanksgiving, the vast majority were played on the following Saturdays:

Out of the 108 matchups in this series, all but 12 have been played just before, on, or just after Thanksgiving. From 1998-2003, ESPN broadcast the game on Thanksgiving night. From '04-'06 it was moved back to the Saturday after Thanksgiving and was not on TV. In '07 and '08 the games was played the day after Thanksgiving. Since then it has been televised the Saturday after Turkey Day.

The game will be back on Thanksgiving next season, too.

What do fans think about the move?

To get a sense of what fans think about the big game moving back to Thanksgiving, I asked writers from SB Nation’s Mississippi State and Ole Miss sites, For Whom the Cowbell Tolls and Red Cup Rebellion.

I know there are mixed opinions about having the game on Thanksgiving. What are your thoughts on it, and why?

Justin Strawn, For Whom the Cowbell Tolls: There are lots of reasons why the Egg Bowl being played on Thanksgiving is both good and bad.

For the good, it's a great rivalry that doesn't always get the attention it deserves because it is so rare that both teams have had really good years at the same time. So when this game is on Thanksgiving, it gives it a spotlight that it doesn't usually get.

Now, the bad part about it is obvious. Thanksgiving is one of the biggest holidays, and fans who go have to figure out if they can make attending the game work into their plans, and if they can't, then they have to make a choice.

Personally, I've always thought the exposure of playing in a marquee spot outweighed all the other factors. But this year, I'm experiencing all the other things. I've never had a chance to attend the game since I got married and had kids, but this year I can. Trying to figure out a way to spend time with the family and get to the game has been difficult.

Jim Lohmar, Red Cup Rebellion: My thoughts are positive, and I'd say that's also the case for most of the people I know. I know the game's in Starkville this year, but it's great to eat an entire Thanksgiving meal in the Grove when it's in Oxford. In fact, I can't think of any place I'd rather be for that event.

Some will have other thoughts — “our very important rivalry game has been relegated to Thursday, and a major holiday at that,” — which is absurd. This is the only college football game of the day, and even vaguely interested college football fans will be tuning in.

Any best Egg Bowl Thanksgiving memories?

Strawn, For Whom the Cowbell Tolls: Two stick out for me.

In 1998, Mississippi State had just beaten Arkansas and put themselves in the driver's seat to win the SEC West. All they had to do was win the Egg Bowl in Oxford. The Bulldogs did win, with relative ease.

Second would be in 2013. Mississippi State was 5-6 and Ole Miss was 7-4, and most people had already crowned Ole Miss the state’s only program to be relevant on the national scene. The Bulldogs were down to their third-string quarterback. The defense kept the team in the game, and Mississippi State trailed 10-7 entering the fourth quarter. After a Damien Williams interception, Dak Prescott began to warm up; he had only been cleared to play earlier that afternoon. Dak would enter the game and lead the Bulldogs to a tying field goal. On fourth-and-goal in the first overtime possession, Prescott would run for the go-ahead touchdown. On the ensuing possession, Bo Wallace had a clear path to the end zone, but Nickoe Whitley would strip him of the football from behind, and the Bulldogs recovered in the end zone. The Egg Bowl win and win in the Liberty Bowl is what many believe propelled the amazing 2014 that saw the team go on to be No. 1 in the polls for five weeks.

Zach Berry, Red Cup Rebellion: After 2010 and 2011, Ole Miss fans were miserable and in desperate search of something of substance. In comes Hugh Freeze in year one, winning five games, running a fun offense, and on the verge of bowl eligibility. The only thing standing in his way was in-state rival.

All cheesy sayings aside, it truly was a night to remember. The visiting Bulldogs were riding a three-game win streak, and in a series where home-field advantage means very little, it was extremely stressful thinking of what a fourth loss would do to this program's psyche.

But, not to worry because this game was never, ever in question. Former surgeon Bo Wallace tossed for damn near 300 yards and five scores, and Jeff Scott ran for 100-plus.

The real story was Donte Moncrief and the song that will live in Egg Bowl folklore. A hometown rap group by the name King Kobraz came out with the banger "Rebelz (Feed Moncrief)" just in time for him to torch both of State's NFL corners, Jonathan Banks and Darius Slay, en route to seven catches for 171 yards and three touchdowns.

I was watching from a bar in Murray Hill in New York City (shout out to The Wharf) with the NYC Ole Miss Alumni group, and not a single person in that place could believe it or keep their seats. After three years of misery and coming off an awful, 2-10 season under known leech Houston Nutt, this not only gave Ole Miss fans something to get excited about, it sparked Freeze's rise (and eventual fall) in Oxford. And in turn, it gave fans another reason to celebrate on Thanksgiving.

Are you glad the game’s returning to Turkey Day this year?

Lohmar, Red Cup Rebellion: My thoughts are those of relief. This marks the end of the investigation season(s), and we can get it out of the way early, then sit back into the offseason and enjoy our Saturday slate without having to fret alongside all the other rivalry games out there.

As for the game itself, this one's always a weird animal. The past 30 meetings have seen them split, 15-15. Neither team has won more than three years in a row in that stretch. Dan Mullen dumped 55 points on Ole Miss in Oxford in 2016, and I'm sure the players that were there are feeling that this week, especially the seniors. They'll get up for it, at least for three quarters, before Mullen and Nick Fitzgerald just overwhelm Ole Miss' defense. I expect it to be high-scoring.

Strawn, For Whom the Cowbell Tolls: I think the exposure is what makes it worth it.

And this could be an interesting game because we still haven't heard what the NCAA sanctions for Ole Miss are going to be, and many Ole Miss fans blame Mississippi State for their NCAA troubles. Things could get chippy on the field, especially before the game actually starts.

On the field, the game should be a game Mississippi State wins in convincing fashion. But you know what they say, throw out the records when rivals play.

The tradition of the Golden Egg as the game’s trophy started in 1927, which also marked the first game between these two on Thanksgiving.

The Golden Egg was first proposed by members of Iota Sigma, an Ole Miss honorary activities fraternity. As thoughts of last year’s game, Iota Sigma proposed that a trophy be awarded in a dignified ceremony designed to calm excited fans. One proposal that was rejected was to send the goal posts to the winning side each year.

A&M [MSU at the time] approved the suggestion of an award, and Ole Miss, two weeks before the game, officially added its approval. The trophy, to be called “The Golden Egg”, would be a regulation-size gold-plated football mounted on a pedestal. Costs of approximately $250 would be shared by both schools. Ole Miss students held a tag day to raise funds.

The year before that, after a 7-6 Ole Miss victory, the matchup ended in a brawl:

After the final pistol, the Ole Miss boys rushed to the field, warmly congratulated their warrior, and proceeded to tear down the goal. The Aggies swarmed the field, but were late to save the goals. A fistic combat ensued, but the melee was put to a stop by the more sober minded before the Aggie "chair brigade" got into serious action.

That bad blood between these two fan bases is, um very much alive, as my colleague Steven Godfrey reminded us in 2013:

But on Egg Bowl week it's still suitable to boil everything down to the rednecks vs. the country club.

Before the game, you notice how willing the participants are to play to their own stereotypes.

This is not the Iron Bowl. There are no national titles at stake. There haven't been since the early 1960s. The Egg Bowl is a potent distillation of Mississippi as compared to its neighboring Southern cultures, a stronger high and a harsher burn.

Live in Mississippi long enough with an open ear and you can learn to hate everybody. Trust me.

You're either a red-dirt, hillbilly dipshit, kin to farming families outside Tupelo (and a cheater) or a racist, fork-tongued Jackson lawyer (and a cheater). And tonight everybody's a damn cheater, a "cheeeetin son of a bitch" precisely, as it echoes through the stands.

I've often wondered out loud around Oxford and Starkville that if everybody's cheating so damn much, is anybody really cheating? The answer around Thanksgiving week is, "yeah, those sons of bitches are."

Ahead of the 2017 matchup, Mississippi State and Ole Miss urged fans not to fight each other with a joint statement:

With Egg Bowl Week upon us, please join us in enjoying the tradition in a respectful and positive manner #HailState http://pic.twitter.com/kXcozEiqT1

— MSU Football (@HailStateFB) November 20, 2017

As for the “Egg Bowl” nickname, it wasn’t coined until 1978. Both teams were having down years and not bowl eligible, so Tom Patterson of the Clarion-Ledger used “Egg Bowl” throughout the week leading up to the game, to try and give it some importance.