#we see how Gale deals with positive attention in the game

[a2zillustration]

gently places the Gale and Croissant dolls in a little box and VIOLENTLY SHAKES IT

Also here's what Karlach was right about if you forgot.

| First | | Previous | | Next |

[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

[invinciblerodent]

I think after defeating Ketheric is the first time in the story when I'm letting my boy let his unending kindness.... falter a little bit. Just a little.

Semi-coherent 3 am ramblings under cut.

It seems like almost an "act 2 end" staple for me, but... this "midpoint climax" in many games IS, I feel, the natural point for a lot of good-aligned, well-intentioned protagonists to crack a little, and Arvid is no different.

Like. He just came back from what was essentially his *worst fucking nightmare*, having fought the avatar of a quasi-god (and learned that he's gonna have to do that, oh, two more times, just for funsies), having talked his boyfriend out of exploding himself (which was a very shitty, if short conversation, because apparently Gale is nothing if not easily convinced by the words "choose me, the one who loves you"), and overall having a CONSIDERABLY WORSE THAN AVERAGE TIME FOR THE PAST, OH, SEVERAL DAYS (with the Shadowfell, and the watching allies die left and right, and the GOING BACK TO THE MIND FLAYER FLESH-CABINS WHICH IS FUN), and already everyone wants MORE from him.

You know, as if this whole day wasn't, like, one deeply traumatic experience after the other. As if these past weeks hadn't been pushing him slowly towards a breaking point.

The dream visitor is acting... kinda suspicious and cagey, as per usual (she's dodging questions and speaking in confusing metaphors while doling out insurmountable-seeming tasks, which is just 👍👌🤙🖕), Wyll is immediately having himself a little storytime moment that he probably should have thought to have weeks ago ("btw my eye is a sending stone that enables Mizora the Literal Devil to track my every move" IS KIND OF A BIG DEAL, MAN, YOU COULD HAVE, IDK, MENTIONED THAT SOMETIME OVER THE PAST THREE WEEKS OR SO), Gale is understandably feeling wild and wired after that weird, partially self-imposed near-death experience (which, idk about you, but an "I'm glad we survived babe, are you okay" would have been at least appreciated BEFORE the whole "YO DID YOU SEE THAT POWERFUL ARTEFACT, I WANT IT" thing), everyone in that damn room wants something else from him ("hey, sorry I was an asshole earlier after you saved my life, why don't you help me more! Won't tell you how or why or with what tho!", "hey you're back having done what's supposed to have been impossible, so what's up with Thaniel, the issue you solved literally a week ago already, I wasn't paying attention lol", and the likes, even Withers is being fucking weirder than usual)...! Jaheira and Astarion seem to be the only ones to offer any kind of praise, or optimistic feedback, which is already weird...!!! But the others? "Oh, hey, you're back. So, when are you gonna do that again (or this other, different thing for me)?"

Like... thanks? I guess I'll just go fuck myself then???

The poor boy just wants to take the most intense bath of his life (sit in a lake somewhere for a few hours, get the illithid-sludge off his body and scrub his skin until it's no longer blue but flushed, raw, and purple, maybe then he's going to feel clean again and less *hyper-aware* of the wriggling in his skull), get roaring drunk to at least momentarily forget the monumental task ahead, cuddle up to his dog, owlbear, and/or boyfriend, and go to sleep in a fetal position for the next 48 hours. Maybe cry a little or punch something, he hasn't decided yet.

Just... everyone seems to be forgetting that he's just Some Guy. Even if he turned out to be some chosen one, he's unaware of it. As far as he knows, he's just a random priest from the countryside who only ended up in the city like a year ago because the church there needed a new healer, and suddenly, after getting abducted and his BRAIN wormed, he's everyone's go-to guy for god-killing. He barely knows anyone, has no family (or really friends or personal connections deeper than the superficial outside of the party), nobody misses him where he's from (which is no longer his home, but neither is Baldur's Gate), and he doesn't even know if he's doing the right thing at any given time, messing with forces he doesn't understand. But everyone just wants MORE, and MORE, and MORE, and he's giving more and more, as much as he can, only he's not sure how much more he has left.

So yeah, he's gonna snap at- and be a bit short with Art, even if Halsin doesn't like it. Yeah, he's gonna be a little snide to the cagey gnome that all but told him to fuck off previously. He's gonna be a little impatient towards the skeleton-man doling out poetic brain-teasers for him to solve while he's still bleeding profusely, from several wounds. He's gonna give a couple fewer fucks about Isobel's reunion with her gf after having already figured out who she is (it's. Not like that was a hard feat. Those dots were not particularly hard to connect. He has an intelligence of 10 and he still figured it out.) than he would otherwise. He's, like, happy for them and all, but would be MANY TIMES happier if someone just handed him a sandwich and a glass of water, and said "hey, good job".

I have not yet gone back to camp or left the building after the return last night, but I'm hoping there's gonna at least be a chance to unwind before we'd march on. :/

[frogs-spawn]

it’s true lads, i have actually written something

(this was a prologue of a long canon fic that i’m writing/on hiatus on (oops) but i was thinking of changing the pov of it, so this doesn’t fit in it anymore) i may end up finishing the canon one, but it is long, so it probably won’t see the light of day, but we’ll see

anyway, here’s the ao3 link if you would like to read it on there: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31116254

a tragic twist of fate:

summary: the lupin family are enjoying a quiet evening, when an unwelcome visitor shows up, changing all of their lives forever.

word count: 1.6k

The sun was setting, casting a burning haze across the sea, and subsequently over the unsuspecting cul-de-sac in the Gower. The pebble-dashed bungalows that hugged the road were quaint and uniform, with a meagre patch of grass out the front that barely constituted as a garden. All things considered; it was a very normal street. There were the Jones', with their tiny Yorkshire terrier, which was small in size but easily compensated with its tremendous bark. The Thomas', who were always out the front regardless of the weather, observing the street's comings and goings. The Liu's, whose windows were constantly filled with an assortment of different lights, illuminating the street, making it feel like Christmas every day. Opposite them, were the Lupin's. There was Lyall, who has a mysterious job that no one is quite able to figure out exactly what it entails; his wife, Hope, who made sure that the whole street was well and truly fed; finally, their 5-year-old son, Remus, who's usually found playing out on the empty street.

Remus, as expected, was having a game of tag with Julia from across the road when his mother called out from the front door. She had thick blonde hair, slightly greying at the crown of her head, which was tied up into a loose bun, the fly-always whipping the side of her face, which was covered slightly with gravy.

"Remus, it's time to come in now. Your father has just gotten home, and dinner's almost ready."

"But Mammy! I'm not even tired," Remus pleaded, shouting back, a little breathless. "Can we have a few more minutes? Please?"

"It's okay, Mrs Lupin." Julia panted, brushing her dark fringe from out of her eyes, it was a miracle she could even see. She was a few years older than Remus but was still somehow shorter than the boy (who was only slightly tall for his age). "I think my parents want me back soon anyway." She turned to Remus and smiled, "We're going to go out and play again tomorrow, aren’t we Re?”

"Yeah, okay then. I'll see you tomorrow! Bye!" Remus chirped back, with some newfound energy. He then proceeded to hurtle up the driveway and stumble through the front door.

“Not even going to give your old mammy a cwtch?” Hope laughed, following her son through the door, shoving her hands into her pockets.

He clambered onto his chair at the kitchen table and watched eagerly as his mother took a roast lamb out of the oven and began to dish it out on to mismatched plates. There were roast potatoes, which were crispy on the outside, but still fluffy and buttery on the inside, peas, carrots, and parsnips - that were roasted to perfection, and it was all smothered with thick gravy that was laden with salt and had the potential to clog up your arteries – but if it’s bad for you then that meant it would probably delicious. Remus’ mouth was practically watering.

"Now, as you've been running around all afternoon, I'll give you the extra roastie, how about that?" Hope smiled down at Remus, scooping a roast potato onto the plate.

Lyall stooped into the kitchen at that moment, placing his tattered briefcase down onto the splintered wooden counter and bent over to kiss his wife on the head. He was tall and lanky with brown curly hair that was just starting to thin. He wore deep navy robes over the top of a well-fitted suit, looking as if he had just walked out of a very important meeting. He could have been a very intimidating man if it weren't for the way his eyes lit up and his mouth formed a crooked grin when he looked adoringly across his small family, with an immense sense of pride.

"This looks wonderful, darling. What did I ever do to deserve you?" he laughed as went over to his son and ruffled his hair. "According to Mrs Thomas, you've been charging up and down the road all day! No wonder you look knackered." He fell into the chair next to him, as Hope brought the dinner over.

The family ate with easy conversation. Hope explained how she had heard from Mrs Thomas that Mrs Jones was apparently putting empty wine bottles into her recycling bin and Lyall explained his new case at work, but it seemed boring, so Remus didn't pay it much attention. He wolfed his food down so quickly, barely stopping for a breath, his poor mother thought he might end up with indigestion.

"Stay in your own lane, Lyall, that's what they said," Lyall explained in between mouthfuls, gesturing at no one in particular with his fork. "They won't believe me though, and that Greyback has been released again, the man makes my skin crawl." He used air quotes when describing him and huffed, as he took another bite out of his roast. "It's madness, I told them that. Did they listen? No. Cases of lycanthropy are going up and it's because of creatures like them. String 'em all up for all I care. Bloody werewolves.”

"Not at the table Lyall," Hope piped in, sensing that her husband was about to go on another one of his world-renowned rants. "I understand it's a pain, especially if no one listens to you at work, but let's keep dinner time a happy affair, don't you think?"

"Yeah, no, sorry love" he gave her a sweet smile, which she returned. "Anyway. Did you have you had fun today, Re?"

The boy looked up and nodded quickly. "Yeah, me and Julia played lots of games. We had a race to see who was faster. And I won!" he exclaimed, talking at the speed of a hundred miles per hour, he spread his arms for dramatic effect and sat up higher in his chair. "She said I was cheating, but I wasn't, I promise!"

"No, of course, you weren't." Lyall laughed and looked down at his son like he was the most precious thing in the world.

After dinner, the family were positioned around the small-rickety fire pit that was positioned in the corner of the patio, made up of broken slabs of concrete with weeds emerging like great vines through the gaps. The fire crackled and spat, specks of charred wood and the burning flame releasing swirling smoke into the atmosphere. They sat on wobbly wooden chairs, that they had gotten from the charity shop, which were starting to rot and covered in splinters. However, Hope had made some colourful and slightly garish cushions, so it was incredibly comfortable, despite the small risk of the chairs collapsing from underneath them. Hope was sat with a pair of knitting needles in hand, focusing on the burgundy jumper that Remus would undoubtedly get for Christmas in a couple of months time. Remus sat opposite and was looking eagerly at his father, who was making the little old wooden figurines of soldiers that Hope collected do an Irish jig across the uneven stone.

Then, there was a rustling in the undergrowth at the far end of the garden. The birds that had nested and settled in for the evening took flight, flying off into the rising moon, bright and beautiful.

"What on earth could that be?" Hope wondered out loud, staring out into the distance, squinting her eyes.

'I'll go check it out.” Lyall chuckled as he pushed himself out of the chair. "Probably just a fox, I shall go shoo it away."

He wandered to the end of the garden, managing to avoid the snail hotel Remus had built a year ago. He lit up his wand so that he could see at least three steps ahead of himself.

It was a surprise that it remained standing, despite the howling gales and torrential rain it had to endure, it stayed. For as long as he could remember, Remus looked after the snails in the hotel, gave them any leftover lettuce. They were his favourite magical creatures. It fascinated him, the way they could stick to the walls and go upside down, the only way that was possible, Remus decided, was magic. Lyall didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.

"Ah, Lyall Lupin. Just the man I wanted to see." An unfamiliar voice snarled. The voice was deep and ragged as if it had been strained from screaming too loud "Fancy seeing you here."

“Fenrir.” Lyall cut back, voice curt but contained a small tremble. "Leave me and my family alone and take your unpleasant business somewhere else." He straightened his jacket and stood rigidly, making himself taller. But the figure, Fenrir, stood a head above him, despite his hunched posture.

"I don't think that would be necessary." He countered, his voice becoming more and more menacing. "How is your family? I'd love to meet them." He shoved Lyall out of the way, causing him to lose balance and he stumbled into the hedge.

“Hope! Remus! Get into the house and lock the door!” Lyall shouted, desperately, unable to keep up with Greyback, who was striding across the garden.

Hope quickly grabbed her things and ran, pushing open the back door with a creak.

“Remus, come on lamb, into the house.” Hope coaxed from the door, trying to sound as calm as possible.

But Remus stayed rooted to the spot, unmoving, fixed and waiting, staring into the monster before him.

Fenrir Greyback was a giant of a man, towering easily over 6 feet tall. He was unkempt and greasy, covered in black matted hair. His deceitful yellowing eyes emitting nothing venom. Remus scrambled off of the chair and edged slowly towards his mother. It was too late.

Their eyes locked. A deal had been struck.

Under the silver moon, Greyback's manic grin turned pointed and wider. Bones cracked, twisted, and popped. Hair became thicker, wired, and coarse. Tortured hands and feet transformed into gnarly claws. His previously crooked nose became a leathery, wet, snout.

Barring his teeth, Fenrir Greyback took a couple of paces forward, crushing the hotel under a monstrous paw, towards a terrified Remus Lupin.

And pounced.

[feralamygdala]

with the new hunger games prequel coming out, i decided to read the books and watch the movies which undoubtably resulted in a long bout of nostalgia considering those books literally kept me sane during my not-so-good teenage years. which is also an irony because they also threw my into an existential crisis. that's me though. i feel too much. i never took it as a weakness, that will always be my strength. i let it consume me whole (which just goes on to show how much of a master storyteller suzanne collins is). now, a few lessons that i learnt from rereading the books-

your family does not always mean your blood family. sometimes it's the people you choose to be your family. katniss, who found a safe haven in cinna, haymitch and finnick. they knew very well how all kitniss's predicament must have taken a toll on her. and in their own way, they helped her to keep herself in pieces, give her strength to go on when even she wasn't sure of yourself. cinna with his creations was a silent but powerful rallying cry for the mockingjay. haymitch did not get on a good start with katniss but kept her alive in her first hunger games with medicine that must have been priceless to heal her badly burnt leg. he was there when she wasn't ready to go on the tours and kept her going in the pre revolution panem. finnick, well he was like a brother figure to her. not only did he keep her and peeta safe in the second hunger games, sacrificing mags to do so, he was there for her when they were badly traumatised after the quarter quell. he was always there but he never made a big stink of it. he knew exactly what he was getting himself into when going to the capitol mission, yet he looked at the big picture. the darling of the capitol who loved a mad girl became katniss's protector. till his dying breath.

capitalism is evil i know this isn't exactly a revelation but thg so artfully showed the horrors of capitalism. capitol was powerless without each of the districts supplying it something of value. it was a fragile system but the controlled with fear. one step out of line and that meant punishment or death. people there lived in utter luxury with everything at their beck and call while people in the districts, at least a majority of them had to struggle to even find their next meal. and instead of acknowledging and repairing the broken system, the capitol made it look as if it was their generosity that kept the people alive. it was the opposite and it only took one revolution to prove it.

trauma is real it was hard for a person like me to express their emotional frustration because for me it meant being called crazy. but reading the trilogy brought on a wave of emotions a feeling that, accepting that i am, in fact, not healed is okay. the book deals with depression, abandonment, PTSD anxiety so skillfully that i realised for myself that its natural to not feel good but it's important to heal. katniss broke apart when prim, rue and finnick died and she took her time to come to terms with their deaths. even with peeta at her side and the country now in peace, she still didn't recover and took it one day at a time to heal slowly. never before had i seen a YA book deal with such topics, skirting it instead but seeing thg do so made me realise how much this book meant to me. it changed me in some ways, if not entirely.

at the end, its about survival. and to keep going on how thg mirrors our current position as a world is a stark reminder that we pay attention to the wrong things. if you take the time, thg is much much more than a love triangle. it was about the greed of the society, manipulation, mind games, fear, bravery, determination and the need to make a difference. everyone will interpret the message of these series differently but for me, it will be a gristly reminder of how messed up our world is. seeing how katniss could've gone ahead with gale to get panem in order again, she still chose to step back away from the action. to a quiter life with peeta which shows that everyone just wants to heal. in my opinion, katniss could've survived without either of them but she chose peeta because he had been through the same things she had too. he understood her, was by her side since the beginning, never came off as a creep to express his love for her. he genuinely wanted to keep her alive. well they both wanted to keep esch other alive. he took his time and in a way she did too. she was patient when he recovered by his tracker jacker torture in the capitol, healing one memory at a time. and they chose one another because now they could finally find a sliver of peace in the world that had only given them pain and suffering since the beginning.

[evan-mcculloch]

Breaking Glass || Evan & Barry

When: Oct 1st Where: Star City - Dr. Inglo’s Lab With: Barry Allen @scxrletspeedster

Summary: After discovering prominent physicist Dr. Inglo in Star City has been beating his daughter, Evan decides to take the law into his own hands; Barry arrives to stop him, with deadly results.  

TRIGGERS: Child Abuse (Implied), Injury, Death  

EVAN: It was all over the papers, the famous Dr. Inglo and his Prismatic refractor. The ability to convert light into pure energy, more so his research into dark matter; if light could craft energy, what could a substance we cannot see or understand do? All very interesting, remarkable, even. Shame a man so gifted with scientific acumen had thought it acceptable to use his daughter as a punching bag. It was only rumours, but rumours spread, and it was amazing what people would do in front of a mirror when they thought they were unseen. Evan wouldn't stand for it. Yes he was a villain, a killer, a monster, but he had his lines, and no one deserved to get away with doing what that man had done. So, the night Dr. Inglo's largest experiment into light and dark matter he'd struck. The man had mirrors set up to reflect beams of charged particles. It should allow mirrors to make energy gates, wormholes or even access new dimensions, similar to his own mirror world experience. They could've been allies, but no. Tonight this man would die. "Say it." he muttered, stepping out of one looking glass, his mirror-gun aimed squarely at the cowering doctor, "Tell me just how ya felt using yer wee one fer target practice. Did ye feel good? Feel strong?" his voice a whisper, "How de ya feel now?"

BARRY: It had taken Barry entirely too long to put two and two together. By the time the stories about Dr. Inglo's refractor technology and dark matter research had hit the presses, the rumors began spreading like wildfire about his abusive tendencies with his daughter. Barry had paid it the normal amount of attention - disgusted that the remarkable man would stoop to something that depraved; if the rumors were to be believed. He had been watching another news report about the man when his mind caught something his eyes couldn't see - the man had given an interview in his home and on display just shy of being off-camera was a large vanity mirror. The twisting in Barry's gut had given him all the indication he needed to check things out. He hadn't heard from Evan in a while - and though that didn't mean the man was up to something, Barry had a bad feeling. Inglo's rumored history was a prime target was Evan to take out some pent up aggression. The speedster bolted across the City, coming to a skidding halt as he whisked into and around the room - quickly moving Inglo behind his desk and out of the sights of Evan's mirror gun for the time being. "That's enough!" His voice was firm and commanding - the tone it came out when he was being serious and not his usual joking self. "I knew my bad feelings were justified..." He sighed, having not wanted them to be.

EVAN: “Flash.” Evan deadpanned. He’d also lost the quiet lightness he’d had in their previous meetings, this wasn’t a semi-dangerous heist. This man deserved to die. And Flash wouldn’t get in his way. “I’m a fair man so I’ll give one wee chance to zip on out the door before I start shooting. This monster’s gonna be put down.” He took a step forward, gaze fixed on the cowering doctor. “Rumours may be all you have but it’s amazing what some people’ll do when tha’ think it’s just em’selves and their reflections.” He spat. “If ye protect him yer fair game.” He took a shot, the concussive light blast shattering a large mirror behind the pair of them, raining down sharp shards. He took the chance to escape into a mirror and step out of another to get a better shot. “This can end with yer in one piece or shattered in bits Flash.” He said, voice raised yet still not quite shouting, he almost never raised his voice. His expression was deadly, completely devoid of anything save burning hatred in his eyes. It was enough to make clear there’d be no negotiating this time. He fired again and missed, but the shot continued to blasted Inglo’s machine, the pressure making in whirl to life.

BARRY: The shattering of the mirror behind them had Barry kicking up a gale as he whirled around Inglo - knocking the falling shards away from them just in case Evan decided to slip a hand up through one of them. He tucked the doctor underneath his desk and regarded him with a firm glare. "Stay put." The words were more of an order than anything. Evan wasn't playing around, which meant that Barry needed to buckle down as well. Standing back up, he quickly scanned the area for the next point the man moved to. A slight hiss and he glanced at his hand where one of the shards had cut a thin line through his glove and into his palm as he swatted it away. A minor inconvenience. "You know I can't do that Evan. I don't want to have to hurt you, but I will. The Justice system will deal with Dr. Inglo if there is anything to deal with -- not you." Barry stated firmly. The blonde checked the remaining reflective surfaces in the room - a couple smaller mirrors on the sides of the room and a giant mirror along the opposite wall. With another spark, Barry quickly turned Inglo's desk around to shield his new hiding spot from view of the mirrors and positioned himself on the other side - standing valiantly as he crackled with electricity; ready to move at a moment's notice.

EVAN: "And how will they do that?" he asked, standing within a mirror, Flash couldn't touch him there. "They'll try'n drag out a wee trail with all tha best lawyers he can buy and nothing'll happen." He'd seen it many times before; he'd taken some jobs like this pro-bono back in his hit-man days. In the end the wheels of justice just couldn't do in months what he could in minutes. And though it all Inglo's child would suffer. No. It wouldn't happen this time. He didn't smirk at the wound to Flash, he didn't want kill him, not really, but he had his own code which wouldn't be denied. Inglo had to die; if Flash got in the way he'd incapacitate him too; it was just business. "Good luck with'that." he vanished and appeared in another mirror, aiming a shot that glanced off the desk leg Inglo hiding behind. Meanwhile his machine was whirling loudly, a beam blasting into the largest mirror of the room to make the surface ripple. Evan shot out of another mirror and grabbed a sharp shard, throwing at Barry like a knife and aiming another few shots of light with his mirror gun.

BARRY: "The system isn't perfect, but it is what we have to use!" Barry stated. He knew the system was flawed, agonizingly slow, and more times than not the people that deserve punishment either got very little or none. Yet, it was what the people had chosen to carry out the law and it was what any true 'by the books hero' would have to accept. For all his speed, however, there were times that Barry just wasn't fast enough. Even he slipped up. The first shot that chipped itself off the desk behind him caught his attention and he moved to engage Evan as he unleashed his assault. Zipping and ducking over the spray of concussive light shots was the easy part, but the mundane shard of glass that had been thrown had been forgotten and as Barry came to a brief halt, the sharp shard burrowed itself deep into the forearm of his right arm. The speedster let out a pained yelp, but bolted straight at Evan. Reaching out to grab him, Barry whirled his body at the same time. In hindsight - Barry knew he should have used his left arm; but it was habit to use his right for most things. As he gripped Evan's clothing firmly and felt the man's body leave the ground in the speed-powered whirl, Barry let out a sharp yell as pain shot through his arm from the shard burrowed in it. The pain brought him to a sudden stop and his grip on Evan's collar slipped. He had been intending on sending even hurtling towards one of the walls in order to put an end to this conflict quickly - but the sudden stop and release of his grip sent the man in a different direction. The blonde could only look in horror - as if time itself seemed to stop around him more so than usual. He had noticed the machine going crazy earlier; noticed the rippling mirror, but he had paid it little attention. It hadn't seemed important enough with Evan being in the room. "Evan!!" Barry cried out, ripping the shard of glass from his forearm so it could begin healing.

EVAN: "The system's a damn toy folks like him know how a play with." He growled back lowly. He'd seen governments get real criminals off scot-free; hell they'd done that with him when he'd been given Scudder's tech. Then he'd been one more tool for them to play with system with; they could just blame their killings on the new Mirror Master who wasn't officially working for the government. He had no doubt someone like Inglo, who was working with this kind of tech, could easily call in that kind of help. It had been years since he'd last fought with Flash properly but it was like riding a bike, misdirection was the goal, he was fast but he still had to think, the blasts did their job of keeping his mind busy while the shard caught him. He was about to use that as a point of entry to get an unmissable shot but Flash, true to his namesake, was too quick and had a hold of him before he could get the shot off. Fuck. He was so close. He let out a wordless cry and tried to get hold of something but in the tempest of Barry spinning he couldn't get a grip, and then he was stumbling back, barely holding his feet steady, unable to stop himself for continuing back, the momentum too great and his arms flailed, trying to grab something, anything to stop him. It wasn't enough. It didn't hurt, but it was cold. So cold. And he yelped, stumbling to the side and falling to his knees as the semi-transparent beam from Inglo's machine hit him. Nothing happened for a few moments and then Evan's body began to ripple like the mirror surface. His feet began to crystallise over, turning to glass that seemed to be made of thousands of tiny shards. He struggled to his feet, he could barely move. "W-what have ye done?" he whispered, now shards of glass up to his waist, "F-flash," his voice trembled, "I-I'm..." he tried to speak but it was difficult, his neck glass, then his chin, "I'm cold." he whispered, his face glassing over.

BARRY: Barry could only look on with horror at the scene playing out before him. The beam had struck Evan and for a moment it looked as if nothing was going to happen, but once the man's body began rippling and crystallizing over with the very same mirror-like glass around them, Barry took a step towards him - unable to will his body to go further. What if he hurt Evan more by trying to touch him? Was it even safe? "Evan, what's happening to you!?" Barry pleaded with him for answers as the glass continued to spread. Another step forward and Evan's words sent chills straight to his bone. I'm Cold. "No, no, no." The word came out in quick, repeated utterances. "Dr. Inglo, what's happening to him!?" He demanded answers from their companion instead - only to find a look of true horror upon the man's lifeless body - a hole burrowed through the desk where one of the stray light bolts had penetrated his flimsy protection. Barry hadn't been able to save him. In all his show and firm statements, Evan had won out in the end and succeeded with what he intended to do all along. Yet, what was happening to him... that didn't seem like a just desserts. No, Barry had done this - whatever this was.

EVAN: Evan couldn't feel anything, he couldn't speak, he couldn't see... he couldn't feel. Everything was quiet. Silent. It should have been frightening but it was, peaceful. But, it was still cold. So cold. His body showed no change, he didn't hear Barry's words. He didn't see Inglo's dead form huddled beneath the desk. Nothing. His body began to fall apart, each shard pulling away from his form and beginning to fall to the floor until there was no form of Evan at all, just a pile of broken glass that continued to break down under the wobbling ray of Inglo's machine. They continued to crumble from shards to dust... to nothing at all. It was only then that the low hum of Inglo's machine quieted and it turned itself off, whirling down into standby mode. The giant mirror ceased it's rippling effect and all was quiet. Just Barry and the dead doctor.

BARRY: Silence. That was what filled the room as the machine quieted down into standby mode and the low thrum of the rippling mirror ceased. Blue eyes were locked onto the pile of shattered glass shards where Evan's body had once stood - wide, tear-laden as the situation sank in. Shakily, a hand went to his cowl-covered ear and he redirected his comm system to dial out to the SCPD. "Flash here. Got a body of Dr. Inglo, the work of Mirror Master. Can't stick around; I need to find him." And just like that the call was ended without giving the officer on the other end time enough to ask any questions. It had been an almost subconscious movement to report the body as his gaze never left the shard pile as it faded into dust and then nothingness. Barry dropped to his knees and sat there as his mind worked through the reality of what had just transpired. Evan was gone. That had been on him - because he slipped up and had gone about engaging him in the wrong way. Another mistake made from a spur-of-the-moment choice of action. That certainly seemed to be his track record. "I'm sorry..." The words came far too late. He had several minutes before SCPD would arrive - and he used them, motionless on the floor as he held his healing forearm in his lap. "I'm so sorry..."

END

[let-it-show]

A Day With The Queen

Okay so I ran with a prompt from @lumicuous​  tonight, sorta. The idea was for Elsa to be visiting and just real clingy, but while writing it morphed into Elsa spending the day being clingy but helpful with her beloved new queen sister. You can read it as romantic, or not! :D I love writing fluff lol.

From the moment Anna had woken, Elsa was at her side. Elsa had even been awake before her sister but lounged in the bed, overlooking some writing in regards to things that had happened while she was away. She had missed so much, and did her best to catch up each time she visited even if Anna assured her no one expected her to be as caught up as she was when she was queen.

It was hard not to slip into old habits however, especially when she could help Anna. Elsa was able to remember things very well and sort them into areas of her mind in such a way that it made all the events she needed to pay attention to easy to bring to the foreground. Anna had a good memory, but at times she got a little overwhelmed and struggled, giving way to anxiety.

Elsa felt responsibility to help her. And if she was being completely honest, it also let her hang around Anna every minute of the day. She needed that after having trouble finding proper time for a visit. There was more unrest among the spirits than she had initially realized, as they could have volatile outbursts.

Anna rolled over with a little yawn and pressed her face into Elsa's thigh. Elsa glanced down at her and lightly stroked the utter chaos that was Anna's hair. "Wake up Anna. You've overslept." Elsa always woke up very early. Anna didn't tend to do the same, making herself sometimes late to things.

"Mmmm..." A muffled sound was all that could be heard against the violet material of Elsa's nightgown. It was a favorite one of hers after all.

"Anna, Anna..." she repeated her name and put down the scroll she'd been reading. She grasped Anna's shoulder and shook it gently. "Wake uuup Anna. Come on, you know you've got to."

"No...you be queen today..."

Elsa laughed. Anna was always so cute. "Sorry, not today. I'm not sure that's something we should change up on a day to day basis. Come on g-"

"RISE AND SHINE! Don't mind if I do!" Olaf had burst in the door and loudly. Anna continued to groan as he beelined it for the curtains and threw them open, the sunlight making his snowy exterior sparkle. "Wow, look at me shine! The sun is so warm too!"

"Thank you Olaf," Elsa said, watching him and still smiling. She missed him a lot, too.

"Of course! Wow! Can I join the snuggle party?" he asked, scampering over next to the bed.

"No, sorry. We need to get this one up," she said, her hand petting Anna's shoulder.

"I'mmup." Anna lifted her head, eyes still closed. "M'up." Before her face could drop right back down, Elsa caught her chin.

"Rise and shine indeed. I can see your drool glistening."

"Heh." Anna let out one solid and dorky laugh, still not quite there.

"When I drool, everything sticks," Olaf informed them. "I'm going to go get Sven for a game of rocks!" he then announced, darting off.

Elsa started to slide off the bed, and she reached for Anna's arm to tug her with her. "Come on, up!" Had it always been so hard to wake her? Anna slept like a rock next to her - or completely across her - every time, but usually she wasn't so bad. Elsa remembered being that tired too. "You can do it. I got used to this, so can you."

By then she was out of the bed and had the front end of Anna's body half up off the surface of the bedsheet. That was some progress, anyway. "Elsaaaa..." Anna reached her other hand out for her, and Elsa stepped forward to help.

When she was close enough, Anna's eyes opened wide, and she suddenly tugged Elsa closer before throwing both arms around her waist and smooshing her cheek against her stomach. She giggled and held her tightly while Elsa sighed and muttered. "Should have known it was a trap."

Eventually, Anna did get out of bed, and Elsa helped her get ready. She had no choice since Anna needed assistance with her hair. She wondered if Kristoff usually helped, but didn't ask. For whatever reason she just didn't want to know. It was the same with helping her decide what dress to wear that day, what to have for breakfast...no, Elsa was content to be the one helping that day. She couldn't peel herself away from Anna.

She sat next to her at breakfast instead of across from her. "Seems like today shouldn't be too busy," she told her, stirring her tea and then gently knocking her cup against Anna's.

"Maybe...but, uh, I have to review a thing about clearing some trees, and then there's the upcoming festival and we'll have visitors from another kingdom for that. I think I know what they like to eat but if I'm mixing them up with the others from the east of us, it's going to be really bad because I could feed them the thing they actually treat as holy and forbidden and I just-"

"Shh." Elsa pressed a finger to Anna's lips. "Deep breath Anna. Just show me who you're talking about. I guarantee I know, or at least know where to find it. I'll be at your side all day."

"How am I supposed to focus then?" Anna asked, looking at her with fondness and ignoring her breakfast. Elsa met her eyes and the two took each other in for a long minute.

Oh how Elsa missed her...even if she could see the stress in Anna's face and some mild panic in her eyes, she still held the warmest smile anyone in the world possibly could. "You'll be fine. I'm not here to make things harder, Anna."

"That's not what-"

"I know! I know. But I'll show you some tricks without leaving your side. Relax, please," Elsa begged her.

Anna didn't exactly do so, but she still nodded. "I'll do my best..."

Anna's idea of a busy day was certainly a low energy one for Elsa, but she understood her younger sister still finding it a challenge. Perhaps she was right, too, that she might be a tad unfocused with Elsa at her side all day. Elsa knew that, and she felt guilty, but she couldn't seem to help herself. It had just been too long since she was there in her presence. It'd been too long since Anna's soul had wrapped hers in all its tenderness and brought her to a level of calm she couldn't find even in Ahtohallan.

So, off to the next task they went, taking care of daily affairs. It was mundane, but necessary. There was a conflict here and there. Property issues, arguments that somehow couldn't be solved by a lesser counsel, submissions for various permissions...Elsa watched Anna read over everything with a careful eye as she hovered by her in meeting after meeting. No one objected to her presence and she was flattered. Once in a while Anna looked to her for reassurance and Elsa would smile and nod. When they were alone sometimes she found her hand running over her back, or her arm around Anna's bare shoulders. She couldn't keep herself away. Whenever she touched her it was like she let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

It wasn't even lunch when Anna laid her arms on the desk in front of her and sighed. "Elsa, I'm tired. I know I shouldn't be, but I am." It wasn't whiny. It was just a statement.

"That's how it is, dealing with people. You've always been more outgoing than me, though." Living in a giant pile of ice did have some big positives even if Elsa generally liked people. She just didn't always want to be around them.

"Mm, there's being helpful and friendly as a princess, and then taking on a lot as queen. Kristoff tries to help but he's still trying to learn more. He goes off on reindeer tangents a lot when he gets lost in what he should say to people." Anna laughed a little. "It IS pretty funny though."

"You might check to see if he's accidentally reading those reindeer books again. He's smart but obsessed," Elsa said with a shake of her head. He sister was right though. Outgoing didn't mean she wasn't getting a tad socially exhausted. Once again she almost felt guilty for being there all day. Instead, she placed her fingers on either side of Anna's head and started a gentle rubbing motion.

"Aaaahh..." Anna leaned her head back into the touch. Elsa's fingers trailed behind her ears briefly, stroking down her neck as coolness slid gently along warmth. Elsa rubbed her shoulders too, slowly and with careful squeezes. "Come on," she nearly whispered. "We need to go look into clearing those trees."

"I don't remember what we're even clearing them for..."

"And I don't know to begin with." Elsa stepped aside but held out her hand for Anna's. "Let's go look."

The trees were being cleared for a new structure. The document detailing the plans rested next to a map on a large flat table. Anna leaned over to study them and Elsa said nothing as her arm went around Anna's waist. It was straight forward. Arendelle was bringing in another business, one that specialized in animal care and that was needed. There were some details to finalize such as where it would be built. Elsa didn't say a word, letting Anna sort it out on her own as she knew she was capable of. She was silent support.

When Anna was finished, Elsa kissed her cheek. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Anna blushed and squeezed her hand, dragging her off to lunch with Kristoff and Sven.

A picnic lunch remained fun. Elsa was happy to see Kristoff, as much as she didn't feel like sharing Anna's time. However, Kristoff was her friend too, someone she let through her door eventually, and he was able to make her smile and laugh with his antics. Olaf joined too only to bicker with Sven about the weather while Kristoff did the reindeer's voice.

Anna was in stitches by the end of it, unable to breathe while Olaf asked if she was going to throw up her lunch. Elsa mainly observed in amusement. She missed the whole group of them, really. She laughed with Bruni and Gale, and the Northuldrans could be fun, but no one was quite like the family she was with. She missed them when Kristoff and Sven needed to leave to go to a meeting about reindeer herd regulations and Olaf went off to play with some of the kids.

She stopped missing them when Anna rolled in the grass and tugged her down with her. She fell awkwardly with her arms on either side of Anna's torso, the redhead giggling up at her. "I miss this," Anna told her, her finger poking Elsa's nose.

"Anna," Elsa laughed, "This is no way for a queen to behave!" she teased but they had been silly sometimes when she was in that role.

"I'm queen, so actually, I say it is," Anna said firmly. Elsa's long hair hung down on either side of her face and Anna brushed her fingers through it. "You know how long it's been since I sat outside and had a big lunch and took a nice long nap after it," she said, gently tugging on Elsa's hair. Elsa sighed and gave in, dropping down to half lay on Anna with her head on her chest. Anna just kept stroking her hair. It was wonderful and Elsea hated that after a minute she had to say anything. "You have to get back to things sometime."

"Sure," was Anna's simple answer, but she didn't stop petting her. "Five more minutes. Lemme bask in the moment."

Elsa melted right in. There it was again. Anna's soul entangled with her own, bringing happiness and calm. Gentle whispers seemed to surround her as they spoke of love, laughter, faith, and understanding. How cruel it almost felt sometimes when she realized her elevation to being the fifth spirit had awaked her ability to sense more than she had before. Her magic had broadened to feel her sister right before they had found themselves apart. All she wanted was to be surrounded by it, by her.

She never wanted it to stop but the ringing of a bell brought her back to reality and she knew it was time to go back to Anna's duties.

When they did manage to get up and go back in, it was festival planning. Elsa knew the procedure since Arendelle had several throughout the year, and she led her right to the map to begin pointing out ideal locations for several of the areas they would need to set up.

"Didn't you have a comitee or something? This is a lot for Kristoff and I to think about," Anna said eventually, even as she was diligent about taking notes and scribbling down ideas.

Elsa nodded, leaning against the table. "Yes. You'll have the one I had before you took over, and next year you'll be able to appoint new people- or not. You'll see how well they work for you. They did plan a few things recently though, I know you must have talked to them as you shifted things into your rule."

"A little. I wish I had observed better."

"You did fine," Elsa said, beaming down at her. "I know you learned a lot. Watching me, helping me - its different than actually having to be where I was. But our people, Anna, they seem happy with all that you have been doing. I know you've met a couple of representatives from other kingdoms and they loved you." Who wouldn't?

Anna nodded and sighed with a smile. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Elsa..."

Elsa leaned forward and touched her hand. "You will always, always have me."

Her smile brightened and Anna took her hand, holding tightly. "You know I'll hold you to it."

The afternoon went by quickly after that, almost too quickly. Anna did a lot of planning, and Elsa indeed helped her figure out which kingdom was which. They got carried away researching, maybe, but Elsa enjoyed helping her. She got to just be there with her. In her company, even if they were silently reading, she was happy. She was happy walking with her to dinner, sitting down with Kristoff and Olaf once again to hear about their day.

Olaf told her everything, including more than she wanted to hear about how much he saw of who in various states of undress by accident. But even when he did talk to much he was dear to Elsa and she enjoyed herself. Rarely did she find herself mad at the little snowman; he was a part of both her and Anna for starters. Where Anna ended and Elsa herself began and how much of others had influenced Olaf, she didn't know, but he was always welcome.

Kristoff graciously sat across from both of them, forfeiting his usual seat next to Anna. Elsa had to hand it to him, whenever she showed up and completely stole Anna away for however long she was there, he had a good attitude about it. "You give her something she'll never find in me or anyone else," he had told her once. "I don't mind if it makes her so happy."

Given she even took Anna at bedtime, that was pretty understanding of him.

He also once let slip that sometimes it was nice to put on his boots, stomp out to Sven's stable, and crash in the hay for a night. Old habits died hard.

"Are we playing a family game tonight?" Elsa asked Anna hesitantly as they finished dinner up.

"No..." Anna yawned. "I'm really, really tired. I just kind of...mmm. I have to go sign something, and that's the last meeting. The man wasn't available during the day and so..."

"I understand," Elsa said, standing from the table and waiting on Anna to say good night to Kristoff. Anna kissed him briefly on the lips before saying she loved him. A conflict of emotions swirled in Elsa, but she said nothing, choosing to see it as protectiveness and the clear effect of not being able to visit earlier.

She felt more level headed when they walked just outside the castle doors and remained in the courtyard. Guards escorted a horribly creepy little man with a dirty white beard in, bringing a paper with him. Elsa had studied him the whole time he lurched his way up to Anna, and he sort of glared back. He didn't want to be there, and neither did Anna even though she faked a friendly smile.

Elsa conferred with her over the documents he had brought with him; they would secure a trade deal that was to Arendelle's advantage. Despite the grumbles and glares of the messenger, it was a good thing and Anna agreed to sign, Elsa's hand on her lower back as a sign of support.

Almost as soon as he was led away, Anna turned and wrapped her arms around Elsa. "His attitude was wretched," she stated.

Elsa hugged her tightly as well. "I know. They happen, sometimes. Just keep being friendly and don't waver." Anna was doing well, in that regard - very well. Elsa usually chose to hide any emotion, remaining cautiously friendly but otherwise blank when she dealt with such people. It probably wasn't always the best way to act but it was all she could do at the time before she was able to get away and shoot some ice around as a release.

While she missed home and Anna, she didn't exactly miss her queen duties.

She held her sister for a few more long moments before stepping back and stroking her face. "Come on, let's go rest."

Then it was back into their gowns, and at an early hour. Elsa still had some energy but poor Anna did not. Elsa had held a soft cloth to her face and washed her makeup away along with the stress of the day. She took her time doing so, standing in their washroom while Anna sat on a bench. As she cleared away every bit of makeup she studied Anna's skin, slightly irritated and ready for some hours off. Elsa's skin never felt like that anymore. She didn't miss it.

She undid Anna's bun and let her hair fall free even if it would be a mess again. Sometimes having the braids in after a long day only caused a headache. She brushed her hair out slow and careful before kissing the top of her head and helping her up.

Anna clung to her arm. "Thanks, Elsa..." Anna said sleepily. "I feel sort of stupid."

"Why?" Elsa asked gently as she escorted her to the room.

"I'm still not used to this..."

"So?" Elsa chuckled. "Anna, you saw how long it took me to settle in. Even when I had a routine down and felt more comfortable around everyone, I hadn't learned how to let you or anyone else help me. Remember the nights I slept badly and we all woke up to bursts of ice?"

"I do."

The whole ordeal had been kind of embarrassing. "That's one thing you've got on me so far. No random ice. You're already able to delegate. You're doing brilliantly," she said, leading her to the bed and sitting her on it. She'd had water ready before they went to clean up and she offered a glass to Anna.

Anna downed it slowly, not even quite finishing it before handing it back. "I guess you're right," she told her. "I shouldn't doubt myself, I can-I can do thiaaaaahhh...." Her words were interupted by a long and deep yawn.

Elsa accidentally snorted a laugh and then made up for it by stooping down to press her forehead against Anna's. "You're fine, Anna. Now lay down."

Anna grabbed her arm. "You too, come down here."

"Yes yes," Elsa nodded and crawled into the bed, having to crawl over Anna to have any space on the mattress at all. She was almost over her when Anna suddenly pulled her down on her again, this time with Elsa's face winding up next to hers. "Ack-you should warn me."

"You should be used to this," Anna said, turning to face her and gazing before he eyes started to shut. She tried to fight it, but it wasn't working.

"Mmmhmm." Elsa placed extremely light and careful kisses on Anna's eyelids, stroking her face as she relaxed against her. "I suppose I should be," she told her.

"I want...cuddles.." Anna managed to say, drifting off so quickly.

"You get whatever you want, Anna," Elsa whispered as she snuggled in, their hearts beating in the same soft rhythm. She'd do anything for her and couldn't help squeezing her as she fell asleep. "I love you."

[italicwatches]

Sword Art Online Alternative: Gun Gale Online - Episode 01

So, hey. Funny story. True story!

I’ve never actually sat down and properly watched any SAO stuff through. I missed the initial wave of enthusiasm over the first half of the first arc, and then the opinion turned on it so I just kinda never got into it.

But I’ve heard nothing but good things about this one. So let’s see how I like it. It’s Sword Art Online Alternative: Gun Gale Online, episode 01! Here we GO!

-We begin with lines of code, and a bit of exposition about the fate of VR games, over just barely legally distinct shots of classic gaming. We’ve got the NES light-gun classic Wild Gunman, we’ve got Space Harrier from the much beloved Sega lineup, an early 3D fighter in the wave of Virtua Fighter, an FPS that I can’t recognize the exact vintage of, and then, the VR games.

-Oh, right, the actual exposition! So uh someone made VR games safe again and now there’s a bunch of lock mechanisms to prevent SAO from happening again. There’s one popular one, a ferocious firefighting game…Gun Gale Online! Through the waste’s central city, a cloaked figure runs, as the game cheerfully announces a team battle royale tournament will be starting, the Squad Jam!

-Which, of course, has everyone intrigued…As we see a pair who’ve entered. A big, tough military man…And a tiny girl in bright pink with a rabbit hat. She wasn’t sure she gonna enter if she could get tickets to the big concert…But that didn’t happen, so fuck it, time for war! They’ll stand together, her and her gun P-chan! It’s a P90. A pink P90.

-Opening! Which gives us some solid confirmation that the cloaked figure was our little pink bun, and also that she is fast. Like, Ruby from RWBY fast.

-And we’re back! The rounds begin, and our duo immediately find themselves shunted into the battlefield, in the woods! The big man crouches down…And our little pink cutie doesn’t even bother, because she’s big-man-crouching height while fully standing. So they’re deep in the woods for this match, which is…Not ideal. He’s a long-range sharpshooter who benefits from clean sightlines, and she’s…I mean, she’s in bright pink. Which is how she gets a cloak again to cover up, and he gets out the map to take a look…

-So, here’s the good news. M can confirm that they’re at least a kilometer away from any opponents, and that they’re close enough to the North-Eastern corner of the map that they can pretty much ignore those directions entirely. Which leaves a question: Straight line, or to the center?

-Straight line. Due South. The pair get moving, and the contrast between the two is more obvious with every movement. M carries a huge pack of supplies, while our pink bun is rocking the bare minimum kit. He’s a sharpshooter, her P90 is a submachine gun meant for close-quarters. You get the idea.

-It’s not long before they start hearing gunfire, and M pegs it as 5.56 rifles. Mid-close range gear, and he catches the direction. Sounds like two other teams got stuck in a firefight. They’ll need to be careful on approach…And so he lets LLENN take the lead, feeding her specific directions as she moves deeper into the woods…

-LLENN is freaking out a bit, enough that she misses the a tree branch and trips right on her face…But her path takes her to the edge of the woods, and he finally has her lock down! She’s a full 300 meters ahead of him at this point…And that’s what he’s banking on. The system’s going to start pinging team locations soon. But those locations are tagged to the team leader, not every individual player. Pushing her out like this ensures that she can be a cat’s-paw and bait. Draw in targets into his line of fire, while peppering anyone she can on the move…

-Speaking of, she spots some targets on the far side of the city! Looks like a team of at least five. Well armed, taking up cover in a wrecked building. LLENN starts freaking out, but she’s way too far away for her P90 to do anything useful…But then M spots them on the scanner, confirming her report. He can also tell they’re at least 200 meters away from her. You’re pretty safe. Just take a breather and don’t do anything rash—

-And that’s when the bright red lines of laser sights all center onto LLENN. …SO that’s not great. She’s in their sights! LLENN barely has a chance to dive before all of the guns start firing…And though she’s freaking out, M keeps his cool. Those are machine guns. 7.62 class, generic-ass scrub machine guns, for the most part. Stay behind cover! And wait.

-The whole team, the All-Japan Machine Gun Lovers squad, pours it on…Until one of them takes a bullet to the back, and drops in a spray of red pixellation! DEAD! Then another takes two to the chest and head, and finally their apparent leader drops to a headshot! They were so focused on forward, that they got picked off from behind…

-Which leaves M to skulk his way forward. This is what M was banking on. He saw a second team in engagement range, and took the coin flip. Either they’d focus on you and get shot in the back, or they’d spot the other team…And then he’d shoot them in the back. He tosses her a spotting scope, and lines up a shooting position. And you used her as a decoy?!

-Yup.

-…Well shit.

-So, take a look. Those two are the only ones left out of the team, and are wide open…So they should shoot them? Nope. For now, observe. Focus on the team engaging now. There are four…But look at how efficiently they’re moving. They probably have spotters up in a building feeding them directions. Snipers ready to pick off anyone who engage. Those two are going down, and it’s only a question of how long it takes.

-It takes about ten seconds. So now they take out this super military team, right?!

-No. They’d disengage with only one down, and know exactly where he is. Now focus…There! See that arching building? And LLENN looks, and sees a man rappelling down the side! Two of them! But…Whoa.

-M can confirm, they’re not moving with the in-game skill. He’s done it himself, it’s not anywhere near that fast.

-These guys are just using raw physics. They know how to actually rappel, and are using the engine’s lack of risk to tear down the side at full speed. They’re not dealing with some fun weekend gamers, LLENN. These are legit operators. Police, coast guard, or maybe even JSDF soldiers. They’re people who aren’t here to do something they can’t do in the real world…They’re people here to do what they know how to, without consequence.

-LLENN calls bullshit. That should be cheating! There’s no rule against it. And for all the differences between GGO and real life, it makes a lot of sense to use a tournament environment as a test of their more core skills. So how do they proceed?

-An open fight with them is impossible. …Well shit. So, LLENN, how much do you trust your luck? She, she trusts it! Good.

-Here’s the plan. They’ll hold for the next scan ping. If it looks how he expects, they’re going to make a move. All that gunfire should draw attention. They’ll use it, and bolt down the highway for the residential area. When the scan comes in, seven teams are already down, leaving 16 in this map…And there are three teams moving for the pro group they watched!

-Lucky day. That’s going to keep all four teams well occupied. Time to move.

-It’s not long before the battle starts…And when that happens, LLENN is sent as the forward, getting the chance to RUN!

-Holy shit that’s fast.

-She can’t help but wonder if she’s being used as a decoy. Again. Despite, technically, being team leader. This is bullshit!

-Back in the firefight, where some poor bastard crawls out from under a car, desperately filling his HP with a health kit…Only for his attempted regroup call to end in a guy from one of the other teams peppering him full of holes I mean red dots. …And then that guy gets swiss cheesed for standing out in the open. There’s a dedicated team doing the sweepup style work for easy victories, one of the joys of large scale battle royal…

-Which is about when a mess of grenades gets dropped on their heads. And that whole team is dead.

-The pro team confirms the eliminations, and discuss what to do about the duo…

-While LLENN and M finally meet up in an abandoned house, in time to check the next scan. Eight teams down. Everyone squabbled over the good terrain in the central ruins, and that pro team’s been holding their own…While the scan shows nobody in their area. They’ve got eight teams left on this map. M’s predictions and planning have gotten them this far, so what’s the plan now?

-Two teams in the forest, trying to get the drop on each other. This third team will probably end up forcing a mass engagement. Over by the spaceship, this one team has some solid territory, so they’ll almost certainly stay put. And there’s no telling what these two will do…This group near the ruins are holding so close to good territory, but aren’t going in, so something’s up there.

-So the real big question is this pro team. The thing to ask is, are they here to win, or to improve? If they’re looking to hone their skills, they’ll be wanting to force matters into an engagement. They’ll come pursuing.

-Which means they need to have a plan ready. And M’s cooking something up that’ll fit LLENN’s abilities perfectly…

-While the pro team confirm that nobody else went for the residential area. Thus begins their hunt into that area, as they approach, getting there in time to await the next scan….Which shows the team being right in front of them, only 80 meters ahead! But no signs visually…They move carefully, in a full team, looking up and down at the scan point…

-With no sign, they get into a cross formation at the intersection, trying to figure things out, as the spotters try to put something together…The core team list off everything they can see, but…There’s nowhere the target could go. It’s just an empty shopping cart, some ruined road, and an old suitcase…

-A…Suitcase? The spotter looks, sees the size of it…SHOOT THE SUITCASE! But it’s too late! LLENN leaps up from underneath it! But it’s too late, as she starts pouring lead on, sprinting forward! Her tiny, tiny frame fit inside the luggage, and she’s able to take one out and get behind his body! Corpses remain as locked physics objects, indestructible within a Squad Jam.

-And she’s so tiny that she can hide behind it on the ground, taking down a second and third! When the last man in the field goes for her, she leaps right past him, gets in close, and just squeezes the trigger until he drops!

-Leaving five and six to casually decide they’re done. She’s too far outside of normal human limits to be useful. They got what they could get. Quit? Quit. They resign, and their bodies just drop.

-When it’s all over, a whole crew of girls are watching, awed by what LLENN pulled off…And we see who LLENN is on the outside, the tall, graceful Karen-san. Who’s a little embarrassed at all this attention.

-Credits!

okay this is looking really, really fun. Does anyone else suddenly kind of want to play a battle royale game? Is that normal? Anyways, we’ll have to see how Karen’s career in this game goes next time, in episode TWO of SAO Alt: Gun Gale Online! Wait for it!

[ratherhavetheblues]

ANDREI TARKOVSKY’S “MIRROR” ‘I took everything but forgot the key…Strange!’

© 2021 James Clark

     In the films we find necessary, there’s seldom, if ever, a chance to set in relief a smiling baby boy. Mirror (1975), by Andrei Tarkovsky, does not include such an event as a supercilious whimsy. In fact, that presence is extremely well proffered. Our film concerns, as always for Tarkovsky, and for Bergman before and after, the way to smile with conviction. The baby has an instinct to thrive in that moment. How does it fare, going forward? Forces rule; and we all play versions of the same game.

Near the beginning of this saga there is a woman, in the Russian style, having many names (here, Maria, Masha, Marussia, and [particularly] Natalia), lounging, as is her wont, on a rustic fence at her appealing rural home. She’s having a smoke and gazing upon the panoramic meadow many miles distant. She notices a man approaching a long way away. The man’s voice-over remarks, “The road from the station lies through Ignatyovo… turning off near a farmstead where we spent our summers before the War, and then to Tomshino through a dark oak wood.” (Someone who knows where he’s going?) 

The woman is not happy seeing a stranger. Birds sing, but smoking is more her style. He’s carrying a black satchel. As he arrives she tells him, “You should have turned at the bush.” He asks, rather forwardly, “Why are you sitting here?”/ “I live here.”/ “Where? On the fence?” This annoys her. He counters with, “Strange, I took everything but the key.” His tone implies that it was she who missed seizing the key.  He asks, “Why are you nervous? Give me your hand. I’m a doctor. Don’t count! I’m counting.” (A ripple of the Surreal, and the Theatre of the Absurd. Standbys of Bergman and Tarkovsky.) “Must I call my husband?”/ “You’ve no husband. You’ve no wedding ring.” (Swift panning shots.) The smoke from her cigarette carries an almost volcanic thrust. Her tightly wound hair sends a message of pedantry. He’s given the cigarette he wants. “Why are you so sad?” he inquires. He sits on the fence along with her, and it promptly collapses. He laughs. She doesn’t. He sees a flash of the uncanny. She sees nothing out of the ordinary. (But does this clash introduce two sides of the same mirror?) Marching off, a bit, she asks, “Why are you so happy?” His mystique plunges, when saying, “It’s nice to fall with a pretty woman.” He rallies with, “Look at those roots, these bushes… Did you ever wonder about plants?” She is cleaning off her clothes. He perseveres, “The trees, this beechnut.” (The Major, in the film, Ivan’s Childhood [1962], where a woman is stalked and insulted in the woods, has been put in place in contrast to the interplay here. A singularity? An upshot of structure which could be seen as a mirror, a very specific and complex process of force.) “They’re in no hurry,” he maintains. “While we rush around and speak platitudes… It’s because we don’t trust our inner natures. There’s all this doubt, haste, lack of time to stop and think.” It seems there’s something very wrong with that commotion. She begins to say, “Do you have…” But he rudely interrupts. “Have no fear. I’m a doctor, you know…” When she’s able to say something, she fires off, rather surprisingly, “What about ‘Ward No. 6?’” (That being the writer, Chekhov’s, whose concern here  was strictly about injustice, not obscure, enigmatic possibilities. Natalia’s job, as a proofreader would be rooted in pedantry, almost as far as one gets from the stranger’s passion.) “It’s all Chekov’s invention,” is the careless way he dismisses the humanitarian. “Come to Tomshino. We have jolly times there.” (This being an invitation to the pagans in force, in Tarkovsky’s film, Andrei Rublev [1966].) Her refusing the invitation, he gives her short shrift to deal with the cut ear (the deaf finesse) he scratched on falling from the fence.  What maintains is the ripple of the grasses in the wind. He stops and looks back. A fierce gale comes and goes. Nothing seems to adhere. But the voice-over of the pagan, bound for idyll, one way or the other, tells himself a pretty story. “You were lighter and bolder than the wing of a bird… flying down the stairs two at a time… pure giddiness, leading me throw moist lilac…” Cut to a small boy. “To your domain beyond the looking glass. The Alice in Wonderland making everything  bright.” (How a problematic becomes a farce.)

We have on our hands much more than fantasy. Our saga is a misadventure. But misadventures cannot secure what we’re headed for. And it all comes down to that mirror of deftness, which the two here butcher. Much preparation demands to be delivered before we can discern the heart of the matter. The woman leaning on Chekhov, does by her body language, manage a wan smile after the zealot backs away into the meadow. But such breadth of outlook evaporates quickly. Natalia, at her workaday prime, gives us a vivid episode of what makes her tick. But beyond that apex, we require surmising that she, for a while, had attempted the same rabbit hole as the bemusing doctor/pagan. (One more heads-up. There is a dizzying spate of locales in this film. At first, we see her on a lovely farm. And now, in black and white, she’s the epitome of the urban rat race. Much more to come. Don’t try to straighten out the chronology. The point is, that with every turn they make, it’s the wrong one. Sort of like Alice.)

   With her military coat flying in the breeze, our protagonist is right on tap to cut a dashing, go-getter careerist, along one of the more chic, and treed passages of the metropolis. Something troubles her ramble. The forces of benign nature are overcome by a torrent of rain, with wind and the ricochet exploding from the pavement. She, here, an even greater pedant than the version at the fence, had got into her head that she might have allowed a misspelling of a thorny term.

 Reaching her destination, she bolts along a corridor replete with many plants, which she had never noticed at the most relaxed moment. Two of her associates join her frenzy, amidst many massive presses. It isn’t the first. She explains the possible calamity in terms of, “But it’s a “Special Edition!” (Very much here, we are meant to be seen that powerful forces—crazy, wise and delicate—must not be mistaken as mundane. Captive of emotion opens upon, when alert, a world never yet seen.) On realization that the overblown trouble was a false alarm, one of the sidekicks, Liza, has the temerity to tell her that she resembles a famous matinee farceur. “Your whole life’s just, ‘Fetch me some water,’ as per the actress. It’s a show of independence. If something doesn’t suit you, you pretend it doesn’t exist. I’m amazed at your ex-husband’s patience. He should have bolted ages ago. Do you ever admit you’re wrong? Never! You created the whole situation. You can say he escaped in the nick of time, before you managed to make him like you. I swear you’ll make your children miserable.” After Natalia briefly sheds a shock of tears from the salvo, indignation takes over. The critic tries to apologize, but our fleet protagonist outruns the apology, and ensconces herself with a shower at the facility’s amenity. (Another name of our floundering “independent” is Masha. In Ivan’s Childhood, a military nurse, Masha, knows how to keep her mouth shut in face of emotional violence by hopeless normality. She dies in the War. But she dies with true independence. Her sense of self-creativity brings to bear the mirror, and its carnal gift of hands.) In the solitude of the shower room, she emotes, “Passing life’s halfway mark… I lost my way in the dark wood.” Then she does a little dance step. Little. She musters a smile that isn’t a smile. Masha bemusedly, turns off the tap. In the all-white context, she notices a stain, high-up. She laughs at the little war, and her savvy and canny forces. Intent on advantage as well as pedantry, there is a loss of power. She covers her head with her hand. A hand never to elicit the magic of the mirror.

   At the very outset of this film, we encounter two vignettes keening, variously to achieve the maximal which can be mustered.  The first scene is most bizarre, namely, a declaration of attempting to activate a television from the back of the set. The young immature boy “operating” the enterprise seems intent to display that what goes on the screen is nothing but bogus. In a second form of intelligence, we do see the screen, being a design of straight blue vertical lines, somewhat like that advanced, cubist iconist, at the end of the Tarkovsky film, Andrei Rublev.

The second form of the embarkation is a (bemusing) vision of science on the march. A teacher dealing with stuttering has become convinced that the problem can be overcome by extreme intensity of physical force of the limbs. Her mantra is the stiffened positions. (Cut to black and white.) She tells her student, a young man ill at ease, “Concentrate on my hand. My hand is drawing you back.” The boy casts a shadow. The shadow presents a more resolved force. She holds the back of the boy’s head. The teacher is not pleased with the exercise. “Your attention is on your hands. Your hands are becoming dense.” Dense. The poor student.

   What will work is quite a surprise. We’re not used to seeing things effectively on this watch. Of course, no one here attains to lucidity. But our trek has a resolution, which our effort must clarify at this point of seemingly endless confusion. The bemusing teacher’s premium upon hands and fingers comes to a territory to linger. Our bodies have been intensively scrutinized by religion, science and the arts. But what has been overlooked is that our bodies reach not only to planet Earth but the entire universe. The forces in our finite powers involve a structure of infinite cooperation. When Tarkovsky puts into force the notion of the mirror, he’s launching a commingling. Dispatching the workaday and the uncanny, within the mirror, is a field almost certainly better handled by other wits on other planets. (Our unfortunately final Tarkovsky film, Nostalgia [1983], coming up, attends more completely with lingering matters.)

   Lingering matters become, then, the slippery slope which, in many cases back themselves into an appalling gumption. But even poisonous creatures like Masha face the music in ways which could avail somehow. That “somehow,” that world of bathos and pathos, does taste (fleetingly) the wherewithal to brighten other souls in other places. To think that all that we have is this dubious attitude right here, is cheapening, to ridiculous measures. The persona may amount to nothing, here. But processes of passion can be part of a very large constituency. Virtually no one in our film attains to enjoying the depths of the mirror. As we look upon these passions, we stand in awe that such skirmishing is the upshot of dazzling resources. Drama, indeed. Drama, beware.

   Our appalling (and routed) protagonist first gives us a slice of her domesticity by having her two toddlers presented to a breakfast they cannot acquire. The food lies everywhere, but in the children’s mouths. The March Hare. She seems intent using her literary background to play a cynical poem amidst the disarray. “Awaking, be blessed, I said” (we see identical twins—mirrors of each, sort of, though with different genders). “And knew my blessing to be bold… for you still slept. The lilac on the table stretched forth to touch your lids with heavenly blue… and your blue-tinted lids were calm, and your hand was warm. Locked in crystal, rivers pushed.” She looks into the distance. “Mountains held a sphere of crystal, and in your hand, you slept on a throne. And righteous Lord—you were mine… You awakened and transformed our mundane, human words…” Piles of books. A pan shot finds her seated, troubled. “Then did my throat fill with new power… and give new meaning to ‘You.’ All was transformed… even such simple things as basin, pitcher… Birds escorted us and fish swam upstream…” Swimming upstream, the geography of life. “As fate followed in our wake, like a madman brandishing a razer.�� (An interlude of uncanny events: a burning barn, recalling the burning barn where sheep were killed by a coward, in Bergman’s, The Passion of Anna [1969]; a large bird in the house; a snow of plaster in a now-hated house; a well, sterile. In the film, Ivan’s Childhood, there is a last moment of true poetry, related to a well. It’s not impossible. The poetry is the finery of Tarkovsky’s father. Once again, then, as with Bergman’s hatred of his father being a clergyman, there is here a send-up of Tarkovsky’s father’s fatuous literary attempt.)

   Masha, as time goes by (time going by, so crazily here, with three disparate settings and three temporal eras hopping around) being part of a challenge to all of us to ignore such ponderous poppycock and mind its real business of the mirror. As such we don’t need to know who’s on first. We need to know who’s smashed it out of the world of stiffs. One day, while visiting her ex, a figure almost only in action by way of voice-over (at a loss for the real deal?), she asks, “Why are you hoarse?”/ “Don’t worry, it’s probably a strep throat.” After a while, he dies suddenly of throat cancer. His follow-up gambit is not so different from that of the stranger who broke the fence. “I haven’t spoken for three days. Being silent for a while is good. Words can’t really express a person’s emotions. They’re too inert.” As with the first one with a measure of vision, the deep voice show’s vast incoherence. She tells him, “You only know to take.”/ “That’s because I was brought up by women. If you don’t want Ignat (one of the twins) to be like me, get married soon.”

Speaking of war, the occasion is his hosting a family of Spaniards, refugees of the Civil War, then in force. In expressing the hostilities, the group’s spokesman inaugurates a deluge of various violence. He begins with his zeal for bullfighting, illustrated with a newsreel showing killing a bull. From there his love for Franco is combustible. “What’s he saying?” Masha thrills. More documentary film ensues, beginning with a woman during bombing runny away with a mirror. From the safety of Russia, the careful fascist gushes, “He (Franco) was overwhelmed by the farewell. The entire city saw him off. His mother couldn’t attend. She was ill. But his father stood sadly on the sidelines. He knew they would both be thinking the same [fatuous] thought. Would they ever see each other again?” Back in Moscow, the oppignerated traditionalist scolds his daughter for poor flamenco style. (Much newsreel material of warriors in World War II, especially those slogging along shorelines pushing war material, undercut gung-ho heroics. Viscosity, for what it’s worth. But in many such struggles there appears, crazily perhaps, signs of courage. That would be the time to note that Masha’s boy, Ignat, puts on a display of not much pacifism but much hate. Serving as an army cadet, during shooting practice, he deadpans–pretending to be always “unfortunately” moving in the wrong direction. Milking that stunt, he puts into play a fake hand grenade, creating pandemonium. A flimsy version of Theatre of the Absurd.)

   There comes a time when our protagonist comes up needing to sell her jewelry. (Before that, we see her with chronic lip sores.)  She tells us, “We’re from Moscow, but we have a room in Yeryevetes.” She and Ignat retrace a long-ago trudge to their former home, as seen near the beginning of the film, when she refused the pagan. The Spaniards have settled comfortably in that beauty. She lies, “My husband’s in the City today.” Advantage in a tailspin. “I’ve come to see you. It’s a private matter.” The new owner is not pleased to see Natasha, attempting to appear what she isn’t. But the jewelry sweetens her disposition. Once on the prowl, the wealthy immigrant not only wants to buy everything the embarrassed bookish one has, but she demands (the visitor the bull and the new owner the matador), to butcher one of the hens at the chopping block in the kitchen. Natasha, not the pastorale type, finds the experience another world, but still not the right one. The humiliation (a good old Bergman move) has left her unable to handle the transaction. (The lady of the house, being pregnant, pretending that such violence at this moment is beyond her refinement.) The money grab, needing anonymity. More than all of that, though, there is a visit to the nursery of her baby boy. The child is a picture of beauty and joy. Moreover, he is that treasure of all, a potential to taste what life is, the mirror, perhaps even interacting (from a true accomplishment) the treasures of half-lucidity, to make the world, as it is, go round. (At this tipping point, the dying ex, in his element in the void, attempts, “A soul without a body is like a body without a shirt… I dream of another soul, dressed in another garb” [happily semi- true?]. Is he guilty of something? His mother, at the hospital, notes, “He thinks he is.” He adds, “Leave me alone! I just wanted to be Happy…” [semi-true].)

At the very ending of this unruly, and apt, series of disappointments, when the daughter had not yet been fired, one afternoon in the meadow Masha’s mother is seen to attend to the twins, while her underachieving daughter stands fast beside a very high cross. A flock of sheep. Ignat’s contribution consisting of blowing into a leaf to simulate passing gas. Fortunately, the meadow knows what to do. The trio comes upon a stand of mature trees, where they are lost from sight. The measure of pathos of the grandmother and her charges carries a ripple of valid pathos, a ripple being quickly lost in the passage of distraction. There may be no real substitute for embracing the mirror. Voice over by Tarkovsky’s father, beginning with the miasma of war “action”: “I flee not from slander or poison. There is no death. We’re all immortal. All is immortal. Fear not death at seventeen nor at seventy. There’s only reality and light. There’s neither dark nor death in this, our world. We’ve reached the beach… and I am one of those who pull the nets in… when immortality arrives in batches. Live in a house and it won’t crumble. I’ll summon a century at will… The future is decided now. And if I raise my hand, the five rays will remain to you. My bones, like beams… hold up each day. I measured time with a surveyor’s staff and passed through it as though it was the mountains. I choose a century according to my height… touching horseshoes and prophesizing.”

   The dying deep voice, having become a confidant to the forces of the Spaniards, but also someone Russian (perhaps the invalid’s mother), makes an inroad of deep irony by way of Ignat being, for a short visit, schooled, by the oldest and most reflective of the family and, for that matter, the whole town.  In a Moscow palace, of sorts, with salt-mine design (including a panoply of nooses along one wall [well understood by viewers of Ivan’s Childhood]), the Grand Dame tells non-scholar, Ignat, to fetch a distinctive book from the library’s third shelf. “Read the page where the bookmark is” Ignat’s recital: “In replying to the effect that arts and sciences have on mores, Rousseau said, ‘it was a negative one. The division of the churches separated us from Europe. We did not take part in a single one of the great events. But we had our own special predestination. Russia and its vassal expanses forced at last something to carefully ponder, pertaining to the Mongol invasion. The Tatars did not dare cross our eastern borders… They retreated to their deserts; and Christian civilization was saved… To achieve this goal, our way of life underwent a change which alienated us from the Christian world. As for our historic presence, I cannot agree with you. Do you not find something significant in Russia’s position, to amaze the future historian? Although I am truly attached to the Czar, I am not inspired by what I see around me. As a writer, I am annoyed… I am insulted… but not for anything in the world I change my country or choose another history of our forefathers, as God ordained it.’” (A letter from Pushkin to Chaadayev. October 19, 1836.) A resource of the elements. A resource of the mirror.

[kdlovehg]

Thinking back to you - New everlark fic

Summary:

Peeta Mellark knew he was doing the right thing. Quitting - leaving her - was only natural. Being a personal assistant to the archeress was never a dream of his, so why wait any longer to end it? He could move on and forget about her.

But what do you say to the woman whose only regret, was having you leave?

Fanfiction

Preview:

Peeta’s pov

I'm going to murder her.

One day.

One day, years after I've quit, I'll silence that pretty little mouth of hers.

No-one would suspect me and I'd be free from her disrespect.

For the third time today, I grumble "Katniss", under my breath. A warning to myself as I once again count to ten to quell the annoyance within me. I know better than to raise my voice. She's so attuned to sound you could cough three blocks away and she'd hear the water droplets hit the counter - or at least that's how it feels.

The only reaction I seem to get from her is the infamous scowl or the "looking twice in my direction as if to check if I had the audacity to disrupt her peace". To be honest, that's led to more than our fair share of fights, and I say 'our' because she hates taking responsibility for anything. She's never to blame. Whenever her face would scrunch up or her eyes would turn to slits I'd bite my tongue like an admonished child would, to refrain from saying all the impolite things I've wanted to over the years.

The lady in question makes a growl behind her second bowl of fish stew and wild greens. She swirls the spoon, scraping it along the sides of the bowl as she does. "You heard me the first time. Cancel it. Soon."

Of course, I know she's right. I hear everything the first time around but I know it rattles her to have to repeat herself.

It seems selfish, to care about someone yet want to ignore their requests - well demands in her case.

She hums lowly at my lack of response and glances up at me. She forces a fake smile but it drops within seconds. "I don't care what you have to tell them. I want them off my back. Come up with something and get it done now".

Standing at the opposite end of the table, I put my hand behind my back and lift my middle finger. A silent protest. Or it would be if she didn't conveniently have a mirror behind me and a few inches off to my left.

She ignores my slight, in the same way, that I ignored her tone of voice. I know from experience that she just wanted me to do as I was told. It was an order, not a discussion. That's how it always is.

I just need to deal with it.

When I'd first began working for the two-time national archer of the year, I'd dreaded having to do her dirty work. It wasn't because it was hard work, it's well known that I'm capable of convincing people to bet on her and support her throughout her games, and yet, there were some things I've never enjoyed. Mainly haggling with people, including those far poorer than her, for the money they wasted betting against her. I'd reject interviews on her behalf, prepare training sessions weeks in advance only to find out she'd trained whilst I was asleep and I've been covered in questionable bodily fluids because I'd work up a sweat in the kitchen as the cook of the house only to finish by sorting through her laundry basket to see what dirty clothing would be cleaned tonight.

But the thing I detested more than anything else was canceling on people. It's just not in my nature. I've always thought it was rude considering that she's always physically capable and available to attend the events and meetings. Besides, why make a promise if you already know you don't plan on carrying it through? It's not as if these things are a mystery to her, she could easily say no from the start and no-one would bat an eyelash. Then again she's never been particularly fond of her fans, and as long as they're hers and not mine then really she's the only one rejecting them.

Freaking Katniss. She swallows a mouthful, oblivious to the problem she's just given me. After all the trouble we've - I've - gone through trying to set this up I have to now explain to her agent why we're canceling again. All because she couldn't be bothered to give her time to sign a few photos and sell some merchandise at the sporting goods store. Not only that but she'd been offered a commission for her time, something I could only dream of since she never gives me a cut of her profits.

I drop my shoulders and take a deep inhale. "Maybe we could figure something out? Reschedule if we have to? You did promise them-".

Her spoon hits the top of her stew with a gentle smack, and she stares at me blankly. "I don't care, Peeta. Have Haymitch cancel if you won't". She resumes shoveling spoonfuls into her mouth and whilst chewing she says "Or is that too much of a problem for you?".

Close your mouth woman.

I think over her offer. I could call Haymitch and tell him to cancel it but that'd only annoy me more. That drunk mess couldn't care less what she does. He gave up trying to get her to do her duties months ago. Unfortunately for me, I'm usually the one who ends up getting blamed. I didn't plan enough in advance. I didn't communicate with the team. I didn't smack Katniss over the head every time she changed her mind. Granted I added that last one myself but still... she's gonna push me too far one day.

My leg aches the longer I stand.

She has a point though. She shouldn't have to care about disrupting anyone's day. After all, that's what she pays me for - and Gale. When I'd first started working for her I was good-natured every day. Nowadays it seems that I only voluntarily smile when the two of them put money in my wallet.

She licks the back of her spoon, unbothered that I'm still watching her. Eating seems to be the only thing that distracts her anyway.

See I don't think she even appreciates how much time and patience I give her whenever she needs it. Anytime, day or night, for two years I've been here for her. Even when she's had a bad day and messed up in some of her training sessions and lost potential sponsors, I'd still been the one to praise her and ensure she had a warm bath to slip into before bed.

It didn't fix any of our issues but the water helped soothe her tired muscles, and it at least shut her up for a few hours. Sometimes I'd lie and tell her she needed to recover more but it was really so I could keep her off my back. Not that she'd ever listened. A sprained wrist here or there never stopped the woman. She'd just get me to help out more. Never a please or thankyou. I'd just hear my name being called at obscene hours of the day. I know one day she won't be so lucky though.

I've tried to be nice considering that she's a hard worker. She'd keep focused on her skills and deep down I know she's scared. She'd never admit it but I know she'd be lost without her bow and arrow. It was like an extension of herself. Sometimes I used to wish that she'd just talk to me about it. I know if I was in her position and I injured my wrist or my eyesight was failing me, I'd be panicking. If I could never draw again I don't know what I'd do.

Regardless she's too old to be this cranky. She's like a worse version of my older brothers. Sometimes I'd tell myself that they only existed to see how much it would take for me to kill one of them.

Nevertheless, they taught me to be patient, watch my mouth, and to duck if a fist went flying.

She's just lucky that I have a small infatuation with her, one so tiny I'd never bring it up. Otherwise, I would've ended this mess years ago. Then again, practically everyone had a thing for the Everdeen's. When they knew about them, that is. There was just something different about them. Maybe it was their no-nonsense attitude or the way they commanded the attention of a room, either way, I'd never felt odd for just being another person who paid attention to her.

She glances at me, her grey eyes as innocent as if she was looking at a cat or a goat.

I force a smile, "Not a problem at all".

The rest is on ao3 and fanfiction.net.

[shinseikyouto]

Big Hero Saitama pt 2: Movie Night

What’s this? Oh! I seem to have made another part in my macro One Punch Man story, Big Hero Saitama! At last! Hopefully everyone enjoys!

“What is your report on this...giant hero?”

A low ranking man from the Hero Association cleared his throat and gently smoothed out a rather worn looking piece of paper, the front and back covered with neat, small printed words and replied, “Well, sir, it seems that he first appeared a few years ago in City Z. He burst out from a building, apparently, and seemed confused according to eye witnesses. After stomping around the area he disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared. I should note that at this time he was...naked.”

“...I see.” the higher ranking man said, stroking his beard as his glasses glinted in the light.

“He appeared and disappeared several times over the next few months, always suddenly, and almost always naked, though he did occasionally appear in tight fitting waist wrappings. It was only a few months ago that it was discovered that this man, a Mr. Saitama, had started fluctuating size, seemingly randomly. One day he was fifty feet tall, another a mere few feet. The average seems to be about one hundred feet tall at maximum and two feet at minimum. Though it is always possible that the changes could become more severe.”

“This sounds serious. I think it might be prudent to send a few of our heroes to him and...subdue him.”

“I would advise against that sir.” The man gulped after saying this, his hand shaking slightly as he continued reading from his paper. “Even at his smallest size he was perfectly able to defeat a Demon class Mysterious Being effortlessly. If he is that strong at a subhuman size there is no telling what he is capable of at a larger size.”

“….”

“….”

“Give him anything he might need. Clothes, food, drink, entertainment, whatever he wants. We must keep him happy and satisfied for as long as he remains an unknown variable. In the meantime, I'm going to have Metal Knight look into some...defensive measures. If they become necessary.”

Deep in the Uninhabited Zone of Z City there's an enormous stadium that used to be filled to bursting every weekend by cheering fans to watch an exciting game of baseball. Thronging crowds filled the air with their roars of approval and drowned the announcers with bellowing boos, the smell of hot dogs, peanuts, popcorn and other treats wafting around and over every individual within. The brightly painted walls, freshly cut green grass, and crisp uniforms worn by the players were a heartening sight, the blue sky and shining sun from above a perfect bow on a wonderful day out.

Unfortunately, in recent years, the stadium has fallen into disrepair as the area became uninhabited by most citizens. The once sharp paint flaked away leaving sheets of rusted metal visible, the savory scent of food replaced by a pungent, rotting aroma from plant refuse and the animals that now nested in it, and the raucous atmosphere replaced with an eerie silence. It was utterly unusable for any human in its current state. Luckily it was the perfect hang out spot for a certain pair of heroes. Saitama yawned loudly, the sound of air sucking into his enormous lungs like a wind tunnel, attracting all manner of loose debris towards his open mouth, the detritus falling on his body or getting blown back as the gale force of his exhale ripped through the stadium. Genos, who was setting up the projector for the movie, glanced up from his work and said, “Sorry this is taking so long sensei...I have to admit, much to my shame, that I'm not used to working with electronics...”

Saitama, eyes half closed, dunked his hand into a pool sized bowl of Popcorn and tossed the gigantic kernels carelessly into his mouth, the crushing force of his teeth, capable, no doubt, of reducing the hardest substances known to man to rubble, making short work of even the larger than life airy puffs, swallowing the mush down with a wet sucking sound not unlike the tides of the ocean receding. “S'no big deal Genos, you're doing your best.”

Genos smiled slightly, his spirits lifted by the rumbling boom of his sensei's voice echoing around him, shaking the walls and floor of the stadium, certain less well maintained areas collapsing. “It was nice of the Hero's Association to provide us with all this equipment and food...I'm not sure there's any place in Z City where you would fit at this size, sensei.”

“Don't worry too much, I'll probably be smaller again soon.” Saitama said carelessly, rubbing his bald head with his free hand, his arms relaxing on the edges of the stadium, looking out over the city. “...You think I'm getting more popular and that's why they're doing all this stuff for me?”

The question was casually asked but Genos knew what his partner was driving at; he could hear the hint of hope under the monotone. “I don't see how you couldn't be! I'll bet everyone in the country knows about you now.”

Saitama smiled slightly and shifted his legs, uncrossing and crossing them again at the ankle, left and right leg trading positions, bare toes wiggling in the night air. “Hey if it means free food...I could get used to it.”

Suddenly, the enormous screen that was on the opposite side of the stadium blinked to life, revealing the opening menu for a newly released action movie, the gigantic speakers on either side of the screen blaring loud music. Saitama sat up slightly, the entire stadium creaking in protest as his casually positioned bulk suddenly moved, his butt lifting up off the overgrown, grassy field and shifting, adding another butt print to the already decimated playing area. He pulled his legs in, lowering them from the side of the building where they had been resting and stretched them out slightly, bare toes crashing through several floors before his feet burst through the side of the stadium, showering the nearby abandoned buildings and streets with rubble. Now, sitting up straight, his upper body clearly visible, legs outstretched, Saitama blinked as he felt the walls give way under his feet like tissue paper. “...Oops.”

Genos, seated behind his friend and to the side, the projector positioned so it could hit the enormous screen on the other side of the stadium perfectly without accidentally hitting Saitama's head, quickly jumped onto Saitama's shoulder and called into his ear, “Don't worry sensei! These old buildings were built to last. The wall should hold just fine.”

“Great, don't want the screen falling over.” Saitama said, nodding, the bowl of popcorn situated firmly in his lap. “Hit play.”

Genos, who had control of the remote, did as he was told, the deafening music cutting out suddenly as the rating screen appeared. For a few moments there was only the sound of Saitama chewing filling the air until the music kicked back in, the screen bright and filled with explosions. “You know it's a good one when explosions start minute one.” Saitama said, turning slightly to face Genos, his warm popcorn scented breath wafting over his much smaller friend, nearly dislodging him from his spot.

The cyborg situated himself onto Saitama's shoulder, the broad expanse of skin, muscle, and bone easily supporting his insubstantial weight, a comforting warmth exuding from it, cutting through the chill of the evening. The sounds emanating from his sensei were even louder up close, the teeth slicing and crushing through the food, the deep rumbles of his bellows like breathing, the bass like boom of his whispered comments or chuckles. Genos could barely hear the movie but it was more than enough that Saitama was enjoying himself. About half an hour into the film, Genos was starting to lose interest; there didn't appear to be any story at all, just fights and chases and explosions. He turned to Saitama's ear and said, “sensei, may I have some popcorn please?”

“Wha? Sure, it's right down there.” Saitama replied, eyes glued to the screen, his finger gesturing down towards the bowl in his lap carelessly.

Genos leaned over and peered down into the depths of the stadium to the bowl nestled so perfectly on Saitama's lap. It was half empty at this point, his friend's massive hand scooping it up with more ease than an industrial machine. “You want me to just….go down and grab some? But...wouldn't it be easier if you just handed me a kernel? Unless...aha! This is training for me, isn't it?!”

“Hn? Yeah, sure, training, get to it.” Saitama mumbled in response, attention clearly focused elsewhere.

Genos' face lit up with a bright and determined smile as he immediately jumped to his feet, stretching his arms and legs before moving along Saitama's shoulder to his clavicle, using the protruding bone like a bridge to make it to the small hollow at the base of his sensei's throat, bracing himself as he gazed down along Saitama's body, passed his chest and abs, down to the bowl. “The best course of action would be to climb down between his pectoral muscles and between the abs before leaping for the bowl.” Genos said to himself, nodding slightly, losing his footing as he suddenly heard a wet gulping sound all around him, the thick bulge of mushed up popcorn in Saitama's throat shoving against his back, sending him tumbling, head over heels, down between the swells of his friend's pecs. Thinking fast, he braced himself between the two walls, holding himself in place to assess his situation...again. The sounds of Saitama's breathing was even louder now that Genos was level with his chest, though muffled by the layers of skin and muscle. A new sound was echoing in his ears; the quickening thump of Saitama's heart, so near to Genos now, accelerating due to the excitement of the movie, each beat pounding against his ears like an unfathomable drum. “Let's see...I can still ease myself down to his stomach...and then….uh...go between the abdominal muscles and….hmmm...make it to the bowl.”

The sounds, the heat, even the natural scent of his sensei was incredibly distracting to Genos who almost wanted to abandon his training and just lay down and rest with his friend...but the cyborg was far too determined to give up, no matter how appealing the prospect was! He slowly released his grip and began to slide down, catching himself just as he left the pecs, his feet slipping between the top row of the abs. Genos braced himself once again, taking a quick breath. Saitama was sitting up but there was still a slight slope to his body as he leaned against the stadium wall, allowing Genos a bit more leeway to traverse the slope of flesh. The area he was in slowly rose and fell, pushed in and out, in tandem with Saitama's breathing, Genos almost sliding down against his will and alternately almost getting pushed away from the wall. Luckily, with every exhale, the abs surrounding him closed in, ensuring he wouldn't be dislodged until he was ready. Even more new sounds assailed his senses, a deep rumbling grumble like thunder, mixed with a goopy, sloshing sound echoed around him as Saitama's belly churned and broke down all that popcorn he was putting into it. Genos refused to allow himself to be distracted by the sheer power that was contained just behind him, knowing that his friend had chowed down on at least a few monsters, almost wandering what it would be like to witness such an act. He shook his head and angled himself so that he was “standing” on the wall behind him, bracing his arms to keep holding him in place. With the next exhale, Genos let his arms go, pushing off with his feet, running down the length of his friend's ab ridges, bracing his feet at the lip of Saitama's navel and jumping into the air. Genos extended his arms and just barely managed to grip the edge of the enormous bowl, pulling himself up on top of the ridge and sliding into the depths of the buttery kernels. “I did it! sensei, did you see?”

Genos looked up, ready to gauge his performance based on his sensei's reactions, only to see the palm of an enormous hand reaching down directly for him! Before he could react the fingers closed around a handful of popcorn, Genos included, the cyborg tossed about like a penny in a dryer as he was lifted up to Saitama's face, his eyes still locked on the movie screen, the wide open mouth, dripping in saliva filling his sight, seeming to grow larger and wider as he was brought closer until he was unceremoniously tossed inside! Genos landed with a wet plop on top of Saitama's vast tongue, the bumps of his taste buds rough under his body. Gigantic popcorn kernels tossed around him, breaking down slightly in the gooey saliva before being mashed to mush and sliding down the cavernous abyss of Saitama's throat. Genos was quick to regain his feet and quick to lose his balance again as a thick drop of spit landed square on his head, the sheer weight forcing him back down to the tongue, the thick, undulating muscle lifting his body into the air as Saitama made a motion to swallow. Genos felt the rough palate of the roof of his sensei's mouth rub against his back, almost like a massage, his robotic limbs and parts groaning under the sudden pressure. “Aha...so sensei is really...pushing me to my limit! I won't let him down!”

The fire was ignited in Genos' belly as he braced his hands against the tongue, pushing back against it. His hands sank slightly into the squishy muscle and gave him slightly more wiggle room, allowing him to more easily slide down the tongue, towards the back of his friend's throat. Just before he would have gone careening off the edge, Genos landed on the uvula, barely making a dent on it, swinging slightly over the drop. Genos waited until the tongue descended, the mouth now empty, though still reeking of butter and popcorn, allowing him to jump back down on the tongue. “Now to make my escape!”

Genos began to run down the length of the tongue only to be greeted once more by an oncoming wall of popcorn, the snack item crashing into his body, nearly breaking into even his tough body armor. Genos grunted and pushed back against it, managing to lift the kernel over his head and toss it to the side, the guillotine of Saitama's teeth slicing it to ribbons moments later. As Saitama chewed, his tongue began to move again, like a gigantic serpent, twisting and undulating, the ground under Genos' feet surging and shifting every few seconds, seemingly trying to get at something. Genos could already feel the sucking force of his sensei's next swallow coming, his balance upset as he began to move backwards, stumbling, nearly falling. “I'm sorry sensei….but I'm going to have to go all out!”

He activated the thrusters in his shoulders and immediately regained his balance, his arms glowing between the plates of metal as he charged up, bringing his hands together to unleash a monumental blast of energy directly at the wall of tongue in front of him. The energy blast was partially absorbed against the slick wetness of the tongue, a slight flick from the tip of it disrupting the blast and sending it careening wildly out of control, smashing into the surrounding area, dislodging, outside of Genos' notice, a hull that had been caught just under the gums of one of Saitama's molars, the clear shell landing behind Genos. Genos activated his thrusters once more, just as the tongue fell still, launching himself forward even as the gigantic man dryly spat out the hull, both it and Genos landing on Saitama's immense palm. Genos, panting, exhausted, and worn down, covered in saliva, grinned up at his sensei. “So...how was THAT?”

Saitama blinked, looking at the hull which Genos still hadn't noticed. “Oh, that's what that was. Good job Genos that was really nice of you.”

Genos felt a sense of elation and accomplishment as he closed his eyes, his tired body able to fully relax after his intense “training session”, having earned his partner's praise. Saitama blinked again, shrugged, but with a small smile on his face, and gently held Genos as the movie ended. “Sleep tight, little buddy.”

[readbookywooks]

8 Boggs appears and gets a firm lock on my arm, but I'm not planning on running now. I look over at the hospital - just in time to see the rest of the structure give way - and the fight goes out of me. All those people, the hundreds of wounded, the relatives, the medics from 13, are no more. I turn back to Boggs, see the swelling on his face left by Gale's boot. I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure his nose is broken. His voice is more resigned than angry, though. "Back to the landing strip." I obediently take a step forward and wince as I become aware of the pain behind my right knee. The adrenaline rush that overrode the sensation has passed and my body parts join in a chorus of complaints. I'm banged up and bloody and someone seems to be hammering on my left temple from inside my skull. Boggs quickly examines my face, then scoops me up and jogs for the runway. Halfway there, I puke on his bulletproof vest. It's hard to tell because he's short of breath, but I think he sighs. A small hovercraft, different from the one that transported us here, waits on the runway. The second my team's on board, we take off. No comfy seats and windows this time. We seem to be in some sort of cargo craft. Boggs does emergency first aid on people to hold them until we get back to 13. I want to take off my vest, since I got a fair amount of vomit on it as well, but it's too cold to think about it. I lie on the floor with my head in Gale's lap. The last thing I remember is Boggs spreading a couple of burlap sacks over me. When I wake up, I'm warm and patched up in my old bed in the hospital. My mother's there, checking my vital signs. "How do you feel?" "A little beat-up, but all right," I say. "No one even told us you were going until you were gone," she says. I feel a pang of guilt. When your family's had to send you off twice to the Hunger Games, this isn't the kind of detail you should overlook. "I'm sorry. They weren't expecting the attack. I was just supposed to be visiting the patients," I explain. "Next time, I'll have them clear it with you." "Katniss, no one clears anything with me," she says. It's true. Even I don't. Not since my father died. Why pretend? "Well, I'll have them...notify you anyway." On the bedside table is a piece of shrapnel they removed from my leg. The doctors are more concerned with the damage my brain might have suffered from the explosions, since my concussion hadn't fully healed to begin with. But I don't have double vision or anything and I can think clearly enough. I've slept right through the late afternoon and night, and I'm starving. My breakfast is disappointingly small. Just a few cubes of bread soaking in warm milk. I've been called down to an early morning meeting at Command. I start to get up and then realize they plan to roll my hospital bed directly there. I want to walk, but that's out, so I negotiate my way into a wheelchair. I feel fine, really. Except for my head, and my leg, and the soreness from the bruises, and the nausea that hit a couple minutes after I ate. Maybe the wheelchair's a good idea. As they wheel me down, I begin to get uneasy about what I will face. Gale and I directly disobeyed orders yesterday, and Boggs has the injury to prove it. Surely, there will be repercussions, but will they go so far as Coin annulling our agreement for the victors' immunity? Have I stripped Peeta of what little protection I could give him? When I get to Command, the only ones who've arrived are Cressida, Messalla, and the insects. Messalla beams and says, "There's our little star!" and the others are smiling so genuinely that I can't help but smile in return. They impressed me in 8, following me onto the roof during the bombing, making Plutarch back off so they could get the footage they wanted. They more than do their work, they take pride in it. Like Cinna. I have a strange thought that if we were in the arena together, I would pick them as allies. Cressida, Messalla, and - and - "I have to stop calling you 'the insects,'" I blurt out to the cameramen. I explain how I didn't know their names, but their suits suggested the shelled creatures. The comparison doesn't seem to bother them. Even without the camera shells, they strongly resemble each other. Same sandy hair, red beards, and blue eyes. The one with close-bitten nails introduces himself as Castor and the other, who's his brother, as Pollux. I wait for Pollux to say hello, but he just nods. At first I think he's shy or a man of few words. But something tugs on me - the position of his lips, the extra effort he takes to swallow - and I know before Castor tells me. Pollux is an Avox. They have cut out his tongue and he will never speak again. And I no longer have to wonder what made him risk everything to help bring down the Capitol. As the room fills, I brace myself for a less congenial reception. But the only people who register any kind of negativity are Haymitch, who's always out of sorts, and a sour-faced Fulvia Cardew. Boggs wears a flesh-colored plastic mask from his upper lip to his brow - I was right about the broken nose - so his expression's hard to read. Coin and Gale are in the midst of some exchange that seems positively chummy. When Gale slides into the seat next to my wheelchair, I say, "Making new friends?" His eyes flicker to the president and back. "Well, one of us has to be accessible." He touches my temple gently. "How do you feel?" They must have served stewed garlic and squash for the breakfast vegetable. The more people who gather, the stronger the fumes are. My stomach turns and the lights suddenly seem too bright. "Kind of rocky," I say. "How are you?" "Fine. They dug out a couple of pieces of shrapnel. No big deal," he says. Coin calls the meeting to order. "Our Airtime Assault has officially launched. For any of you who missed yesterday's twenty-hundred broadcast of our first propo - or the seventeen reruns Beetee has managed to air since - we will begin by replaying it." Replaying it? So they not only got usable footage, they've already slapped together a propo and aired it repeatedly. My palms grow moist in anticipation of seeing myself on television. What if I'm still awful? What if I'm as stiff and pointless as I was in the studio and they've just given up on getting anything better? Individual screens slide up from the table, the lights dim slightly, and a hush falls over the room. At first, my screen is black. Then a tiny spark flickers in the center. It blossoms, spreads, silently eating up the blackness until the entire frame is ablaze with a fire so real and intense, I imagine I feel the heat emanating from it. The image of my mockingjay pin emerges, glowing red-gold. The deep, resonant voice that haunts my dreams begins to speak. Claudius Templesmith, the official announcer of the Hunger Games, says, "Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire, burns on." Suddenly, there I am, replacing the mockingjay, standing before the real flames and smoke of District 8. "I want to tell the rebels that I am alive. That I'm right here in District Eight, where the Capitol has just bombed a hospital full of unarmed men, women, and children. There will be no survivors." Cut to the hospital collapsing in on itself, the desperation of the onlookers as I continue in voice-over. "I want to tell people that if you think for one second the Capitol will treat us fairly if there's a cease-fire, you're deluding yourself. Because you know who they are and what they do." Back to me now, my hands lifting up to indicate the outrage around me. "Thisis what they do! And we must fight back!" Now comes a truly fantastic montage of the battle. The initial bombs falling, us running, being blown to the ground - a close-up of my wound, which looks good and bloody - scaling the roof, diving into the nests, and then some amazing shots of the rebels, Gale, and mostly me, me, me knocking those planes out of the sky. Smash-cut back to me moving in on the camera. "President Snow says he's sending us a message? Well, I have one for him. You can torture us and bomb us and burn our districts to the ground, but do you see that?" We're with the camera, tracking to the planes burning on the roof of the warehouse. Tight on the Capitol seal on a wing, which melts back into the image of my face, shouting at the president. "Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!" Flames engulf the screen again. Superimposed on them in black, solid letters are the words: IF WE BURN YOU BURN WITH US The words catch fire and the whole screen burns to blackness. There's a moment of silent relish, then applause followed by demands to see it again. Coin indulgently hits the replay button, and this time, since I know what will happen, I try to pretend that I'm watching this on my television at home in the Seam. An anti-Capitol statement. There's never been anything like it on television. Not in my lifetime, anyway. By the time the screen burns to black a second time, I need to know more. "Did it play all over Panem? Did they see it in the Capitol?" "Not in the Capitol," says Plutarch. "We couldn't override their system, although Beetee's working on it. But in all the districts. We even got it on in Two, which may be more valuable than the Capitol at this point in the game." "Is Claudius Templesmith with us?" I ask. This gives Plutarch a good laugh. "Only his voice. But that's ours for the taking. We didn't even have to do any special editing. He said that actual line in your first Games." He slaps his hand on the table. "What say we give another round of applause to Cressida, her amazing team, and, of course, our on-camera talent!" I clap, too, until I realize I'm the on-camera talent and maybe it's obnoxious that I'm applauding for myself, but no one's paying attention. I can't help noticing the strain on Fulvia's face, though. I think how hard this must be for her, watching Haymitch's idea succeed under Cressida's direction, when Fulvia's studio approach was such a flop. Coin seems to have reached the end of her tolerance for self-congratulation. "Yes, well deserved. The result is more than we had hoped for. But I do have to question the wide margin of risk that you were willing to operate within. I know the raid was unforeseen. However, given the circumstances, I think we should discuss the decision to send Katniss into actual combat." The decision? To send me into combat? Then she doesn't know that I flagrantly disregarded orders, ripped out my earpiece, and gave my bodyguards the slip? What else have they kept from her? "It was a tough call," says Plutarch, furrowing his brow. "But the general consensus was that we weren't going to get anything worth using if we locked her in a bunker somewhere every time a gun went off." "And you're all right with that?" asks the president. Gale has to kick me under the table before I realize that she's talking to me. "Oh! Yeah, I'm completely all right with that. It felt good. Doing something for a change." "Well, let's be just a little more judicious with her exposure. Especially now that the Capitol knows what she can do," says Coin. There's a rumble of assent from around the table. No one has ratted out Gale and me. Not Plutarch, whose authority we ignored. Not Boggs with his broken nose. Not the insects we led into fire. Not Haymitch - no, wait a minute. Haymitch is giving me a deadly smile and saying sweetly, "Yeah, we wouldn't want to lose our little Mockingjay when she's finally begun to sing." I make a note to myself not to end up alone in a room with him, because he's clearly having vengeful thoughts over that stupid earpiece. "So, what else do you have planned?" asks the president. Plutarch nods to Cressida, who consults a clipboard. "We have some terrific footage of Katniss at the hospital in Eight. There should be another propo in that with the theme 'Because you know who they are and what they do.' We'll focus on Katniss interacting with the patients, particularly the children, the bombing of the hospital, and the wreckage. Messalla's cutting that together. We're also thinking about a Mockingjay piece. Highlight some of Katniss's best moments intercut with scenes of rebel uprisings and war footage. We call that one 'Fire is catching.' And then Fulvia came up with a really brilliant idea." Fulvia's mouthful-of-sour-grapes expression is startled right off her face, but she recovers. "Well, I don't know how brilliant it is, but I was thinking we could do a series of propos called We Remember. In each one, we would feature one of the dead tributes. Little Rue from Eleven or old Mags from Four. The idea being that we could target each district with a very personal piece." "A tribute to your tributes, as it were," says Plutarch. "Thatis brilliant, Fulvia," I say sincerely. "It's the perfect way to remind people why they're fighting." "I think it could work," she says. "I thought we might use Finnick to intro and narrate the spots. If there was interest in them." "Frankly, I don't see how we could have too manyWe Remember propos," says Coin. "Can you start producing them today?" "Of course," says Fulvia, obviously mollified by the response to her idea. Cressida has smoothed everything over in the creative department with her gesture. Praised Fulvia for what is, in fact, a really good idea, and cleared the way to continue her own on-air depiction of the Mockingjay. What's interesting is that Plutarch seems to have no need to share in the credit. All he wants is for the Airtime Assault to work. I remember that Plutarch is a Head Gamemaker, not a member of the crew. Not a piece in the Games. Therefore, his worth is not defined by a single element, but by the overall success of the production. If we win the war, that's when Plutarch will take his bow. And expect his reward. The president sends everyone off to get to work, so Gale wheels me back to the hospital. We laugh a little about the cover-up. Gale says no one wanted to look bad by admitting they couldn't control us. I'm kinder, saying they probably didn't want to jeopardize the chance of taking us out again now that they've gotten some decent footage. Both things are probably true. Gale has to go meet Beetee down in Special Weaponry, so I doze off. It seems like I've only shut my eyes for a few minutes, but when I open them, I flinch at the sight of Haymitch sitting a couple of feet from my bed. Waiting. Possibly for several hours if the clock is right. I think about hollering for a witness, but I'm going to have to face him sooner or later. Haymitch leans forward and dangles something on a thin white wire in front of my nose. It's hard to focus on, but I'm pretty sure what it is. He drops it to the sheets. "That is your earpiece. I will give you exactly one more chance to wear it. If you remove it from your ear again, I'll have you fitted with this." He holds up some sort of metal headgear that I instantly namethe head shackle . "It's an alternative audio unit that locks around your skull and under your chin until it's opened with a key. And I'll have the only key. If for some reason you're clever enough to disable it" - Haymitch dumps the head shackle on the bed and whips out a tiny silver chip - "I'll authorize them to surgically implant this transmitter into your ear so that I may speak to you twenty-four hours a day." Haymitch in my head full-time. Horrifying. "I'll keep the earpiece in," I mutter. "Excuse me?" he says. "I'll keep the earpiece in!" I say, loud enough to wake up half the hospital. "You sure? Because I'm equally happy with any of the three options," he tells me. "I'm sure," I say. I scrunch up the earpiece wire protectively in my fist and fling the head shackle back in his face with my free hand, but he catches it easily. Probably was expecting me to throw it. "Anything else?" Haymitch rises to go. "While I was waiting...I ate your lunch." My eyes take in the empty stew bowl and tray on my bed table. "I'm going to report you," I mumble into my pillow. "You do that, sweetheart." He goes out, safe in the knowledge that I'm not the reporting kind. I want to go back to sleep, but I'm restless. Images from yesterday begin to flood into the present. The bombing, the fiery plane crashes, the faces of the wounded who no longer exist. I imagine death from all sides. The last moment before seeing a shell hit the ground, feeling the wing blown from my plane and the dizzying nosedive into oblivion, the warehouse roof falling down at me while I'm pinned helplessly to my cot. Things I saw, in person or on the tape. Things I caused with a pull of my bowstring. Things I will never be able to erase from my memory. At dinner, Finnick brings his tray to my bed so we can watch the newest propo together on television. He was assigned quarters on my old floor, but he has so many mental relapses, he still basically lives in the hospital. The rebels air the "Because you know who they are and what they do" propo that Messalla edited. The footage is intercut with short studio clips of Gale, Boggs, and Cressida describing the incident. It's hard to watch my reception in the hospital in 8 since I know what's coming. When the bombs rain down on the roof, I bury my face in my pillow, looking up again at a brief clip of me at the end, after all the victims are dead. At least Finnick doesn't applaud or act all happy when it's done. He just says, "People should know that happened. And now they do." "Let's turn it off, Finnick, before they run it again," I urge him. But as Finnick's hand moves toward the remote control, I cry, "Wait!" The Capitol is introducing a special segment and something about it looks familiar. Yes, it's Caesar Flickerman. And I can guess who his guest will be. Peeta's physical transformation shocks me. The healthy, clear-eyed boy I saw a few days ago has lost at least fifteen pounds and developed a nervous tremor in his hands. They've still got him groomed. But underneath the paint that cannot cover the bags under his eyes, and the fine clothes that cannot conceal the pain he feels when he moves, is a person badly damaged. My mind reels, trying to make sense of it. I just saw him! Four - no, five - I think it was five days ago. How has he deteriorated so rapidly? What could they possibly have done to him in such a short time? Then it hits me. I replay in my mind as much as I can of his first interview with Caesar, searching for anything that would place it in time. There is nothing. They could have taped that interview a day or two after I blew up the arena, then done whatever they wanted to do to him ever since. "Oh, Peeta..." I whisper. Caesar and Peeta have a few empty exchanges before Caesar asks him about rumors that I'm taping propos for the districts. "They're using her, obviously," says Peeta. "To whip up the rebels. I doubt she even really knows what's going on in the war. What's at stake." "Is there anything you'd like to tell her?" asks Caesar. "There is," says Peeta. He looks directly into the camera, right into my eyes. "Don't be a fool, Katniss. Think for yourself. They've turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity. If you've got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it's too late. Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you're working with? Do you really know what's going on? And if you don't...find out." Black screen. Seal of Panem. Show over. Finnick presses the button on the remote that kills the power. In a minute, people will be here to do damage control on Peeta's condition and the words that came out of his mouth. I will need to repudiate them. But the truth is, I don't trust the rebels or Plutarch or Coin. I'm not confident that they tell me the truth. I won't be able to conceal this. Footsteps are approaching. Finnick grips me hard by the arms. "We didn't see it." "What?" I ask. "We didn't see Peeta. Only the propo on Eight. Then we turned the set off because the images upset you. Got it?" he asks. I nod. "Finish your dinner." I pull myself together enough so that when Plutarch and Fulvia enter, I have a mouthful of bread and cabbage. Finnick is talking about how well Gale came across on camera. We congratulate them on the propo. Make it clear it was so powerful, we tuned out right afterward. They look relieved. They believe us. No one mentions Peeta.