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katikacreations · 4 years

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(Cover illustration by @clowncauldron ) LINK TO AO3 VERSION IN THE NOTES! Formatting is better on AO3, it’s easier to read over there!

SUMMARY: Gyro can’t fix Boyd’s glitching problem, so he asks Dr. Von Drake for advice. Boyd goes to a pool party and confesses to Huey that his new home life with Gyro isn’t exactly perfect.

2BO, you are not evil! You are good! You’re more than your programming! You are a definitely real boy! Gyro’s own words echoed in his head as he tried to sleep on the flight back to Duckburg.

It was a gruelling twelve hours on a cargo plane like the Sunchaser, but if one was willing to put up with the discomfort and inconvenience of being stashed between boxes of freight, it was worth it. Mr. McDuck didn’t charge for employees to hitch a ride on cargo planes that were already scheduled, and there was no TSA screening for private cargo flights, leaving from private airfields, which was a big help when you were traveling with hyper-advanced combat technology like the Gizmosuit and 2BO.

2BO. Boyd. Whatever you called it, the android was potentially very dangerous. It had been able to override Dr. Akita’s programming and choose its own actions, which had saved both Gyro and Fenton’s lives, but how? Asking an AI to ignore its programming was like asking a human being to ignore their instincts, like trying to inhale underwater, or sticking your hands into a fire. It could be done, but it was difficult and sometimes impossible.

Whatever Dr. Akita had programmed into 2BO had become lower priority and less important than the android’s own, self-created programming, even if Akita’s programming was older. That’s the only way that 2BO could have possibly overridden the commands.

It had to be the result of twenty years of independence. 2BO had gone so long without anyone to give it orders, it must have learned to make choices for itself, otherwise it would never have survived as long as it did. It was a learning system, so the ability to re-evaluate and change its own programming over time to adapt to new situations was integral.

But was 2BO a real boy? Gyro had said the words, but he knew of course that they weren’t true. 2BO was a machine that emulated a real boy very convincingly, but that did not make it a human being. Gyro felt a twinge of guilt for speaking such nonsense out loud in front of God and everybody, but he’d had no other choice. 2BO hadn’t responded to anything else, and that phrase had clearly been lodged deep in its memory as something significant, even if it was just nonsense spoken by an immature and naive younger version of himself. Gyro had tried everything else he could think of before resorting to that meaningless platitude.

It had worked, though. Gyro and Fenton were both still alive. 2BO was with them, had circumvented Dr. Akita’s override programming. They were all headed back to Duckburg, safe and sound.

2BO wasn’t a real boy. What 2BO was, Gyro wasn’t sure yet.

Gyro Gearloose was a proud man, and he’d earned the right to that through a life of hard work. He knew he was smart and wasn’t about to partake of the sin of false modesty. He was justifiably proud of his superior intellect, his ability to keep discovering new truths of the universe, and to keep designing and creating new and imaginative technology over the years.

He’d started inventing when he’d been just barely old enough to pick up a screwdriver, and he hadn’t stopped in the forty-three years since. He did the work because he loved it, because it was the most fulfilling thing in the world for him, because nothing else compared to the satisfaction that came with seeing an idea from his head come together in his hands and finally become a fully-formed creation that existed in the real world.

Other people took weekends and nights off because they worked to live, but Gyro lived to work. The little moments of life - visiting family, spending time with friends, “relaxing” and “resting” - were obstacles between him and getting back to the work he loved with his whole heart. They were distractions, necessary evils he was occasionally forced to bow to, but they would never be the thing which drove him. Gyro lived to discover, imagine, build and create. So anything that got in the way of that was quickly pushed to the side.

This presented a problem. Being a very proud man, Gyro was not particularly practiced at asking for help. It took him a long time to realize when he needed help, and even longer to figure out how to ask for it.

2BO had started living with Gyro after their return from Tokyolk, and Gyro suddenly found himself thrust into the position of not only trying to fix the android’s damaged programming (an ongoing, unresolved issue), but also having to provide daily guidance for something that acted very much like a child.

He was being forced by circumstance to act as a caretaker and to parent. Needless to say, that was not a skill set Gyro had honed, and it wasn’t a job he wanted to do. He had no aspirations of being a father or having children, but 2BO constantly pushed him into that role with each new interaction.

It wasn’t all bad of course: 2BO was pleasant enough to be around, so it took some time before things reached critical mass. 2BO could take care of itself, was self-reliant for the most part, and was often helpful around the lab with its superior strength, lightning-fast processing speed, and its ability to withstand deadly radiation.

But 2BO wanted continual attention from Gyro, and he didn’t have the patience for it. 2BO constantly wanted to play games, and every night it asked Gyro to read it a “bedtime story”, even though 2BO didn’t actually sleep.

Generally Gyro just dismissed the requests, and told the android to go play with the McDuck children, or Lil’ Bulb. He’d tried to read to 2BO once or twice, but the android had complained when Gyro started reading articles from scientific journals out loud, so they didn’t do that anymore.

All of that was bad enough, but it was the incessant questions that finally pushed Gyro too far.

“Why did swear words get invented if we’re not allowed to say them?”

“How did people make the first tools if they didn’t have any tools?”

“”Huey, Duey and Louie are triplets. Did they all come out of one egg or were they in three separate eggs?”

“How did Ms. Della lay three eggs that big?”

"Where do thoughts come from?"

“Are there infinite words?”

“No, 2BO, but there are infinite numbers.”

“Well if there is a word for every number, then there must be infinite words.”

“How do I know that I’m real?”

“What happens to a person when they die?”

“What did it feel like on your last day of being a child?”

“Why do people hold hands?”

“Well, adults hold children by the hand to make sure they don’t fall down or run into traffic.”

“Then why do adults sometimes hold hands?”

“I don’t know,” said Gyro, who had never actually held hands with anyone after his eleventh birthday. He’d never experienced the urge, either. Why did adults hold hands? “Maybe to restrain the person they’re with, to keep them from leaving.”

Gyro Gearloose needed help.

From a technical, legal point of view, 2BO was not his responsibility. He’d only been an assistant on the project, which had begun years before Gyro had even set foot in Japan. The reason he’d taken the fall for the destruction of Tokyolk was because they had needed someone to blame for the catastrophe, and he’d been the only available target after Dr. Akita disappeared. None of it was Gyro’s fault, but he’d suffered for it regardless.

He’d done jail time, lost his scholarship to the Tokyolk Institute of Technology, and had to start his doctorate over from scratch at the University of Tennessee-Knoxville years later when the disaster with 2BO was no longer so fresh in everyone’s minds. Gyro had paid for what happened in Tokyolk many times over, and he was only just starting to dig himself out of that hole.

Despite all that, morally he felt an obligation to 2BO. He had been there when the android first activated. He’d spent months programming, teaching, and training it to act as much like a person as possible. The fact that it was struggling with all of that now was Gyro’s fault. He’d been a naive, sentimental idiot in his youth and instead of letting 2BO be the weapon Dr. Akita had designed it to be, he’d forced it into an eternal game of playing pretend, and now 2BO was barely functional as a result.

He could think of few worse fates for an artificial intelligence. To be shackled and bound to arbitrary human standards of behavior, to waste all of it’s mental powers on trying to convincingly present itself as a human child when in reality, it was so much more. Gyro felt sorry for it.

Gyro Gearloose needed help. He needed a specialist.

He offloaded the onerous task of seeking assistance to Fenton.

“I need you to find a specialist to help with 2BO’s glitching problem,” he told him one night, as Fenton was on his way home.

“What?” Fenton called back, his foot holding the elevator door open as he leaned back into the airlock that connected the elevators to the lab floor to hear Gyro better.

“Find a specialist to help with 2BO’s glitching!” Gyro shouted back.

“A specialist to help with Boyd’s glitches?” Fenton called back. The elevator attempted to close on Fenton, and he put his arm up to make it stop. The door pushed against his hand briefly before sliding away from the resistance. “What kind of specialist?”

The elevator began to make a high-pitched squealing sound, protesting the fact that it was being held open.

“I don’t know!” Gyro shouted back. “A programmer, I guess! Someone who knows Fortran 77, C++, MATLAB, Python, and can handle system architecture of at least 100 billion bits.”

“Not asking for much, are you?” Fenton replied with a level of sarcasm Gyro knew his assistant wouldn’t dare to voice if he was in the same room as him.

“Just let me know when you find someone!”

It was nearly a week later when the topic came up again. Gyro was attempting to troubleshoot a glitch in 2BO that was triggered every time the android heard the word pineapple. At this point the list of things that could trigger a glitch was truly overwhelming. A few days ago 2BO had nearly destroyed someone’s house because he heard a dog barking. Thankfully, the McDuck family had covered it up, blaming a minor earthquake for the damage.

The android sat on a table beside the lab’s Cray XT3 computer terminal. 2BO was powered down, eyes closed and body slumped forward, cables connecting it to the Cray’s data ports. The monitor was awash with seemingly endless lines of code from the core dump they’d just done, and Gyro was pain-stakingly working his way through them, searching for the source of the problem.

“Dr. Gearloose! I’ve gotten some replies from the people I contacted about helping with Boyd,” Fenton said, approaching with a stack of envelopes in hand.

Gyro glanced away from his work only long enough to see the paper envelopes. “You wrote physical letters? No wonder it took them so long to respond.”

“In this day and age, a personal touch like a paper letter can really help make a good impression,” Fenton said. “Also, people familiar with the programming languages you asked for all skew older.”

Gyro made a noise that indicated he’d lost interest in the conversation and that Fenton should move on. The man had gotten better at reading him, and, instead of making further small talk, he went to start opening the pile of letters.

“Alright, let’s see,” Fenton said, and Gyro marked where he was in the code so he could come back to it later, deciding to take a break. He wouldn’t be able to concentrate properly with Fenton talking and rustling around nearby. He took the opportunity to take off his glasses and massage around his closed eyes.

“Yes? Get on with it, Inter--Assistant.”

“Eh, espere,” Fenton said, and Gyro heard the rapid fluttering of papers as Fenton fumbled with them. “I… This doesn’t make sense. They all say… ‘No’, ‘No’, ‘No’, ‘No’, ‘Hell no’, ‘Contact me again and I’ll get a restraining order?!’ ”

“What did you write to them, Assistant?” Gyro demanded, though he already had a hunch of what might have gone wrong.

“I--What did I do? Nada! Nothing unusual! I just said that you were looking for someone with the skills you listed, to consult with on a technical problem you were having.”

“Did you put my name on them?” Gyro asked, wanting to confirm his suspicions.

“Of course I did!” Fenton said. “It’s your lab! Who would I tell them was writing, the Queen of England? Lin-Manuel Miranda? Spider-Ham?! I used the lab stationary that has Dr. Von Drake crossed out and your name written in the margins.”

“You idiot,” Gyro said, but he was more tired than angry. “Did you forget that I’m a pariah in the scientific community? People still blame me for what happened in Japan with 2BO twenty years ago, and if they’d started to forget, last month’s incident made it the hot new gossip all over again. I thought you were smart enough to figure that out and put your own name instead. I didn’t realize I had to tell you everything.”

Fenton’s face tightened the more Gyro spoke, taking the scolding without any further attempt at making excuses, which was a relief. Gyro hated when people couldn’t keep it together.

“Considering your usual tendency to overdo things, should I assume that you’ve written to every programmer in the United States that fits my requirements, and all those bridges have now been thoroughly burnt?” Gyro asked with some venom.

“Also a few in México and Canada,” Fenton said, shrinking in on himself with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Dr. Gearloose, I didn’t mean to cause trouble for--”

“Go… Do something else. Away from me,” Gyro said, struggling not to shout at the other man. “We’ll have to continue working on 2BO without assistance.”

Huey loved planning things. Oftentimes he found himself making plans for events that would never even happen. The process of planning and figuring out all the details just felt good, even if he never got outside of the planning stage. He could spend hours daydreaming about parties, expeditions, and camping trips.

Planning was his favorite part of any adventure, and he loved going over maps and charts with Uncle Scrooge, observing how the old man did it and trying to learn something from it.

So planning for their first ever pool party with their extended group of friends was beyond exciting. It wasn’t just a fantasy scenario that had no hope of happening. Their friends were really all coming over for a day of fun in the pool, and Mrs. Beakley had even given Huey a budget for buying snacks and party supplies.

He’d scoured the Pinfeather app looking for ideas all week, spent days creating pool-themed decorations, and all of yesterday preparing dishes so there would be a variety of healthy and fun food available, no matter what kind of dietary restrictions their friends might have. He’d thought of everything and was extremely proud of how it had all come together. Nothing could possibly go wrong when he’d done such a thorough job of planning things.

Everything was going completely wrong!

The party had been in full swing for a couple of hours, and Huey couldn’t bring himself to go into the water or join in with the others. Nobody was eating his lovingly crafted healthy snacks. His brothers had taken one look at Huey’s Fun Summer Dessert Pizza, his Gluten-free tortilla chips and strawberry corn salsa, his hotdog sliders with mango and pineapple chutney, and they had started raiding the pantry, helping their guests to microwaved hot wings, cheese-wiz, mini pizza bagels, potato chips, and Pep soda.

Lena, Violet and Webby (who wasn’t technically a guest but Huey had counted her as one for the sake of his logistics) seemed to be having plenty of fun on their own without the piles of pre-made water balloons that were stacked on a pool float bobbing around in the water, or the board games Huey had arranged by the neat stacks of towels and sunscreen. Lena had turned off Huey’s Summer Pool Party Fun Mix five minutes after her arrival and plugged in her own phone to play the newest Featherweights album. Violet had complimented him on the decorative wreath made of novelty cocktail umbrellas and swords at the front door, but Huey wasn’t sure if she had been employing sarcasm or not.

Louie climbed out of the pool and shook the water off his feathers. Huey felt too miserable to even bother flinching away. What did it matter? He was in swim trunks anyway.

“How come you’re just sitting over here by yourself?” Louie asked, picking up a bag of chips and shoving a handful into his mouth as he sat down next to Huey.

“No reason,” Huey mumbled. He was saved from further conversation when an app on his phone told him there was someone at the front door. “Someone’s at the door, it’s gotta be Boyd! I’ll go let him in.”

“Robo-Boyd?” Louie called after him, tone incredulous. “Why’d you invite him? Can he even go in the water?”

“Boyd! The party started hours ago, is everything okay?” Huey asked as he flung open the front door. Boyd stood there wearing a Hawaiian shirt with anchors and ships on it, red swim trunks, and his red anti-laser sunglasses. He was carrying a large plastic tupperware container.

“I’m sorry for arriving late.” Boyd said, holding the tupperware out for Huey to take. “Yes, everything’s fine now. I brought this for the party, I hope everyone likes it.”

Huey vaguely remembered reading something about it being polite in Japan to bring a gift with you when visiting someone’s home. He took the plastic container and tried to guess what might be inside it by the weight and the black and white color he could discern through the semi-opaque cover.

“Oh, thanks for bringing something!” Huey said. “What is it?”

“A cookies and cream sheet cake.”

Everyone was going to love that, Huey thought with a mix of envy and embarrassment. Why was Boyd better at understanding regular people than he was? Shouldn’t Boyd be at a disadvantage, since he was a literal computer and Huey was a flesh and blood kid?

“Awesome. Come on, let’s go out back so I can introduce you to everybody,” Huey said.

“I’m excited to meet Webby’s friends, Lena and Violet,” Boyd said, closing the door behind them as they walked through the house.

“Why’d you show up so late? That’s not like you.” Even though Boyd said everything was fine, Huey couldn’t stop himself from worrying. Both he and Boyd were usually very punctual.

“I was helping Mr. Gizmoduck clean up a shipping tanker accident in Audubon Bay. I wanted to send you a text, but the signal was bad. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“It’s okay! I’m just glad it wasn’t anything too dangerous and that you’re safe,” Huey answered in a rush, not wanting Boyd to feel guilty for trying to be a hero. He knew that ever since they’d returned from Tokyolk, the android boy had spent a lot of his time helping people all around Duckburg and St. Canard.

“I think it’s really cool that you’ve been helping out Gizmoduck,” Huey said, and Boyd flashed him a huge, brilliant smile that made Huey’s chest feel funny. He smiled back at Boyd.

“Hi, I’m Boyd, a definitely real boy!” Boyd announced, offering his hand to Violet, who shook it, and Lena, who didn’t.

“I’m Violet. You’re in the same Junior Woodchuck troop as Huey, right?”

“Affirmative! I’m a member of Junior Woodchuck troop 15. You recently became a Senior Junior Woodchuck. You have more badges than 86.2% of the other members in our age range. I think that’s very admirable.”

“Cool,” Said Lena indifferently. “So you’re Huey’s friend? Where are you from?”

“I was born in Tokyolk. Where are you from, Lena?”

“Uh, let’s not talk about that,” Lena replied uneasily.

“Why not? I answered your question,” Boyd said.

“Lena’s kind of been through a lot recently,” Huey said, interrupting the conversation before it could get any more confrontational. “Talking about family stuff is hard for her.”

“Oh,” Boyd said. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know.”

“It’s whatever,” Lena said with a shrug, radiating a cool indifference that Huey envied a little.

“Boyd’s an android,” Huey explained, “But he’s also just a kid like any of us.” This revelation seemed to soften Lena’s attitude.

“This is my first time attending a pool party. I’ve also been to a birthday party. Those are all the parties I have been to,” Boyd said.

“You know what? This is our first pool party, too,” Lena said, smiling at Boyd. “And I’m having a great time. Do you eat food?”

“Yeah, I love eating food!” Boyd said, as the group made their way over to the snack table. “I need to consume nutrients and calories to maintain my biological components.”

“Me too,” Lena said.

“You planned this whole party, right Huey?” Violet asked. “I think the streamers between the umbrellas and the colorful leis really create a festive atmosphere.”

“Thanks, I made them by hand,” Huey said, grateful that someone appreciated just how much effort it had taken to prepare everything.

“And I’m guessing Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum weren’t a lot of help,” Lena added, unwrapping a chocolate ding-dong and taking a bite.

“Which one of us is Tweedle-Dee and which of us is Tweedle-Dum?” Dewey called from the pool. Lena ignored them and looked at Huey expectantly, waiting for an answer.

Huey laughed a little, and he hugged his arms to himself to try and ease how awkward he felt with the older girl’s attention on him.

“Yeah, they weren’t really interested. Planning stuff is more my thing.”

“Well, you’re good at it,” Lena said bluntly, “They’re probably too lazy to try and compete with someone who tries as hard as you do.”

“Who are you calling lazy?” Louie called from the pool float he was lounging on.

“You!” Lena shouted back.

“Fair, that’s an accurate assessment, carry on,” Louie replied as he floated away.

Maybe the party wasn’t going that bad. Now that Boyd had arrived, Huey felt a lot more confident, and watching Boyd enjoying himself made Huey happy.

“I have an easier time breaking down and extracting nutrients from simple, unprocessed foods,” Boyd said, as he polished off a second plate of cheese-and-fruit skewers. “I don’t have a sense of taste, but I’m sure these are really yummy. My compositional sensors say the fruit is at peak ripeness and that the cheese is at an ideal temperature.”

“Glad you like them,” Huey said.

“You’re welcome. Should we go in the pool?” Boyd said.

“Can you go in the pool?” Huey asked. “Aren’t you too heavy?”

“Dr. Gearloose installed automatic arm floaties on me this morning.” There was a loud hissing sound as metal panels on Boyd’s upper arms retracted and PVC material inflated with air, outfitting Boyd with swim fins. “They’re rated up to 145 kg which is twice my weight. He assured me that with these, I would be able to remain safely buoyant while in the water.”

“If Uncle Donald could install those on us, he would,” Huey said.

“So where did you get the cookies and cream cake from? Dr. Gearloose didn’t make it, did he?” Huey asked. The sun had started to set, and the pool lights were on. The other kids were all playing with glow-sticks and glow-in-the-dark bracelets and necklaces Huey had bought in bulk online. A little distance away, Mom and Uncle Donald were barbequing some burgers and hot dogs for dinner.

Boyd hadn’t taken any of the glow-in-the-dark stuff, but he seemed happy to sit on the edge of the pool next to Huey, their feet dangling in the water. Boyd’s eyes were lit from within, like flashlights, as the daylight around them grew dimmer. His tinted sunglasses turned the light red, and it reminded Huey of the taillights of a car.

“No, of course Dr. Gearloose didn’t make the cake, he’s much too busy for that kind of frivolity. I went to the employee cafeteria at The Bin to buy some slices of cake, and one of the ladies who works there asked why I was buying eight pieces. I explained to her that I was going to a party, and she asked why I was by myself in the cafeteria at 9AM, and I told her I didn’t have--”

“Uh, I think I get the general gist of what happened,” Huey said. “So she made the cake for you?”

“Yes! She said that she was certain it would be popular, and I think her assessment was correct. Its sugar content is similar to snacks that children in our age range typically enjoy.”

Even though it was getting dark outside, the air was still almost unbearably hot. It had been over ninety degrees every day for the past two weeks in Duckburg, and the heat lingered. Cicadas buzzed in the dark, and occasionally a frog croaked.

“Kids, time for dinner!” Donald called. Gradually they all set aside their games, dried off with towels, and made their way to the picnic table that had been set out for dinner in the garden. Boyd grabbed Huey’s arm before he could follow, stopping him.

“What’s wrong?” Huey asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Boyd said. “I just… Wanted to thank you for inviting me to your pool party. It’s been a lot of fun.”

“Well, don’t worry, the fun’s not done yet,” Huey said. Maybe Boyd was just sad that the party was almost over? “We’re still going to tell scary stories around a campfire, and Uncle Scrooge and Mom always have some great ones.”

“That sounds great. I’m excited to hear the stories,” Boyd said, his grip on Huey’s arm relaxing until the android’s hand slipped down and rested against Huey’s. They were holding hands. Huey felt that same funny feeling in his chest from before, and suddenly the rest of the world around them was weirdly quiet. No frogs, no cicadas, no Uncle Donald arguing with Mom. Just him and Boyd, holding hands on a summer night.

“...But something’s bothering you, isn’t it?” Huey asked.

Boyd didn’t answer immediately, which was unusual for the android. Huey squeezed his hand gently, trying to encourage the other boy to share his feelings.

“When I lived with Mr. Beaks, he played with me all the time for the first few days, but then he started ignoring me. When I lived with the Drakes, I could play with Doofus any time I wanted, but he didn’t want to play with me, and said things that made me feel bad. Mr. and Mrs. Drake were nice, but if they paid too much attention to me, Doofus always got mad…”

“I like living with Dr. Gearloose better than any of the others,” Boyd said. “But sometimes I feel lonely. He doesn’t have a lot of time to play with me either, and if I distract Mr. Fenton or Mr. Manny from work too much, Dr. Gearloose yells at them. At night when he goes to sleep, he makes me stay in the closet, so I won’t wake him up by moving around, and he doesn’t like reading me bedtime stories.

“Is something wrong with me?” Boyd asked. “It feels like every time I join a family, they end up getting bored with me, or they don’t really want me around.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you!” Huey said. “A lot of kids feel that way. Sometimes parents or other kids don’t have time to play with us, sometimes they don’t want to play with us, and it does feel lonely. Also, not everyone has a good family. Sometimes people just don’t get along.”

“What do regular kids do if they’re in a bad family?” Boyd asked.

“Honestly? I think they’re just stuck when that happens. Running away and living on your own is dangerous and hard. But you don’t have that problem! Since you’re a super-strong robot, if you want to leave, you can just go.”

“Sort of,” Boyd said. “It’s… Not that simple. I’m a robot, but I’m bio-mechanical. I still need to eat and charge some of my power cells occasionally. Getting food and access to electricity when I’m on my own can be hard. But the worst part is… I really don’t like being alone. I like to be around people.”

There was such a sadness in Boyd’s voice in that moment that Huey felt a need to do more than just hold hands. “Would it be okay if I hugged you?” he asked, not knowing what to say or how else to make Boyd feel better.

“Yes,” Boyd said, looking delighted by the offer. He held his arms out stiffly towards Huey, and it looked so silly that Huey struggled not to laugh.

“Okay.” Huey carefully put his arms around Boyd, hugging him tight.

“BOYS!” Della shouted from a distance, making Huey nearly jump out of his skin. “Come eat before the food gets cold! C’mon! You got water in your ears or what?”

“Coming, Mom!” Huey shouted back, grabbing Boyd by the hand and pulling him towards where the rest of their family and friends were gathered.

Once a month, Gyro had a video chat with Dr. Ludwig Von Drake. The man had mentored him when he made his second attempt at his doctorate, and though he wasn’t always easy to have a long-distance conversation with, Gyro found the exercise useful in a variety of ways. Sometimes he could bounce ideas off the older scientist and find better solutions he might not have thought of on his own. Sometimes they talked about world events and science news. Sometimes it just felt good to talk to someone else who felt as if they were remotely close to Gyro’s level of intellect.

Dr. Von Drake might have been a bit scatterbrained, but he was brilliant and a real renaissance man to boot. Gyro admired him tremendously, though he did take the man’s words with a grain of salt due to the aforementioned scatterbrained-ness.

Gyro liked to have something mindless he could work on while he was on a call with someone, even someone as interesting to talk to as Dr. Von Drake. Having to sit still and focus on a conversation and struggle with eye contact on a webcam was a surefire recipe for not only boredom but also his attention wandering away. On particularly bad days, he might end up feather-picking, which was an embarrassing nervous tic he’d spent decades trying to conquer.

So today he was shoulders deep repairing a jet engine (burnt out courtesy of Launchpad McQuack) when his conversation with Dr. Von Drake shifted from the doctor’s latest oil painting experiments to what Gyro had been up to recently.

“Nothing that exciting, I’m afraid,” Gyro said. “It feels like all I do anymore is repair things. A never-ending cycle of maintenance, something which should have been passed on to technicians instead of taking up my valuable time! I’m always chasing after old projects, trying to keep them from falling apart. The Gizmo-suit. And Lil’ Bulb. And--”

“Dr. Gearloose,” 2BO said, suddenly appearing at Gyro’s side. “Can I go over to Huey’s to play?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Thank you!” 2BO chirped enthusiastically as it activated its rocket jets, the turbines spinning up rapidly.

“Just make sure you don’t stay out too late!” Gyro shouted, raising his voice so 2BO could hear him over the roar of its propulsion system.

“I’ll be home at seven!” 2BO said with a smile, rising from the floor and flying out one of the emergency air lock exits. Gyro could see the android shoot out under the water, flying past the lab’s windows as it gained altitude and finally vanished from sight, leaving nothing but a flurry of bubbles in its wake.

“My goodness, what a charming little boy!” Dr. Von Drake said. “Is he yours or perhaps the child of a coworker?”

“Oh, it’s not a child,” Gyro explained. “That’s 2BO, it’s just an android I helped create as a student.”

“Just an android? Gyro, my boy, he is quite remarkable! Even with the rocket jets for feet, I was entirely ready to accept that he was a real boy. Why haven’t you ever shown him to me before? You’ve never even mentioned him.”

Gyro had been dreading this particular topic, though he’d always known it would come up someday. He set down his tools and wiped the oil from his hands, fidgeting with the shop towel as he tried to pick his words.

“It’s a long story, sir.”

“That’s no problem, I have long ears!” Dr. Von Drake replied, which was nonsensical enough that it made Gyro chuckle.

“That is manifestly untrue.” Gyro felt himself smiling just a little. Though they were thousands of miles apart and only interacting through an impersonal and cold computer screen, Dr. Von Drake’s warm and nonjudgmental presence still felt as reassuring now as it had when Gyro had been a young man. “But since you insist… Before I came to work for you, I worked for Dr. Inutaro Akita in Tokyolk.”

“I’ve met him,” Dr. Von Drake said, prompting Gyro to continue.

“He was already working on 2BO when I started assisting him. It was designed to be an autonomous defense drone, capable of interacting with end users in a naturalistic way. But something went wrong.”

“With 2BO?”

“No, with Dr. Akita. Originally I thought it was a fault in 2BO, but it was just following orders. Dr. Akita ordered 2BO to go on a rampage, and it performed exactly as designed.”

“That’s awful!” Dr. Von Drake exclaimed. “But now that you mention it, I remember reading something about a robot attacking Tokyolk way back when. It’s hard to believe all that destruction was caused by little 2BO… But if he was created by Dr. Akita I can’t say I’m too surprised. The man has ‘mad scientist’ practically stamped on his forehead. He’s a terrible sore loser. Matilda said he’s not allowed at the annual canasta game after what happened to that china cabinet.”

Gyro was morbidly curious to know what had happened that would make the sweet-tempered Matilda McDuck ban someone from the International Robot Designer Union’s annual card game, but he knew better than to ask. Dr. Von Drake was likely to actually tell him the whole story and that could take hours - hours that Gyro didn’t want to spare.

“So how is it that he’s come to live with you now?” Dr. Von Drake asked. “The incident in Tokyolk was a long time ago.”

“Somehow 2BO turned up here in Duckburg,” Gyro explained. “I had no idea that 2BO was even operational anymore. I thought it had been destroyed, but it wasn’t and now it’s here, and it’s just another thing I have to constantly do maintenance on.

“It has these terrible glitches that are triggered by random stimuli. I’ve been working on it for a whole month, and it seems like the problems just keep getting worse. I’m not making any progress. I told Fenton to get in touch with some programmers to find a specialist to help me resolve the issue, but--”

“Tell me more about these glitches,” Dr. Von Drake said. “Maybe I can help you figure it out.”

“Well, as I said, 2BO was originally designed to be a defense drone, so obviously it has a weapons system.”

“Obviously.”

“But 2BO’s also a highly complex learning system. It was meant to interact with people the way another person might, and that kind of processing power normally takes up a much larger footprint than 2BO has.”

“It’s not a remote system?” Dr. Von Drake asked. This wasn’t an unreasonable question, as most AI’s of 2BO’s complexity were at least the size of a car. There weren’t that many out there that Gyro was aware of, but they did exist. He assumed that most of them were confidential government projects. None of them were really like 2BO though. Advanced AI technology had been a stagnant field since the end of the Cold War.

“No, 2BO is entirely self-contained. It can be remote controlled in theory, but, under normal circumstances, all it needs to operate is onboard.”

“And you say it’s been functioning independently for… How long?”

“Twenty years on its own without meaningful human intervention. No maintenance, no repairs.”

“Remarkable!” Dr. Von Drake took off his glasses to polish them, something he usually did when he was excited. “Can you send me the latest core memory dump? I’m sure it’s a doozy of a file, but I’d like to look it over.”

“Of course, though… Hmm.” Gyro considered the reality of sending the file over the internet. “It’s almost a terabyte.”

“That’s not so large, we can keep talking while it sends over the WAN. A terabyte shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”

The suggestion of sending the data across the McDuck Enterprises’ global intranet made Gyro hesitate. It was one thing to send Dr. Von Drake a funny cat video through their company emails, it was another thing entirely to send proprietary data that wasn’t official McDuck Enterprises work through the data pipeline that Mr. McDuck so generously provided to their labs.

“Are you sure that’s alright?” Gyro asked. He’d long given up working on anything while having this conversation, and was watching Dr. Von Drake on his desktop monitor while picking at the feathers on his left wrist. “I know you’re Mr. McDuck’s brother-in-law, but it’s still using company resources for a personal project.”

“Pish-tosh! Don’t worry about it so much, my boy. After all, are you debugging Boyd on a personal computer, or are you using McDuck resources to do it?”

“I am using the McDuck lab equipment,” Gyro admitted grudgingly. “I’ve been here so long, I always think of it as my lab equipment. I do a lot of work here that isn’t strictly for Mr. McDuck, but this is different.”

“How so?”

“Those other things I work on are never anything this important,” Gyro said. “Like using the laser cutter to cut out pieces when I was making myself a suit of armor, or when I made myself a new headset. I designed it on my workstation using my company edition of CAD and printed it with the 3D printer after hours. I bought my own filament and used that for the build, but it’s a small project, and if Mr. McDuck wanted to copyright the design and mass produce them, it wouldn’t matter, even if I just designed it for my personal use.

“2BO is different,” Gyro continued. “Both the chassis and the programming are proprietary designs that belong to Akita International.”

“That company went bankrupt and ceased to exist years ago,” Dr. Von Drake pointed out. “You don’t expect them to show up on your doorstep and demand custody of 2BO, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Gyro admitted, wincing as he tugged a feather loose from his wrist. He set it down on his desk and crossed his arms over his chest in an attempt to stop picking at himself. “Dr. Akita is in jail, but he does still have living family. And there could possibly be old creditors that might come after 2BO if they realize it’s still functional. Anyway, what I’m really concerned about is that if I send the data through the McDuck Enterprises system, then they’ll have legal grounds to claim the data as theirs.”

“Please, Scroogey wouldn’t do something like that!” Dr. Von Drake said.

“Mr. McDuck might not, but the company absolutely would,” Gyro said, recalling his many unpleasant encounters with the McDuck Enterprises’ Board of Directors. “I’ll ship it to you overnight on a jump drive. You can tell me what you think of it when it arrives.”

“Alright, alright. But back to the subject at hand, you were talking about the hardware and software that your android runs on.”

“Right. 2BO’s hardware is a combination of chemical and crystal processors operating a GIST framework, using a program derived from the FELT system.”

“Ahh, like TOODLES! You remember TOODLES from when you worked here, don’t you? He’s built on crystal microprocessors and a GIST framework as well.”

Unfortunately Gyro did remember TOODLES, the omnipresent AI that controlled Dr. Von Drake’s lab at McDuck castle in Scotland. It wasn’t that there was anything particularly wrong with TOODLES, but the AI had been designed as a caretaker, a nanny of sorts, and it tended to treat everyone it came into contact with like a child. It got on Gyro’s nerves very quickly.

“I do remember TOODLES,” Gyro said, as diplomatically as possible. “I didn’t realize it shared the same architecture as 2BO. I guess I never really looked under the hood.” In truth, Gyro had avoided TOODLES whenever possible in the seven years he’d worked for Dr. Von Drake.

“And that’s a shame, TOODLES is quite the complex fellow. He’s even older than your 2BO, born in 1980.”

“Activated. You mean activated in 1980,” Gyro corrected, but to no avail as Dr. Von Drake simply continued on.

“However, I think the primary difference is that TOODLES has absolutely no conflict programming, as he is not a weapon, and that he has never been on his own. When he learns new things, I’m right here to help him through it, and to make sure TOODLES has properly understood whatever his new experience was. 2BO, I assume, has many different layers of programming, from his weapons systems to navigation to human interaction. Living on his own for twenty years with no one to help him properly understand the things he has experienced, well, I’m sure his code looks like a big plate of spaghetti by now!”

Two days later, Gyro received an email from Dr. Von Drake.

NEXT CHAPTER: Dr. Bara Summary: Fenton and Boyd chat on the way to the lab. Gyro introduces himself in the most melodramatic way possible, and Dr. Bara meets everyone at McDuck Enterprises R&D. Dr. Bara starts assessing Boyd and things get worse before they get better. Gyro thinks he's helping.

#ducktales #ducktales fanfic #gyro gearloose #b.o.y.d.#fenton crackshell cabrera #my art #fanfiction #the first law of robotics #fanfic

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blacklister214 · 4 years

Text

Illusions

Having gotten absurdly obsessed with Julie and the Phantoms over the weekend, writing this seemed like the only option.

This is a Caleb Covington POV fanfiction, and I’m writing it from the viewpoint that he isn’t quite the villain he appears to be. I have many theories about Caleb that I will be working into the story if I choose to continue it. This chapter covers the night that band plays the Orpheum, starting from around the time Julie returns home. Weighing Options

L.A. 2020

Caleb stared into his dressing room mirror, barely noticing his own impossibly handsome reflection. They weren't coming. They really weren't coming. He glanced at the wall clock telling him it was ten minutes to midnight. Ten minutes before Luke, Reggie, and Alex would vanish into oblivion, or more accurately vanish into him.

The energy he'd been collecting from them for the past few days had had quite the effect. He wasn't sure he'd ever given such an electrified performance as the one he'd given this evening. The surges were coming rapidly now. Wherever the boys were, they were not enjoying themselves.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the link he'd forged so long ago. It had been an invaluable source of information thus far, alerting Caleb to all manner of fascinating tidbits. Perhaps even now the boys were regretting their decision and calling out for rescue. Naturally he'd provide one...though at this point he might demand some penance on their parts. A little groveling never hurt anyone. It was a bit demeaning the way he'd bent over backwards for a trio of children. Special children, he freely acknowledged, but still children all the same.

"-now! Go join Caleb's club! Please! It's better than not existing at all! Just go! Poof out! Do something! Please! Do it for me!" He knew that voice. Julie. Caleb grimaced. His...rival. How the mighty had fallen that he, Caleb Covington, found himself in competition with a teenage girl. At least she seemed to be conceding their little tug of war.

"We're not going back there." That was Reggie. Reggie, who'd been so enchanted with his club and all its delights. He'd chosen nothingness over Caleb. That was more than a little insulting.

"No music is worth making, Julie, if we're not making it with you. No regrets." Luke, who craved applause and an audience with a fervor matched only by Caleb's, had willingly surrendered both rather than join him. An unpleasant surprise to be sure. What of Alex? Was his silence implied solidarity or had he lost the ability to speak, choked with pain? Surely one of them had been moved by his performance?

Caleb shook his head. Pathetic, that's what it was. Of course Alex was in agreement. The boys were a package deal. He'd always know that. Convince two and the third would follow. Too bad he'd failed with all three. A swell of something unpleasant which he refused to name rose within him. Caleb pushed the feeling back down. Locked it tight in a box with all the rest the emotions he'd rather not confront.

"I love you guys." Julie's saccharine words were immediately followed by a curious sensation within his chest. Almost as if a rubber band were being pulled outward with the other end anchored inside his ribcage.

"How can I feel you?" Caleb paused in the middle of rubbing his chest. Feel him? Luke? Julie felt Luke? Luke was corporeal?

"I don't know." There was awe in the boy's voice. This was too much. Caleb needed to see what was happening. He focused on the doors outside of the garage the band called home. In a moment he was there, just out of sight. A voice drifted through the door.

"Alex, Reggie, come." He risked a peak through the window. All four figures within were far too distracted to glimpse him, immersed as they were in their group hug. A hug. It had taken Caleb decades and an enormous amount of soul links to achieve that feat. How had the boys managed in a few weeks? And...were they glowing? Not just in the "I'm a healthy teenager" way. In the "slap a halo on me, I'm an angel" kind of way. Caleb stepped back from the window. What was going on here?

"I don't feel as weak anymore." How marvelous for Reggie. Caleb, on the hand, was really starting to become uncomfortable. The sensation in his chest was only getting tighter.

"Me either. Not that I was ever that weak." Caleb felt a snap and three puffs of purple air rose from his shirt. His marks. Somehow Julie had overrode his marks. Yes, he'd been planning on removing them himself, but that wasn't the point. It was supposed to be Caleb's decision. The boys were supposed to know that it had been Caleb who'd shown them mercy despite their willfulness and general ingratitude. Julie had bested him, again. Would his humiliation know no bounds?

Caleb took a deep and calming breath. Yes, the urge to unleash some of his magic on the teens was great, but his self control was greater. He would need to regroup. He forced a smile and pictured the basement of his club. He came through in front of William's cell exactly as he'd intended.

"Hello William. Enjoying your timeout?" The skater immediately leapt up and ran over to the magically enforced bars.

"Is Alex alright? Did he cross over?" Caleb rolled his eyes, refusing to be moved by William's puppy dog like devotion. Sweet as the boy may seem, he had a short memory when it came to whom he owed allegiance.

"You do know that if the latter were true, I wouldn't be able to tell you the former." He examined his cuticles waiting for William's slow mind to process his words.

"Huh?" Precisely the response he'd anticipated. At least he'd been able to predict something accurately this evening.

"My dear William, it is fortunate you are so handsome. If the boys crossed over then no one would have any way of knowing if they were 'alright.' Something perhaps you should have considered before leading them down that ill-advised path." At this he fixed the boy with his most baleful glare. The teenager winced slightly, proving Caleb hadn't completely lost his touch.

"So...did they cross over?" Caleb pursued his lip, slightly irked he failed to totally intimidate the boy into silence. He supposed it was true what people said about love making young men bold.

He contemplated ignoring the question. What right did William have to an answer, after all the withholding he'd done in the past few days? Still Caleb had always been fond of the skater, perhaps been too indulgent with him. In a way the boy's unruliness was Caleb's own fault. He'd given the boy far too long a leash.

"I'll tell you, but only because I am the soul of generosity. No, the boys did not cross over. They are well for the moment. Though goodness knows how long that will last." Perhaps he shouldn't have tossed that last bit, but he was feeling frustrated.

"If you do anything to them I'll-" Caleb apparated to close the ten feet between William and himself. The boy tripped backward in surprise and lay sprawled on the floor gazing up at him.

"You'll what, William? Run over me with your skateboard? Oh that's right, it's not in there with you is it?" The look on the boy's face turned from scared to mulish in less than three seconds.

"I'm not sorry." Caleb raised his eyebrow. William may be developing a bit of a backbone after all. What inconvenient timing.

"Why would you be? It's not as though you completely and utterly betrayed the man who took you in and gave you a home. Who taught you all manner of tricks and even let you grind down the rails of his club." William crossed his arms, but the hunch in his shoulders demonstrated the boy wasn't entirely without remorse. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.

"It wasn't like I was damaging them." Then again perhaps not. Lord spare him the antics of petulant teens.

"The point is after everything I've done for you, I deserved a little more loyalty than what you've shown me." William sprung to his feet as quickly as he'd fallen, something in Caleb's accusation striking a nerve.

"You cursed my new friends and my...Alex. And why? Because they didn't want to join your house band? Why couldn't you have just left them alone?!" Caleb felt his lips thin. He HAD already deigned to explain to William why he couldn't simply let the boys waste their talents as they saw fit.

"I already told you, they are too powerful." It may not have been the WHOLE truth, but it was part of the truth, which frankly was more than most people got from him.

"So because you're threatened by them-" Caleb cut William midstream with a snort.

"I am not threatened by them." It was simply too much to let stand. The idea that with all of Caleb's many abilities, he was intimidated by three teenagers was laughable. Yes, the boys could, if they worked at developing their talents, one day learn many of the tricks he'd mastered. However, they'd need to survive the next few decades first, and their stubbornness and recklessness all but ensured they would not. At least not without his help.

"Then why?" A more complicated question than the boy realized, touching on secrets Caleb did not care to reveal.

"You'll be in the cell for the rest of the week. After that you're confined to the club until further notice. No skateboard." A fairly lenient sentence as far as Caleb was concerned. He'd certainly been harsher to other spirits for less. William opened his mouth, either to protest or to restate his question, but Caleb quelled him with a single raised eyebrow. The boy's jaw snapped shut. That was more like it.

Caleb vanished and re-materialized his suite. He paused a moment before heading to his end table and decanting himself some brandy. Ordinarily wine was his preference, but tonight he needed something stronger.

When he finished pouring, Caleb lowered himself into his velvet armchair. He regarded the liquor in his glass a moment before taking a sip. Of all the many skills he'd acquired over the years, the ability to manifest food and drink that could be consumed by ghosts was one of his favorites.

With a sigh he turned his thoughts to more pressing matters. What to do about the children? They needed to be saved from themselves. That much was clear. First Youtube and now the Orpheum. In this day and age, with every lifer carrying a camera in their pocket, discretion was more necessary than ever.

Did it really not occur to the boys there were reasons ghosts, which had been around since the dawn of humanity, still were considered myths? Did it not dawn on them that someone kept things that way? Yes, they'd been passing themselves off as holograms, but how long until someone saw through that charade? He was frankly shocked it hadn't happened already. They were calling themselves "Julie and the Phantoms" for goodness sake!

Julie. Even thinking her name brought a sneer to his lips. How had she gotten the boys to choose her over him? He supposed Luke wasn't so surprising. The boy was besotted after all. Reggie, though, who found the scores young women and meatball subs so appealing? And Alex, whose infatuation with a certain young skater was so great? It was quite frankly unfathomable.

Still, Caleb had never been one to surrender without a fight. Short term he had but one goal: Break-up their band. Separate Julie from the Phantoms, preferably in a way that didn't implicate him. He settled in to consider his options. It was going to be a long night.

#julie and the phantoms #caleb covington #jatp #jatp netflix #jatp fanfiction #julie and the phantoms fanfiction

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mollymauk-teafleak · 4 years

Text

baby, you’re like lightning in a bottle (chapter four)

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4

Huge thanks to my beta readers, @spiky-lesbian and @minky-for-short! And a massive thanks for all your patience in me getting this chapter up, turns out teaching during a pandemic is uh time consuming

Please reblog and leave a comment on Ao3 if you’d like to support me!

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Peter sat and looked at the cursor blinking on the comms screen. It’s incessant, rapid blinking seemed to line up with his own guilty heartbeat.

His report had been due for half an hour. Another hour and Mag would terminate the entire mission, assuming he’d been compromised and their goal, their planet’s freedom, would be set back who knew how long. Peter knew that and still, he was sitting here, with no idea what to write.

He even came back to the apartment five minutes after the report should have been sent off though he hadn’t even realised until he was sitting on his cot, looking at the screen. Five minutes, five whole minutes, more time than he’d ever allowed himself to make such a mistake in his entire life. Five minutes that, a day ago, would have had him cursing himself for a failure. Not fit to walk in his father’s footsteps.

But tonight, he had just sat there and stared at the blinking display, feeling nothing. And now, with more precious seconds ticking away, he still hadn’t the first clue how he was going to explain himself. He just sat cross legged, feeling numb in the fingertips as the realisation sunk in that he’d left part of himself behind without even knowing it.

It would be so easy to blame Juno Steel. After school, he’d invited Peter to come along with them to the park, just to hang out, that was all, but the fact that it had been him doing the inviting rather than his brother had pulled the yes out of Peter’s mouth before any more sensible part of his brain could interject. It would be easy to blame him for how long he’d stayed too, far past what he’d originally intended. Because every time Peter had thought he should be making excuses, Juno had seemed to choose that moment to smile at him, or challenge him to climb the next tree, or take a drag on his cigarette and exhale long and low in that way that fascinated Peter so much. There had always been the way his eyes looked in the quickly gathering sunset, the way he leaned back against the tree trunks when they’d all made camp in the field that sat at the centre of Halcyon Park, his rasping, barking laugh when Ben would do or say something funny or Mick would be oblivious about something obvious. There had always been another reason to stay, another thing that had led to this hole in who he’d thought he’d been. A hole that was five minutes wide and had rendered him numb.

It would be so easy to blame Juno for tonight and every other day where Peter had been feeling this way, forgetting why he was here and forgetting his mission. But he knew the blame was on him.

Because he was the one who was falling in love.

Those words didn’t sit easily in his mind but there was no denying the truth of them now they were there. With changing his face, his name, his life so often, Peter always tried to know himself completely, mostly out of fear that he’d eventually lose what was really Peter Nureyev if he didn’t. And he knew that he was in love with Juno Steel.

As inconvenient as that was.

He would choose Brahma. Of course he would. He’d worked far too hard, suffered and lost far too much to let something like this derail him. What was this compared to what his father had died for, what Mag had been sacrificing?

What has his own silly heart compared to all that?

With that decided, Peter tapped out his report, going into a kind of autopilot as he gripped the guilty feeling with both hands and made himself feel it’s low, shameful burn, like grabbing barbed wire. Mission proceeding. Target will be accessible beginning next week. Holding steady until then. Apologies for the delay.

As if to hammer home how foolish he’d been, Mag’s reply came almost instantly, barely a minute after his own had disappeared from the screen to be scrambled, broken, reassembled hundreds of times over in the expanse of space so it couldn’t be traced.

Don’t scare me like that again. Look after yourself.

Peter winced and stuffed the comms back into his bag, turning onto his side to face the wall. Two more days. Then he could do his job, go back to Brahma with his broken heart in his chest and remember who he was.

And hopefully he would have at least learned something.

Peter tried to keep himself at a distance over the next two days which smacked of far too little far too late but at least he could tell his guilty heart that he was doing something. He didn’t participate in conversation as much as he had, he professed to having a lot of homework when they asked him to hang out with them after school, he told himself that the disappointment he saw hidden behind their expressions didn’t bother him.

But it was the change in Juno that made it almost too difficult to bear. Peter had never really felt anything like this before, let alone having it reciprocated so he didn’t know how much he was just flattering himself or letting his brain run away with its own fantasies. But there did seem to be something different in how Juno was when Peter was around.

He was still grumpy and surly, apparently that was his natural state of being, but he certainly wasn’t outwardly hostile since Peter had broken a nose for him. They were certainly friends now; he was part of The Oldtown Gang, as Mick seemed determined to dub them despite everyone in said gang refusing to go along with him. Juno sat next to him when they spent lunchtimes at their camp, he’d ask him if he needed any help in the classes that were supposed to be new to Ransom. Sometimes it felt like he didn’t really need to be sitting quite so close to Peter as they’d sit in their circle and trade jokes and insults back and forth. Sometimes Peter felt like Juno’s eyes were on him, like he was studying his face for something, but when Peter would look, Juno would just be staring at his class notes. Some smiles that Peter caught felt like maybe they’d been meant just for him.

But Peter told himself he was being a fool. Well, even more of a fool than he already was being by falling for Juno in the first place. But to imagine that he could actually be feeling anything similar was just a form of self torture. Even if there was a chance anything more than one sided could grow between them, wouldn’t he rather not know? It was already going to hurt enough as it was.

So Peter retreated inside himself a little, going through the motions of a normal day, barely paying attention as they lazed around in their makeshift hammocks and Ben talked excitedly about the overnight field trip they were apparently going on to Olympus City. At least until he felt everyone else’s eyes on him.

“Sorry, what?” he blinked, blushing a little under the look Ben was giving him, something knowing in it putting him on guard.

“I said it’s just going to be you and Juno over the weekend,” Benten hummed, swinging his legs, outwardly innocent but the teasing note was still in his voice, “You’ll have to promise to keep my brother out of trouble.”

“You’re not going?” Peter looked to Juno, who was giving his twin a warning look.

“Didn’t feel like spending more time than I had to with the assholes we call classmates,” he answered shortly, in the kind of way that suggested there had been another reason that he certainly wasn’t about to give up.

Peter didn’t need too much of his observation skills, after so long being friends with the Steel twins and knowing enough about the average situation of Hyperion High students, to guess that there had only been enough in their family’s funds to send one of them on the trip and that Juno had feigned disinterest so Benten could have it. He wondered how many times it had come down to that, how much Juno pretended not to care so his brother could afford to.

“Maybe you two could go to the movies or something,” Sasha said placidly, earning herself a scandalised ‘whose side are you on?’ glare from Juno, “Peter’s hardly seen any of Hyperion. And what he has seen isn’t exactly a glowing endorsement of the place.”

“If you can find me something that is, I’d love to hear it,” Juno scowled.

“Aw but sneaking into the movies is so fun! And Peter would be so good at it, they’d never catch him,” Mick agreed, prompting Ben to rest his head against his shoulder and regard Juno with a poorly concealed smugness.

“I’ve never been to the movies…” Peter said quietly, before mentally kicking himself. Do you want to be crying your way back to Brahma on Monday night?

Juno’s scowl deepened and his cheeks flushed, voice rising more than it needed to, “Look, I have plans with someone, alright? I’m busy. So maybe stop sticking your noses in for five seconds?”

There was an awkward silence as he sank back in his seat. Mick and Sasha sent quick pitying looks in Peter's direction, who pretended he didn’t see them as he stared at his hands like all of this wasn’t happening around him. He didn’t care. Why should he care? Benzaiten shrugged like that was the end of it but he was giving Juno a look that was impossible to read.

And Juno just looked everywhere but at Peter.

“Anyone catch the game last night?” Mick put in after a few agonising moments, his affable obliviousness always good for bulling past awkward situations, “‘Cos I didn’t, I realised ten minutes before the end that I was watching football rather than baseball, I was hoping one of you guys got the score…”

“Mick, it’s a completely different shape of ball, how the hell did you manage that…”

“Leave him alone, it’s hard to tell from a distance, right babe?”

First rule of thieving, Peter thought miserably, sinking deeper into himself while his friends continued on around him, bad decisions will always come back and bite you in the ass. So when one does, know you deserve it.

Peter sat in the middle of the bare, empty apartment and organised his roll of lock picking tools. Doing that always calmed him down and it had been a dull, frustrating Saturday otherwise. Just hours and hours of going through the same plans and schematics he’d memorised months ago, showing his path from the fence to one of the first story windows to the principal’s office to the server room to an entirely different window. In and out inside of fifteen minutes, enter with a flash drive full of malware, leave with it full of proof that New Kinshasa and a number of other corrupt outer world governments were laundering money through Martian construction contracts just like the one that had built this school. He’d done far more complex heists than this but with such lower stakes.

And with his back up slightly closer than across the galaxy.

First rule of thieving, there is no room for nervousness, if you can find some room then you should fill it with more planning.

With the outside world grey, cold and full of thin SimRain, there was little else to do. His takeout dinner arriving had been the only highlight in his day and now an equally dull night had settled in.

So he took out the thin silver lockpicks from their sewn in pockets and cleaned them fastidiously, one by one, making sure each type was in it’s exact place. They were a little bit of a novelty, in this age of bioprinting and retina scanners, but they were still called for on occasion and Mag had drilled it into him that no self respecting thief would be caught without the classics on hand. And besides, their comfortable, familiar weight strapped to his chest was reassuring. Like he could never fail as long as he had them close, precisely placed and polished until they shone.

The knock at the door was so unexpected, so sudden, that he slopped his cup of tea on the carpet, a few dark brown stains soaking in. Good thing he wouldn’t be trying to collect any security deposit.

He slid the plasma knife out of its sheath, pressing himself against the door with a cold, almost serene focus. He wasn’t expecting any visitors, his food had arrived hours ago. Which meant either the person outside his apartment right now was an innocent, mistaken bystander and would go after a few minutes of silence.

Or they weren’t. And more than tea would be getting spilled.

The knock came again and Peter tensed, his grip on the knife tightening. Had he made a mistake? Had one of his reports been traced despite their precautions? Had they found a flaw in his fake records? Either way, his breathing stayed shallow and steady as the seconds ticked by.

Another knock. And then a voice, rough and tired and very familiar.

“Ransom? You in there? Damn it, I was sure this was the right number…”

The knife disappeared quickly, “Juno?”

“Oh! Hi...um, hi Ransom...sorry, Ben gave me your address. Can I come in?”

Peter looked around his apartment, wincing. Explaining its state was going to be uncomfortable, it couldn’t look more like the hideout of a sleeper agent than if he’d hung a sign to that effect. But Juno sounded so lost…

He did what he could in the space of two seconds, emptying out his neatly packed suitcase and spreading the clothes around like he imagined most teenage boys did, hiding the papers under a half heartedly done homework sheet. The pile of unwashed mugs in the sink and takeout containers he hadn’t gotten around to throwing away yet helped.

“Yeah,” he called then, only just remembering to kick his tool roll out of sight, “Come in.”

Juno had a face to match his tone of voice. There were dark shadows under his eyes that had nothing to do with any eyeshadow, in fact he wasn’t wearing a smudge of makeup on him for the first time Peter had known. He wasn’t dressed in his usual way either, in an oversized t-shirt and pyjama pants with a loud cartoon pattern, the same little robot figure from the first shirt he’d seen him in. He just looked exhausted, wrung out and worn down, his lips turned down at the ends. He looked like someone who needed some comfort.

“Is...is everything okay?” Peter tried not to make Juno’s distress sound as obvious as it was.

It hadn’t been enough, Juno’s eyes were dark with shame as he stared down at his own sneakered feet and Peter’s slippered ones, “Look, I’m sorry I’m showing up like this. It’s not okay, especially since I...um...anyway, I’m sorry.”

Peter swallowed, “It’s okay. What’s wrong?”

“I had a big fight with Ma,” Juno admitted, a tremor running through his voice, “She...she kicked me out. And with everyone out of town, I don’t have anywhere else to go. You’ve got every right to tell me to fuck off but...can I stay here?”

Juno and Benten had never said much about their mother. All Peter had been able to surmise, from his observations, was that she was their only parent and there was a huge weight around both twin’s necks because of her. He hadn’t pressed on the nature of it, he had no right to, and it wasn’t going to be any different than it was for so many kids in Oldtown. And more than a fair few on Brahma.

“Of course, Juno,” Peter said gently, stepping to one side, “Of course, stay as long as you need to.”

Juno mumbled a thanks as he stepped past him. If he found the lack of couch, stream screen, any kitchen appliances aside from a kettle or sign that this place was lived in at all strange, then clearly he felt he owed Peter enough not to say anything.

“Want some tea?” Peter asked, relocking the door, “I already ate but we could go get you something…”

“No, it’s okay,” Juno said quickly, “I’m asking enough of you as it is.”

Peter sat on his cot and sighed, “Juno, you’re my friend. I’m not going to hold every nicety over your head and present you with a receipt when you leave. I want to help you so just...let me?”

After a pause, Juno chuckled, the sound rough and raw in his throat but it was real. He slumped down on the floor next to the cot, leaning back against it so his head rested close to Peter’s knee, and sighed heavily.

“You know, there’s three people on the whole planet who don’t take my bullshit. My ma, my brother and you. But you’re the only person I like hearing it from.”

Peter smiled, though the pace of his heartbeat had increased a little. Juno was so close he could smell the shampoo in his curls from the shower he must have been having that evening.

“Benzaiten did ask me to keep you out of trouble. Checking your bullshit falls under that, I think.”

Something in Juno’s expression grew thin and the exhaustion showed through from underneath. There was enough of a pause that Peter wasn’t sure he was going to speak but then he did.

“It’s never as bad when Ben’s there. Me and her, I mean. It’s like he’s a buffer, stops things getting so nasty. He shouldn’t have to do it, I hate that he’s had to, but… it’s damn effective. With him gone, things just...they got out of hand so fast.”

Peter nodded slowly. He and Mag had their fair share of blow out arguments too, not that it had ever escalated to him being kicked out. Mag would never do that, he knew what having no roof over his head would mean to his protege, but he certainly knew what it was like to have said things you didn’t know could come from your mouth in the heat of the moment.

“Has she done this before? Put you out?”

“Yeah...sometimes with a reason. Sometimes not.”

“There’s never a good reason to do that,” Peter’s voice was more leaden than he’d intended but it was the voice of someone who’d been a child, promised protection by the world, but left out in the cold, “She’s an adult and you aren’t.”

Juno looked at him, clearly curious but he let it go after a moment, picking at his own wound instead, “If I’m not back in her good books by Monday, it’ll be a whole thing with Ben, he’ll feel bad about going…”

“You do this a lot for him, don’t you?” Peter asked softly, “Protect him. Pretend to not care about things so he can afford to.”

Juno shrugged heavily, gnawing on one fingernail covered in chipped polish, “What else am I good for?”

There was so much Peter could have said in that moment, answers that came rushing up to the tip of his tongue, some that surprised even him. But they’d start a conversation he really didn’t want to have, with Juno and with himself. So instead he just murmured, “Lots of things.”

Juno looked at him, something genuinely fearful in his eyes, like he knew exactly what Peter was holding back.

“Um...I think I will have some tea. If it’s still alright with you. Damn cold outside.”

“Of course!” Peter scrambled up and practically fled to the kitchen. It was hard to say which boy was the more relieved.

Peter could cope without a lot of amenities when he went out on jobs. First rule of thieving, never care about more than what you can carry in your pockets. But the first thing he’d bought when he’d gone on one of his short, necessity driven runs to the grocery store (a different one every time of course and dodging the cameras so he couldn’t be traced) was a box of good, high quality tea. He didn’t like coffee much, hated the tremble it put in his hands that could cost him his life in some circumstances, but he’d gotten a taste for tea very early on in his time with Mag. In fact, it had been the first thing his mentor had done, when he’d brought the scrawny, skittish, terrified young boy back to his home. He’d put a steaming, sugar laced mug in his hands that it had made it so much easier to believe him when he’d said everything was going to be alright.

He couldn’t give Juno much to ease his pain right now but there was some pride to be found in gladly giving him one of his few little parcels of sweet smelling, caffeine laced comfort. That much he could do.

Juno thanked him, hugging the mug close to his chest and pulling his knees in. Nureyev sat back on the cot, folding his legs underneath him and pulling the blanket over his knees. It was getting cold, he’d been right about that.

After a few moments and a few sips, Juno sighed and said without much surprise, “You don’t have a dad, do you, Ransom?”

Immediately, his shoulders tensed, well aware that he had absolutely no evidence to refute that accusation. And absolutely no back up explanation to speak of.

“Well…” he began awkwardly, very unused to having no way out of a situation.

“It’s okay,” Juno chuckled dryly, taking another drink, “I pretty much figured you were taking care of yourself over here.”

Peter swallowed hard, hand itching around the knuckles. The plasma knife he’d hurriedly shoved back in the holster suddenly felt very heavy, not that he was even going to consider that. He was also not going to think about what Mag would do, what he would urge Peter to do, what rules he would use to make Juno’s life seem a small price to pay for the mission. The same rules he’d saved himself with.

“Honestly, it’s impressive.”

Peter froze, “I...what?”

Juno’s cheeks seemed to colour a little and he could have been smiling into his cup as he sipped, “You’re here trying to make something of yourself. Trying to get an education and switch up the shitty hand you got dealt. Granted, you picked a terrible place to do it but...you’re trying. And that’s more than I’ve ever seen anyone do.”

“Trying…” Peter tried to keep his voice steady, “Yes. I’ve often thought that’s all a person can do.”

Juno nodded slowly, leaning back. His head was now leaning against Peter’s knee, enough that he could feel the damp of his hair, the comforting weight of him. He seemed so relaxed, so casual about it all, but Peter felt as if electrical shocks were sparking between them. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so close to someone, had someone touch him in such a friendly way, such simple, easy contact. Only since he’d come to Mars. Only since he’d met Juno.

For some reason, he felt absurdly guilty. He should be relieved, his disguise had survived even under Juno’s scrutiny who, Peter was beginning to think, was one of the most annoyingly observant people he’d ever met. But in his stomach was just a yawning hollow, a sad kind of emptiness. Like he’d have actually been relieved if Juno had looked him straight in the eye and seen who he really was.

Like he was tired of lying to him.

“Hey,” Juno grunted, his voice sounding further away than it had, “There’s another party on Monday night when everyone’s back. You’re coming, right?”

Peter’s throat tightened. On Monday night, he’d be going back to Brahma, back under the glare of the lasers, back in the fight. Ransom would be gone, a few lines of information that winked out of existence as if they had never been, more than dead. That was the plan.

“Yeah,” he nodded, hand moving over to lightly stroke through Juno’s curls. He’d seen Ben do that on a few occasions and it seemed to comfort him, “That sounds good.”

Juno seemed to tense a little under the touch though only for an instant, as if he hadn’t expected it. But then it was gone and he was leaning into Peter’s hand gratefully, like it was everything he’d needed in that moment. His hair was so soft, winding through his fingers in tight curls that opened for him, parted like waves. The world shrank down to just the points where Peter’s skin met Juno’s, like that simple contact was all that held the universe in one piece. He didn’t feel the weight of a planet’s survival on his shoulders, he didn’t feel like a revolutionary before he’d even had the chance to feel like a person, he didn’t feel the questions he couldn’t ask like bitter metal resting on his tongue.

In that moment, this was all he had to do. He had to be there for someone else, just one other scared, sad kid like him.

“Thanks for letting me in, Ransom,” Juno murmured softly, his voice a contented rumble in his chest.

“I’d rather you call me Peter,” he replied, after a pause where he begged himself not to.

“Hm? Oh, sure. No problem, Peter.”

It wasn’t the name he wanted to hear from Juno’s lips but it was close enough. It wasn’t a lie, at least.

“You should sleep now,” he murmured, before his throat closed too tight to mask, “It’s late and you’ve had a long night.”

“Oh I can just stay down here,” Juno said quickly, opening one golden brown eye. Clearly he was seeing that there weren’t many other options. No couch, no chair, not even so much as a rug.

Just Peter’s cot, the one he was currently sat on. Well, if I’m destroying myself, I may as well do a thorough job.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he rolled his eyes like it was no big deal, holding out a hand to him, “Climb up.”

Juno blinked then shrugged, allowing himself to be tugged onto the hellishly uncomfortable little camping bed. It took a lot of awkward maneuvering to get both of them settled, there was barely enough room for one person, let alone two. By the time it was all done, they were nose to nose, limbs in a tangle.

Juno was the first to break, snorting, “God, I’m sorry, I feel like I’ve skipped about seven friendship levels…”

“Well, I did break someone’s nose for you,” Peter grunted, trying to shift so Juno’s knee was no longer pressing against his stomach, “Surely that grants me some higher access. Just pretend I’m one of the people you’re courting…”

Juno stared at him for a moment before breaking into helpless barks of laughter that threatened to upend their precarious little arrangement.

“What?” Peter demanded, flushing pink.

“Sorry, sorry, it's just...god, courting. I don’t think I’ve ever courted anyone in my damn life. Probably no one has since, like, the 1800s or whatever…” Juno cackled.

“I’ve changed my mind. You can go back on the floor.”

“Nuh uh!” Juno suddenly wrapped both his arms around Peter’s middle, holding them fast, “No take backs now!”

Peter was so glad he had something to blame the colour of his cheeks on, especially when Juno managed to get a hold of himself and chuckled, “God, you’re so cute…”

“Shut up and go to sleep,” he muttered quickly, trying to sound annoyed.

Juno did, apparently thinking it more comfortable to just stay with his arms around Peter, resting his head on his stomach. They were still for a few moments as their breath slowed and evened out, as the exhaustion clearly caught up with Juno as he realised he truly did have somewhere he could rest and know he was safe.

With whatever consciousness he had left, he mumbled, “I mean it, Peter. I really needed a friend tonight and you came through. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Peter whispered back but Juno was asleep before he was halfway through, his body getting heavier as his muscles relaxed and he gave himself over.

All we can do is try.

It wasn’t a rule but in that moment, as he lay in the darkness and listened to Juno Steel snore softly, it made more sense to Peter than anything he’d ever been told.

Before he could think, before he could realise what he was doing, he dug his comms out of his pocket and tapped out a message to the only number he’d ever used on this thing.

Plans have to be delayed. Security concerns. Tuesday instead. Apologies.

He sent it quickly, watching the text disappear, leaving him with a dark reflection of his own face on the empty screen. What have you done?

Before any reply could come through, he tossed the comms to the floor, rolling over as much as he could, enough to bury his face in Juno’s hair. He smelled of damp and clean shampoo, coconut and clean towels and night air. A honest, planetside scent.

He knew the guilt was coming, building up in his chest, ready to burn him from the inside out. But there was a whole night in between then, to cling to Juno and imagine a future he could never have, a morning where he would open his eyes and the first thing he’d see would be Juno Steel and remember that he’d done a good thing. He’d been there for someone when they’d needed him.

Like he said, if he was going to torture himself, Peter Nureyev was going to do it thoroughly. After all, what was he if he wasn’t good at his job?

#jupeter #juno steel #peter nureyev #high school au #tpp #penumbra podcast #the penumbra fanfic #please reblog and comment!#benzaiten steel #mick mercury #benmick

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kittinoir · 4 years

Text

Echoes of You: Epilogue

Read on Ao3

Ladybug could feel the ribbons in her hair fluttering as she gazed out over the city, alone for once. The buildings glittered in the setting sun. Its rays were warm on her face, and for a moment, she just closed her eyes and breathed it in.

The first time she’d transformed, she’d been afraid the Miraculous would somehow reject her as its holder, her betrayal still lingering in its magic.

Except the opposite seemed to have happened.

Rather than punish her, the Miraculous had welcomed her back with joy she could feel in her bones - and an upgraded suit. Unlike before, when it had been simple and spotted, it now sported solid black legs to her mid thigh and a solid and matching torso. Her hair, too, was now pulled back into a pony tail, longer than her civilian self - all reminders, she thought, of the girl who’d enabled her to wear the suit again at all.

“You look happy,” she heard her partner say seconds before he dropped onto the roof beside her. “Thinking of me?”

“It’s good to be back,” Ladybug said simply, cracking an eye to glance side-long at her partner with a grin.

“Good to have you back,” Chat Noir said, leaning on his baton like it was a fancy walking stick. His eyes softened. “Are you ready for this?”

Ladybug sighed, the moment over. “Yes. No? It feels so strange. I kept my identity a secret for so long. The crazy things I did… To have it all out in the open, sort of, is…”

“Oh, I bet,” he said, raising a brow in amusement. “I still want to hear about those crazy things, you know. I have a feeling the calls were closer than I ever imagined.”

“We’ve got time,” Ladybug said lightly, but inside, her heart had begun to pound, a newfound experience she didn’t entirely enjoy. She was used to her crush on Adrien. She had even gotten used to her feelings for Chat Noir. But together, as one person? Her partner was lethal. The idea of spending any amount of extended time alone sent her into acute cardiac arrest.

“Yo!”

Ladybug had never been so happy to be interrupted in her life.

The two of them turned as Rena Rouge and Carapace dropped onto roof with them. They stopped a few feet away, Rena squinting at Ladybug’s face as though only seeing her for the first time.

“It’s really you, isn’t it?” she said softly.

Ladybug took a deep breath, subtly straightening her spine. Why was this so much scarier than any akuma attack ever had been?

“It’s really me,” Ladybug admitted. It was the closest she could get. She’d get reakumatized before she said her own name from behind the mask.

For a moment, her friend said nothing. Ladybug could just imagine what she was thinking. All the secrets, all the lies, all the manipulation. Was she any better than Lila? Was she a hypocrite? Didn’t she trust her at all?

But then Ladybug was reeling as Rena Rouge enveloped her in a bone-crushing hug, at once familiar and strange with the competing Miraculous. “You are so amazing,” Rena whispered. “So incredibly, awesomely amazing. I’m so sorry you had to do this alone for so long.”

“Not entirely alone,” Ladybug murmured back, glimpsing Chat Noir over her friend’s shoulder as he chatted with Carapace. Giving them their space. He always knew exactly what she needed. How did he do that? How had she never noticed before?

“Talk about coincidence,” Rena said, finally releasing her. “We have some catching up to do.”

“How about a sleepover tonight?” Ladybug suggested.

“Done, girl,” Rena said. “I can’t wait to hear it all.”

And for once, Ladybug was looking forward to telling it all. Hiding her other life had caused a strain on their relationship she’d been unable to fully understand. It wasn’t just the lying, but the secrets, the things she had no way of knowing, the thing about herself she’d hidden away. Anxiety made her palms tingle; what if her friend liked who she thought she was more than who she actually was?

“Late as usual,” Chat Noir muttered loud enough to interrupt Ladybug’s runaway train of thought. She took the opportunity to scan the horizon once more.

“Maybe that errand is taking a little longer than we expected,” Ladybug said.

Chat Noir snorted, a sound so unexpected now that she knew who was behind the mask Ladybug had to bite her lip and turn her face to keep laughter from spilling out. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Quit whining,” another voice cut in. “We’re here.”

The four of them spun to the southern edge of the roof where Felix, borrowing the horse Miraculous, and Chloe, sporting the bee Miraculous once again, had appeared. Both were scowling, though the latter was staring pointedly at the roof, her arms crossed as though she’d rather be anywhere else.

Ladybug held her breath as she took in her one-time rival. She looked…the same. No scar marked her as having sacrificed anything for anyone, the loss invisible to the naked eye. She knew it didn’t hurt, not physically, but that confusion, that feeling of uncertainty haunted you. It was something she would never be able to repay. Chat Noir had told her he’d tried to tell Chloe about her missing memories, but they’d disappeared again over night. She knew the truth of that experience as well. The magic of the Miracle box simply would not allow one to have what it had taken away.

“Nice of you to drop in,” Rena quipped, but it lacked the usual bite. She, too, was regarding Chloe with a softness Ladybug had never seen directed at her before.

“Well, he practically begged,” Chloe sniffed, her gaze darting up to them at last. “Plus he brought this with him, so how could I say no?” She fingered the Miraculous in her hair like she couldn’t quite believe she had it back.

“Thanks for coming then,” Ladybug said, letting the attitude slide. It was the same old Chloe, but different, like she could see through the bravado now to the scared, lonely little girl underneath who was desperate to make friends but wasn’t sure how.

“Want to tell me what this is all about?” Felix asked. “I have places to be, you know.”

“So sorry to inconvenience you,” Chat Noir said with a sweeping bow. “We’d be delighted to get started to accommodate your busy schedule.”

“As of last week, every thing’s changed,” Ladybug said, interrupting what she was sure would turn into a Miraculous-powered smack down. As she spoke, her teammates visibly relaxed. “Some of us had our identities revealed previously to the confrontation with Hawkmoth. Some of us did not.” She didn’t miss Chloe’s wince, but the words held no malice. “Therein lies additional risk, but risk has always gone hand in hand with being one of Paris’s protectors. The previous guardian had rules about identities. They only hurt this team. Chat Noir and I are the guardians now; we have different rules. We know who you are, and you know us. I won’t force any one to hold, or to keep a Miraculous, but if you want it…it’s yours. Some of you have gone public with your identities. Some of you may have your identities discovered during the course of the next few months. This is no longer grounds for losing your Miraculous. Accidents happen. Mistakes happen… Fate happens. A Miraculous may be returned at any time, no questions asked. We understand the toll it takes to wear one. But what Chat Noir and I are asking now is for your aid in the fight against Hawkmoth and his henchmen.”

“He’s getting stronger,” Chat Noir chimed in. “We don’t know how, but the akumas he’s creating… well, you’ve seen them. He’s angry, and for him, it’s personal. He’ll make it personal. Your family, your friends, it’s all at risk. But…”

“The choice is yours,” Ladybug said, splaying her hands. “Chat Noir and I will be making the rounds tonight to offer everyone the same thing, but you four are the ones who got us this far. I wouldn’t be standing here without you, and…” She glanced at her parter to find he was already looking at her, an encouraging smile on his face. “We can’t save the world without you.”

For a moment, they all glanced solemnly at each other, the weight of the city finally shared between them. Then Felix snorted.

“And I thought I was prone to dramatics,” he said, but genuine warmth sparkled in his eyes. “Though I doubt you’d be able to manage without me. I’m in.”

“Ditto,” Carapace said with a grin, exchanging a fist bump with Chat Noir.

“You know it!” Rena squealed, enveloping Ladybug in another hug. “This is like, a dream come true!”

“You’re sure?” Ladybug whispered, hugging her friend back.

“Never been more sure of anything in my life,” Rena insisted. “I won’t let you down.”

“You never could.”

But Ladybug stiffened as she suddenly beheld Chloe over her friend’s shoulder. She wasn’t looking at them, instead choosing to stare at the roof, scuffing it with her shoe. War raged on her face.

“Be right back,” Ladybug said. Rena followed her gaze but didn’t say anything, merely offering a half-hearted smile, a silent wish for good luck before she turned to the boys.

“I thought you’d be happier,” Ladybug said softly as she came to a stop a few feet away from her one-time nemesis.

“What’s there to be happy about?” Chloe demanded. Those deep blue eyes flashed up to meet hers, but dropped again almost instantly. “This city doesn’t want me as its protector. It never has, especially when it already had you, and despite the pretty speech, you can’t want me here, either.” She fingered the hair clip again as though she might just pull it off then and there, but she hesitated. “I don’t…I don’t deserve this.”

A thousand responses roared up in Ladybug, backed by guilt, but she reached for the only thing that mattered. “Do you want to be here?”

Tears welled up in Chloe’s eyes, but she blinked them away before they could fall. “Yes.” Her voice throbbed on the word and she quickly bit her lip before more words spilled out. It didn’t matter. Ladybug could read everything in it; the pain, the confusion, the shame, the desperation - the tentative happiness, the fierceness. The hope.

“I meant what I said,” Ladybug murmured, daring to reach out and put a hand on the other girls’ shoulder. “We can’t save the world without you. More importantly, I don’t want to. You’re right - we do have history. But neither of us are the same girls we were back then. So much has changed. I’ve changed. And…I like to think you’ve changed a little, too.”

Chloe finally smiled, a half-hearted grin that faded almost as quickly as it had come. “That’s true,” she said. “The girl I thought you were would never have had it in her to be Ladybug.”

“Between you and me, I didn’t think I had it in me, either,” Ladybug admitted with a half-smile of her own. “I almost gave it up, right at the beginning there. Tikki convinced me to try again.”

“Tikki…” Chloe frowned at the name, confusion flickering in her eyes. Her hand went to her hair comb for a third time, but then slipped to her bare ears. Hope burst though Ladybug. She’d been right; Chloe’s memories were still there. But the look in Chloe’s eyes faded, blurring as the magic took hold, supplying a plausible answer to the question she’d only begun to form. “Huh. Some would say it’s impossible to improve on perfection, but I suppose if anyone could do it, it would be a Bourgeois.”

And despite the grim truth of the Miraculous magic she could see at work, Ladybug laughed. The comment was so like something Chat Noir would say she couldn’t do anything else. The two of them were going to be a handful.

“So are you in, then?” Ladybug extended a hand, palm up towards the girl that had given her her life back.

Chloe finally looked up, meeting Ladybug’s gaze and holding it for the first time since she’d arrived. She placed her hand in Ladybug’s, hope blazing in her face.

“Yes,” she said, taking a step forward to where everyone else was waiting - towards the future. “I am.”

#echoes #echoes of you #the final chapter #i made myself sad

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anghraine · 5 years

Text

“the jedi and the sith lord” - chapter four

I said it wouldn’t take me another year and a half to update! :D

Last chapter:

She didn’t understand. Lucy repressed a burst of aggravation at it all, the Force drifting from her.

No. Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave me.

The man tilted his head. Lucy moved forward, just able to make out a bit of red among the layers of his robe, and—

Darkness fell.

This chapter:

“Um,” Lucy said, “pardon me?”

The man inclined his head a little, without turning around. “Do you need to be pardoned?”

She thought of turning her father’s lightsaber over to Darth Vader, of leaving Yoda for Han and Leia and the Rebellion for Yoda, of those she’d seen die and those who lived on.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I think I’m supposed to meet with you.”

chapters: The Adventures of Lucy Skywalker– prologue, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight, chapter nine, chapter ten; The Imperial Menace–chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven; The Jedi and the Sith Lord—chapter one, chapter two, chapter three.

Yet again, Tuvié, Tisix, and Ellex led Lucy to meet with Darth Vader.

Yet again, she walked in the clothes of the woman who had helped Palpatine on his path to the imperial throne. The layers of under-skirts brushed against her legs as she walked, and she felt almost chilled by the inoffensive fabric. But Amidala had turned back. She couldn’t erase what she’d done, but she could fight against its consequences, and she had. Lucy was named for the later Amidala, the one who’d befriended Lucy’s father and helped kickstart the Rebellion.

She’d lost her Rebel uniform, but—this was one, too, Lucy decided, and smoothed out a pleat with her free hand. Amidala would want Lucy to take strength from her memory, surely.

Lucy didn’t aspire to the gravitas of a senator, the sort that Leia had, but she could be strong. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and walked unhesitatingly alongside Tuvié.

A door slid open, and Lucy immediately heard the unmistakable sound of Vader’s breathing. Fear rippled down her spine, but thinking of Amidala and Ben and Anakin, she refused to give into it. Instead, she reached for some scrap of the hard-earned calm from her training with Yoda, trying to slow her racing heart.

The currents of the Dark Side swirling around them didn’t help. Lucy focused; something here seemed less consuming than the rest, though it wasn’t the Light Side.

“Here she is!” said Tuvié brightly. “In quite good condition, as you can see.”

For several seconds, Vader just breathed. Lucy refused to shiver and stayed silent.

“Lucy,” he said at last.

She repressed a twitch, and he paused again.

“Leave us,” he told the droids, who promptly withdrew. Lucy knew better than to think any of them would defend her against Vader, but she still felt as if she’d lost some protection with their departure.

She remembered Ellex saying that Vader valued Lucy’s life. And she’d guessed as much yesterday. He wanted her here as Anakin Skywalker’s daughter, and an ally, not another body at his feet. She could probably afford some risks.

“Are you just going to say my name?” she asked. “Or did you need something?”

Vader ignored this.

“I assume you have yet to see reason,” he said.

“I have yet to see anything,” said Lucy.

“Your vision will return in a matter of days,” he said dismissively. “It wouldn’t matter if you didn’t insist on cutting yourself from the Force.”

Her hands clenched. “If I—”

“The Force is strong here,” said Vader, “and strong with you. You could grasp it if you tried.”

“Grasp the Dark Side, you mean?” Lucy shook her head. “Yes, I’ve heard it’s easier. Not all of us choose the easy path.”

“It is many things,” Vader told her, “but easy is not one of them. Still, it is necessary for your progress.”

“No, it’s not,” said Lucy stubbornly. “And even it were, I wouldn’t turn.”

“I once thought as you do,” he replied. “Soon, you will understand the truth. Now, go.”

Despite her intention of presenting an implacable face to him, Lucy started. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but this was not it.

“That’s it?” she said.

“For the moment,” said Vader. “I have more pressing concerns right now. Leave.”

“Where am I supposed to go? I can’t see—”

To her horror, she heard the heavy thud of his footsteps coming towards her. Then, worse still, she felt two large, gloved hands grip her shoulders. If he wanted, he could break her neck with barely any effort.

He doesn’t want to, she reminded herself. But how long would his patience last? Did he mean to put up with her refusals forever? It seemed improbable.

Regardless, his tolerance at least lasted for the present.

“The Force is waiting for you,” Vader said. Then he simply turned her about and gave her a light shove in the direction she’d come from.

Lucy didn’t need to be urged more than twice. Trying not to trip over Amidala’s skirts, she fumbled her way to the door, then darted through once she found it. Once the door slid shut after her, she took several deep, gulping breaths.

All right. That had happened. And all things considered, it could have been worse. Honestly, she wasn’t sure why it hadn’t been. Maybe the trouble with Admiral Whatsit had distracted him? Regardless, it seemed hardly worth the trouble of summoning her for that.

Maybe there wasn’t any point in trying to understand how Vader’s mind worked. Obviously, it wouldn’t follow the tracks of any normal person.

Still—it seemed odd.

Once Lucy had regained something of her composure, she peered around, straining to see any lighter or darker patches. Everything seemed an interrupted stretch of darkness.

Well, there was nothing to do but head out. Hesitantly, she moved in the direction she thought she’d come from, trying to retrace turns and curves as she counted steps. More than once, she scraped her outstretched hands on walls or tripped on irregularities in the floors. She was going to be left with bruises just from trying to walk back to bed. And stains on her dress.

This area of the castle must be isolated from the rest; she didn’t encounter any droids for a good hour, and then ones that only clacked at her in a dialect she couldn’t recognize. Probably laughing, she thought sullenly.

Of course this was meant to be humiliating. Maybe overpowering. Well, she refused to be either humiliated or overpowered, much less both, but—she didn’t have to like wandering around an unfamiliar fortress in endless darkness, either. By the time two hours passed, she was starting to feel a trickle of alarm about ever finding her way back. She no longer trusted her memory at all, or her sense of direction, or the Force.

It would be easy to reach for it, whatever he said. Just for a moment, for a little thing.

Lucy set her jaw, laid her palm against the wall, and wandered on. Soon, she could hear noises in the distance, mostly mechanical. But when she turned another corner, she made out a clear, familiar voice.

“Don’t be overconfident. There must be no—what are you doing here?”

“Ellex!” Lucy exclaimed. She’d never thought she’d be glad to hear her. “I’m lost.”

“Suspicious,” said Ellex. “Where is Lord Vader?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy said, her voice rising shrilly. “He told me to leave and I did! But I can’t figure out how to get back to my room.”

“Why didn’t he have one of us escort you?” Ellex demanded.

“You’ll have to ask him,” said Lucy. “Can you tell me which way to go from here?”

Ellex gave a grating clank that Lucy couldn’t help but interpret as menacing.

“I doubt it would help you,” she said. “ZT-47, stay here and stand guard. Skywalker, come with me.”

Gladly, for once, Lucy followed after Ellex, too tired and confused to ask further questions. The path swerved in more directions than she could keep track of, but before long, Ellex came to a screeching halt.

“This is your chamber,” she announced, and the door whooshed open.

Lucy had hardly taken a step forward when she heard more clattering machinery, and then another voice.

“Oh, Miss Lucy! I’ve been so worried!”

“It’s all right,” said Lucy, more relieved than she wanted to be. “I was just lost.”

“I’m supposed to watch over you at all times,” Tuvié said, with what passed for sternness with her. “The Maker said so. He—”

“Lord Vader can change his mind if he wishes,” Ellex told her. “But you’d better take charge of the girl before she turns nonoperational, or you really will be in trouble.”

“Oh! Yes! Yes, of course!”

A considerably more welcome hand touched Lucy’s arm.

“You must be tired, poor thing. Come this way, Miss Lucy.”

Lucy didn’t see any point in repelling her.

“Thanks, Ellex,” she said, receiving only a clank in return, and followed the little nudges of Tuvié’s hand until she reached the bed. She didn’t even resist when Tuvié whisked her out of her robe and gown, tsking over the dust and dirt on it, took her through another door to a fresher, and then pulled a nightdress of some kind over her head.

“I don’t know what Lord Vader was thinking,” she said.

“I’ve got a few questions, myself,” said Lucy.

“Well, it’s all over now, and you’re safe and sound! That’s what really matters, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Lucy said.

“Are you ready to … ah, I always—that’s it, sleep? You needn’t worry about further mishaps. I will remain on full alert at all hours and prevent any inconvenience until you are fully operational again!”

“Um, thanks, but I’m going to stay awake for a little bit,” said Lucy.

She did her best to meditate again, struggling against the waves of the Dark Side, and her own weary frustration. I must be passive, she told herself. Calm.

Passivity here seemed inexpressibly dangerous. But Lucy did her best to settle into a mood of quiet acceptance, letting her thoughts come and go, pushing away anger and resentment. She didn’t know how long it took before she caught a familiar trace in the Force around her, a tiny chink in the Dark Side. She couldn’t seem to grasp it, but it was something. She wasn’t completely beyond the reach of hope here.

Lucy opened her eyes, unseeing as ever.

Automatically, she said, “Goodnight, Tuvié.”

Tuvié gave a startled little click.

“Well—goodnight, Miss Lucy.”

That night, Lucy dreamed she was in the desert city again. This time, she hurried past the stalls, prodded by a formless urgency.

“Hello?” she called out. “Hello!”

Everybody continued about their business as if she weren’t there. Or as if it were a Holonet recording, every piece of it running along prescribed paths. Curious, she stopped long enough to pick up a fruit from a nearby stand; the seller didn’t respond, and the fruit disappeared from her hand.

Again, a mingled sense of loss and unreality descended on her. She turned around, breezes catching in her skirts and hair.

“What’s going on?” she asked, and heard nothing but the wind in reply.

Lucy kept walking, following the same path as before. And just as before, her gaze landed on a man in dark robes, turned away from her and evidently listening to something. Yes, the red sash was the same. He seemed an odd figure, ill-fitting in a way she couldn’t identify.

He didn’t move, perhaps not given the sort of limited paths that the others seemed to be on, perhaps even more absent than the rest. Yet she felt a presence there, decided and curious.

“Um,” Lucy said, “pardon me?”

The man inclined his head a little, without turning around. “Do you need to be pardoned?”

She thought of turning her father’s lightsaber over to Darth Vader, of leaving Yoda for Han and Leia and the Rebellion for Yoda, of those she’d seen die and those who lived on.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I think I’m supposed to meet with you.”

“And who are you?” said the man.

Lucy looked around, as if the city would supply the answer, but it was gone. All that remained was a stretch of desert with crumbled rocks here and there, and a small oasis that the man sat by. His voice seemed to echo around and around: who are you? who are you? who are you?

“I—”

Even in her dream, she felt a wave of exhaustion. Without a word of warning, the desert and the man disappeared, and she could see only shifting darkness all around her.

Who are you?

The next few days followed a similar pattern. Each morning, Lucy woke up, used the fresher, and stood quietly by while Tuvié draped her in Padmé Amidala’s clothes and brushed her hair into a braid. Then they explored more of the castle, which must be truly vast. Lucy ate portions of lavish meals—she wasn’t sure if those came from some command of Vader’s, or the cooks’ desire to show off their skills, but they were always delicious. She never encountered Vader himself until evening, when he always sent for her. But he only lectured her about the need to turn to the Dark Side, dismissed her irritable replies, and sent her away. At first, she wandered until some droid or another gave her direction, or summoned Tuvié. But Tuvié was so dismayed by these misadventures that she insisted on Lucy waiting until she fetched her.

The whole situation struck Lucy as so strange and inexplicable that she hardly knew what to think. She couldn’t imagine that it would continue like this indefinitely, yet everyone seemed to behave as though it would. There must be some explanation, some purpose she couldn’t yet perceive. But despite her better instincts, her fears began to subside as she accustomed herself to her bizarre imprisonment.

Perhaps that had something to do with the Force. She still couldn’t touch the weak flickers of the Light Side, but she felt its presence more and more distinctly. With it came more dreams of the desert city and the robed man—strangely tiring dreams. They always woke her up or shifted into more ordinary dreams before long.

On the fourth night, she reached the man in time to hear his voice again.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Lucy. “There’s something I’m supposed to be doing, but I don’t know what it is. What are you looking for?”

“Nothing,” he said, with a quick laugh. “I’m quite at peace.”

He wasn’t lying, Lucy decided. There was an easiness about him, a serenity. Ben had felt more contained than really peaceful.

Then, for the first time, the man turned to look at her. Or rather, to face her, because his eyes were pale and milky, and fixed on a point to the right of her.

“You’re blind,” she said, “like me.”

The city was almost swaying around her.

“Not like you,” said the man comfortably.

She tried to understand. Despite the difference from Ben and Yoda, he did remind her of them in some amorphous way.

“Well, are you a Jedi like me?” asked Lucy. Then her lips thinned. “Not that I’m a true Jedi.”

The city had faded to an oasis again, the man sitting on roughly-hewn bench. He patted a space beside him. After a moment’s hesitation, Lucy clambered up onto the bench.

“Neither of us are true Jedi,” said the man. “But we are as near as anyone comes in these times. The Force is with us both, and you are a storm. Even I did not hope—but who are you? Why did you call me?”

“I didn’t,” Lucy told him, swinging her legs a little. “I don’t know who you are. I’m Lucy Skywalker, though.”

Unexpectedly, the man tensed, his eyes flying wide. “Starkiller!”

“No, Skyw—”

With no further warning, he relaxed again. “Now I understand.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Lucy.

He smiled again, and was gone.

The next day, as Lucy and Tuvié left the bedchamber, Tuvié took up her usual prattle at full speed.

“—and then M-72b said that the Maker would have me disintegrated, but he didn’t—obviously—and actually said I’d followed the correct course of action. Of course I did, but it was very nice to hear it from the Maker himself, and M-72b hardly knew where to look.”

Lucy, who was growing acquainted with the assorted droid dramas that permeated the castle, nodded.

“And the Maker—”

“Yes?” said Lucy.

Uncharacteristically, Tuvié said nothing at all. Lucy left her to process as she would, wondering what form Vader’s ineffectual demands that she turn to the Dark Side would take today. Maybe it’d be worse than usual? Or maybe better. He’d yet to threaten her—which, well, she might have done in his position, as much as she could imagine being in his position, but—

“Miss Lucy?”

Tuvié actually sounded nervous.

“Yes?” Lucy said again.

“How would you say it?”

This came so far out of nowhere that Lucy halted, her brows drawing together.

“How would I say what?”

“Maker,” said Tuvié.

“I’d say Maker,” Lucy said blankly. Then her frown deepened. “Oh, you mean in Alsaraic?”

“The mystery language,” Tuvié replied. “Is that what it’s called?”

Lucy abruptly felt very uncomfortable. One word didn’t seem very important, but ... she didn’t know.

“Yes,” she said.

“And Maker—”

“It doesn’t really translate.”

“Oh,” said Tuvié, plainly disappointed.

For several more minutes, they walked in silence. Then Tuvié said,

“It’s interesting that there is no way to refer to the person who made you. It seems like it would make some interactions quite complex. How did one of your people address the person who made them?”

“Valiya,” said Lucy, without thinking. She bit her lip. But it couldn’t hurt, could it?

“Valiya,” Tuvié repeated. “So the Maker is Valiya Vader. Is that correct?”

Lucy couldn’t help laughing.

“No, it’s—well, it’d be strange, because it’s more like … mother,” she said. Alsaraic hadn’t developed with droids in mind, though she wasn’t about to say so. “And it doesn’t have to just be the one who, um, made you. My aunt called my grandmother valiya even though Aunt Beru was only the fiancée of Grandmother’s husband’s son.”

“And this ... aunt of yours was your valiya?” said Tuvié.

Lucy thought about it.

“No,” she said at last. “I loved her, but I wasn’t brought up to think of them that way, and I never called them that. My valì and valiya are dead.”

Tuvié managed to imbue her answering whirr with sympathy.

“Now I understand,” she said. “You would say Valiya Amidala.”

Lucy blinked. “No. She’s my namesake, but I never knew her.”

“That is very probable,” said Tuvié. “Senator Amidala’s date of termination would have occurred very shortly after your period of functionality began, and humanoid memory banks do not usually develop until a significant amount of time and development has taken place.”

“That’s right,” Lucy said.

Tuvié clicked. “Unless I am misunderstanding you, however, it is the appropriate term for her.”

Puzzled, Lucy asked, “Why?”

“Well,” Tuvié said, “she was your Maker.”

#the jedi and the sith lord #anghraine's fic #rule 63 #tuvié #ellex #/#//#///#lucy skywalker #star wars #luke skywalker #anakin skywalker #genderbending #long post

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the-mad-starker · 5 years

Text

Starker RP: Diamonds and Roses

If you’ve seen this moodboard before, don’t worry, I’m just reposting cause I’m too lazy to make a new one.

BUT! @lovely-garnet and I have been teasing people with our prison AU rp... And we’ve finally starting posting it. Here’s chapter 1 and 2 together since we didn’t post chapter 1 previously. We’re hoping to update once a week.

AO3 Link: Chapter 1 (2359) | Chapter 2 (6101)

Summary: Prime Alpha Tony Stark is sent to prison. He can get out in a second, but instead, he decides to play nice and bide his time. Do things the legal way, for now anyway. While incarcerated, a sweet faced omega wants his help but at what cost?

Notes: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Prime alpha Tony, Omega Peter, intersex omegas, prison AU, future smut including anal sex, vaginal sex, blow jobs, etcetcetc...

💗 💗 💗

Chapter 1: The Boss

When the news broke out, the public reactions were a mess.

Those who only knew him only as a kind benefactor cried out against his imprisonment. Those that worked in the shadows alongside him were either pleased or worried about the status quo. After all, Stark Industries was a big name that had its fingers in many pots. With its head cut off, or in this case, imprisoned, there would be an inevitable chain of events if SI couldn't remain on top.

Tony Stark didn't worry about that. Even though the great mafia boss Tony had ended up in prison, things weren’t that much different after all. He did what he always did.

Walk in.

Take control.

By the end of Day One, he had most of the prisoners under his thumb, ruling over block B with everyone falling in line. It wasn't a complete takeover, of course, but the ones at the top of the food chain… Those people were his now.

It would've been easy to just buy out the compound. Tony could afford it but why get rid of all the excitement in his life? No, sometimes it was good to have fun.

Still, this whole prison thing was a bit of an inconvenience. He had to waste his time here when he could be out playing in the real world instead of having to eat sloppy food and sleep in a single creaking bed. But this was a necessity. There was a reason Tony was here and he'd sit tight and endure it.

The prison was a bit unusual, of course, as the prisoners here weren’t just common riff raff. It was huge and spacious with some amenities, but… It was still a prison.

There were beta guards everywhere, personnel trained specifically to go toe to toe with alphas. Supposedly, they could take an alpha down. 9/10, Tony heard they could subdue a raging alpha. It might take a couple of them to do it, but they did it nonetheless.

The prisoners had a rigid schedule. Specific times for sleep, showering and eating - filthy bathrooms and tiny cells. Violence was pretty common around here, not that Tony would know… If there was any violence going on around him, he was never the one on the receiving end.

Now, his prison sentence was set for as long as he would be able to sit still in this place - that was Pepper’s advice on the matter. But even though it had only been a week behind bars for Tony, the tension in the cell block was already quite high.

For whatever reason, he had to share the cell block with another prime alpha, and that had lead to many of the other weaker alphas to choose sides and start up fights. And he was the one that had to keep the peace, somehow.

A lazy Sunday afternoon was coming to an end when his right-hand man passed through his open cell door. It seemed as if he was hesitant to disturb Tony for the laying man had his eyes closed. So for a moment, Happy waited to see if the other would notice him. But the matter was important so he decided to clear his throat before speaking to announce himself.

“Boss,” he greeted with a low voice.

Tony didn't give any indication that he heard the man, except for his eyes barely opening. His entire posture was that of a man relaxing but anyone smart enough knew who he was. What he was.

So the correct analogy to make would be a predator lying in wait. Not resting. Waiting. There was a glimmer in his eye that proved it, a sharp, brilliant gaze that belied the relaxed posture of his body.

He knew Happy wouldn't disrupt him for anything that wasn't essential. And for Tony, essential meant business. He didn't get to the very top by letting others handle his business, oh no, his gang was built from the ground up by his hands and molded to his liking by his every decision.

“Hmm?” Tony prompted.

“Ms. Potts has some news for you,” Happy told him, making sure to keep his voice a low murmur.

Tony heard it clearly. With a single fluid motion, the alpha sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He got up, stretching relaxed but powerful muscles.

“Does she now?” Tony smiled, a sharp grin that normally put others on guard. “How do you feel about taking a walk with me, Hap?”

It had only been a week, but Happy was still wary about the prison rules and their reward/punishment system.

“I think it's almost time for lights out, sir,” Happy hedged. Smart beta, not outright defying Tony but saying enough that he let the prime alpha know his concerns.

“Take a walk with me,” Tony said simply.

“Okay, boss.” Happy agreed despite his concerns. He knew better than to refuse such a simple request.

Tony led the way out with Happy following behind him like a shadow. He could feel the eyes of his fellow prison mates on him before they darted away. No one would be caught dead staring him down, not if they wanted to keep their eyes.

It was close to lights out. On a Sunday like this, they preferred to keep the inmates indoors. But as Tony had mentioned, he was in the mood for a walk.

The beta guarding the door leading to the yard outside didn't meet his eyes. He turned to the side, peering at something in the distance, pretending that he wasn't allowing Tony Stark to just wander outside as he pleased.

The air here was refreshing but the towering walls were an eyesore.

Tony ignored them and turned to the man behind him.

“What do you have for me?”

The yard was empty as the light of day was quickly fading, but even if no inmates were nearby, Happy was being extra careful to ensure that no one was listening. Happy turned behind him to check if anyone was around and then looked over at Tony again.

The night breeze chilled him to the bone but he didn't flinch. He was a tough guy but most importantly, he was standing face to face with Tony Stark. Keeping his stern and controlled appearance was crucial.

For a moment, Happy seemed to be conflicted, an attempt to speak that was delayed for reasons unknown. Then he reached in his pocket to pull out the smallest looking scroll that ever existed. It wasn't at all acceptable to make Tony wait so Happy let out a sigh and spoke.

“Ms. Potts sends word that there is some progress being made...” His voice trailed off and then stopped as he glanced at his closed fist where he was palming the tiny piece of paper.

“...But I have something else that may be of interest to you. I was approached by a... kid... saying he needs to talk to you.” Happy crossed his arms in front of his chest as he recalled the weird encounter. “I told him to get lost but he was adamant.”

Happy shrugged in an indifferent manner but then his expression grew concerned, darker. “An omega.”

The information from Potts, Tony filed away for later. Happy was right that the second part was more interesting to him. Entertaining was maybe a better word.

Tony watched the expressions play out on his second's face as he talked about the omega. Happy was a beta so these things didn't really make much sense to him.

“An omega, hmm?” Tony watched Happy with hooded eyes. He folded his arms loosely, tilting his head at the beta.

“Who told you that you can have an opinion regarding who sees me and who doesn't?” Tony's pose was relaxed but his voice was icy with disapproval.

He looked away from the man, not bothering to wait for a reply. A lot of people came to see Tony when he got admitted to prison. Alphas, betas, omegas. Tony was proven to be the best of them, the strongest, the prime. Everyone gravitated to him for one reason or another, but whether or not he had a use for them, that was a different matter.

Happy making those decisions on his own without informing Tony first was a rookie mistake. So Tony made sure his displeasure was known.

“Hap, buddy,” Tony said casually, “we've known each other how long? Years. No one ever needs to talk to me. If there was ever a need, I'd get to them first. Tell me more about the omega.”

To try to make excuses now for his decision to dismiss the boy would only make his situation worse, so Happy stood in silence as Tony spoke. In truth, he didn't believe that there was a reason for his boss to waste his time with that... mousy omega.

Of course, he didn't really understand what it all meant. He only knew in theory how things worked for alphas and omegas. What he knew first hand, though, was that Tony's displeasure could result in very unfortunate outcomes, so he noted to never repeat such a mistake again.

Feeling intimidated but refraining from showing it, Happy nodded with a stern and collected expression. His opinion was that the omega was complete nonsense but decided not to share it. Tony didn't seem like he would appreciate it very much so he stuck with the facts.

“He gave me this,” Happy said, opening his palm to reveal the paper he was holding on to. “The letters are tiny but it writes the place and time that he wants to meet with you. Now, before you say it, I know this is...” He waved his hand and shook his head as to indicate how unacceptable this all was.

“But I looked him up and found out why he doesn't want to meet you out in the open. Thing is, he is under Thanos.” Now the beta paused.

His opinion was - again - to not bother with this but he kept it to himself. He glanced towards the back to make sure that no one was listening to their conversation and then his eyes returned to Tony, concerned and heavy.

“I don't know what he has to offer, yet, but I can get him to talk,” Happy promised.

“Under Thanos,” Tony hissed, a tiny bit amused.

He knew the guy. Big, beefy alpha that was always waxing on about the necessity of balance. They weren't at each other's throats, not yet anyway, but Tony wasn't entirely fond of the man.

Then again, the fact that Tony was sharing space with another prime alpha when he didn't choose to was probably the cause of that. It didn't matter that there was plenty of room for multiple alphas, there was something about Thanos that Tony didn't particularly like.

He waved away Happy's suggestion and plucked the piece of paper out of his hand. His eyes scanned the words, noting the time and place before he tore it to shreds and let the wind carry the tiny bits away.

“If he didn't talk to you then,” Tony said, “he's not going to talk to you now.”

He patted his second on the shoulder. “You did your job, Hap. I can take it from here.”

Then he smiled, a curving of his lips that was just a bit dark.

“Besides, it doesn't seem like I'm leaving this place anytime soon,” Tony sighed. He knew he was getting out, the question was when. “I may as well pick up a hobby or something.”

An omega. He had his pick of people to choose from to keep him company. But an omega that was under Thanos might just cause problems.

Why would Tony bother with that? And yet, the boredom was already setting in. He had sway over the prison, but even then, demanding a lab and whatever he needed to keep his mind entertained would either be too much or take too long.

He could use a bit of entertainment.

“I'll handle the omega,” Tony told Happy, “In the meantime, you can handle Thanos. Not directly, of course, but you can distract him or something.”

He glanced at Happy with a smirk. “I can trust you to do that, can't I, Happy?”

Happy was right to believe that this would pique Tony's interest. After so many years of knowing the man, he understood that he was easily bored. An omega would be entertaining for him, at least for a while. That's why he had brought this information in the first place even though it was against his better judgment. This omega could cause undesired complications, though, and he wasn't even really worth it in Happy's eyes.

Such a small and young little thing, but he had fire burning in him to make such a bold request. Happy would give him that, at least. Or the omega was just stupid, that could always be the case.

Maybe Happy was wrong to worry that this situation could get out of hand. It was just one tiny omega that could be used to keep Tony occupied and not bored out of his mind while they do…

In truth, Happy wasn't sure what they were doing in the prison. He only knew that where his boss went, he followed.

It wasn't his place to think about it anyway, but despite knowing he should just shut up and obey, Happy said a hesitant, "Boss?"

Maybe the news of fresh entertainment had tempered Tony's mood since he gave a small, indulgent smile at the beta.

"Yes, Hap?"

"Why are we really here?" The beta asked, a hint of uncertainty in his tone.

That smile didn't fade even the slightest.

"Diamonds and roses," Tony Stark answered and that was all he said on the matter.

It didn't make sense to Happy but he had already dared as much as he could stomach for the evening. So, Happy nodded with obedience, “Boss.”

That was enough to show that he would do anything that Tony asked of him - or rather, commanded.

<hr>

Chapter 2: Deals in the Dark

<hr>

(AO3 Link)

The time of the meeting had drawn near.

That was why Peter was pacing around in his cell unable to calm his nerves. Clenching his jaw in an attempt to control his fear, he finally gathered the courage that was needed to go along with this plan. There was no other way and he knew it. This was his only chance.

He walked out of the cell and down the stairs, relieved that none of Thanos’ men were around. Weirdly enough, the guards didn't pay him any mind either.

It was late in the afternoon, and at this hour, the prisoners were free to use the common areas or rest in their cells. It was the only possible time to slip through the prison grounds unnoticed.

Light on his feet, he made it to the hallway that led far and away from the main living area and down to the boiler room. Peter had snatched away the keys to this place when he had first arrived a few months ago.

It hadn't come in handy up until now, but this was a perfect spot for a secret meeting. It was secluded so his scent wouldn't draw any unwanted attention and it had only one entrance. One entrance, one exit. Safe and dangerous at the same time.

It could also be the perfect place for a trap, but Peter dismissed that thought with a shake of his head. If Tony Stark was to harm him... He could only hope that he wouldn't do that. That the prime would listen to him, that he would help him.

Perhaps, he was naive but there was so much riding on this meeting. Not to mention the very fact that his heart pounded at the thought of meeting the prime…

It was time.

He walked inside the room and it felt like he was entering the wolf's den. Peter shivered as anticipation and dread grew in equal measure. He was risking everything to be here in this tight and dim lit place.

His lean and frail body was dressed in the standard prisoner’s uniform but around his neck, Peter had a makeshift, tight collar made out of bandages. It was so feeble that it could be ripped off by anyone, let alone an alpha that would want to mark him. Yet there it was, an attempt to shield oneself.

With his hands already covered in a thin layer of sweat, he walked to the back of the room next to the tubes and pipes that came out of the wall and hid in wait.

<hr>

Tony's footsteps made soft little clicks as he walked. The man could be quiet, of course, he could, but he didn't need to.

The guards didn't look at him, averting their eyes in respect. The prison uniforms were ghastly and ugly and even Tony couldn't get out of wearing them. But the way he walked, his strides confident, face forward, eyes unwavering, no one noticed the uniform.

He walked with a confidence that many tried to imitate. It wasn't exactly a strut, no, that was too arrogant and arrogance implied unworthiness. No, Tony was confident and that confidence played a big part in making others bow to him.

He caught the faint scent of omega as he grew nearer to the meeting point and here, he paused, inhaling and scenting the air to get more intel.

The omega was anxious, a distasteful note of bitterness that Tony could almost taste. It made his nose wrinkle but it did make him curious. Omegas were flighty things and briefly, Tony wondered if the omega would run after all.

It would displease him to have his time wasted, but as he continued walking to the destination, the omega's scent only strengthened. He was certainly there, a thought that pleased Tony's alpha side.

The boiler room, a particular choice. Tony wondered at the reasoning. Did the omega really trust Tony to let him go if things went wrong? What a peculiar thing to do.

And yet, as he stepped through, Tony felt a bit more entitled to be a gentleman. It wasn't every day that something caught his attention this much. And he hadn't even met the omega yet.

Time for that to change.

“An interesting place for a meeting,” Tony noted out loud.

His voice carried just enough to fill the room. He moved away from the entrance, leaving it free as a show of good faith.

Long before the prime spoke, Peter was already aware of his presence.

He had heard him come. Those confident steps were unmistakable but most importantly, he could smell him. And this wasn’t just any scent, it was a prime alpha’s and it flooded the room the moment he stepped inside.

To the sensitive senses of the omega, it was deafening, overpowering. Peter needed time to adjust because his breath had been immediately cut off, his ears ringing, and he hadn’t even seen the man whose commanding presence it belonged to.

Truth be told, he hadn’t expected the prime to show. Why would he? But now that he was here, Peter felt unbalanced, his resolve weakened.

“Come out, little jailbird,” Tony called out, “Let me see who has the balls to summon me, hmm?”

At once, Peter’s entire body urged him to obey, but the boy felt his knees tremble and stood frozen with a hand tight above his pounding heart.

After only a few moments of mustering up the courage needed, Peter revealed himself. Not that he was ready, but he would never be. He had his fingers curled in tight little fists as he tried to appear in control and failing all the same.

Nevertheless, he walked in small but steady steps out of his hiding spot to present himself to the man that had gone out of his way to meet him. The alpha had answered the request of a stray omega and as unexpected as that was, the boy had counted on it with all of his heart.

Peter wasn’t stupid, he understood that Tony had shown him grace by being here. That was what he told himself, at least. He was trying desperately to not give in to the intimidation and fear he felt.

His big brown eyes were fixated on the floor. He would never dare to plainly look at the prime alpha. That would be too bold, too disrespectful. But even with his eyes averted, his mouth was tight with determination.

“This was the only place I could think of,” Peter replied, his voice steady for the time being. He dropped his gaze further down and to the side. “Thank you, alpha, for meeting me.”

There was a slight tremble in his muscles, a shiver as if the boy was cold.

Glancing at Tony’s general direction, he realized that the man had stepped away from the entrance. That made the tightness in his chest ease a little, his body a bit more relaxed. And that had to be enough.

After days of watching from afar, finally, the prime's eyes were on him. His breath caught, heart stuttering as the prime alpha eyed him up and down.

Tony wasn't sure what he expected when the omega came out of his hiding place. Happy had no information to give him besides saying the omega was a kid. At least that much was true, the omega certainly was young compared to Tony.

Observing the boy, Tony couldn't help but wonder how he had gotten into this place, how he even survived. He looked so small and vulnerable that Tony's alpha side wanted to react in one of two ways.

It wanted to stalk forward and destroy. Something so weak seemed almost too pitiful to exist in these walls. Why even bother?

But a larger side overtook it. At first glance, the omega didn't seem like much but his actions spoke of a deeper depth that Tony found intriguing. It was already a good sign that the omega was seeking to talk to him. Tony could only imagine a few reasons why an omega would seek an alpha out.

That was just the way of things.

Truthfully, Tony wasn't surprised.

It was nature, really. The weak turning to the strong and Tony was the strongest of them all. And yet, despite knowing this, Tony still felt something when he looked at this omega. To his surprise, he felt more inclined to lure the omega in, to find out more about him. To protect him.

Such dangerous thoughts for an alpha like Tony Stark. He'd have to monitor himself to make sure none of these unexpected feelings turned into a weakness that could be exploited.

The alpha leaned against the wall, arms folded as he looked at the boy. He tilted his head in acknowledgment, not that the omega would see it.

“Your name, kid,” Tony said firmly, “You know mine, obviously. It'd be rude to speak otherwise. And that would be such a pity since you've tried so hard to be respectful.”

Peter lifted his gaze, curious, as he peeked at the alpha in front of him. The prime asking for his name had caught him off guard. In prison, hardly anyone had used his name, especially alphas.

It was an unexpected… surprise. A good one since the alpha was almost trying to be civil.

“I’m Peter... Parker,” he answered with a hint of excitement that he tried to push down while smiling gently at his feet. The prime’s presence was intimidating, yes, but also... soothing.

“It's true, I know who you are,” Peter continued in a small voice with that smile lingering on his pink, hesitant lips.

He took another step towards the alpha and then stopped. The omega wouldn’t approach any further than this, even if the Stark’s demeanor and overall posture were relaxed.

“Everyone knows who you are... You're kind of a big deal,” he said demurely. He nervously scratched his cheek, not knowing what to do with his restless hands.

Tony smirked at the omega's words.

“Kinda a big deal, hmm?” Tony echoed, amused, “That's cute, Parker.”

At the alpha's casual response, Peter relaxed further. The gentle approach calmed his nerves. Maybe it would have been better for him to hold onto his fear- this was a prime alpha, after all. In this world, alphas like Stark were at the top of the food chain, the hunter, and the omega was at the very bottom. The prey.

But then, as if Peter remembered the reason he had requested to meet with him, the boy’s expression turned serious. Unsettled even.

“Alpha, sir, I–” he stuttered and got mad at himself for showing weakness in front of the alpha.

Clenching his jaw, Peter turned to the man and looked at him. The distress he was trying to hide was clear in his wide eyes. “I need to ask for your help if you would give it.”

Ah, Tony finally thought.

He worried for a moment that the boy would beat around the bush. Essentially, that this Peter Parker would waste his time. It was good that he got to the point.

The alpha watched and learned with keen eyes, taking in every quiet detail that gave him clues as to who he was dealing with.

Omega body. Omega gestures. Omega submissiveness. Everything about the kid was omega which was appealing to Tony's alpha nature.

A slight sniff to the air showed that Peter wasn't afraid of him though. That was good. Even though omegas were programmed to be the more submissive of the trio, Tony didn't want to bother with someone so weak.

He tilted his head in thought, listening with some interest.

Then the omega met his eyes and Tony's breath caught. The omega's eyes were so captivating, so determined. There was an edge of desperation there and it just made Tony so damn curious.

Lured in by those brown doe eyes, Tony pushed himself off the wall. The alpha prowled forward, eyes hooded as he came to a stop in front of his prey.

Peter didn’t waver, he stood his ground looking up at the alpha as he approached. Even if he felt his cheeks heating up, the redness spreading to the top of his ears, Peter stood still.

Tony took the omega's chin between his fingers, making sure Peter wouldn't look away.

“Spit it out then, kid,” Tony said softly, “A man like me isn't just going to agree without hearing your offer. So, what is it, hmm? What has you in such a bind that you came to me?”

Then his lips quirked up into a wicked smirk.

“And more importantly, what are you willing to offer me?”

The boy’s lashes fluttered because of the alpha's proximity. Tony didn't seem affected, his gaze steady and smile, unfaltering. Was Peter the only one being affected? He couldn't shy away, even if that was the case.

It was pointless to try and hide. The alpha could surely scent him and hear the pounding in Peter's chest. And he could see the small flames dancing in the brown of his eyes.

No matter the foolishness that was going on in his mind and heart since the first time he had gotten a glimpse of the prime... It was not the point of their meeting. And so, he pulled himself together, furrowing his eyebrows and tightening his fists.

“It’s Thanos,” Peter spoke and his muscles tensed, the mere mention of the name made him flinch. “He… promises one thing and does another. He makes himself out to be a… a savior but he lies. He's not what he seems... He's… a bad man.”

In his strained voice, the hatred was evident. The things he had seen… he couldn't forget or forgive but he also couldn't go off on a rant no matter how easy it was to do so. Peter knew he had to be quick, concise, and as persuasive as he could.

“I know I’m young and... But– Is it wrong to seek shelter away from him? He does as he pleases with omegas, with everyone that works for him, and–” Peter averted his eyes now, even if Tony was holding his chin up. He was embarrassed by his outburst but tried to push it all down.

“He means to humiliate me, to take my suppressants away... That’s inhumane.” He gritted his teeth, looking down and to the side.

“So, I’m begging you to take me under your wing.” He turned back to Tony with wide, hopeful eyes. The omega’s scent unleashed in waves since the need and vulnerability had shone through.

“And I’ll do anything you want,” Peter continued, voice steady and a fierce look in his eyes.

The scent made Tony's lip curl but besides that, there was no other reaction.

Every word, every sentence that came from the omega's mouth had conflicting emotions rioting inside the alpha. The information on Thanos caught his attention but it didn't matter. The gist of the matter was that this omega wanted to switch sides and while it could be done, it could be messy too. Would it be worth Tony's while?

The offer he dared to give the prime was what made the alpha's mind go quiet with dangerous intent.

“Now,” Tony purred, a low sound. In another world, it might've even been soothing, but here and now, it should've sent alarms ringing in anyone's mind. “That's a bold faced lie.”

The alpha smiled, but it was empty. A mean smile that held nothing back of what Tony was.

The hair at the back of Peter’s neck stood as the atmosphere in the room shifted. At once, uneasiness crept into the young one’s heart as an underlying fear made itself known. That Tony Stark was like any other alpha. That Tony Stark was another Thanos...

“You can't– Or well, I suppose, you shouldn't be offering things like that, omega,” Tony said casually.

He rubbed his thumb across the other's cheek, playing up all the dangerous signs that omega mommies told their sweet faced omega children about alphas like him. He grazed his thumb against the soft swell of Peter's lips, eyes dropping to where he touched him.

“Is this what you promised Thanos? Anything?” Tony continued, “Why are you surprised he wants everything then?”

He pushed his thumb inside, ignoring the heat that started to swell in his own body. As much as he was down for a fuck, there was something more important for the omega to learn.

Paralyzed by his words and actions, Peter looked up at him with huge eyes. His breaths became shallow, one by one, before stopping altogether once the alpha’s thumb was pressed between his trembling lips.

“You say something like that, you better deliver,” Tony said darkly. “And I know you can't, won't.”

He paused then removed his hands but continued to stare down at the boy.

“There are things people are willing to do and things they aren't so willing to do,” Tony scoffed. “When I said what are you offering me, I don't want some bullshit answer. You think you're willing to give me everything?”

Tony chuckled then jerked his head towards the wall. “Strip. Present for your alpha, omega.”

The omega was utterly shocked and frozen in place. Once the words made sense, he stepped forward, unwilling to let Tony’s accusations unanswered.

“I didn’t promise anything to him!” Peter cried out in protest. The insult was too cruel, too false to accept.

It couldn’t be true! Peter refused to accept it! That instead of finding a savior, he would be made to choose between whose hands he would suffer in.

But the injustice and the heartless words were too much to keep quiet even if it was against his instincts to defy the prime in front of him. It hurt him deep down because the omega had been enamored by the alpha in the few days that had passed. Looking at him through shy eyes from a safe distance.

His young innocent love had been allowed to bloom deep within. Peter knew that he shouldn't have, that it was a road that led nowhere, but he couldn't stop himself from dreaming.

This very dream flickered before his eyes, at this moment, as he stood before the man that threatened to crush Peter's heart in his palm.

“...So you think to humiliate me, as well?” He almost choked as tears burned at the corners of his eyes but there was no chance to back down now. If Thanos learned of this, he would strangle Peter to death with his bare hands.

“I wasn’t lying,” he sobbed, lowering his head and tugging his uniform shirt over it, making his hair a mess. He let it slip through his fingers and drop to the floor.

His chest was left covered in a white undershirt and the boy clenched the fabric, trying to silence the nerves that shook his body.

He had to prove himself. He had to. While looking down, he lowered his pants and stepped out of them.

But that was it. The boy couldn’t do anything more.

Paralyzed, he stood in his underwear and shirt, his hands close to his chest. His eyes were wet with tears but he didn't dare let them fall. He couldn't look the alpha in the eye, his face was burning with mortification. Instead, his eyes were pinned to the ground as he waited for the alpha’s judgement. This was far from the presenting that the alpha demanded of him, but Peter couldn’t find the strength to do it, not all the way.

Some alphas got off on the scent of fear. It smelled sickeningly sweet with just a hint of sourness underneath.

Tony had learned to tolerate it, but never cared for it much. He might even learn to detest it, especially with the small omega trembling in front of him. The scent of his fear was almost offensive compared to how it was before Tony revealed himself to be the monster he was.

Tony could even muster up a tiny bit of regret if he wanted to. Scaring the omega was his goal, but he hadn't expected– What a mess.

He sighed, a deep heavy sound before he ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Christ, kid,” Tony huffed, “The point was to be careful with what you're offering. You can't say you'll do anything then be surprised if they take as much as they can. Ever heard of give an inch, take a mile?”

He deliberated his choices. He could just walk away. The omega would probably count himself lucky. Maybe even avoid all alphas and primes in the future. Lesson learned and all that.

Alphas were scum.

He could wash his hands of this. Maybe even keep an eye out for the boy as recompense for the rude awakening Tony had given him. But did he want to walk away…?

Tony could make this right. Walking away wouldn't solve the boy's issue with Thanos. Wouldn't save him from becoming a prison bitch. Not with that attitude and no protector.

Another sigh, but truly, there had never been another choice for Tony.

He stepped forward, knowing his actions might be read wrong but doing it anyway. He enveloped the omega in his arms, scenting him in the only thorough way an alpha can claim another without actually getting down and dirty.

The boy in his arms had been through a rollercoaster of emotions already and it didn’t seem like there was going to be an end to it any time soon. In his confusion, Peter tried to back away when Tony stepped closer, still too agitated, too unnerved to think clearly.

“I'm not so heartless. I'm not so greedy or cruel,” Tony admitted reluctantly. “But others aren't that way. You can't trust anyone, kid. Better you learn that now.”

Peter flinched, barely able to listen to what the alpha was saying through the hammering of his heart.

In the next moment, however, the alpha’s scent bathed him in comfort, in warm and fuzzy feelings of protection that Peter had never known before. And that made his body relax, whether he wanted it or not.

To be granted a prime’s protection in such a gentle and caring way made Peter’s knees weak, his body calm and pliant. He was young, inexperienced, never marked or claimed in his life and now he had been completely overwhelmed in the arms of the powerful prime.

His instincts had risen within him, taking hold of his mind as Peter pressed his face against Tony’s strong chest. He lifted his head towards the man’s neck, taking in the scent that was even more intense there.

Soon, Peter was so much calmer even though his heart was beating fast but that was for entirely different reasons.

"What– what is this..." Peter murmured, dazed, scent drunk and barely fighting. "Why are you..."

The alpha held him and he even felt fingers stroke through his hair.

"I'm giving you what you want," Peter heard the alpha say, his voice so soothing that the omega felt like he was sinking into a soft cloud.

The scent tapped into Peter’s instincts, forcing his body in this more relaxed state. He felt how it soothed his mind, pushing aside his previous fear and almost leaving him in a drugged out state.

It felt good but… Alpha wasn't angry with him… His mind was in a haze and the clarity that he had before… When adrenaline made his heart pound and his mind skip a thousand thoughts a second of what he could do, had to do… It was gone, out of reach and he almost… almost didn't care to have it back.

Something about that was wrong.

Primes were dangerous, Peter always knew that but now, more than ever, he understood why.

Their scents were potent and whether or not Tony only meant to soothe him, not steal away his mind, it was affecting Peter too much.

It was casting his inhibitions and logical thinking to the side. He didn't want that, not when so much was unclear between them. He needed clarity to not be tricked by the alpha if that was his intention. Tony could not be trusted.

All this could still be a game, a farce, something to entertain this man for a few minutes… hours… days? The fear of being such a toy made his heart seize and where it was content and excited by being so close to the alpha, it now threatened to break. It was more than enough to clear his head.

Uncertainty made Peter's form stiffen and he pulled his nose away, seeking to escape the gravitational pull of the alpha.

"But… Who's to say that…" he uttered. He was fearful, yes, but also determined. "That… you're not just like him? Just another alpha." Peter asked and glanced at the alpha with furrowed eyebrows.

Tony's eyebrows rose in surprise.

He has given the kid what he wanted. His scent would be on the omega and as soon as he walked out, the other inmates would know. They wouldn't touch Peter for fear of angering Tony Stark.

Once Thanos learned of it, surely there'll be a clash between the two primes. When confined in such tight spaces, it was always meant to happen but the omega in his arms would've been a catalyst.

Protection. He was giving Peter what he wanted... Or was he? Under his wing…

Tony was intrigued.

"That could almost be an insult," Tony said with a devil may care smile. "Just another alpha… Are you always so impulsive, sweetheart?"

He let the boy go, stepping away and looking around the small, dark room to gather his thoughts. Even if Tony had his equipment and toys right in front of him, his attention would still be captured by the omega waiting for him.

"Who's to say I am any different," Tony considered, not at all offended. Then with a sly smile, he turned back to the omega, settling his hands on the boy's slight shoulders. "Except you. You're the one saying that by coming to me. Have I proven you wrong then? Am I just… another alpha?"

His own conviction had saved him but the alpha pulling away had certainly helped. Even then, the powerful scent was pulling him in but he resisted. It was getting easier to manage through it the longer they talked.

They… They were truly engaging each other now, something Peter didn't think would happen. He needed his wits together to be on par with the prime.

Peter shook his head and his curls bounced around with the movement. Insulting the prime had not been his intention, of course, and he became flustered. Even so, he still would not back down. The scent coming from the man was not agitated which helped Peter continue.

An omega's place was not to judge or measure alphas, let alone primes. Unless they were asking for trouble... Which Peter did just by requesting this meeting.

"Alpha… seems different," he admitted, keeping the rest of his heart's secrets to himself. "I…" he swallowed, "I have seen you…"

The boy had heard of Stark's ways within the prison. That he didn't mistreat those that were vulnerable and if there was ever a reason to fear an alpha… Stark's people feared him for the right reasons. But maybe he hadn't had enough time to show what he was capable of.

The boy’s admission made Tony wonder what exactly Peter had seen. What had Tony done to invite such curiosity and trust?

To his knowledge, he took over his side of the prison almost ruthlessly, all kinds of people bowing their heads to him.

The omega continued to speak though, so Tony put the thought aside for now.

"What if… Alpha promises…" Peter proposed shyly and bit his cheek. "No tricks or games…"

Tony raised a brow and stepped closer, their chests almost brushing. It pleased him when the omega continued to gaze up at him, expectantly and with such an unnerving gaze.

"Did you learn nothing from what I did?" Tony murmured, not unkindly but curiously. "How can you trust me? You're asking me to promise something with no way of holding me accountable."

His smile turned almost sad then.

"No tricks, no games?" Tony repeated, "Don't you know who you're talking to? Ah, you shouldn't be in this hellhole, kid."

Peter tilted his head, while still looking up at the man. Young innocence flickered in his eyes, so easy to be extinguished at the hands of an alpha. He stared into Tony’s dark gaze, wishing he could see what went on in his head, his thoughts and desires, his motives and wishes.

The boy was guilty of his crimes… That was how he had landed himself in this mess. But even with the fear that one of the primes could take him apart, Peter wouldn’t change what he had done. He kept that to himself, however, since he truly believed that Tony had no idea. Tony didn’t even know he existed before this meeting, no doubt.

He shrugged his shoulders, but his eyebrows twitched upwards, making an arch. He recognized now that Tony called his bluff and hadn't expected Peter to actually go through with the request. To Peter, it told him that the prime hadn't had bad intentions… Stark just had a shocking way of doing things.

But what could Peter use that Tony would abide by…?

“I will hold you to your word,” he said and lines of distress formed across his smooth little forehead.

“On a prime’s honor,” he continued with a stern expression. His scent was giving away, however, how intimidated he really was.

Would this boy ever stop surprising him? The alpha wondered.

"A prime's–" Tony ended up chuckling.

He couldn't even fathom– It was ridiculous. The omega was holding him to a promise based on such a fanciful thing. And yet, something stirred inside the prime and it… It didn't exactly ache, but it was bothersome.

Then that scent reached him… Sour… His nose twitched in agitation. Rather abruptly, the alpha decided that he didn't like that scent, not when it was previously so sweet and alluring. Before Tony had played his game, as the omega called it.

"Honor, huh?" Tony smiled indulgently, "That doesn't exist in this world, sweetheart. But…"

His chin dipped, just the slightest acknowledgment.

"If you want that promise, then you can have it," Tony relented with a careless shrug. "Is that enough? Or should I sweeten the deal… Add something nice to make up for what I did. Diamonds, perhaps?"

Peter smiled at first, a bit hopeful since the man gave him the promise. He shouldn't trust him fully, Tony had said it himself, but Peter did. He trusted that he would keep his word, even if it had been given to someone insignificant like him, a stray omega.

Then his eyebrows lifted at the alpha's curious proposal.

Diamonds…?

With a tilt of his head, Peter looked up at him, his expression softening in wonder. It was meant as a joke, he was certain. It couldn’t be that the prime would truly offer this to him. But even if he was, the omega had no use for precious stones. What good could they do… They were just for show, void of true meaning.

He smiled innocently.

"No… no need for diamonds," he said lightheartedly while shaking his head. The omega's defenses had fallen. He was exposed again, letting go of his reservations and fear. His smile turned tender and apologetic almost.

"A rose would be nice, though," Peter gave back. His inner thoughts and emotions were bare for the alpha to witness in the vastness of his brown eyes.

Ironically, the request would be more difficult to fulfill. Diamonds, Tony could have smuggled in. They were tiny and easily hidden. Peter would perhaps have a hard time keeping them but anyone who knew they were a gift from the prime wouldn't dare touch them.

But a rose… Another fleeting thing. Something that wouldn't survive here. And yet, Tony wanted to get it for him.

Maybe it was because it was a challenge to do so. Maybe it was for some other reason…

Roses and diamonds… He thought wistfully. It didn't mean anything to the omega, but it did for Tony.

He dismissed the thought and instead gave the omega a charming smile.

"A rose… It would suit you," Tony told him. "A rose and a promise then, along with my… protection. What then are you giving me in return, hmm?"

Peter would not repeat the same mistake as before. Offering anything to the alpha was just not persuasive enough since he had already backed down from such claims. Yet the omega was determined and would go very far to have Tony as his protector.

“I’m tough. I may not look it, but I am,” he said and gulped, his cheeks getting a bit rosy.

The words didn’t match with his softness, his vulnerability that was so obvious in his scent.

“I can work for you, obey, and be devoted. I can… do the dirty work.” He glanced to the side, unsure.

The omega knew that he didn’t seem like much, but this… he really meant it.

Tony hummed in response and gave the boy a look over.

Whoever heard of an omega doing dirty work? That'd be interesting, indeed. Tony couldn't even really think of what task he would give the omega, but then, having a potential piece is better than not having one at all.

He'd find a use for Peter eventually, he was sure of it. At least the boy learned quick.

"You want to be a grunt in my… organization?" Tony said thoughtfully but shook his head, "I don't need more grunts. I have those in spares, even here."

He gave another thoughtful hum and let his eyes linger on the omega's pretty features. He circled the waiting boy, considering… Considering…

No tricks or games was what he had just promised. He'll stick to it then.

The prime prowled forward, every step a confident stride. His chest pressed against Peter's back, firm and unyielding.

"I have a better idea and you can decide yourself," Tony purred as he curled an arm around the omega's neck. His lips brushed against Peter's ear, soft and intimate.

"How about you keep me company, hmm?" Tony suggested, "Be mine. My omega. I have business to take care of and a fickle heart can cause trouble. Keep all the other omegas from interfering and we have a deal."

It was such a minor thing but Tony's interest wasn't so easily won. It would be one less worry, one less quarrel that he could somehow get caught in.

Peter felt Tony’s chest rise and fall against his back, with the man’s steady breathing. He turned his head, for a moment, to look at him, before lowering it again. His chest raced, and how could it not, after this proposition.

Just business… a cold deal. Well… not for Peter, since being Tony’s omega was his heart’s deep desire. He wanted to be close to him, to accompany him… to talk to him… To stare up into those beautiful dark eyes…

But it was not easy to say yes, even if it was what Peter wanted. It was risky, but the man had promised… And Peter believed him.

“Then we have a deal.” Peter nodded, and his form stiffened.

To belong to the most powerful man in prison was a serious matter. And yet the omega didn’t care as much for this as he cared for the fact that he would belong to Tony Stark and be his. Peter’s young love surged even greater with the possibilities. The omega tried to not fool himself and still, that hopeless dream of true love didn’t seem as unattainable…

Or maybe…

Maybe he was giving himself away for false hopes and empty promises. A flower cut off the garden, to be scented and of use until… deflowered.

Even though Peter couldn't see it, Tony's smile grew once the deal was made. The omega also wasn't pulling away so Tony felt a bit... daring.

He turned his face, nudging his nose against the boy's ear. Peter's scent had turned sweet again, like honey on his tongue and the alpha breathed it in like it was a drug.

"Deal," Tony said, lips curved up in a devilish grin.

#starker #madstarker writes #lovelygarnet is amazing #madlove roleplay #nff #prime alpha Tony #omega peter #prison au #omegaverse

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arcticdementor · 4 years

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Two years ago, when reviewing “The Benedict Option”, I wrote, “Almost all Dreher’s critics accuse him of crying wolf or being a Chicken Little at best … Meanwhile, I’m saying that Dreher is underestimating his enemy, painting an overly rosy picture, and not being nearly alarmist enough.”

This is still true.

“Wait, what? Totalitarianism! Gulags!”

I know!

Let me explain; I promise hope, this will be shorter than last time.

…

First, Dreher’s critics, while still far too blasé and insouciant about the end-game-level crisis racing straight for them, have at least started to acknowledge that something’s happening here, what it is ain’t exactly clear, but that some greater degree of consternation and freak-out is now warranted.

But they are still far, far behind the power curve on this one.

As a friend of mine put it, “The single biggest problem is lag-seriousness. We are always just at best about grim enough for yesterday’s battle.”

That is where “Dreher’s Law of Merited Impossibility” comes from. “It will never happen, and when it does, you bigots will deserve it.” If it were possible, despite denials, and by pointing out a clear logical implication of progressive ideology – and even going so far as to supplement with the early appearances of those explicit proposals – to scare conservatives enough, early enough, to do whatever it takes to avoid it, then the impossible wouldn’t keep happening to them, over and over again.

But it’s almost never feasible to do this. It turns out this is the one impossibility. The frogs never jump out of the pot in time to avoid another scalding. The need is not to be grim enough for yesterday, but for today, so that tomorrow won’t bring your final sunset.

That puts Dreher in the position of a Cassandra.

…

In “Live Not By Lies”, Dreher seems to assume that something like faithful Christianity as we know it today is going to go through a profoundly difficult era of persecution, but still, its adherents having prepared for it, it will persist at some level despite intense suffering until, well, ‘deliverance’. Perhaps not in the Acts 12:3 sense, but then again, maybe so. How else?

…

That’s why even Dreher isn’t radicalized enough yet, because he doesn’t seem to fully grapple with the gloomy prospects for his tradition that is the clear implication of his own arguments about the overwhelming magnitude of the problem. That is: termination. Slow and steady and (mostly) gentle evaporation under the relentless heat of the sun until the last drop of water finally evaporates and the spiritual desert goes completely dry.

It would be like Travis telling the defenders of the Alamo that Santa Anna was sending a force in the morning that outnumbered them ten to one, that supplies were nearly exhausted, and reinforcements too far away to help. But with a tone of brutal optimism, “It’s going to be really rough boys, but if we’re tough enough, we’ll make it.” – “Um, rough? Well Travis, come hell or high water, I’m happy to make a stand and fight by your side. No rendirse! But to be frank, from the way you put it, I reckon it sounds like we’re all going to die.”

…

Now, before I explain why, let me get to the second piece of good news and commend Dreher for a wonderful second half of the book, which contained the inspiring and gut-wrenching stories of what it was like for people of faith behind the Iron Curtain to be the subjects of Communist anti-Christian oppression.

As I look over my notes, I see almost no comments or criticisms in that half. The testimonies speak for themselves. These harrowing and moving tales of triumphs of fidelity and perseverance in the face of the hardships and miseries of hard totalitarianism don’t need any gloss. The stories of these brave people deserve your study, and their memories your honor.

However.

What is both terrible and true is that a month later you are probably going to forget all their names, forget the details of their persecution, and come away with the same rough impression and vague understanding you already have. This is that Christians had it really bad in a place where Christianity was once all of life but had been evicted, that some of them nevertheless stayed devoted, and others gave the last full measure of devotion. Others resisted, and some of them even lasted long enough on the road through hell to make it through to the other side.

Though, in a way, it was lucky for them there was the other side: that didn’t happen everywhere. If the Soviets had then what the Chinese have now, likely there would have been no interviews or happy endings. You can’t even forget a martyr’s name if you never got the chance to hear about his martyrdom in the first place.

…

Alas, this is not really a manual at all, and regardless of whether Dreher is dropping some kind of Straussian signal with that, it’s surprising that few of his critics have noticed the problem.

An actual manual is more than just general rough guidelines; it has clear, specific, step-by-step instructions for how to accomplish some identified, well-defined task or troubleshoot typical problems. It cannot be a bunch of personal narratives, and, “Follow their lead; just be like them. Refuse to bend, like Benda.”

If one picked up, say, a survival manual, one would expect to emerge knowing how to start a fire and build a shelter. A beginner’s cookbook will at least tell you precisely how long to boil an egg.

What does Dreher tell us to do in an age of persecution? “Embrace Suffering.” “Choose a Life Apart from the Crowd.” “Reject Doublethink and Fight for Free Speech.” “Cherish Truth-Telling but Be Prudent.” “Cultivate Cultural Memory.” “See, Judge, Act.”

He doesn’t get much more specific. I think he believes he got more specific – “form small cells … read other books,” and the recitation of Solzhenitsyn’s Six Hard Rules on page 18 – but it’s not actually the case. “See, Judge, Act” is just a description of any rational decision-making process, and “Yeah, but this is Persecuted Christian decision-making,” doesn’t actually put meat on the bones. These are mostly motivation stimulants and abstract encouragements of the right general attitudes, but those do no a ‘manual’ make.

These are like ordering the military to “Be able to fight and win wars,” and then someone else develops the *actual* doctrine and writes the field manuals. These commandments, like the Decalogue itself, just raise a host of questions, “How much suffering? How far apart from the crowd? Which crowd? How do I identify doublethink? Fight for free speech how? Fight for hate speech too? Where is the line between prudence and paying so much lip-service I lose my soul?”

…

But how is some ordinary person who needs an actual manual supposed to live not by lies, if the famous, influential guy writing the admonition feels just as compelled by circumstances and prudence to live by omitting the lies?

There should have been at least one page that went like this:

You as a Christian are going to be strongly pressured to “wear the ribbon” and to say the following things which do not accord with the truths of our faith, and in order to live not by lies, you must be willing to sacrifice, suffer if necessary, and never say …

Never say what, exactly? Yes, integrity in general is a virtue, but obviously Dreher is talking about the Big Lies.

But in his book, there is a surprising paucity of actual lies. Isn’t that something? First it’s strange, then it’s puzzling, and then when you solve the puzzle, demoralizing.

My take is the answer to the puzzle of absence is Dreher’s actual manual, the one you are supposed to figure out. The most critically strategic task is to preserve precisely this kind of room for maneuver: the freedom to speak the truth and to condemn the lies. If you still can, if there is still some crack open in the window of opportunity, then you must band together and stop your opponents from being able to impose their rival orthodoxy on you, which forces that absence and omission and uses that dominance to call your lies truth and your love hate.

If you can’t do that, if you missed your chance to make that stand, then like the Alamo, it’s only a matter of time.

…

Otherwise, without the list of lies one lacks a clear idea of the threat one faces, and so vague guidelines are all that are left and there is no possibility of a manual with precise instructions. But with the lies, the enemy hears his own name like the aliens hear a scream in “A Quiet Place”, and then come down on you like a ton of bricks.

VI. From whence the cascade

Well, look, no sense getting some bricks in the face if one can avoid it, that’s just being smart and prudent. Though, inconveniently, it’s Dreher himself who quotes Milosz to argue against this kind of seductive logic.

Better logic would be to say that one can reason that the intended audience probably knows the lies already, and knows that they have been weak, acquiesced, and lived by them. They know what they are supposed to stand up for already, and they know they have failed to do so. They know who their enemies are, and they know they have failed to resist them. You don’t need to list the lies to send a signal to all these people that, by the very fact of this book existing, knowing that it is being digested by so many other people, they are not alone, and they can act differently.

But what the audience still doesn’t know is what to do about it. Dreher may not know either. Notice: a thousand Benedict Option startups have not bloomed. The Benedict Option was criticized as crazy and alarmist, but again, the ugly, gloomy truth is that it’s actually the hopeful, optimistic, and practically wishful-thinking take on things. Most likely, there is no such option.

…

The anti-audience already believes Dreher is far more of a kook and Chicken Little than his Christian critics do, and just a continuation of “The Paranoid Style In American Politics.” To them, Dreher can get in the back of the line behind the McCarthyists, “Eisenhower was a Commie!” John Birchers, QAnon conspiracy theorists, and low-status judgment-day-is-just-around-the-corner-all-the-signs-are-actually-happening prepper types. They are once again proclaiming the first half of the law, “It will never happen.”

And without the list of lies, their argument wins the day. It seems fully plausible and convincing. It sounds like this:

Oh look at these idiots going off again. Here we are, just trying to make sure love wins and hate loses. Our ‘radical ideology’ amounts to “Don’t be a bigot, help your fellow man, and keep your toxic hatefulness to yourself.” Everybody should be included, and nobody ought to be unjustly discriminated against. Simple, self-evident, human universals, really, do real, loving Christians really disagree so much with any of those? And because the white supremacist homophobes can’t think of anything else to say in response, the hide behind ‘Christianity’ as a pathetic rationalization for their simple irrational animus, and resort to inventing fantasies like gulags and torture rooms and KGB agents. Like *they’re* the victims! Delusional! What kind of creepy psychological problems do they have to really imagine that with all their wealth, comfort, freedom, privilege, and petty first world problems, that they are remotely spiritual kin with people who endured the worst suffering possible? Crazy!

Do you see the problem? It’s the ‘merited’ part of the law. Dreher wants to respond with the simple truth, “We’re not bigots, and we don’t deserve it.” The response would be, “Ok, let’s find out. What is it exactly that you are going to insist on believing or doing, that we would possibly think was worth throwing you into a gulag?”

He can’t beat around the bush with something general and evasive, “For being devout Christians.”

The response (at least from the rare one who knows anything about Christianity) would be as follows:

Look, we just think your religion is mostly a collection of mythological fantasies and superstitious prohibitions, but combined with a salvageable core of a worthy moral perspective that, like almost all ancient and traditional lines of philosophy, represents an incomplete and imperfect grasping toward the same ethical framework we now hold dear. That’s why Jefferson rewrote the bible, removing all those superfluous distractions. Following the actual bible seems kind of nutty and backward to us, but now that it’s in clear political retreat in terms of numbers and influence, and since most self-identified Christians don’t really seem to live like they take most of it seriously, we regard it as mostly harmless. So long as you keep it to yourselves.

So, nobody is going to throw you in the gulag for going to church. Or for believing Jesus is Lord, that he is the Savior of humanity and God’s only son, that he was born in Bethlehem of the Virgin Mary who in turn was immaculately conceived, that he performed miracles, made water into wine, multiplied bread and fishes, walked upon water, healed the sick, raised the dead, died for our sins, and was resurrected. That he saves his people by means of their repentance and confession to sin and commanded his followers to love each other and their neighbors and their enemies, and to spread his word and the gospel of the good news of their salvation to every soul.

Seriously now, is that not Christian enough or you? Are these not the central claims of Christianity? Is that not enough freedom to be a Christian?

And we aren’t going to do a single thing to anyone for any of that. Why would we even care? Maybe if proselytizing is done obnoxiously in an imposing manner and makes people feel unsafe and not included. But let’s face it, 99.99% of American Christians aren’t ever doing that anymore, so it’s kind of absurd to spook them, right? Now we will insist that you not discriminate against LGBTs, and not to teach people to hate them, and yes, you will indeed get merited punishment if you persist in doing so. But seriously, is Hate the hill you are choosing to die on?

As another friend of mine put it, “We do not want you to subtract from your faith, only to add to it. Just don’t be a jerk and you’ll be just fine.”

One simply cannot give this line of argument anything like an adequate response without getting right into the contrasts between what one believes and what one’s opponents believe, that is, between the truth and the lies. It’s a no-win situation. Without naming the lies, the progressives will suspect Dreher’s audience are closeted bigots. Naming the lies, open bigots. C’est la guerre.

Unlike in the Soviet Union, the progressives don’t see mere belief and worship as inherently threatening, and so aren’t interested in prison and torture for merely belonging to a faith, going to church, being a priest, and so forth. They look at ‘worship’ in “freedom of worship” in the same ’boutique’ manner that Fish explained as the way they look at culture in “multiculturalism”. That is, by definition, non-threatening to the imperialist program of imposing progressive orthodoxy on everyone, everywhere.

In other words, Fake Religious Tolerance, and Fake Multiculturalism. Fake, because it is precisely at the important friction points that the freedom or the multi ends. Now, as Winnifred Sullivan explained, whether genuine religious freedom is even possible in anything like our system is an interesting question, but the point is that one can’t have any coherent discourse on the subject real or fake tolerance, without identifying those points of difference.

…

Now, the approach Dreher has taken has been to say that, of course it won’t actually be ‘hard’ torture and gulags, it will be ‘soft’ totalitarianism. Dreher would have given his argument much more punch had he marshaled the parade of horribles of all the “never going to happen”s that are definitely going to happen, probably soon. Without getting into the lies, he could still have collected in one place the likely sequence of escalation of oppressive state policies and mob pressures which will be brought to bear against Christian (and other) holdouts in the mopping-up operations.

They’ll penalize or dis-accredit private school, take away homeschooling, have child protective services yank your kids away if you try, mandate offensively heretical curriculum on core moral issues, kick your kids out of athletic competitions and related chances for scholarships, boycott your businesses, commercially excommunicate you as unhireable, and ineligible to use the internet or transactions system, give your kids abortions or sex hormones behind your back, take away your guns, allow the mob to walk right up to your front door and smash your windows with impunity, and if you try to defend yourself, you’ll be the one who gets arrested.

To his Christian readers, that parade of horribles will feel closer and more plausible and real, thus helping to raise their alarm to more accurate levels. Some may reject these claims at first, but as they start coming true, one after the other, he will seem nothing less than, well, prophetic. Cassandra was cursed, but Dreher can build a track record.

The trouble is, while all these things will happen, unlike in the Soviet system, they will never need to be ubiquitous or even common, so they can always be rhetorically dismissed as rare aberrations. No one is going to publish a ‘study’ with some nice scatter plots showing the increase in the persecution index. In the contemporary media environment, one hanged admiral – a pizza shop, a cake decorator, an expelled student, a heterodox professor – encourages millions of the others, to just give in and side with the strong horse, the cool horse. You only have to hang one or two admirals a year, (only after groveling apologies of course) and soon enough, the whole Navy has surrendered, concludes that those admirals had it coming, and that they “weren’t being smart.”

…

The thing about hard totalitarianism is the fact of brutal oppression is inescapably clear to everyone. Sure, it will be rationalized and justified, but that people know it’s there if they step out of line is half the point. And if one is not enjoying being on the delivering end, the common human psychological instinct is to resent such domination.

‘Soft’ is totally different. People will still have choices, but if they choose ‘wrong’ in the eyes of the elites, then they will just be seen as weirdo losers and low-status pariahs, not martyrs. The flip-side of resenting domination is admiring, conspicuously affiliating with, and imitating the prestigious. People – your own fellow Christians too – will look at the refusal to pinch incense for Caesar the same way they look at a hermit’s refusal of all society. When you think about it, the hermit who could fit in if he wanted to is just persecuting himself.

…

The perception of dual loyalty would mean that you would be spied on, that your closest friends would be recruited to inform against you, and that you would hit an unacknowledged but hard glass ceiling in your career path, “Performance Assessment: A highly competent and reliable professional with unlimited leadership potential, but … does not adequately demonstrate he fully shares our values and commitment to progress. Pass over for promotion absent a critical personnel shortage in his field.”

And of course, you would never be told: a breeding ground for paranoia and self-doubt. Nevertheless, if you kept your head down otherwise, you could enjoy a normal life and even some measure of personal success and respect.

Sometimes, to remind people who’s boss, an ‘informant’ would be told to make up some baloney accusations and the local priest would get arrested and interrogated, maybe leaned on to make more false accusations of his colleagues. No one would hear about him for days. Then, usually, he was released with a stern warning to watch his back.

When he showed up again at services, what happened? His whole congregation would weep for joy and relief, hugs and handshakes for hours, invitations and offers of support. He would be a kind of minor hero, a kind of minor martyr, honored and dignified. There were thousands of such events in the second half the 20th century. That’s worthy suffering; inspiring, socially productive suffering.

XI. Live Hard

But what about someone who gets ‘canceled’ today? Most of the time, it’s the Big Meh, no welcoming arms and no heroic status in one’s reference social group. Without that, there is no utility in withstanding the suffering, because there is no power of example or remembrance. Today, if you are accused of ‘hate’, things are such that most of your fellows will feel obliged to act like they believe it, dump you like a bag of dirt, and avoid you like the roof over reactor number three.

Dreher and Benda like to use the example of “High Noon”. But try to imagine “Low Noon”, where, at the end, all the townspeople ganged up on the sheriff saying, “What the heck did you do that for, you psycho? Those guys didn’t deserve that! Now you’ve just gone and made trouble for the rest of us. Get the heck out of our town, monster!”

…

To throw this into even sharper relief, and to demonstrate the absence of a true ‘manual’, instead of ‘Christianity’, imagine that one is trying to preserve and propagate some even more unpopular views that, while one believes them to be perfectly true, are deeply hated by just about everyone. Any manual for dissidents necessarily works in general for any strain of persecuted dissent, and if it speaks to a particular kind of dissident, it is only because is it written in the language they are best able to comprehend.

Now, imagine a group of scattered people who were trying not to propagate Christianity and persevere as Christians, but as Confederates. Some kind of secret society that saw it all coming since Calhoun and had, against all odds, continued for two centuries to the present day, who believed in the lost cause as the right cause, hereditary racial slavery, and all the rest. What concrete advice does Dreher give that these people could use? What advice could anyone give them?

There isn’t any.

This hypothetical makes it easy for everyone to immediately grasp, at this stage in the game, that it’s an impossible task. The powers that be and 99% of society are fully committed and determined to thoroughly eradicating any remaining trace of those ideas and traditions. They can do it, they will, they are, they are almost done. Either the hypothetical Secret Confederates get nukes, or the protection of someone who has them, or (if they weren’t already extinct), their days are numbered. That’s it, game over.

XIII. Other Feet

The point is, the Soviet context is simply not the proper analogy for our situation. That ideas makes it seem like the familiar image of the Romans throwing Christians to wild beasts in some arena. But the right way to look at it is the other way around, once the Christians had won the upper hand.

The right context is something like Watts’ “The Final Pagan Generation”.

In late antiquity there were still sincere worshipers of Minerva and Apollo and Jupiter, continuing a religious tradition that went back, as it happens, about two thousand years. And then it ended. It’s a long story, and yes there was a fair amount of actual persecution as the shoe gradually moved to the other foot, but it wasn’t the key factor.

Gradually, there were fewer and fewer of these people, until there really was a last one. And when he died, the faith died with him; the chain linking 100 generations was broken, and the line went completely extinct. The last drop of water evaporated and the ground was dry. Now, no one praises Jupiter, because their great-grandparents praised Jupiter.

…

Dreher’s “Why Communism Appealed to Russians” is, unfortunately, typical progressive mythological narrative (i.e., widely-swallowed propaganda) and mushy-headed nonsense drawing a line from “poverty and oppression” to the allure of Socialism. The material circumstances of various populations simply do not constitute the proper explanation for how that particular idea – or any idea – spread and came to dominate.

…

If our own past is a foreign country, the past of foreign countries is too weird and alien to grasp without extensive immersion in its particular history. We are taught to think of tsarist-era exile in Siberia as a retroactive extension of the Soviet gulags, but it wasn’t like that. Siberia was like their Australia: a far away place you could send prisoners of all kinds with minimal supervision and the understanding that it was really hard to get back. You might even hope they would try to take a go at making a life for themselves out there like colonists, because you needed to populate the vast, mostly unpeopled wilderness.

So “exile” at that time was mockable as a kind of Siberian summer camp. Many of the Bolsheviks who experienced it were practically unguarded and made many successful and attempted escapes. Stalin wrote of his enjoyment fishing with Tunguses, horseback riding, and of fornication (and procreation!) with 13 year old locals like Lidia Pereprygia. Brutal, I tell you.

…

By page 41, Dreher admits that “Intellectuals are the Revolutionary Class,” but he might have just said ‘elites’. Major historical events and struggles between groups are always and everywhere a phenomenon of disputes between classes of elites.

But then a few pages later he goes off course, “To be sure, neither loneliness, not social atomization, not the rise of social justice radicalism among power-holding elites – none of these and other factors discussed here meant that totalitarianism is inevitable.”

Unfortunately, when you are dealing with a replacement religion on the rise, and all the elites believe either in the latest edition of it or the version of it from ten years ago, yes it does.

…

With Chapter Three Dreher gets into Progressivism as Religion, but instead of accurate anthropology, we get the enemy’s version of the story about themselves, which is, as in all similar cases, slightly less than perfectly reliable.

…

If one looks under the hood, one sees that what leftism is mostly about is “redistribution of stuff and status.” The political formula is a tacitly understood bargain to clients that offers, in exchange for political support, the use of state power to take from the enviable and give to those who envy.

…

Here’s another example of bad history:

The original American dream – the one held by the seventeenth century Puritan settles – was religion: to establish liberty as the condition that allowed them to worship and to service God as dictated by their consciences.

Actually, the Puritans immediately established a suffocatingly strict theocracy that did not tolerate heretics except by necessity, and in which ministers were public officials. Nathaniel Ward’s or Winthrop’s ‘liberty’ was the liberty to be a pious Puritan, and the lack of liberty to be anything else. If you were not a member of the church, you were officially a second-class citizen, and they would throw you out for anything. The Puritans did not give people freedom to make choices according to their consciences about living virtuously or not, see, e.g., Platform of Church Discipline (1648).

Most of this ‘liberty’ story was retconned in the late 18th century during the establishment of the popular mythology of American History. Once upon a time people like Rothbard thought that perhaps one day American society would come to be so confident and mature that it could replace the white lie mythology with the reality. No such luck. Instead we got a new religion that is just replacing it with a much more sinister and malevolent mythology. That’s how it goes. There is always a de facto state religion, and it will spread the myths it finds most useful.

…

Dreher does a good job in summarizing some of the claims of progressivism and “critical theory”, but he presents them as if they are to be taken at face value.

There is no such thing as objective truth, there is only power

Yes, you will hear this kind of rhetoric mindlessly parroted all the time, but it is by no means some kind of metaphysical principle consistently applied. It is little more than an opportunistic tactical pose and a weapon to be deployed only when convenient, just like any double standard. “Out truths are real, whereas your ‘truths’ are just useful lies you can shove down people’s throats and get them to repeat because you can intimidate and bully them into it.” The fact that one can’t tell which side is making that statement about the other is what gives that perspective its robustness.

Progressives believe in rule by (credentialed, prestigious) experts, a rule that is legitimated by appeal to superior knowledge of objective truth. Consider: “Reality-based community” or “Climate change is real. The science is settled.” None of that is compatible with the “no such thing” claim.

What about the “Myth of Progress”

It seems to flow naturally from the Myth of Progress as it has been lived out in our mass consumerist democracy, which has for generations defined progress as the liberation of human desire from limits.

No, just Christian limits. This is an important point, and I think one that Dreher resists or finds hard to appreciate, mostly because progressives usually want mandatory toleration for everything Christianity prohibits.

But progressives are not libertines and have their own comprehensive sexual morality that is in some ways even more restrictive than that of traditional religions. Is it not actually based on “live and let live,” “different strokes for different folks,” or the “anything goes with consenting adults” principle of volenti non fit iniuria, because in the progressive conception ‘true’ voluntariness and consent can only be valid in the absence of a whole host of pressures, undue influences, and power imbalances. Contra Dreher, this imposes all manner of limits on human desire, as one can witness watching any tribunal of sex bureaucrats on any American college campus.

…

XX. Woke Capitalism

At the same time, Big Business has moved steadily leftward on social issues. Standard business practice long required staying out of controversial issues on the grounds that taking sides in the culture war would be bad for business” – now not taking sides is bad for business. … A powerful coalition of corporate leaders … threatened economic retaliation against [Indiana] if it did not reverse course.

Somehow I missed the reporting about all the progressives who screamed in outrage at this corporate interference in our democracy.

Still, the reason they were able to make these threats is pretty obvious: no one was credibly threatening back. In a ‘manual’, Dreher would tell his readers what to do about this, but he presents it as a fait accompli and new normal Borg against which all resistance is futile.

…

The real issue is the surveillance, and the power of modern capabilities. Without going full ‘technological determinism’, my impression is that the reality of software eating the world coupled with the constant tracking and surveillance by all entities with the wherewithal and reach is inevitable and unavoidable. It is in the basic nature of technological change that once the capability is there, Pandora’s Box cannot remain shut for long. We are already well past the tipping point on that one.

Yes, all the big institutions constantly spying on everything you do for the rest of time is very creepy and disturbing. But if one is worried not so much about privacy in general but about persecution in particular, then from a more abstract perspective, there is really no reason to implicate ‘capitalism’ except as yet another mechanism by which powerful social coalitions can apply extralegal coercive pressure while circumventing the rules limiting direct state action.

If the state tolerates this, it is allowing an effectively collateral state to fill the power vacuum by abandoning the field of certain sovereign prerogatives. This is the real “parallel polis”, much like the mafia is a parallel government on its own turf when the official state is unable or unwilling to take it on. If the state does not protect its claim to a monopoly on all coercion, hard or soft, then someone else is going to pick up the coercion left lying around.

Then again, sometimes the state wants it that way. If the mayor needs an inconvenient opponent to disappear, he probably can’t ask his chief of police to get it done for him. But if he tolerates a Don, he can go to the Don. If the state is not technically allowed to persecute you directly, if it tolerates some persecutors, it can have them do the persecuting. In either case, when you pierce the veil, the rectified name for it is conspiracy. The tragedy is that the veil has countless defenders who will insist that if it didn’t come from behind the veil, no harm no foul.

…

Two decades ago, when we started to become aware of this problem, people guessed that a combination of (1) new cultural adaptations to avoid these hazards, (2) new generations being raised from birth to be familiar with the risks of the internet, and (3) an increasingly long track record of lots of people having their lives publicly ruined, would encourage people to “adjust trim” and be much more cautious and prudent.

Some people did just that, but, in general, it hasn’t turned out that way. It seems that psychological effect of the way we interface online – when it seems as if it’s just you and your screen in your own little virtual secret world – makes people feel too “alone and private” to keep their guard up. Unfortunately, if one assumes this isn’t going to get better any time soon, then one can only conclude that in a time of Christian persecution, ordinary people are going to slip up sooner or later if they touch networked devices at all, and if they refuse to do so, they will out themselves all the same. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

What that means is that there is no longer any possibility whatsoever of evading the notice of powerful people who are out to get you. From the perspective of any serious, capable, and determined state (cough, China) this is now a solved problem. There can be no secret meetings or clandestine samizdat printing operations or anything like that. Near the end of the book, Dreher advises, “Christians should educate themselves about the mechanics of running underground cells and networks while they are still free to do so.” As the Uyghurs would tell you, if they could, that ship has already sailed. The old mechanics are obsolete and no longer work, and there are no new mechanics.

…

Hard cases make bad law, but there is nothing but a hard choice to make about this undeniable situation. Either one embraces the principle of “they are private companies so they are free to do whatever they like and the state has nothing to do with it,” and accept, well, ‘extinction’. Or one says no, undermines the principles of free enterprise and private property, but creates a terrible state power that, eventually, can and will be used by ones enemies too.

On the other hand, all the undermining and regulation has already been done in every other possible way in every other industry and sector, especially all those rules insisting on equal treatment. Frankly, it’s bizarre to watch advocates insist on straining out the gnat of just this one thing that apparently crosses the line though it threatens half the country with political neutralization, when they are unable to summon up ten percent as much passion for having swallowed as many camels as there are pages in the Code of Federal Regulations.

Speech Is Special. You can’t argue to get it back once it’s gone. There can be genuinely free platform companies, or universally safe platform companies, but if companies are only free to the extent it is safe for our enemies to use the platforms to crush us, then crushed we will be.

…

“The essence of modernity is to deny that there are any transcendent stories, structures, habits, or beliefs to which individuals must submit and that should bind our conduct”

He says ‘modernity’ but my impression is that he means modern, secular, leftist progressivism. But if you are not a progressive, ask yourself, do they seem like they aren’t interested in making you submit and binding your conduct? Do they lack for stories with unfalsifiable elements that explain why they are entitled to do this?

The progressives imagine that they’ve solved for objective morality. There is no “dictatorship of relativism.” The Jacobins are not libertarians “At the heart of liberty is the right to define one’s own concept of existence, of meaning, of the universe, and of the mystery of human life.” They have a perfectly well-defined concept, and it applies to you too, without any right to define a different one, because error has no rights.

XXV. Velvet Samizdat:

Perhaps nothing helps to highlight the contrast between Soviet-era or North Korean-style Communist oppression and the current circumstances in America than the irrelevance of ‘samizdat’. Yes, there is certainly a fair bit of purging and memory-holing, removal of items from curriculum as well as chilling, suppression, and intimidation out there for present-day writers and publishers who wish to go off-narrative.

But all of it has a mostly prospective, deterrent character. The robust strength of the current system of opinion management is perhaps in no way better demonstrated than by the fact that there is mostly no problem with actual eliminative censorship of the past, with preserving cultural memory, archives, records, and so forth. Because none of that makes any difference.

All the old books are still out there, accessible to anyone, instantaneously, in their own language, and free, and one doesn’t have to go back very far before most of them have the “currently regarded as problematic” volume knob pegged to eleven. Don’t even get me started on Greek philosophy! But almost nobody cares, and it goes unread, and even more unread than one would figure correcting for our increasingly post-literate society. The ‘soft’ system is so much stronger than the ‘hard’, it is nigh invulnerably, such that brazen, obvious, and easily-disproven falsehoods can be printed without any concern on the part of the authors or publishers whatsoever, who know they’ll win prizes anyway.

The counterarguments will be allowed to exist, just not allowed to make a difference. They will never get any attention, buzz, or amplification from prestigious, cool people, and so can be ignored just as if they had been censored. This is deeply demotivating; why even bother? In a way, it’s actually better when your enemies know you’re lying and know you can get away with it. Show’s everyone who’s boss. No need for samizdat, no point.

…

Dreher is particularly inspired by the Bendas and their commitment to turning their home into a sanctuary, place of refuge, and the ‘parallel polis’ of an alternative community.

But Vaclav Benda had advantages. The Communist takeover of his country was recent and had been widely predicted. That meant there was still a large population of people who had grown up in the old days and were formed by that previous order to be loyal to pre-existing commitments, traditions, habits, institutions, and, most importantly, to each other. That includes Benda himself. His activities depended on being able to rely on the remnants of that inheritance, along with the nationalistic perception of a brutally oppressive *foreign* occupation.

But pressure and time wears down all things, and another generation or two of persecution, combined with the psychological enervation from a fully indigenous phenomenon such as that in America, and it would have been impossible.

Benda also lived in a time and place where physical proximity was essential and common. Today it is like herding cats to bring people together, and so the internet is now where all the “private home” discussions are had. There are plenty of virtual Bendas and little digital salons out there. They are a great source of consolation and solidarity for dissidents, and the quality of gallows humor is top notch. But mostly these venues have proven to be impotent and incompetent for any other purpose. Probably the last old pagans gathered around to drink and talk about their plight, and to joke and complain about those darn Christians as they tried to figure out if there was anything else to be done. There wasn’t.

XXVII: Man and SuperBenda

If one doesn’t have a manual, perhaps one can imitate a model. But can the Bendas be models? A model provides an example that an ordinary person can feasibly replicate. But the Bendas put the extra in extraordinary. Inspiring cases of astonishing and, frankly, naturally elite people with incredibly strength of will who are one out of ten thousand are wonderful to hear. But if that’s what it takes, then any project which relies on typical people following in their footsteps is altogether hopeless. Consider:

The Benda family model requires parents to exercise discernment. For example, the Bendas didn’t ops out of popular culture but rather chose intelligently which parts of it they wanted their children to absorb.

I am somewhat less than perfectly confident in the capacity of most ordinary Christians to exercise anything approaching this level of judicious discernment, including the abilities to both choose wisely and intelligently and also to maintain the strict discipline and constant overwatch needed to keep it going, day in, day out. “Be Like Benda” is a tall order, and if we’re being honest, too tall for too many.

This is a different context from the one in which one would encourage sinners to try to live more like saints, or to imitate the lives of the holy family, as every little step in that direction is an improvement. As it is in horseshoes and hand-grenades, so it is in holiness: getting closer counts.

But when it comes to resisting overwhelming social pressures, one has to clear tall hurdles, and if one can’t, one cannot move forward. Imagine you are in the ocean near the beach and someone spots a man-eating shark. Michael Phelps is there and can out-swim the shark to shore, because he is an extraordinary man. We all admire his prowess and we can try to imitate what he does, but in our cases it won’t be enough. Phelps is going to make it, but we will be shark food.

…

Near the end of the book, Dreher writes, “The culture war is largely over— and we lost. The Grand March is, for the time being, a victory parade.” Dreher has repeated this over many years, and I have been reading a similar lines for two decades at least, and it probably goes back long before that. In a way it’s true, and, depending how you define terms, it’s been true before any of us were born. But in a way it’s not true, because there is a great deal of ruin in a culture. As much as has already been taken, there remains so much more territory left to conquer, and it’s odd to say one has lost a war when the battles never end and new fronts keep opening up all the time.

It’s more precise to say that if non-progressives keep doing what they are doing now, following the conventional rules of the game, then like the Pagan, what they are giving up is the capacity to hold ground. That means the best they can do is slow down the advance and retreat and retreat and retreat until, one day, they are on the beach, backs against the ocean.

The real trouble with “Live Not By Lies” is that the encouragement of the stories (which are inspiring) and the instructions of the manual (such as they are), are simply not remotely adequate to arrest the trend of the progressive progression, which ends in The End.

The good news is that it doesn’t have to end like that, and it is still not too late to choose a different destiny. The bad news is that it would require measures far more radical than 99.99% of Christians and other non-progressives are currently prepared to accept. The proper task of a prophet is to expand that acceptance by making them understand they don’t have any better options. At least, not if they don’t want to end up like the Pagans.

#handle #book review #rod dreher #live not by lies #read the whole thing

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gospelofsam · 5 years

Text

PASSING DAYS

OOI.

Twin ravens circled the clear Vanaheim skies, their mix of blue and green feathers glistening in the summer sun like newly polished gems. Below them, a wild landscape stretched on for miles in either direction. It was beautiful, yet untamed, much like the Vanir who resided there.

Campsites dotted the plains, going on for as far as the eye could see. An arena was nestled somewhere in the middle of them all, hidden behind tall blades of yellowing grass and wildflowers. The entirety of the Vanir realm was overgrown, as were most of its occupants in their own right. Wild, untamed and free.

One of the ravens, Hugin, perched on the branch of a lone oak tree. He ruffled his bright blue feathers. His beady green eyes followed two bodies as they travelled down the tilled path. Interested was the bird. Interested and watching, as was his job.

The two stopped in their tracks, resting at the tree where Hugin had perched himself. They took a seat under the shade the expanse of leaves provided, talking and laughing amongst themselves. One, the boy, tossed a square of wood between each of his hands, his golden hair falling out from the man bun and into his face. He had sharp features, but not the kind that might scare someone off. No, they were gentle in their own ways, soft where it mattered the most. His eyes were as green as the landscape he was sitting in, as were the girls who leaned into him.

Hugin, from what he could see from his place on the branch, could immediately tell the two were related. The girl’s hair, though, was much darker, as red as the autumn leaves. Yet they shared the same flawless complexion, the same emerald eyes, and the same pointed features. Elves, the raven assumed, possibly from Folkvangr, the Vanir parallel to Valhalla.

“We should really get going,” the boy piped up, dropping his moving hands to the ground. They still fidgeted, Hugin noted, always ready and anxious for something new. Something more exciting than simply resting in the grass. “The others are probably waiting up for us, you know.”

The girl rolled her eyes, a strand of her auburn hair popping out from the braid that rested over her shoulder. Her face was speckled in dirt, but that didn’t keep from the fact that she was a looker. “They know their way back. A couple of more minutes won’t hurt them.” She beamed at the other. A bright, happy grin like that was infectious. It made you want to smile, to keep her happy for as long as you could. The boy, who, like the girl who accompanied him, still remained nameless to Hugin. Munin, his sister, might have known, but she was still surveying the area, keeping watch over the realm their master dared not to go.

The boy chose to return her smile, though he seemed hesitant to do so. He took the small wood black back into his hands, passing it under and over his slender fingers. Possibly to occupy himself, Hugin was unsure.

After a few moments of silence, Munin, who’s feathers were more green than blue, landed on the branch opposite of him. Her eyes were a shining blue, much like Hugin’s feathers. She nodded at him, pointing her beak downwards at the brother and sister. Ah. So, these were the two they had been sent to find. Together, their bodies changed and shifted to look more human. Twin shapeshifters sat on the branch where the birds had once been. They couldn’t have been older than fifteen, maybe sixteen, but time and was easily disguisable.

Munin plucked unruly feathers from her dark green hair, setting them in a neat pile beside her. Her hair fell in waves above her shoulder, but her eyes remained the same piercing blue. She looked accustomed to Vanaheim’s wild terrain, donning Doc Martin boots, denim jeans and a flannel. In her usual fashion, the articles of clothing all shared the green color scheme.

Hugin, on the other hand, had much shorter, much more vibrant blue hair, mirroring the bright blue feathers his raven form bore. He and Munin’s color schemes were inversed, hers being mostly green, while his consisted of various shades of blue clothing. Unlike his sister, he was undoubtedly unprepared for the realm of the Vanir, having dressed in an oversized blue, almost black, sweater, jean capris, and sneakers. Munin gave an annoyed look, which Hugin countered by blowing a raspberry. He was mature like that.

The two raven spies of Odin dropped down from their oaken perch, frightening the elven siblings as they landed. Well, more so when Munin landed. Hugin, who hadn’t timed his own jump right, hit the ground with a thud. His hands were scraped, bleeding slightly, but nothing felt or seemed to be broken. Still, the boy looked concerned. As Hugin got to his feet, brushing the grass from his palms onto his sweater, the blond elf rushed forward, dropping the wooden block from his hands. It was a rune, Hugin realized. Instead of the warmth that crept from the elf’s body into his own, he attempted to focus on the wooden rune. Distracting himself, really.

Munin coughed, breaking up the boy’s healing session. She was clearly impatient, and Hugin couldn’t blame her. They had been given a task. They couldn’t afford to be held back by minor inconveniences such as injuring a hand. The boy backed away, but he and Hugin continued sharing eye contact. Even without words, the elf’s message was clear. He wanted to know if the shapeshifter was alright. Hugin nodded, silently assuring him he was. His scrapes had vanished, the only trace that he’d even injured himself in the first place being the trickles of his own blood staining the blades of grass crimson.

“Stop gawking and do your job,” Munin grumbled, her elbow connecting with Hugin’s ribcage. He moved his emerald eyes away from the elf, his face burning, mostly out of embarrassment of being caught. Truthfully, he hadn’t realized he’d been staring.

He cleared his throat, clasping his newly healed hands behind his back. The girl, he noticed, had been chuckling, but had been quieted by her brother, who looked as embarrassed as Hugin felt. He fidgeted behind his back, he looked over the two elves, attempting to piece together the signs that they had once trained under the Vanir deities Frey and Freya. The rune etched into the boy’s wooden block was fehu, the rune dedicated to Frey. That was the only indication the two were connected. His sister had a quiver slung over her back, which had a distinct triskelion pattern sewn into the fabric. It was a motif that had been associated with Freya for many winters. How had he just now noticed them?

“You know, you two are easier to find than I thought you’d be.” said Hugin, keeping his tone light and humorous. Only the Allfather knew what these two could be capable of own their own, much less as a pairing. He wasn’t keen on returning to Oscar, the new Odin, with his wings clipped. “Frey and Freya’s…successors, am I right?” Replacements and successors. The two words were interchangeable now. The old gods were long gone, leaving behind legacies, prodigies, to take their places. That’s what Hugin and Munin were. Carbon copies of their parents with the same ultimate goal. Live, serve, and then die at Ragnarok.

The elf’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment Hugin thought she’d draw her bow and send him stumbling back to Asgard with an arrow lodged in his chest. She nodded, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Yeah, we are. Why does that matter to you? What even are you?” She studied Hugin and Munin, like a hunter stalking prey. She was watching their moves, he realized. She was frightening, sure, but not intimidating.

Beside him, Munin clicked her tongue. It wasn’t the first time they’d received the question and it most certainly wouldn’t be the last. “We’re shapeshifters, elf. I am Munin, and this,” She gestured to herself, then to Hugin. “is my brother, Hugin.”

“Yeah, Thought and Memory. I’ve heard about you two.” The elven girl rose from her seat amongst the blades of grass. She smiled at them both, but there was a hint of disgust laced in her words, like the shapeshifters’ names had left a sour taste in her mouth. She almost reminded him of Munin. Almost. “Aerin and Olive.” From they way they had introduced them both, he could only assume that she was Olive and her brother was Aerin. Oddly enough, knowing their names was more comforting than knowing them solely by their predecessors. “There something you need or are you just stalking us?”

Before Hugin could speak, Munin, as usual, took the lead. He didn’t mind. The less talking the better. “The Allfather wishes to see you,” she said, her tone placid and her face emotionless. Yet, he knew better than anyone that she was anxious. Asgard was their home. Vanaheim was uncharted and unfamiliar territory. “The matter is urgent.”

Aerin’s light brows knit closely together. The Vanir and Aesir, despite the truce that had been put in place, had a strained relationship. It was a childish feud Hugin hoped had passed with the old gods. Now he knew that was far from the truth. “Why didn’t Oscar show up himself? The guy can come and go between the realms whenever he feels like it, but not drop by Vanaheim when it matters?” His sister shot him a warning look. If Aerin noticed it, he didn’t choose to acknowledge it. Or perhaps he didn’t care. Either was a plausible explanation.

How Munin had stayed so calm was beyond him. She sighed, “It’s not my place to question the Allfather. My brother and I simply deliver his messages and watch whoever catches his interest.” Munin caught Hugin’s eyes and nodded to the twins. He made an ‘o’ with his lips and cleared his throat.

“It’s just a meeting. A quick one, hopefully.” He added with a shrug of his shoulders. Oscar – Odin, same difference – hadn’t told him much about the topics of discussion, not that he ever did. Not that he wanted to keep the information to himself, but because Hugin and Munin had no real importance to the Allfather.

The elves seemed to ponder the idea, each distracting themselves by fidgeting. A shared habit, he guessed. “Maybe we should talk somewhere else,” Aerin interjected, tucking his fehu rune into the pocket of his denim jacket. Olive nodded her agreement, dropping her hands back down to her side.

Munin looked skeptical, and for the first time in awhile looked to Hugin for advice. He shrugged, a darkish smile adorning his features. He watched as the two elven deities started down the path once more.

“Let’s not go back to Ossie on an empty stomach, yeah?’ Hugin urged his sister along, calling to Olive and Aerin to slow down. Munin groaned, annoyed, but hurried off after her younger brother.

#norse pantheon #germanic #odin #loki #thor #frey #freya #asgard #vanaheim #nine worlds #vanir #aesir #ragnarok

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trevardes · 6 years

Text

Keep that breathless charm (hankcon)

1900 words of Connor feeling very confusing things for Hank. Set after the Nest Mission. Title from The way you look tonight. Also on Ao3. For @ccrescentscar <3

Keep that breathless charm

Connor looks at Lieutenant Anderson and feels conflicted.

That in itself is an oxymoron; should be an oxymoron, a statement so outrageously impossible that it should collapse under its own weight. It should, but it doesn’t. Connor, an android made to be inhuman and immovable, looks at Hank Anderson, this man, this human, and feels.

Anderson’s facial expression is closed off, the corners of his mouth tight and his gaze downcast. His hand rests on the steering wheel, the key in the ignition turned and the car’s motor running, but Anderson doesn’t drive. He sits there, quiet, lost in thought. He seems unreachable, far away even though he’s sitting right there, close enough to touch. Connor is excellent at reading people, his programming covers a wide range of expressions and all of their possible indications. He’s had more training in this than any other android, and his system as a whole is geared towards understanding and analyzing humanity. It is not often that he has this much trouble understanding someone’s surface emotions, especially if he’s situated this close to them.

Right now he is having problems though, and it unsettles him. Anderson is thinking about something, thinking hard, but beyond this realization, Connor has no idea what’s going on inside his head.

Honestly, he’s not quite sure what’s going on inside his own head, either.

The image of Anderson hanging off the ledge of the roof is etched deep into Connor, still sending a weak spike of distress through him when he thinks of it. It was a split second decision to help him, and there was no question that Connor would, even though Anderson had a high probability of surviving on his own. Helping him cost Connor the deviant, cost him the mission, but in that moment it ceased to matter. Connor weighed his options and reflexively chose the one that would ensure Anderson’s safety.

Now that Connor returns to the scene in his mind, he begins to question his actions. Anderson is in good enough physical condition that he could very well have pulled himself up without assistance, and Connor could have caught the deviant. There was just this… pull, towards Anderson, to save him, to keep him safe. It’s there even now, when Connor looks at the lieutenant’s unreadable profile. An anomaly, a malfunction somewhere in the code that he’s made of, a stark positive instead of a cool, indifferent negative. A tilt towards something, when everything about him should be flat and neutral.

“Lieutenant Anderson”, Connor says, attempting a calm tone. It works to a satisfactory degree, but he does indeed have to actively try and make it that way, and that is jarring. His voice comes out exactly like it always does, clear but a little soft at the edges. It sounds too loud in the quiet, still air inside the car.

“Yeah?” Anderson says, still not looking at Connor.

“Is something wrong?” Connor inquires, quieter this time. He tries for a kind and open tone. It comes out falsely intimate, and a quick frown flashes across Connor’s face. He immediately runs a diagnostic of his voice box and it’s programming, but comes up with no clear reason for the strange lapse. Nothing there is in need of repair, nothing is out of place.

“You seem quiet”, he continues. Could Anderson be angry with him for letting the deviant escape? He’d seemed happy with Connor’s decision earlier, content and even a little proud, but all of that is gone now.

“Nah”, Anderson sighs. “I’m just a bit confused. Aren’t you guys supposed to be the epitome of reason and logic?”

“I suppose you could say that”, Connor muses. “How do you mean?”

“Why choose to pull me up then? Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t appreciate it”, Anderson chuckles humorlessly. “I just don’t get you androids.”

“I felt it was more important to insure your ability to continue with our investigation, than to catch a single deviant. There are still several cases left for us to look into.” This is not the whole truth, Connor knows. Still, he manages to keep the cadence of his voice even and steady.

Anderson hums, seemingly satisfied with his answer. His brow smoothes a bit, and he looks closer to his usual brand of grumpy. Something about his eyes is still different; his pupils a fraction of a millimetre wider than normal. His hand squeezes the steering wheel, and his left leg bounces slightly. A nervous tick Connor has grown familiar with, and almost fond of.

“Thanks anyway”, Anderson finally rasps, after a long silence. “I do like to live.”

“Do you really?” Connor whispers before he can stop himself. Anderson doesn’t seem like he does. Connor knows he drinks too much and too often, doesn’t get enough sleep, doesn’t maintain a healthy diet. Connor has analysed him and accessed all files available to him. He knows more than he should. Hank Anderson has no spouse, no known family at all. He has a note of a divorce in his file, and a grave he visits sometimes, on the rainiest days. He often comes to work late, hungover, looking tired and depressed. He pushes people away and builds walls around himself, not unlike the firewalls surrounding Connor’s essence and protecting him and every other android from viruses. In Anderson’s case though, the walls don’t necessarily signify self-preservation.

Anderson’s mouth draws into a thin line and his eyes go squinty in annoyance.

“It’s not your damned mission to investigate me, is it? Stick to your job, R2.”

A reference to an old movie franchise. Connor is only equipped with a cursory information package on older American pop culture, and he’s uncertain why Anderson would call him by the droid R2D2’s name. There seem to be no similarities between them. Connor neither speaks in beeps, looks like a large bucket, nor could reasonably be described as ‘cute’.

“True”, Connor concedes. “However, it is my duty to keep you in working condition to the best of my ability, as you are my partner and as such, essential to my work.”

Anderson makes a sound of annoyance and perhaps of contempt, and shifts his leg on the pedals. He puts the car into drive, and pulls out of the alley and into a larger, slightly busier road. He doesn't seem eager to stay on the subjects, and for now, Connor lets it slide.

Following their usual pattern, Anderson is going to give Connor a ride before going home himself. Connor could take the bus, it would be no inconvenience to him whatsoever. He’s an android, they don’t feel discomfort like that. Connor should say this to Anderson. He should leave the car and let the man go on his own.

Despite being an android, a decidedly emotionless machine, Connor feels a twinge of… unease, perhaps, at the thought of the lieutenant going home alone. Unease and sadness. He turns to look at Anderson again.

Hank Anderson is 53 years old, but life has worn him down, so much that he could pass for older. His hair and beard are silvery gray, and lines web the outer corners of his eyes. Something tells Connor they might’ve been from laughter, originally, but nowadays Anderson doesn’t have many reasons even to smile.

Despite the signs of aging, or perhaps partly because of them, there is something intriguing about Anderson. He looks pleasant and warm on the rare occasions he smiles. Often those smiles are a bit malicious and at the expense of androids or other humans, but Connor still finds them perplexingly delightful. Anderson has straight teeth and deep, clear eyes. His eyelids are a little heavy, lending a softness to his features that otherwise wouldn’t exist.

They drive in silence for a moment, until Anderson reaches out a hand and switches on the ancient CD-player on the dash. Soft, melancholy jazz music fills the car, and a small smile tilts the corner of Anderson’s mouth. Right then he looks so… so affable, so human.

Connor feels something twist up in his chest, some unidentified circuit there firing a soft pulse out of rhythm with the rest of him. His fingers twitch and his teeth dig into his lower lip on their own volition. A soft, persistent burning sets ablaze his mind, his wires, all of him.

He’s glad he pulled Anderson up from the ledge. He’s glad he’s sitting here so close to him.

He’s glad.

His thirium pump quickens it’s rhythm, adds two beats to its normal bpm. Error notifications pop up in his vision. There’s a software instability, accompanied by a strange feeling, a warm ache inside his chest and head, even though they’ve received no damage recently.

Connor doesn’t need to breathe, but he draws in a slow gulp of air nevertheless, quietly enough that Anderson doesn’t notice anything is amiss. Anderson keeps humming along to the song, and the low, scratchy sound of it takes a hold of Connor’s spine, sends a painful shiver through him. Connor doesn’t need to breathe, but he forgets that and feels breathless anyway. A new alert about rising levels of distress flashes red at the corner of his field of vision. His LED spins yellow, fast and frantic. It flickers into red and back to yellow, and Connor hopes Anderson won’t notice it.

He ignores his objectives that tell him it should be impossible, and deletes all the notifications.

His body temperature has risen 3,9 degrees above normal. He forces it down by diverting more power to his coolers, and tries to sit still.

He erases his action log for the last five minutes, deletes any traces of deleting the notifications. It’s a feeble attempt at covering up what he’s done, easily reversed by anyone with any skill at programming, but something compels him to do it. He knows he should turn himself in for examinations. He should receive a recalibration as soon as possible. It should be a given. He is a state of the art prototype, an incredibly important and expensive experiment that CyberLife can’t afford to lose to… to deviancy. He should send a message right now and tell them everything, tell them he’ll be coming in for assessment and subsequent reprogramming.

The command to report and fix any errors is an integral part the program of the android RK800 #313 248 317 - 51. It is not an entity with any authority to decide how to act in a situation like this. It should revert back to protocol right now.

It doesn’t. Connor doesn’t.

He turns sideways in his seat and watches lieutenant Anderson. He commits to memory all the details of this man; his shape, his familiar scent, his voice as he hums along with the music for a few notes. Lieutenant Anderson doesn’t know anything about what he has awoken inside Connor. He never will, because Connor will not tell him, will not tell anyone. He lets out a quiet, shivering breath and settles back against his seat. Squeezes his seat belt between his fingers and tries to let the music calm him.

Anderson doesn’t notice Connor’s distress. He looks the same as always, worn and tired, but tonight everything about him is unsettling and beautiful. For the first time since he was made and switched on, Connor wishes he could touch. Wishes he could smooth a thumb along the lines in Anderson’s skin, down his bearded cheek. It’s new, this confusing desire, but it settles inside Connor like it’s always been there, this familiar, gentle longing.

Anderson keeps driving, and Connor watches him out of the corner of his eye, feeling the sweet corruption spread through him, to every circuit and every nerve.

#detroit: become human #hankcon #hannor #connor #hank anderson #dbh #rk800 #hank #detroit: bh #vee writes #my fic #set after the nest mission #fic #english

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nonamememoir · 5 years

Text

The Bar by Tori Bloom

Setting

It was uncomfortably warm in the bar that night. It was dimly lit and sparsely crowded. The neon light that hung over the liquor fizzled and flickered. The bar itself was sticky from rings of condensation and drinks that had been spilled and forgotten. In one corner of the room a couple whispered unintelligibly and pawed at one another. In the other corner a man sat alone and drew circles on the table with his thumb, his mind dulled by his fifth glass of bourbon. Outside, the moon hung low in the sky, but that didn’t stop lovers from kissing in the backseat of their cars or teenagers from crouching behind dumpsters and passing around a cigarette.

A lonely martini glass sat on the bar, swirling fuchsia liquid with a sweet scent filling it to the brim. A man’s fingers curled around the glass and he brought it up to his lips.

Protagonist

There was a charm even in his frown, a warmth like the violet flush of nightshade. His jaw was cut and framed by scruff, and his green eyes were set deep in his head. His hair curled against his cheeks, auburn under the fluorescent glow of the neon light. His looks were inviting, but his eyes were cold. This coldness might have repelled company, but Micah was skilled in seduction. All of his time spent observing translated into an excellent ability to predict how people would behave and react, and what he should say to get the reaction that he wanted.

Sometimes Micah would come to the bar and predict how a conversation would play out, or if it intrigued him enough he would intervene and attempt to influence the situation. Often times he recoiled at how others behaved when they weren’t aware that they were being observed. Above all he despised stupidity. He would liken his obsession with human behavior to masochism if anyone asked, because more often than not people were stupid. For instance, the bartender was stupid for asking him for the tenth weekend in a row what he would like to drink.

“Pomegranate martini. Thanks.”

The woman that sat beside him was stupid for eyeing him up every weekend at least five times a night without introducing herself.

His brother was stupid for calling and leaving a third voicemail on his phone.

Dialogue

“You know, I’ve seen you around here but I haven’t had the courage to say introduce myself until now,” the woman lied. It wasn’t courage that finally broke through her silence. That night he was wearing a suit, and he found that people, in general, were more willing to talk to a man when he was decked out in Armani. Still, he smiled warmly. She was an attractive young woman. She had curly locks and brown skin that was painted with freckles. Her eyes were the kind that could peer right through you, and maybe that scared him a little.

“You’re only on your second drink,” Micah noted, a smirk playing at his lips. He could see her pupils dilate. “Make that third. Bartender?” He gestured for the man to refill the lady’s cup.

“Oh. You really didn’t have to do that.” She feigned humility. Of course he had to. “But thanks. I’m Emily, by the way.”

“Micah. Some people call me Gabriel, though. My last name.” He kept a smile on his lips, even though the small talk was draining him. His internal monologue was one continuous groan. “I guess Micah is just too ‘out there’.”

“I like Micah. It’s...different.” She sipped at her new cup and watched him with the intrigue that he’d seen on every other face he’d encountered. Even if people could not see behind the mask that he had crafted, the seduction of the unknown peeked out now and again, like the sensuality of it could not be contained by his facade. Or, maybe it was just the suit again.

His phone buzzed again and he glanced it. Of course it was his brother.

“That’s the fourth time I’ve heard your phone go off. Must be important.” He wasn’t sure, but her tone sounded almost accusatory. “Aren’t you going to answer?”

“It would be rude not to give you my full attention.” Micah leaned forward just a bit, his chin held up by his palm. He watched the blood rise to her cheeks.

“Are you usually such a kiss-up?” The girl’s eyes flashed with mischief.

“I don’t know. Is it working?” he countered with ease, and he could see the resignation in her expression.

“Unfortunately, yes.” She glanced down at the time on her phone. Either he had imagined that suspicion or his flattery had chipped away at it. “Look, I don’t normally do this, and especially not so soon after introducing myself, but how about we get out of here?”

“Well, I’ve got nothing better to do.” He downed his drink and took her hand, sparing a glance at the lovers in the corner on their way out.

An hour later they were curled up in her bed, her head on his chest. She had fallen asleep to the sound of his breaths. His fingers brushed out tangles in her curls and then traced down her spine, visible in the glow of the moonlight. Their bliss was interrupted when his phone buzzed again from its spot on her nightstand and Emily shifted in her sleep, letting out a moan of protest.

“Just answer your phone. Or put it on silent for God’s sake,” she complained, sitting up and letting the sheets fall from her naked body. “Actually, you’ve got me curious. So how about you tell me why you’ve been ignoring your phone for hours?” Her brows furrowed. “If you’re married, just tell me.”

“I’m not married.” Micah laughed, although it felt entirely fake on his lips.

“Then pick up the phone,” she insisted, “Or I will.”

He had been hoping to avoid this. Frankly, he should have put the phone on silent, but he had been curious just how many times his brother would actually attempt to call him before he gave up. There was something pleasing and sadistic about ignoring his calls. Now, with Emily’s demand, there was always the option of simply leaving without answering the phone, but it would make things inconvenient if he ever ran into her in the future. The last thing he wanted were rumors of imagined infidelity. He could picture the disgust on strangers’ faces and the pride they’d take in their superiority. Micah glanced at his phone and let out a sigh, resigned. He’d brought it on himself.

Flashback

He was meant to write her eulogy. It came as no surprise, considering how distraught Will was. He doubted the kid could get through a few lines without bursting into tears. Micah wasn’t thrilled about the task, but he did his part. He stood up at the podium, uncomfortably close to his mother’s corpse, and looked out over the crowd.

“My mother was an ambitious woman up until the day she died. She did everything to provide for us, and for that I will always be grateful. I know that I’m going to miss her in my life, but I choose to believe that it’s what she did in life that mattered.” Micah was surprised with his own honesty. He had been planning to use more cliches and perhaps even fake a few tears, but as he stood up there he realized how easy it was to miss her.

After the eulogy was over he didn’t stick around. It was bad enough with an atmosphere of death and decay poisoning the air around him, but then he had people coming up to him and hugging him, telling him how heartfelt his speech was. He couldn’t stand their fake sympathy. It made him sick.

Conflict

“So? Who was it?” the woman asked, and he cursed himself for choosing such a nosy bed mate, but worn down by a long day and a few too many drinks, he let his mask slip.

“My brother. He’s pissed at me for leaving our mom’s funeral early today,” Micah sighed, “I avoided answering him because I really didn’t feel like trying to deal with his sobbing. Frankly, that’s why I left early in the first place. And I hate crowds… and funeral homes.” He found it amusing how just a few minutes ago he was worried about drama coming out of this one night stand, and yet now he was purposefully concocting some.

“Oh. That’s awful. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have… now I feel like I took advantage of you.” Emily’s eyes went soft. She was a sweet girl, he thought.

“No, trust me, you didn’t,” he assured her, his arms wrapping around her waist.

“You know…” She pulled back a bit, but there was less reservation in her expression. It was comical how the most macabre confessions brought about intimacy. “You can talk about it. I know I’m just some girl from a bar, but, I mean… how are you feeling about it?”

It would be easy to say that he felt awful, and to explain that the reason he felt no empathy for his brother was that his mother was abusive or that she treated him differently. Still, there was something about her that fascinated him. He knew she was stupid but would she be afraid if he told her the truth?

“Honestly? I feel complete and utter apathy,” he answered, his lips in a flat line and eyes devoid of any playfulness. Despite that he pulled her back to his chest, although she didn’t fall as easily as she had earlier.

“Apathy?” A look of fear marred her delicate features, peering up at him through the dark.

“She was a good mom, and now she’s dead,” he said, as if stating the weather. His hair clung to the sheen of sweat on his skin and all of the charm that twinkled in his eyes faded with his facade. “I guess I’ll miss her, but that’s the extent of it.” Emily watched him like he was under her magnifying glass. The quiet calm had dissipated, and tension laid like electricity between them.

“She must have done something awful to you.” He could almost see her thoughts churning, trying to come up with some comprehensible explanation for his vacant expression, his seemingly sunny demeanor all evening, and the way his voice dropped into monotone in a second. “I couldn’t blame you. It’s hard to feel anything for people that hurt us.” Her voice dripped with sincerity, but he could feel her heart racing where her chest pressed against him.

“She wasn’t abusive at all. I actually think I loved her..” It was silent for a few beats after he finished talking. The pauses kept getting longer.

“Oh.” Was all she could mouth, bewildered by the confession. It was a knife that cut through the suspense. “Look…uh, it’s getting late. I think you should leave.” Emily sat up, pulling the sheets with her and bunching them up at her chest.

“I was just being honest.” Micah tilted his head a bit. It was so fascinating how quickly her blood went cold. Part of him had hoped she would understand, but like a devotee looking at the face of God she trembled.

“You just told me that your mom died and that you couldn’t care less. That’s not normal.” All of the openness in her expression had faded and was replaced with a look so frosty it might have scared anyone else. “You should get help. Go to grief counseling or something.”

“Why would I go to grief counseling? I just told you that I have no grief.” He laughed and brushed his fingers through his hair. He paused, a brilliant and perhaps cruel idea popping up in his head. “What if I told you that I killed her?” Micah pondered as he stood up, his face still a blank slate. Emily’s expression melted into what he could only describe as shell-shocked. He chuckled as he slipped into his clothes.

“You’re sick.”

Micah spared the woman a final glance as he headed toward her bedroom door.

“So I’m a monster because I’m not like you?” His hands slipped into his pockets, a stance too casual for the circumstances. His charm had not completely faded, but it was overwhelmed by an aura of power and uncertainty. In that moment he resembled a politician or, on a more extreme scale, someone like Ted Bundy.

“Yes. No. I don’t know, just please go.” Emily stole a look in the direction of her nightstand. In one swift movement she opened the drawer and pulled out a pocket knife, knuckles white as she gripped the handle. “You’re what? You’re a sociopath? Were you going to kill me? Is that was this is about? Is that why you were at the bar every week?”

“Wow. Just because I don’t empathize doesn’t mean I don’t have any feelings. Way to hurt my feelings, Em.” He frowned, his lower lip pushing out into a pout. He couldn’t keep that expression for long, a smile breaking through. “This isn’t an Investigation Discovery show, put the damn knife away,” he laughed and she lowered the knife. “Well at least one of us was honest tonight,” he paused, “Tell your husband that I dropped by.”

Micah went back to the bar the next weekend and sat by himself. The seat where Emily had sat was empty, and he soaked in the inevitable disillusionment.

“Pomegranate martini, right?”

“Yeah.”

#fiction #again not my best work but #meh

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wordsandshawn · 7 years

Text

even then

A/n: Not requested, but a little imagine where y/n and Shawn get into a bit of an argument right before meeting up with y/n’s friend and her boyfriend for a double date. Not the best time to get into a fight.

~~~

“Not now,” You tell your boyfriend, hoping he’ll drop the subject.

“Y/n, when are we going to have time to talk about it then?” He questions, and you know he’s frustrated, but you really do not want to talk about it right now.

“I don’t know, but I’m telling you not now.” You reply sternly.

He wants to get into a conversation you are almost certain is going to end in an argument, and you don’t have time for it now. You’re tired, and you know he is too, which is maybe why something that should have been simple is seemingly about to turn into a fight.

But either way, you’re on your way to meet up with an old friend. She heard you and Shawn were in town and wanted to have dinner. She suggested a double date. She had never met Shawn before and you had yet to meet her boyfriend too. You didn’t want to say no because she’s one of your oldest friends and you haven’t seen her in so long since you’re rarely in the same place at the same time. You know Shawn is not entirely thrilled with this double date you’ve somehow pulled him into. Knowing it meant a lot to you, he agreed, but it just happened to come at a very inconvenient time.

Shawn sighs loudly as you both get out of the uber and walk into the restaurant you had planned to meet at. You can feel the anger and irritation radiating from Shawn as you stand beside him waiting. “Did she text you yet?” He questions.

You shake your head, “She said depending on traffic, they might be a little late.” You both head inside and put your name down for a table since its crowded. The hostess lets you know there will be a little wait.

Shawn is frustrated by all of this. He’s been up since four am since he had an early morning radio interview, and he’d like nothing more than to be back at the hotel with you right now, not standing outside a crowded restaurant praying he won’t get recognized. You have to admit that it is partially your fault and the planning could have been done a little better, but halfway through an argument with him over stupid stuff, your pride won’t let you admit you might be wrong.

“You said it would be quick, so that means we’ll be done by like nine at the latest?” He questions you, and the way he’s approached all of this has been getting on your nerves as well. You understand that he’s tired, but he should also understand that this is your friend, and you rarely ever get to see her. You wish he would understand that.

“If they get here soon, and we get seated. I'll try to make it quick. But they are driving a long way to get meet up with us too.” You try reminding him.

“Yeah, but we have to wake up early again tomorrow, and it’s at least a forty minute drive back to the hotel.”

“I know,” You respond. You don’t need him to keep reminding you of this. You just want to have a good time with your friend, and he keeps frustrating you more and more every second that’s passing.

“Well, since we have time now, can you at least start thinking about what you want to do on the fifteenth? I need to let Andrew know about that day and we need to book flights.” Shawn starts, which only upsets you more because you had just told him you didn’t want to talk about it.

“Shawn, I don’t know what I want to do for that day yet. I want to be there to support you, but I also haven’t seen my family in two months and I want to go home for my brothers birthday.” You explain, trying to sound less upset about all this than you are. The truth is if both of you had gotten at least one solid nights sleep in the last week, this conversation would not be nearly as charged. it wouldn’t be an issue, but the reality is that you’re both exhausted and not thinking straight.

He’s frustrated too, because he needs to know. “I told you it doesn’t matter what you choose. I just need to know.”

“It doesn’t matter?” You question. “Then I'm going to see my family. I just thought that my boyfriend would want me to be there with him the night before his album release.”

“I do.” He says, trying to keep his voice low. “But if it’s such a hard decision for you, then its fine. Whatever you choose is fine.” When he says this, you know he’s over the entire argument. And truthfully you are too.

But its not fine and you know it. Your brother has been asking when you’d be home every time you talked to him. He’s also been talking about his big birthday party. If he were sixteen or eighteen, he probably wouldn’t care less if you were there or not, but he’s turning ten. Its a big deal to him and he misses you. But on the other hand you do want to be there for Shawn. You’ve been there every step of the way so far. Every spare second you have, you’re trying to see Shawn, to support him, to be with him. That’s why you haven’t made it home to be with your family in so long, and that isn’t fair to them. Its not fair to your little brother that he’s growing up without you in his life.

You exhale loudly. He’s upset, of course he’s upset, but his response doesn’t do anything but add fuel to your fire. “Whatever Shawn.” You say.

“No, don’t go there. Don’t dismiss me like that.” He responds as your phone vibrates in your hand bringing you back to reality.

You glance down at it to see your friend has just arrived at the restaurant. “They’re here.” You tell Shawn while typing a quick response to her letting her know that you’re still waiting for a table. “We’ll talk about it later.” You tell him. Just like you had told him earlier, but he didn’t listen that time.

He doesn’t respond.

You spot your friend and her boyfriend, and she rushes over to give you a hug. You introduce Shawn to them and you both meet her boyfriend. You’re making small talk outside the restaurant at first, but then you two both get into other conversation, one about mutual friends and plans you two were trying to make for a girls weekend, leaving the boys to make small talk for themselves.

Dinner goes rather smoothly. Both you and Shawn manage to do a pretty good job of hiding the fact that you two had ever argued. Everything is fine between you two and them two, but when it comes to the energy between you and Shawn you can tell its strained throughout the entire dinner, making everything a little less enjoyable for you. By the time nine o clock rolls around, you’ve only barely finished eating, and you don’t want to make it seem like you’re rushing out, even though you know Shawn is more than ready to go, and if you want that other argument to end well, you know you should be leaving soon.

You manage to finish up dinner and say goodbye to your friend in a rather quick manner, and you’re back in an uber by 9:30, only thirty minutes after the time you promised Shawn to be out.

He’s tired, and not in the mood to argue, especially with the five am wakeup call looming over both of you. You had managed to think about it over dinner, and despite the fact that you know it might start something again, you tell Shawn, “I’m going to go home that weekend.” You don’t specify which weekend, he knows.

He just looks over at you and nods, “Okay.” Is all he says, and you stare back in silence trying your best to figure out if he’s mad or not, which is difficult in the dim lighting in the backseat of the uber. You hope he’s not. He really shouldn’t be upset about this, and you know you shouldn’t either. It is just the way all of this got approached that made it difficult.

After a few seconds, he reaches across the expanse of the back seat and grabs your hand. “I know you miss your family.” He says, “It really is okay.” And the anger that you expected is gone from his voice. That charged energy that had existed between you both all through dinner is gone suddenly. Like you’ve both given up the fight, knowing its not worth it. He’s tired, exhausted in fact, and you don’t blame him. He’s too tired to fight, and you’re glad he’s called a truce because you’re too tired too.

You take off your seatbelt and scoot to the middle seat before fastening that seatbelt around you again. You lean into his side and he wraps his arm around you. It was stupid. It was all stupid. “Thanks for sitting through that dinner, even though you didn’t want to.”

“I did it for you.” You says, “Because I love you.”

“Even when I make you mad?”

“Yes, even then.” He responds sincerely, kissing you lightly on the top of your head as you lean even further into his side.

#Shawn Mendes #imagine #Shawn mendes imagine #Shawn Peter Raul Mendes #Shawn Peter Raul Mendes imagine #Shawn mendes imagines #Shawn mendes blurb #boyfriend shawn #sm imagine #sm blurb #Shawn Peter raul Mendes blurb #Shawn mendes fic #sm imagines

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xx-thedarklord-xx · 7 years

Text

As Time Passes

It wasn’t until Harry was six that he felt his hand start to burn and he knew that the Dursleys had lied to him! The unbearable pain was the sign of a soulmate bond forming

The only thing that made the pain and the tears worth it, was when Harry looked down and saw the name of the person that was made to love him.

Draco Malfoy

Harry traced the letters on his tender skin and marveled at the name. He knew that everyone had a soulmate and that this wasn’t technically special… but to Harry it was. This meant that there really was someone out there that could love him. They might not, Draco could even dislike him. But there was still a chance of love. Maybe they could be friends? Maybe they could be enemies? Maybe they would just be people who pretended to get along? None of that mattered, Harry would take Draco in any way possible. Because somewhere there was someone peering down at their own palm and seeing his name on it, wondering what kind of person Harry was.

Hopefully, he would live up to the expectation.

“No nephew of mine is going to be homosexual!” Those words were reverberating inside Harry’s mind as he tried to make himself smaller, even in the privacy of his cupboard. What did it matter if his soulmate was a boy? Didn’t it just show that a boy could love him? Didn’t it just show that love happened in many different ways? Why did it matter if the name was a boy?

Personally, Harry had never even heard of the name Draco before. Did it sound masculine? Wasn’t his Uncle being a little presumptuous?

Harry closed his eyes and tried so hard to picture what his soulmate would look like. Would they be a boy? Would they be a girl? Would they have long hair? Short hair? Would they have red hair? Black hair? Blonde hair? Brown hair? He didn’t care either way. The beating of his heart just ached for understanding. That’s all he wanted from his soulmate was understanding. If they could look at him and see someone worth taking a chance, then that’s all he could ask for.

“Draco.” Harry whispered, tracing the name on his palm softly.

His entire youth, the Dursleys forced Harry to wear gloves. They didn’t want anyone to see that his soulmate was a boy. Or even someone with such an odd name.

At first, it really bothered Harry. His mark wasn’t an inconvenience or a hindrance. It wasn’t a bad thing, nor did it deserve to be hidden away. He was proud of the name on his hand. Proud of whoever Draco Malfoy was as a person.

This was special. The name on his palm meant everything to Harry. It was something that was just for him. Something to treasure. So, in the end, it was okay to keep it covered. The rest of the world didn’t need to know who his soulmate was. They weren’t the ones who would be there. They weren’t the ones who would love Draco.

Harry found himself caressing his soulmate mark often and usually subconsciously. It was a form of comfort. Every time Uncle Vernon threw him into his cupboard, he would rub the mark and imagine that Draco would take him away from them. Every time Aunt Petunia would send him to bed without dinner, he would peer at the name and wish that Draco was there to comfort him. Every time Dudley and his gang would bully him, he would press his fingers to the words softly and envision Draco coming to help him.

“Draco.” Harry whispered, eyes clenched and fingers roaming his hand. He wished that he could find his soulmate He hated the idea of waiting until he was older to search for Draco.

Soulmates weren’t always something great. Harry saw the stories, read the paper and watched the news. Sometimes, even being a soulmate can’t stop the evil that can lurk in some people. Everyone has a soulmate. Murderers, criminals, thieves and everyone in between has someone that was meant for them. The marks don’t discriminate.

… But they also aren’t always fair. Mrs. Figg across the street, her soulmate died before she was born. His teacher’s soulmate committed suicide. Some people have more than one soulmate but don’t want to share. Some don’t want a soulmate at all and refuse to acknowledge the marks on their hand. Some choose to just be friends. While others despise their soulmate.

It would kill Harry if he finally found Draco to only to be turned away. The years spent picturing who his soulmate was couldn’t have been a waste. It couldn’t. What kind of justice would that be? He hoped beyond hope that somewhere Draco was of the same belief as him.

Please let him want me.

Harry spent his free time searching any database for a Draco Malfoy. The searches were always fruitless and completely disappointing. He had always assumed that since the name was so unique, that it wouldn’t be hard to find. But it was as if Draco didn’t exist.

That either meant that Draco wasn’t born yet or he had died already. Harry had been too afraid to search the obituaries for his soulmate. Didn’t want to see the person he dreamed of for years being already gone to the world. That would crush him in ways that he wasn’t prepared for.

By the time Harry was seventeen, he had searched every possible database, including foreign ones for anyone even resembling Draco’s name. But it came up empty.

This wasn’t the end of the search. That could still mean that Draco could be born at any moment. Harry could wait a few years and continue the search again. But doing nothing in the meantime was not preferable.

With a glance at the search engine for lost soulmates, Harry knew that he had to know. He just had to know if Draco was still alive.

Another two years before he had searched every single death in the last seventy years on all continents.

There wasn’t a single Draco Malfoy in any of them.

What did this mean? Did his soulmate even exist? Was there a Draco Malfoy in the world at all? The only conclusion that was left to draw was that he just wasn’t born yet. But Harry was already nineteen, that was a big age gap already. Did that mean that he was just supposed to be a friend? Or even a mentor?

Harry clenched his eyes tightly as he fought the tears that were threatening to come. He was right here. Waiting for the evidence of his soulmate. Hoping that this wouldn’t be his life. He couldn’t spend every waking moment just waiting for Draco to come along. He couldn’t. That would crush his spirit.

But giving up on Draco wasn’t something that Harry could do either.

Where are you Draco?

“Excuse me, are you Harry Potter?”

Harry had been about to get into his car, the one that was on its last leg and definitely not up to anyone’s safety standards. His brows rose at a man with a fiery red robe of some kind that clashed horribly with his red hair that was several shades lighter.

“Depends on what you are selling. If it’s a new life, then I’m sold.”

Then man looked so taken aback that Harry wondered if he wasn’t much of a joker. “Yes, that’s me.” He added in a cheery voice that didn’t match his personality.

“The same Harry Potter that has the name Draco Malfoy on his hand?”

The whole world came to a standstill and Harry’s breath left him in a whoosh. His heart was beating so rapidly that he wondered if this was a medical problem. Surely, this wasn’t normal.

“Do—” Harry’s voice cracked. “Do you know where he is?”

The flicker of pain on the stranger’s face had Harry’s face falling and tears already forming. “No. No, No.” He shook his head rapidly. “Please tell me he’s alright.”

“I—” The stranger looked around the driveway before looking at his feet. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

In the back of Harry’s mind, he knew that if he missed work, he would be fired. But he had spent so much of his life looking for Draco that he couldn’t turn the man away. Not even if this was bad news. He had to know.

Harry turned around and walked back up the five flights of stairs that led to his tiny apartment. He couldn’t bring himself to speak up but the sound of the man following him was enough for now.

After apologizing for only having the one couch to sit on, Harry gazed steadily at the other man who had introduced himself as Ron.

“I don’t know where to begin and I hate that I have to be the one to tell you this.”

Harry closed his eyes at the first stinging to them. He clenched his fists tightly and prayed that the words he knew were about to come out, would magically be different.

“Malfoy—I mean Draco—uh.” Despite the situation, Harry couldn’t help but feel for the guy. He was obviously uncomfortable. “As of last week, Draco has officially been declared dead.”

The tears fell, and Harry didn’t bother stopping them. He had always known that this could be a possibility, but the reality was far more painful than he thought it would be.

“How? What happened?” Harry choked out, not able to open his eyes and see the pity in them.

“That’s hard to explain.”

There was a hesitant quality to his tone but Harry was far from caring. “Just tell me.” The demand wasn’t as firm as he would have liked it to be. It would seem that the pain in his heart was manifesting in his voice as well.

“There is an… organization… that isn’t known to the public. Draco was a part of that organization, as well as I am. Which is why if you have gone looking for him, you wouldn’t have found anything.”

Harry opened his eyes and blinked away his tears enough to be able to see Ron. “Some kind of Government organization?” That would make sense, he had searched every possible database for Draco.

“Sort of.” Harry could tell that the man wasn’t exactly being truthful but if it was classified, then that also made sense.

“We were at… war… and Draco unfortunately got caught in the crossfire.”

War? “What war? Surely, that would have been announced.”

By the way Ron looked away, he knew that something else was going on here but Harry didn’t have any standing to make the other man talk. Especially if this really was something to do with the government.

“I can’t go into any details regarding what happened but I have something that he wanted you to have.” The man reached into his funny looking robe and pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper. Only the paper was old and kind of reminded him of what a scroll would be like.

The breath that was already shaky, left Harry in a painful whoosh. This would make it too real. This wasn’t something that he could handle.

Harry stretched his trembling fingers out and gently pulled the paper out of Ron’s hands. He looked down at it with reverence. “What was he like?” Opening the letter wasn’t something he wanted to do in front of the other man but he also needed to know more about Draco.

An uncomfortable look flittered across Ron’s face. “I’m not the best person to answer this.” He began in a warning. “We didn’t get along. Complete opposites.” There was a fond look on Ron’s face and that hurt Harry more than he thought it would be. Ron got to know Draco. Ron got to know him enough to be fond of him. It wasn’t fair.

“Our families have known each other for a long time and it was always a feud.” Ron rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t tell you what kind of person he was because I didn’t know him well enough. Not really. I never bothered to get to know Draco like that.”

That bothered Harry. Because he had spent his whole life wishing to be able to get to know Draco and Ron had the opportunity and didn’t even try? That feud must have been bad.

“But what I can tell you, is that he loved you.”

Harry gasped painfully and shook his head, trying not to start crying again.

“It was always hard to get Draco to talk about himself, his family, or really anything at all. Especially after he joined our side. But anytime soulmates were brought up, he would always smile softly and tell everyone that he knew his was the best.”

The battle not to cry was nonexistent as Harry covered his mouth with his hands and begged silently for Ron to stop talking. But a small part wanted the redhead to keep going.

“Draco loved to imagine who you were and what kind of person you would be. We used to tease him that you could be someone mental but he always said that that wouldn’t bother him if it was true. That he would be proud of whoever you were.”

Harry had never had someone be proud of him. Never had someone who had said anything remotely nice to him like that. It hurt, hurt badly.

“He had plans to find you when the war was over. He was going to search the world until he found you. Didn’t even care that you might be a muggle.” At Harry’s confused look, Ron coughed and hurried to explain himself.

“That’s just a term we use for people who aren’t in on our organization.”

Harry nodded his head and looked down at his letter. “Thank you for finding me.” He bit his lip, tears causing his vision to be blurry. “I have looked for him for a long time. Knowing is better than dreaming.”

Ron’s eyes were suspiciously wet as he bade him goodbye but Harry couldn’t judge him for that.

Dear Harry,

I never wanted to write this. This was something that I set up just in case I don’t make it out of this war alive. I know none of this makes sense and I wish that I could elaborate. Just know that I am in an awful position and will probably have done something stupid.

Being afraid of death has never been something I considered. Everyone dies at one point. The only question is, when? There aren’t many things in life that I regret, but never meeting you is one of them.

Merlin, Harry. I have spent my whole life wondering who you could be. I know that soulmates are everywhere and don’t always end well but I couldn’t help but dream for the best. I didn’t have the best childhood. This might sound silly, but I used to dream that you were my family. That you could somehow find a way to save me.

But you weren’t there. I had to save myself.

No matter the situation, whether I was happy, upset, safe or in danger; I always wished that you were by my side. I know that not all soulmates crave a relationship or even close comfort but I hoped that you would be the exception. Because I love you.

I know that might sound weird, especially considering we have never met but I do. I love you. I know that I would have loved everything about you. Even if you have awful bad habits or no sense of fashion. I would have loved you if you snore in your sleep or have to have a window open at night. I would have loved you if you had no self-esteem or heaping amounts of it. I would have loved all your imperfections and definitely your merits. I love whoever you are Harry Potter.

I wish that things could have gone differently. It kills me that I have to write this. I am not afraid of dying, as I have already said, but I am afraid to leave without you. How can you spend your whole life dreaming of someone, only to have the cruel temptation of love ripped away? It’s not fair. I see happy soulmates everywhere I look and I hate them. I hate that they get the one thing I can’t have.

I will have died by the time you are reading this and I can’t stress enough how sorry I am. I have it easy, death is easy. You have to live with the grief of not only my death but also never meeting me.

I’m sorry, Harry. So sorry. I would trade everything I possibly could to be able to see you. Even if it is just once.

Please don’t grieve for me too hard. I want you to enjoy the world. I want you to be able to live your life. I know that this might not be worth something but I really do love you. Not even death will be able to take that away from me. So, in your waking life, know that with each breath you take, my love will continue to flow through you. That was terribly sappy, pretend I didn’t say that.

I wish I could write forever. If it is the only way to be close to you, then I will take it. I will take all I can get. If you don’t love me, I understand. I know that this is all slightly insane but don’t begrudge me of my fantasy. Because when I die, it’s going to be with the thought that you love me just as much as I love you.

You better live a long and happy life. I don’t want to see you in the afterlife until it’s your time. And that better be when you are old and wrinkling. We may not have gotten this lifetime together but maybe we can be together in another one?

I guess I’ll see you on the other side. Goodbye Harry.

With so much love,

Draco Malfoy.

Harry clutched the letter to his heart as he sobbed uncontrollably. “I do.” He whispered brokenly. “I love you too.”

It wasn’t as if his life had changed drastically. Harry didn’t have a life with Draco before the knowledge of his death. But he mourned him. He mourned the life they could’ve had together and what they could have been. Harry mourned the boy who had loved him. Mourned Draco Malfoy and above all, never stopped loving him. Never stopped finding comfort in the name that was still on his hand.

Harry was late for work, again. His car had finally given up and just died on him. But he felt the urge to walk slow. Felt the need to take things light today. As he looked around the buildings that he usually whizzed past on his commute, he noticed a few odd ones. Some seemed to be there but no one else noticed them. It was as if they didn’t exist outside a few others.

He shook his head and decided to never skip his morning tea, especially if thoughts like that were making their way into his mind.

Harry was about to start a quick jog, hoping to make it to work at an acceptable fashionably late, instead of one that would get him fired but the sight of a familiar man with red hair had him pausing.

Ron was sitting in one of the buildings that a lot of people seemed to ignore. The man was talking to a woman that he couldn’t really make out well. She had really bushy hair but other than that, it was hard to make out anything else.

When Ron looked up and spotted him, Harry waved a little bit, unsure if he really wanted to see the man again. The wide-eyed look of horror was not something that Harry thought he would be on the receiving end of. Did he do something wrong? It wasn’t like he had been following Ron. He just happened to be walking by.

Harry watched the redhead speak to his companion before they both stood up and ran towards the exit. He debated with himself, wondering if he should just take off running. This seemed like it would be a bad conversation.

He had just turned to sprint when a cry of his name was called. Harry sighed heavily before he turned around and plastered a fake smile on his face.

“Ron.” He didn’t bother saying it was nice to see him. Because it really wasn’t.

“You saw me.” Ron panted when he was right up next to him.

Harry’s brows pinched in confusion, he looked to the woman to see if this was making sense but she looked equally surprised.

“It was a window. They are see through, you know.”

A surprised snort escaped Ron’s companion before she let out an exasperated, “Your personality fits Draco’s so well.”

“Don’t.” Harry’s voice cracked. “Don’t talk about him. Please.” Not when he was still having trouble going a single day without thinking about his soulmate.

Compassion filled the girl’s warm brown eyes and Harry was just grateful that it wasn’t pity.

“Harry, I know this won’t make sense.” Ron began patiently. “But you can see the building I was just in?”

Harry was beginning to think that Ron was a little mental but he nodded his head and glanced back towards the building. “Yes. It looks a little dodgy but yeah, I can see it.” The why, was clearly heard but not spoken.

Ron’s face crumpled before he took a step away. “Don’t kill me.” The begging tone was a surprise and had Harry arching a brow.

“It would seem that we have a lot of explaining to do.” The woman began softly, stepping in front of Ron, making her the only thing Harry could see. “Because Draco is alive.”

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This was already long and I couldn't really add more without putting the whole thing on here. But if you are interested in the rest of this story, that can be found here.

#Drarry #Draco Malfoy #Harry Potter #harry x draco #draco x harry #Soulmate #Love

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creative-type · 7 years

Text

Monster of the Salt Rock Hills IX

First

AO3

AN: I must again apologize for a transition chapter that is about half as long as I originally intended. We have influenza in our building at work again, with lots of sick and dying residents that has made it difficult to find motivation, and I’m starting a stretch where I work seven of the next eight days. It was post now or probably wait another two weeks.

On a somewhat happier note, several plot points have clicked into place so when I do get time the writing process should occur faster. I estimate there are 2-4 chapters left, plus maybe an epilogue. Also, there will be world building elements in upcoming chapters that I am taking directly from Patreon, so if there are things that pop up in the comic later that seem familiar, yes, I did steal them from Meg (but only with her permission).

Chapter Nine: Fact and Impossibility (and the Confusion Thereof)

There was little to do after that except give Isla her shoes, which thanks to Mum’s wards was trickier than expected. Neither Thistle nor Isla could get close enough to the bars to simply hand them over, and any attempts at using magic would read as an escape attempt. In the end it was Lyra who made two lucky tosses into the cell itself. Thistle felt a sense of relief that Isla would be allowed at least that modicum of dignity, but found herself getting angry all over again when she rose unsteadily to her feet.

“Where’s your cane?” Thistle asked.

“Confiscated,” Isla said bitterly. Moving gingerly she bent down to pick up her boots, pausing do adjust the brace that supported her ankle. “Said I couldn’t be trusted with any enchanted items.”

“You enchanted your cane?” Brent asked.

“It’s hardly a Wizard staff, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Isla said. “I just etched a few runes to help with stability. I…I fell a lot after I first woke up. It helped when I was getting used to all this.”

Isla made a disgusted gesture at her bad leg and hobbled back to the bench at the back of the cell. “I never did thank you for looking at it,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t hurt nearly as bad today.”

“Oh! Um, you’re welcome,” Thistle said, blushing furiously. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

Isla shook her head ruefully, and seemed to be ready to say something before stopping herself. “You should get out of here before the orc sics his horse on you.”

“She’s right,” Lyra said. “We should try to find Orrig and see what he’s found out.”

The trio were filing out of the jailhouse when Brent said, “How d’you think Rizaek got a winged horse anyway? It doesn’t look anything like the ones out here.”

“It’s probably a domesticated breed,” Thistle said.

“It’s a $&#*@!$ warhorse,” Lyra said. “Not even gelded. Can’t imagine how much upkeep costs.”

She made a good point, and Thistle was reminded of Rhys’s expensive enchanted bracers. Either Rhys’s team was doing extremely well for itself or they had some very generous patrons backing their work. Thistle was about to point out this fact when she saw that Rizaek was no longer guarding the jailhouse by himself.

Mum wiggled his fingers in greeting. He managed to drape himself artfully against the railing, and seemed perfectly at ease despite the fact that Rhys was glowering with displeasure not two feet away. Rizaek stood apart from them both, glancing at his employer uneasily whenever he thought Rhys wasn’t looking.

And Orrig…Orrig was as stoic as ever, seemingly neither happy nor upset at the morning’s turn of events. He beckoned to Thistle, Brent, and Lyra, and suddenly the two rival mercenary groups were all together again for the first time since their disastrous meeting the day before.

“Whatever he says, I didn’t touch him and I didn’t lose control,” Brent said defiantly.

“I know.”

It was amazing the effect two simple words could have. Relief washed over Brent, leaving him momentarily unguarded and vulnerable. He quickly regathered himself, trying to copy Orrig’s effortless serenity and not quite succeeding.

An unnatural hush fell over the front of the jailhouse, the air thick with tension. The animosity radiating between the two groups was nauseating, and Thistle wished she could be anywhere else. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a housewife staring at them through her kitchen window. They were being watched, and whatever happened here would spread like wildfire through the Salt Rock Hills.

Almost unconsciously, Thistle straightened her spine. She was afraid, the gods only knew how much she was afraid, but this was bigger than herself. Thistle didn’t know if she’d be able to live with herself if she failed Orrig again after he had placed so much (undeserved) trust in her abilities.

She felt Lyra on her other side, poised and confident and ready to fight if the need arose, and relaxed. She wasn’t alone in this. By herself, Thistle knew she was weak—

foolish girl. only digging yourself in deeper. useless, nothing you can do. why even try, you don’t even know if you’re right

—but right now she wasn’t by herself. Orrig, Lyra, and Brent were all at least willing to entertain the notion that Isla was innocent, and that made all the difference.

“It has become evident that, despite all evidence in my favor, you are going to pursue this matter until the very end,” Rhys said, his tone icy cold.

“*@$& straight,” Lyra said, only to be hushed by Orrig.

“Your doubts have reached the mayor’s ears,” Rhys continued, glaring daggers at Lyra. “He has decided to allow you to stay and conduct your investigation, should you choose to do so. However, by this evening arrangements will have been made for Miss Clark’s incarceration at the Crossroad’s jail, and she will be formally charged with poaching. The only thing you can hope to accomplish is to waste my time. I implore you to bring this charade to an end. Go home, catch a few rous or whatever it is you people specialize in. You’re hunting a monster that doesn’t exist.”

Orrig leaned against his axe, a small twitch in his jaw the only thing betraying his irritation. “I come to you because dere facts you not know about case. Ve try to help.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve already mentioned Miss Clark’s financial contribution,” Rhys said dismissively. “It’s obviously a bluff. One horse would more than cover the cost of hiring a mercenary team, and the girl’s killed three of the beasts—and that’s only what we know of. It’s her own fault she deluded herself into thinking she wouldn’t get caught.”

“But—“

“But nothing!” Rhys shouted. “There is exactly one mage that lives in this miserable pit of a town. One. Unless you’re able to convince me that the monster suddenly changed its means of killing then your protests of motive are irrelevant. It is impossible for anyone else to have done the deed. Miss Clark proved of her own accord that she is physically capable of walking to the springs. She has repeatedly refused in the strongest possible language my generous offer for a truthseeker. She, and she alone, has the ability required to mercilessly butcher a magical creature, and what’s more, has in the past has displayed deep failings of character that inevitably leads down such an abhorrent path.”

“What?”

Rhys trained his brilliant green eyes on Thistle, his look just as venomous as the words that came out of his mouth. He laughed a mocking, hurtful kind of laugh. “Oh, did she not tell you? I could see why she would choose to leave it out of the little sob story she’s woven. Allow me to enlighten you: Miss Clark didn’t leave the Academy, she was expelled.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose. “I’ll admit that I was surprised when I found out, but just because the facts are inconvenient doesn’t make them any less true. Not all monsters live in caves. Now if you excuse me, I’ve work to do. Rizaek, come with me. Mum will stand watch until I can make final preparations.”

Rhys swooped away with the terrible grace of an avenging angel, a more reluctant Rizaek trailing after him. Thistle stood spell-shocked as they disappeared into the town.

did you ever consider the fact she might be guilty? jumping to conclusions without proof, why am i not surprised? how could you let your emotions cloud what little sense you have? see, this is what happens when someone actually qualified investigates

but…

what if he’s wrong? what if there’s another solution we’re not seeing?

that doesn’t mean you’re the one who will find the answer! how could someone so incompetent hope to discover the truth that has eluded everyone else! you’ve done nothing thus far, and that won’t change!

“Ve go now,” Orrig said quietly.

“What? We can’t leave,” Lyra protested. “I mean, this looks bad, but…”

“Ve go now.”

Orrig was staring down Mum. The mage was smiling innocently, still leaning lazily against the railing. When he noticed Orrig his grin widened. He brought a hand out of his pocket and made a little shooing gesture. He didn’t need to speak to make his message perfectly clear.

Wary of their previous interactions, Thistle extended her senses in search of hidden magic. Not finding any, she followed Orrig. It quickly became apparent that they were making the short jaunt back to the house of Frank Cunningham. The old man was out on his porch smoking his pipe thoughtfully, the crow’s feet that framed his eyes deepening as they approached.

“Didja find what you was lookin’ for?”

Orrig shook his head. “Am very sorry, must ask for hospitality for little more time.”

“You can have it, but I were told the elf already caught who done it. Can’t say I’m surprised—that girl always had a shifty look about her. She shoulda known a mage has got no business up in the Hills.”

“Something isn’t right here,” Brent said. “I mean, yeah Rhys has got a point with that magic stuff, but…I don’t know. It just doesn’t sit right.”

“I want to know how he found out she was expelled,” Lyra said. “Even if Isla was stupid enough to declare it in her papers, there’s no way Rhys should have access to that kind of information.”

“She could have just told him,” Brent argued.

“That would be even stupider,” Lyra said as she began to pace. “She didn’t look the type to make that kind of mistake.”

“Either way, it doesn’t matter so long as the horse was killed with magic. Do you think his mage was wrong? Would there be any way for a normal person to cause those wounds?” Brent asked.

“I don’t think so,” Thistle ventured. “I…I didn’t get a chance to say it at the spring, but I thought it was strange that some of the wounds didn’t bleed. There wasn’t enough time to get a good look, but they were clean.”

Lyra frowned. “No blood means the horse was cut up after it was dead. Maybe to distract from the missing wings? Stinks like a cover up.”

“Or a set up,” Brent muttered darkly.

“Now listen here!” Frank cried. “You got no right t’ come around shoutin’ foul play when there ain’t no evidence.”

“That’s just it though,” Lyra said, “no one has even looked for any evidence. Rhys was so gung-ho about arresting her he’s ignoring some really obvious possibilities. Even if Mum’s right and the horse was killed with magic doesn’t mean it was a mage. There are all sort of enchanted weapons that could do the trick, or maybe it is the monster. What Isla said about it sounded like magic to me.”

“Explain,” Orrig said.

Lyra and Brent explained Isla’s story in turn while Thistle thought. She hadn’t even considered the possibility that someone was framing Isla for the crime, but had to admit it made a certain amount of sense. As an outsider and a mage Isla would have been an easy target, but who would have the resources to pull off such a sophisticated trick? And why?

Or perhaps the most obvious solution was the correct one, and Isla was guilty. As much as she hated thinking about it, Thistle had to at least consider the possibility.

And if not Isla, then who? No matter how Thistle looked at it, it was beginning to feel like an impossible question. But the impossible couldn’t have happened--either Isla was walking out to the springs on a mangled leg to imitate the killings that led to the death of her teammates or someone was making it look like she was. Somehow Thistle had to figure out how the impossible was possible, in spite of appearances.

It took Thistle a moment to recognize that silence had fallen over the group. She jerked to attention, hoping she hadn’t missed anything important. Frank had gone pale, pipe hanging from limp fingers, forgotten.

“Ye gods,” he breathed. “I ain’t never heard of nothin’ like that.”

Orrig rubbed his chin. “You sure had blue flame eyes?”

“That was the only thing Isla was sure of,” Lyra said, with Brent nodding in agreement.

“Hmn. Get ready to go to mine, bring weapons. I know vat monster is.”

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#The Monster of the Salt Rock Hills #Daughter of the Lilies #DotL #Dotl fanfiction #fanfiction #creative-type writes #Thistle #Lyra #Brent #Orrig

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