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wardencommanderrodimiss · 5 years

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Witches, Chapter 6: the end of this case, or is it.

Shoutout to @runningwolf62 for reading through this and 7 to assure me that they don’t tonally and thematically break everything. Because I’ve spent so long in the little details of this case that I have no idea what’s going on with the whole thing, anymore.

[Seelie of Kurain Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

[Witches Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

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“I have another question about witches,” Athena says. “About the mechanics of that.”

Five minutes until the trial starts, and Apollo would like to be behind the bench right now, but Athena insisted on waiting around for Phoenix because she had something to ask him - and it doesn’t even relate to their case. “Can’t we talk about Blackquill later?” Apollo asks. “And worry about our case now?” He doesn’t need any more help psyching himself out to face Blackquill again, certainly doesn’t need more theorizing in advance.

“Better make it snappy,” Phoenix says, glancing at his watch. When did he start wearing one?

“You said the faery patron gives the magic powers,” Athena begins, “but if the faery dies, does the witch keep being able to use their witch magic? Even if the patron is long gone?”

“No,” Phoenix says. “Their powers fade out pretty soon after the patron dies.”

“Oh,” Athena says, chewing on the inside of her cheek, pondering something with intense concentration that would probably be better served directed at Mayor Tenma’s case. “That - okay.”

“Why do you ask?” Phoenix raises an eyebrow. “About Blackquill?”

She shrugs. “It’s not totally about Blackquill,” she says. “I was just thinking about the whole concept last night. Had some thoughts.”

“Better think about the case,” Phoenix says lightly.

Athena nods vigorously. “Of course, Boss! I just—”

“We’d better go,” Apollo warns, holding open the doors to the courtroom, as Phoenix makes for the doors out of the lobby, up to the gallery.

“—are there really that many hard-and-fast rules of magic that you can say for sure—”

“That one, I’m very sure,” Phoenix says. “Sure, it’s possible. Anything’s really possible. We can talk later about specifics if it’s that important.”

“Oh, it’s—” She shrugs, again, and grabs the door from Apollo. “Wondering. Thinking. But it’s trial-mode now!”

“Do you know something about Blackquill?” Apollo asks her. She casts a glance across the courtroom, where the prosecution’s bench has not yet been occupied, but as their eyes linger there, another set of doors opens and Fulbright enters, practically bursting with energy, and Blackquill the shadow slinking in behind him. “That’s why you’re asking?”

“I don’t know what his deal is,” Athena says. “But after what Mr Wright said after the trial yesterday, I just couldn’t stop wondering about it all.”

The real question is how much she does or doesn’t believe in magic and Apollo at this point isn’t sure that she knows, either.

Filch, having escaped the courthouse yesterday, is back on the witness stand, first smug about his escape from five bailiffs, then wilting under the glaring eye of Blackquill - and Taka. The bird didn’t enter the courtroom with him - not that Apollo saw, anyway, and what kind of prison would let the inmates keep pets? - but it’s even more difficult to imagine a bird of prey being allowed to wander loose in the courthouse. Maybe they have a mice problem and made a deal with the devil for his hawk to handle it.

(No, not the devil. That moniker belongs to someone else already.)

Apollo waits for the lights show to begin again, Blackquill to put his brain through the woodchipper, because Filch fidgets through his entire testimony in a way that doesn’t take an expert in body language to figure out. He stammers through answering every follow-up question, like he had only prepared - with L’Belle’s help, surely - the first statements and is making the rest up on the spot. But Apollo’s vision remains clear, too clear, even once they’ve caught Filch in a contradiction and handed to Fulbright the lotion bottle found within the Forbidden Chamber, that surely, in a few minutes, will come back to them with L’Belle’s fingerprints, will finally mark him as the Tenma Taro impersonator, the man behind the mask and the murder.

They wait, the courtroom suspended on a knife’s edge, Filch filling the silence with more of his bragging that could probably get some charges of pickpocketing levied against him. Athena drums out random rhythms on the bench. Apollo mistakenly makes eye contact with Blackquill, whose dead-eyed face breaks open into a mocking smirk, inclining his head toward Apollo. Some kind of acknowledgement of the situation, of Apollo waiting for the next bout of confusion, and it occurs to him that this, seeing nothing at all, might just be another kind of interference. Not quite as taxing as the other kind, like Blackquill’s decided to go easy on him by giving him nothing instead of everything. Apollo glares at him and the smirk turns to a laugh.

It would have psyched him out worse, when it came to his case, yesterday, to see nothing at all, but maybe Blackquill doesn’t really care about the case. Maybe he just thinks was the funnier order to make Apollo squirm.

Fulbright scurries back into the courtroom, the tube in one hand and the compiled fingerprints listing in the other. He makes straight for the prosecution’s bench, whispering something to Blackquill; Athena leans forward to listen for it, only to flinch backwards when Blackquill flinches and snarls, not at Fulbright but to the courtroom at large, “What is this absurd devilry?”

Oh, that sounds bad. “Prosecutor Blackquill?” Apollo ventures. He isn’t going to like the answer he gets. “Erm, what—”

“It isn’t the feather prints of Tenma Taro, is it?” the judge asks.

Blackquill blinks. “No,” he says, dragging the word out, dry and disdainful. “The analysis shows that the prints on this hand cream belong to Phineas Filch.”

Apollo objects, reflexively, with nothing solid to object to, just a desperate question of “What?” But Blackquill objects just as readily, drowning out Apollo’s confusion with a snarl. Filch, creeping away from the stand, freezes, his eyes darting back and forth to decide whether to try making a run for it or bending with the gale.

“Explain yourself,” Blackquill hisses. He slams both fists down on the bench - doesn’t break the shackles like Apollo now knows to fear - and Filch staggers, stumbles back to the witness stand like he’s walking with a strong wind, in the same direction as it, but still struggling not to be flattened. “You damned tricksy tanuki!”

“You entered the Forbidden Chamber?” Apollo asks. If his theories have to go to hell again, at least the prosecution isn’t any more prepared for it than he is.

“S-sure I did!” Filch’s eyes are still on the move, plotting out the trajectory necessary for another escape. Taka lifts off from Blackquill’s shoulder and lands silently on the witness stand, where it begins preening its wing feathers, feigning disinterest in its quarry. “And sure, I pilfered that cream from Mr L’Belle! ‘Course my prints are on it!” Taka launches itself into the air, swinging at Filch with its talons. Filch ducks and Taka’s wings buffet him about the head as the hawk arcs up and circles back to Blackquill. Apollo can’t bring himself to care. If it’s Filch, then it’s not himself or Athena dealing with the bird attack.

What does this mean? If Filch was in the Forbidden Chamber, not L’Belle - and they assumed that L’Belle was the Tenma Taro impersonator, and thus had come from the Forbidden Chamber - “Wait,” Apollo says. All eyes turn toward him. No pressure, then, none at all, as he takes another shot in the dark. “Then the Tenma Taro impersonator, with the staff - that wouldn’t be you, Mr Filch, would it?”

“Er,” Filch says.

“Wait,” Athena says. “The person in the Tenma Taro costume - we’ve been saying that they--”

Apollo gets it at the same time she does. “Does this mean Filch is the murderer?”

“Hey!” Filch’s protest comes out a birdlike squawk that doesn’t dissuade from the Tenma Taro comparison. “Now just hold on! That costume - I was just doing what the alderman told me to! For the exorcism ritual, he needed someone the costume for it! Not like we’re actually releasing Tenma Taro every year!”

So Trucy’s explanation of it being a real aspect of the demon, a small strain of its power, was bunk, but it’s still surprisingly unclear whether or not there is a demon at all. “An’ after that,” Filch continues, “went to my office to watch wrestling, but that match was a great ol’ bust. So I still had the costume and got to thinking, no one’s gonna talk if they spot me in that costume. Village superstitions keep ‘em nice and quiet for fear of losing their souls.”

“So those yokai stories rendered you invisible,” the judge says.

Filch nods. “Yep! That one story, anyway; not like any other yokai can get around without being talked about. Tenma Taro’s the best one to turn into.”

“And you broke into the Forbidden Chamber then?” Apollo asks. “Why did you want to do that?”

“Grandpappy’s stories about the treasure in there, like I told you! Thought I’d go and nab it and retire nicely!”

“You’d think his grandfather also would’ve told him that he stole the treasure,” Athena mutters. “Real great familial communication.”

Wouldn’t the family have noticed if they suddenly came into money? Maybe he really did give it away. Or maybe there’s a lump of gold in a shoebox in a closet crawlspace in the Filch residence. It’s not really that important, all considered. “How did you even get into the Forbidden Chamber?” Apollo asks.

“Air duct!” Filch says proudly. “Got in the foyer vent, next to the alderman’s portrait, and the whole way out to the chamber!”

“We didn’t check that vent,” Athena says, dismayed, and across the courtroom, Blackquill scowls with what might be a similar thought.

“Anyway, I ditched the costume and got back to my post after that,” Filch adds. “All was gettin’ to be a lil more trouble than it’s worth.”

“What happened to the costume?” Apollo asks. They’ve got this admission, which is good, but he has the suspicion that Blackquill won’t let them rule out Jinxie as an accomplice without some solid evidence. Filch just giving up and giving them the costume would be nice.

“Heck if I know,” he says.

Go figure. There’s very little way that he shouldn’t know what happened to his own damn costume, but Apollo can’t confirm it as truth or lie with Blackquill around: Blackquill who does confirm, to Apollo’s chagrin, that the police did not find a costume in their thorough search of the manor. “What if he tossed it out the foyer window?” Apollo asks. “That would sort of be like Tenma Taro flying out the window, like we suggested yesterday?”

“The newspaper!” Athena says. She casts around for the physical paper and ends up instead projecting Widget’s scan of it, the distant airborne figure and the bold headline above it: TENMA TARO, REAL OR FLIGHT OF FANCY?

“The manor is on a cliff’s edge,” Apollo says. “The costume had a long way to fall, and someone saw and snapped a picture! It really was just a literal flight of fancy!”

Blackquill’s eyes narrow even further.

“Ah,” Filch says.

“And Jinxie had nothing to do with it!” Athena adds, jabbing a finger straight through her projection.

“My, how complicated,” the judge says. “But it seems there really was no yokai involved. And here I thought I might be able to say that I have also presided over the trial of a demon, after this. Any objections, Prosecutor Blackquill?”

“Uh,” Athena says. “Also?” She drops her voice to a whisper. “Apollo, what else has he presided over? Does he mean faeries? Does he believe in that too?”

“None whatsoever,” Blackquill says. From the tension in his jaw, he isn’t happy about saying so. “I will deal with the troublemaking tanuki after the rest of this case is concluded.”

Filch’s eyes stretch toward dinnerplate size. Blackquill’s expression stays frozen; he must be particularly frustrated with his case if he can’t even enjoy tormenting those involved.

He looks even less happy once Apollo argues for L’Belle to be put on the stand.

The recess, during which Apollo wonders what L’Belle has to say, what Blackquill will further twist that testimony into before it’s presented from the witness stand, and how many times they each want to kill the other, lasts for half an hour. Two minutes after that, Blackquill breaks apart the chain on his shackles to tell both Athena and L’Belle to shut up and L’Belle to get on with it. He surely could have done that without punctuating his words with the clatter of metal links hitting the floor, but he has a flair for dramatics that makes Apollo miss when “flair for dramatics” was air guitar and a fake accent (that Apollo is slightly more charitable toward now that he knows Klavier does it so as to not sound identical to his brother, but only slightly).

And without all that room to move his arms, he wouldn’t be able to cast invisible knives at Apollo, slice him with something as wide as the edge of the wind that stings when the cold gust that follows it hits Apollo’s skin, tries to force him backwards. And then it’s gone, the searing splinters pulled away and leaving him disoriented, without even the ghost of a sensation to remind him that he isn’t losing his mind. “Do you feel that?” he asks Athena, wishing once again that Blackquill’s sword metaphors weren’t such pointed threats as they are. It’s like if Klavier’s air-guitaring conjured up a real guitar that he then proceeded to beat Apollo over the head with.

Athena’s eyes are alight with fury, fixed on Blackquill. “I felt really cold that time, for a sec,” she says, one hand pressed to her sternum like the cold has worked its way down inside of her straight into her heart. “But the slice, no. Guess I’m not worth the acknowledgement.” She says it through gritted teeth, and Apollo remembers that Blackquill has only deigned to address her by name once, when telling her to give up entirely. He kind of wishes he were the one being ignored, but it’s Athena’s first case, and better that she doesn’t have to be afraid that a witch is going to cut her face open on her first case.

L’Belle claims to have heard the mayor confess to Jinxie that he had indeed murdered the alderman, and that he was hiding in the Fox Chamber behind the folding screen to hear it. His composure fractures as much as his story when Apollo presses on it, but the fact remains, no apparent way around it, that Jinxie didn’t see L’Belle when she unlocked the room. And L’Belle isn’t magic, so he couldn’t have been overlooked the way Klavier could. (Apollo doesn’t like to consider that, that Klavier, or someone else like him, few as they might be, could get away with murder because he’d be impossible to nail to the scene.) It doesn’t make sense.

And the trial would end right there, all their best efforts - and Phoenix’s assistance, even - to naught, if Mayor Tenma didn’t spring forward with something new he had remembered. If he hadn’t become a politician, Apollo thinks he should have been an actor; he’s adopted the Tenma Taro persona again, cackling and cawing his way through the testimony. (Or maybe politics is already something like acting. Maybe it’s something like the fae, lawyers, and lying.)

Blackquill’s face darkens, a scowl twisting his mouth. He’s in no mood to humor this farce today, not when it has no benefit to him - but the judge lightly suggests that perhaps it was too soon to say that he isn’t presiding over the trial of a demon, and yes, Mr Justice, you may procede. Let us hear him out.

Athena takes the reins with Widget to sort through the haze of the testimony. The mayor had been locked up in the Forbidden Chamber, when the Amazing Nine-Tails, not wearing his golden cape of tails, opened the doors to free him; and behind the Nine-Tails, the alderman was already dead on the table, his blood soaking into the carpet and Tenma’s memory both. Then the Amazing Nine-Tails couldn’t have been the alderman, and Jinxie never saw the wrestler or L’Belle on the scene, but if the mayor was in the Forbidden Chamber, then for two people to have been at the scene when Jinxie saw it, then—

“You know that logic puzzle with like, the boat and the bag of corn and the chicken and the fox?” Athena asks. “That’s what I’ve got.”

Blackquill threatens Apollo with decapitation. Having already shown himself capable of attacking across the courtroom, and already having been convicted of murder and thus having nothing else to lose, the odds of him going through with it are higher than they should be. The judge does not bat an eye. They have a self-proclaimed yokai on the witness stand. Apollo is supposed to have an answer to this inconsistency by now.

“Do you think Jinxie could have mistaken L’Belle for her father?” Athena asks, tapping her fingers nervously against her jaw and her earring and her opposite arm. She isn’t convinced of her own suggestion, and Apollo isn’t, either, but if Trucy was here she’d be telling him to take it and run with it as far as he can before the judge, prosecution, and gallery realize he’s making shit up as he’s going along and hoping that it can plug all the holes they have.

Sure is not the answer he should give, because even if Athena knows they’re making it up, he should try and have a little more confidence in the statement he presents to her or the court. “The person that Ms Tenma saw,” Apollo says, “was not her father, but was Florent L’Belle disguised as Mayor Tenma.”

Blackquill snarls “Silence!” in a tone implying that while he might be a convicted murderer who continues to threaten to murder both the defense team, the defendant, and the witnesses, he nevertheless is far too polite to yell at Apollo to shut the fuck up! But he wants to. Apollo knows he wants to, because Apollo also wants to yell at Apollo to shut the fuck up, but he can’t, because his client is Guilty as soon as he stops dragging this out by suggesting scenarios that are only vaguely probable.

Scenarios like anyone in the world being able to mistake L’Belle’s face for Tenma.

“Maybe the disguise covered his face?” Apollo suggests. There goes his confidence. He runs his hand through his hair, pulling apart some of the gelled strands down the back. And he managed to sound like he believed his theory for an entire ten seconds in which he didn’t have to say anything else.

“Wouldn’t Jinxie say that she didn’t see her father’s face?” Athena asks.

“Hey, you suggested this!” Apollo hisses. A childish and entirely unbecoming response - she’s trying her best, just like he is, and it’s unfortunate that they have a killer with a complexity fetish, and that Athena is entirely new to this, and that Apollo has only been at it for a year. No one taught him that trials would be this much improvisation.

(With Kristoph, they probably just wouldn’t be, overprepared paranoid bastard that he was, and Phoenix, equally paranoid and equally a bastard, has only taught him about one thing, and that thing is fae magic bullshit.)

“Would she not have removed the disguise?” Blackquill asks the question like he thinks Apollo is dumb enough to not have considered it, but his face doesn’t move a muscle, his eyes as piercing as Taka’s but so much darker, fixated on Apollo. Predator and prey, and Apollo doesn’t know what to do but wilt.

“Oh,” he says. “Right.”

“Your mind is as blank as your eyes.” The momentary sneer, all the warmth of a skeleton’s immobile smile, tells Apollo that no, this isn’t about his hollow stare of confusion now that his case has fallen apart again. This is Blackquill toying, again, with what Apollo can see, with what he has always been able to see, as long as he can remember. Twenty years, at least, and Blackquill stops him dead. “And the sword you swing, rusted, used as you are to someone else doing the cutting. Shall I show you what a truly sharp edge will do?”

“Ah - please don’t.” A cold, heavy force - he can’t even compare it to wind anymore, those earlier sparse, spread-out gusts that carried razors - hits his chest, forcing his nervous laugh out from his lungs too quick and turning it into a gasp. It doesn’t feel like a punch, either, too big and too broad, more like being struck by a two-by-four of ice, or a pile of snow shoved from a roof to land on him sprawled below. He staggers, still wheezing, smacks his head off the wall, and slides halfway down it. Should he give in to despair now or wait until the verdict lands? Screaming sounds good any time. Maybe crying, too.

“Apollo! Are you okay? Apollo!”

He opens his eyes, not having meant to close them in the first place, and Athena closes some of the distance between them, her hands hovering awkwardly in front of her, unsure of whether she should just help him or not. He raises an arm toward her and she grabs him by the elbow and hauls him back upright. “I’m - I’m not fine, am I?” he asks. She tips him forward to lean on the bench.

She balls her hands into fists, but her fight-ready pose implodes and she pulls her arms tight across her chest, shuddering. Cold again. “Can we look at this a different way?” she asks. “Like Mr Wright says, turn the case upside-down?”

Does he say that? Right now Athena could say he says anything and he’d believe it. Right now he can barely remember his own name, but he does remember that they’re out of options. “Jinxie didn’t remove the mask, and didn’t mention it,” he says. “That’s the problem. So what if…” How does he turn that upside-down? “If she couldn’t remove the mask, and couldn’t mention it. What could cause that?”

Jinxie talked a lot about masks. She and Trucy both did, back before this turned into a murder case, back when it was just a yokai festival and the two of them gushing about wrestling. Wrestlers and their masks, their dramatic matches and unmaskings. And the Amazing Nine-Tails was at the crime scene. Jinxie would never dare reveal his or any wrestler’s identity. She couldn’t remove that mask, wouldn’t mention it, but then that means—

“Oh,” he says. “Oh no.”

Athena’s face falls. She was waiting for him to crack the case open - she expected him too - and here he is, too horrified to properly vocalize the issue. “I think we’ve been working with a big, big mistaken assumption all this time,” he says. Across the courtroom, Blackquill is saying something, smugly, to the judge’s consideration, and Apollo doesn’t wait to listen - he can guess - before he shouts, “Objection!”

Blackquill sighs, but the flash in his dark eyes shows he is far from weary, far from letting the defense get the last word. “And with what bloody absurdity do you intend to stall for time now?”

“Mr Justice,” the judge says sternly. “I have seen you turn many a case on its head” - or maybe just three, but many does sound a lot better - “but with the evidence presented, you had better have something solid for us.”

“I do,” Apollo says. “We’ve all, since early in the trial yesterday, been working with an assumption that’s led us entirely in the wrong direction. The answer to all our questions lies in Mayor Tenma’s secret identity - the alderman wasn’t the Amazing Nine-Tails. The Amazing Nine-Tails is Mayor Tenma’s secret identity!”

The judge blinks. The words haven’t set in. But Blackquill recoils like he’s been struck. “Balderdash! What bloody drivel do you think you’re spewing? Best explain yourself quick, Justice-dono.”

“The mayor’s alleged motive was that he killed the alderman to facilitate the municipal merger,” Apollo says. “And that the alderman, to fight back, took up the guise of the Amazing Nine-Tails. That’s the basis of the prosecution’s case. But, if Mayor Tenma was the Amazing Nine-Tails instead - Jinxie, no doubt, knew his true identity and couldn’t tell anyone. She’s a huge fan of masked wrestling - she knows how important these disguises are to them! She’d never dare unmask any, especially not her father! So when she saw the Amazing Nine-Tails passed out in the armchair there in the chamber, she naturally assumed it was her father - and said as much!”

“Wh-what?” The judge has finally caught up to the rest of them. Blackquill doesn’t give him a chance to ask anything more.

“Even our little scamp with her yokai visions could have seen the difference in the builds of the accused and that duplicitous dandy,” he interrupts. “And, for that matter, their discrete tastes in clothing. Care you to explain that?”

Mayor Tenma is taller than L’Belle, and they only have equally broad shoulders because of L’Belle’s ridiculous padding that turns him into a triangle. And even if L’Belle figured out how to fake his build, where did he get spare clothing of the mayor’s? There wouldn’t be anything just around the manor of Nine-Tails Vale. What kind of illusion would it take to make the switch convincing?

An illusion, or transformation. Or possession. The story of this wrestling league - humans, regular humans, with magical masks that give them powers. If that’s true - if he takes the chance that’s true - then who’s to say with those powers doesn’t come a physical transformation? Who’s to say the Amazing Nine-Tails isn’t the same body for whoever wears the mask? “I might be able to,” Apollo says. “If we can have the mask for a moment, to have someone try it on.”

He braces himself to add on, because it might be magic, knowing how Blackquill is going to laugh, but Athena gets to it first. “Wait!” she says. “Do you agree that the mask might have magic powers after all? I told you I should’ve gotten to try it on the other day!”

“Ah,” the judge says. “You believe the mask to have some sort of transformation effect, in a similar way to how the defendant is possessed by and transformed into Tenma Taro?”

“I thought we agreed that he isn’t possessed,” Apollo says. Is it time for this judge to take a permanent vacation, if he keeps forgetting things like this? They’ve put a lot of time into covering the dubious matter of his possession. “But, yes, basically.”

The judge nods. “Very well. Detective Fulbright, if you would provide the defense with the evidence in question.”

Fulbright makes it to the center of the courtroom, his arm outstretched with the mask in his hand, still another arm’s-length from where Apollo could grab it; Taka intercepts him, snatching the mask away and returning it to Blackquill. He frowns at it and pulls apart a knot in the longer white fur at the bottom. “A moment,” he says evenly, without looking at any of them. “Justice-dono, the rest of us are simply to trust that you do not have an illusion of your own prepared, entirely detached from this mask?”

“I’d think you’d be able to tell that neither of us are witches or magicians or anyone who could do that,” Apollo says. Could Trucy? She’s the only one who could do anything close; she’s said if she tries hard enough, she can make her will o’ the wisp appear, briefly, to be something else distant, something else distracting more than just a ball of light. She did at Apollo’s first trial and then she nearly passed out on the bench in the lobby and made him buy her a sports drink and four Swiss rolls during the recess to get some of her energy back. And she’s never done it since. She at least knows her limits.

Blackquill lifts his head, eyes fixed on Apollo. Taka’s are too, beady yellow above a sharp beak, threat implicit, that at any time he could do more than buffet Apollo with his wings. “Could I, Justice-dono?” he asks quietly. “Is that what you think?”

Why is everyone who’s even approximately fae-adjacent, Phoenix and Klavier and now Blackquill, so damned opaque? “Well, if you think we’ve got some tricks up our sleeves,” Athena snaps, slamming her hands on the bench like she’s about to fling herself entirely over it, “then why don’t you try it on yourself! See for yourself if it’s got power!”

“Athena, no—” If Apollo’s right, and he wants to be right, for the sake of his case, for the sake of the mayor, then there’s some sort of magical power held in the mask, to be imbued in the wearer. And they’ve just handed it to a man who, in this basic form of whatever the hell he is, can already snap metal chains. They’ve handed him the key to a jailbreak if he’s up for it.

A slow smile parts Blackquill’s lips, showing a flash of teeth, a wolf’s bared grin, something that’s going to eat them alive. His smile might not be sharp but Apollo doesn’t trust it. “Well,” he says. “Seems the lass finally has a decent idea.”

“I’ve had plenty of decent ideas, thank you!” Athena shouts.

This is not one. If, if, Apollo is right about the mask, and if, if Blackquill doesn’t take the escape route - they don’t know how it is that he shuts down Apollo’s blessing and Phoenix’s Sight. He might just be able to shut down the transformation, and with it, Apollo’s last hopes for the case. He might just be able to bury the truth, and he’s shown enough lack of conviction that Apollo can believe he would.

Taka hops down onto the bench, turning his yellow eyes upon his handler, and Blackquill slips the mask on over his head. It wouldn’t do much to disguise his identity, as it stands - his long black hair spills out the back of it - but a moment later that is moot. Golden light beams out of him, down from the opening of the mask, and Blackquill simply no longer is Blackquill, tall but slender and shrouded in black. The Amazing Nine-Tails stands behind the prosecution’s bench, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, clad in a thick wrestling belt and fluffy golden tails flowing down his back like a cape. The only thing to differentiate the man in front of him from the one Apollo saw in the village before the murder is the cuffs still clamped around his wrists, visibly too tight, visibly crushing into his skin.

Apollo winces in sympathy; so does Athena. Blackquill reaches up and tears the mask off of his head. Golden light shines again, the bright tendrils retreating back up inside of the mask. He flings it aside carelessly, rattling the broken chain when he shakes his wrists like the cuffs are still too tight and lingering. Fulbright hurries over to pick the mask from the floor, holding it warily about a foot away from his body.

“It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen something such as that in my courtroom,” the judge says lightly. He seemed more fazed by the revelation of the mayor’s secret identity than witnessing the magic behind said identity. What else has he seen? How much does it take to grow numb to this? (Apollo is growing less and less surprised over only a year; in the judge’s career, the question might be what he hasn’t seen. A yokai, apparently, distinct from the fae.)

“Is that explanation enough for you, Prosecutor Blackquill?” Apollo asks. He can’t help feeling smug, alongside the profound relief that his shot in the dark hit its mark without Blackquill interfering.

Blackquill doesn’t answer. He stares, blankly, down at his hands, down at the bench, and his eyes when they finally turn up toward Apollo are hollow, the vacant gaze of a skull’s empty sockets. His shoulders heave with heavy breaths, but no words follow. Apollo seizes the silence to put together the next pieces, lay out the next steps of L’Belle’s locked room trick, and his faked confession as the mayor. And even when Blackquill lashes back, Apollo has now seen him cornered, at a loss, and it’s easier to shut him down, tell him to shut up and let Apollo finish speaking.

L’Belle does his best to stop the mayor from confirming his identity, claiming still he’ll tell the truth, unleash Tenma Taro, and ruin the village. Doom wrought by greed, and suddenly Apollo realizes why, of all the places to hide it, there was treasure in the Forbidden Chamber. Whether or not Tenma Taro is real, it kept people away, kept them out, kept them too afraid of a monster to go digging and tear each other apart for a lump of gold.

But Filch’s grandfather left a token in the chamber, his thief’s mark, and L’Belle left strands of hair within the Nine-Tails mask, the last evidence Apollo needs to close the tale. Because evidence is everything, no matter how well the rest fits. No matter how a jury would want L’Belle indicted ten minutes ago. They don’t have a jury; they have Blackquill, fighting to the end, and the judge, who isn’t allowed to give a verdict based on common sense.

They’re lucky, this time. They’re lucky, and Blackquill furious at his defeat. When he returns to the courtroom after L’Belle is escorted into custody, Apollo waits for the world to twist red in distorted ripples, waits for a last chilling slice to land its mark. But there’s nothing but Blackquill’s last monotone summary: L’Belle, unable to get into the manor and its Forbidden Chamber any other way, set the merger in motion, committed murder when that plan stalled, desperate for the gold to lift him out of debt. Desperate for a monster to save him.

The judge’s gavel strikes once. Blackquill’s glare hasn’t left Apollo. Apollo stares back. He knows it isn’t wise to ask what someone is. It would be especially unwise to yell the question across a courtroom to someone already hostile.

But he wants to know, so that he can avoid Blackquill and anyone ever like him in the future.

“C’mon Apollo!” Athena says. “Let’s go see Mr Wright! We won!”

They won. Blackquill’s eyes narrow further, and, barking something at Fulbright, he turns away first.

#roddy fanfics #fic: the witches of los angeles #next up: the actual end of this fuckin case

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writingwithhope · 2 years

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Answers to the strange things I’ve search up as a writer

About a month ago I did a post on the strange and slightly concerning things that are in my search history as a writer. Quite a few of you asked what the answers/search results were, so here you are!

Does poison ivy kill you? - Having skin contact with poison ivy will give you a rash but is not fatal. However, poison ivy is an allergen not a poison and therefore affects different people differently!

How can you throw a country into turmoil? - Good question Hope... google doesn’t seem to know either. However, the top search results were all linked to change in rulers, death of a king, a coup, or a pandemic

How to remove a bullet? - I have a post on this, so feel free to check that out if you want to know (it’s in my cottagecore theme)

Is it better to freeze a body before putting it into a woodchipper? - yes!

How can I buy a large quantity of sodium hydroxide? - Amazon. It’s way easier than I thought!

What substances break down a body? - sodium hydroxide (hence the previous question), potassium hydroxide (these are both commonly known as lye)

Murder someone by injection under the tongue - potassium chloride is normally used, and it stops the heart.

Can hair really turn white from fright? - This seemingly is debated, with some scientists saying it’s impossible and other people saying it happened to them

Latin word for soulless - sine anima / tentoria (I know that the first is correct but I don’t know whether I trust google for the second!)

How big can a meteorite be? - anything bigger than a molecule and smaller than 330 feet (100m). Most are very small though

What does a dead body smell like? - rotting flesh and feces :)

What does a dead body look like after a week? - Depends on the temperature of the surroundings! If it is in a freezing place, then pretty much the same as when in died. If it’s in a hot climate, then a lot messier

Is revenge cold? - Well there is a saying ‘revenge is a dish best served cold’

Goddesses of revenge in mythology - Nemesis (Greek), Poena (also Greek, attendant to Nemesis), that’s all that came up!

Latin roots for garden - hortus (I am embarrassed that I had to search this up after studying Latin for 3 years, and reading several stories where ‘Caecilius est in horto’)

Would you die if you swallowed bees? - Maybe, if you are allergic or if your throat swells up to the extent that you suffocate. Moral of the story, don’t swallow bees!

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cawwriting · 6 years

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Demons and Coffee SFW

((A big thank you to @demigosh for their commission, this was so much fun to write! this was a flash commission and i still have 4 spots open so pm me for details!)

For any good story to be told it is suggested to have a protagonist, someone who throughout some personal downfall betters themselves and becomes some sort of heroine type figure- a character that the unknowing audience could possibly look up to and even admire. However why does every story need this? The answer is they dont, my fantastical labyrinth of words surely will not. However, we will have a boy, he will remain unnamed for the sake of remaining ambiguous and debatably headache inducing. Said boy looks tired, as if his eyelids are permanently fixed to the halfway point in his eyes, and his lips look ancient as if they were never made to open, they are dry like mystical ruins covered by dunes of sand.His hair however changes the game, his hair completely flips the game over and destroys it. His hair is like that flavour of lollipop- what was it? Blue raspberry? That's not a fucking flavour and his hair can't possibly be this colour- but it is and will continue to be. His cheeks contrast his chapped lips and lidded eyes by showing a nice rosey color, it was the only way to show he could be considered alive. If it weren't for the color in his cheeks you may believe he were among the living dead in which his society holds many of and which his mind held zero of.

While his mind did not hold the living dead it did hold an animated evil, something never meant to inhabit this boy. Now i will introduce to you a girl, also unnamed for reasons semi-identical to the boy- well not really. Her name is secret even to me and the only person living who even knows the syllables of her title is the boy from before. However, let's take a moment to note the girl’s characteristics- though only the boy can actually see the blinding rainbow vomit of color which is of the female variety. Her hair is just as fake in coloration except hers is real, the shoulder length bubblegum pink has lovely curls in random spots, the curves and edges almost absolutely were artificial. A horn slides from the upper middle part of her forehead and her sharp teeth murmur whispers of death to anything caught between them. Her ears pointed out like branches from a tree, catching breezes of noise in them.

Onto the story, the gorgeous tapestry painted by my typing fingers, the forced meeting of a boy and a boy, of which was made possible by a cherry blossom colored demon who will continue to reign unnamed. A spilled coffee and an unusually perky apology from a boy who never speaks. A date. Enough of this! Its story time! Buckle in kiddos it's gonna get gay.

A boy walks down a broken sidewalk covered in crunchy leaves, each step calling out in sound and smell. The wind held a soft remembrance of sun, warmth mixing with the cool air to gently prick the skin on his rosey cheeks and dull features. He cleared his throat, walking along with one hand slid into his jacket pocket and the other holding a latte from his local cafe- he had just taken his leave from this place and was getting ready to go straight back home and hop onto the internet for his daily dose of indirect social interaction. However he had this pain in his head, one he knew all too well was not a headache- and then he saw her- the headache faded and he sighed in a frustration that showed he was well enough tired of her antics and shenanigans. The girl. The demon. “Heyyy!!!” Her voice was high pitched and not all that unpleasant for the normal ear- though no one else could hear her. However, this voice for the boy was nails on chalkboard, fork to plate if i must. He tried pretending she wasn't just floating circled around him and begging to be noticed. Eventually his anger got the best of him and he halted his steps, glaring daggers at the girlish figure who had stopped her cycle of rotations to listen to what he had to say, seeming almost giddy for his words. “Shut. up. Leave me alone.” He grumbled quietly, wanting to seem normal at least in public, speaking to her outright in front of others could get him admitted and that wouldn't end well for him or his demon.

Her face sinks and she whined out like a child who didn't get their way, arms crossing tightly over her chest as she now hovered in front of his face. “I'm bored!!!! I want to have some fun! You never leave your stupid house! Come on let's do something!” She insisted excitedly, nearly bouncing up and down as her craving for excitement grew. She turned upside down showing off her toothy grin and flicked his nose, earning a hand swat and a heavier look of annoyance. “No.” was all he had to say on the matter. He then pushed past her and started walking again, her left behind a moment before finally she caught up to what he said and hurried after him. “But, but-” She started, only for him to cut her off. “No-”

He glanced his eyes down at the foliage covered concrete so he could speak to her quietly without anyone else noticing he was, he felt he needed to be discreet. He swallowed back to wet his dry throat and then also ducked his tounge from his mouth a moment to wet his lips before speaking. “Look- I don't need any excitement, raising a cat and babysitting you is far more than enough excitement fo-” She looked as if she was about to cut him off so he cut his eyes at her as to make sure she stayed quiet before he noticed she listened. She was quiet, but her lips had split into a long devious grin, her arms crossing again and she looked away. He looked up and raised an eyebrow, “Wha-” That was when he crashed into someone- god she planned this didn't she. He fell back onto his ass, squeaking out as hot coffee spilled onto both him and the poor victim of his Demon’s spite.

“I was going to tell you to watch out.. Hehe… but it seems you didn't want me to interrupt!!!” She was laughing pretty hard now though it was only annoying to the one person that could hear her- god she sounded like a hyena. He did his best to ignore the demon and scrambled to his feet to help the other male up. He was wearing a green apron with a name tag that read ‘James’ and all around them on the ground was soil and most likely ruined flowers drenched in coffee. The boy’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment and he grabbed his hand to help James to his feet, spitting out apologies faster than a woodchipper spits out scraps. “I am so sorry i really should have been watching where i was going oh no your flowers are ruined coffee cant be good for them oh no i'm so-” He got cut off by the florist. “Its okay, I have more- it was just a silly accident.”

James, the florist, gave a smile to the boy to make sure he knew that all was forgiven. He just seemed so genuine, light sandy hair floating in the breeze and freckled cheeks easily warmed by the little sun there was. The boy was silent, swallowing down any more apology he had to throw as a girl slid up behind him and giggled, sliding arms over his shoulder. “Get his number, come on, come on, come on!!!” it was the demon. Ugh. He wa frozen for a moment, worrying James who tilted his head and asked if he were okay. James’ words snapped the boy from his frozen state and caused him to start rummaging through his book bag for napkins. “Here! I-uh I have napkins!!” He spouted, pulling a handful out only to have the torrent wind swipe them from his fingertips and within moments having them out of sight. “Uh Uh-” He was freezing up again, coffee growing cold on his body and making him shiver, god this was hard and his demon was not making it any easier- she was bouncing around him and cheering like a cheerleader that he should date James and how he should at least get his number. She loved shipping him with strangers and this had to be a scene out of one of her fanfictions she enjoyed so much.

He was ruining his chance and she was angry about it, something needed to be done before he lost his chance with the rather cute florist. She didn't do this often because it exhausted both her and the boy but hell! Drastic times call for drastic measures and if this wasn't a drastic time then what was? She slid into his body and his eyes glowed pink for a moment as she took over control, once she had control though she got him to smile and help the florist pick up the other things that he had dropped. He kept him rather quiet but much more relaxed as he walked with James to his flower shop so they could both clean up and get warm. It wouldn't be long until they were laughing about the mishap and introducing themselves to one another. And by the tie she decided her time in the body was up the boy held a ripped piece of paper, a corner from a receipt perhaps? With James’ number on it.

She wouldn't release control of his body though until they were finally back in his small apartment, him immediately collapsing onto his bed and groaning out in pain. Possession was never a pleasant experience for either of them. She was doubled over across the room from him, whimpering softly before yawning- she then realized just how tired she was and decided to go back to being unseen, causing him a light headache that lasted about thirty seconds, By the time he was recovered she wasn't present for him to yell at. He believed her shipping antics and possession were completely unwarranted, sure the man had been cute but he most likely was straight or already was taken. How embarrassing. He wished he could remember just what was said, but he was just left with a slip of paper with some numbers on it.

He made his way out of bed and threw off his book back, jacket, and soiled shirt, leaving him in a partially dry tank top- in which he worked over to his desk to plop down and open up his laptop. Ooh a notification! The boy wonders if it is one of his three internet friends but when he finally arrives at the notifications source he is disappointed to find it is not. It's not a message but a friend request.

[James Hareild is has sent you a friend request accept?]

He groaned quietly but couldn't be rude, this guy probably really got hit on today by your possessed body. And after a day like this rejecting the friend request and just pushing today aside may not be an option. He would have to talk to ‘her’ later about this crazy invasion of privacy and boundaries. Oh well let's get this over with.

[James Hareild is now your friend]

Now that there is nothing more to do he closes his laptop and glances around his dim room, it was messy with food bags on the stained carpet and none of his clothing was even close to being in the closet. Was this becoming an unhealthy lifestyle? Yes. Does he care? No. This is something he has grown used to, there was no one to actually impress, he had no friends to show his ‘sweet crib’ to so why keep it tidy? Or at least this was his thinking on the matter. God a nap sounds good, even if his bed is covered in crumpled papers and discarded clothing, he decided a nap is what he will get. He is on his way, stepping to bed when the familiar ache in his head showed that ‘she’ was in his home again and visible. “Yes?” He called out, not seeming the happiest with her right now.

Her smile grew big and sharp again as she plopped down on the edge of the bed to look up at him, she seemed completely recharged, the opposite of himself. “Wellll!!! I thought you may want to know you have a date Saturday! You'll meet the flower boy at that silly cafe you like so much!” Her voice was just as excited as when they were walking down the concrete slabs earlier that morning- it was late afternoon now. The boy however was not amused and would not be amused, he refused to find any of this as a positive toward his normal routine. He liked the pattern he had made for himself and this random ‘ship possession’ was highly intrusive. “I can't go.” He said simply, causing her to pout and huff like a child. “What!!! And why not?!” She squeaked, seeming genuinely offended by this progression of events.

He rolled his eyes and decided he would play along at least for the moment, “I haven't even called him yet, why would I go on a date with him? “ he then got serious, joking time was over and he focused his look on her. “I don't even know what was said while you were possessing me- which was highly uncalled for by the way!”He was scolding now and she just seemed to be sitting there and taking all of it with a grain of salt, almost as if she were proud of herself, or maybe self-important. She then stood and sauntered up to him, swaying her hips as a more serious look settled into her bright and usually energetic eyes. “Well… if you found a way to rid yourself of life and give me your soul we wouldn't have this predicament would we?” Her voice instead of the streaky glass it sounded like was smooth and echoed in the room, causing the lights to flash around him.

This all would scare someone who wasn't used to it, but he had accidentally summoned this demon many years ago and this behavior was nothing new for him. He merely crossed his arms and raised a brow- “Are you done yet? These theatrics aren't really your style and they don't fit you at all” His voice was just as smooth in a mocking kind of way but it had no echo and did not cause electrical anomalies. She in reaction to this began laughing and laughing before wiping a tear away from her eye and nodding, “Yeah haha, you're right i guess.” And with that and a slight head pain she was gone again. He rolled his eyes and slid his pants down, then laying on top of his covers and deciding to get some rest, she would surely continue to torment him tomorrow until he agreed to go on the date so he knew sleep would be for the best. His eyes slid closed and finally rest consumed his consciousness.

#flash comissions #commisionwork #writing commisions #writing trades #author #ocs #oc facfiction #fanfiction #demons #coffee #demon coffee #coffee art #art

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thepurplelegion · 4 years

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Malakai McKnight

Universe: Detroit Become Human Born: March 21st, 1999 Age: Thirty-Nine Years Old Nationality: American Full name: Malakai McKnight Status: Alive (Arrested) Cause of Death: N/A Occupation: - Master Sergeant of the United States Marine Corps (Formerly; Left for Dead) - Comrade of the Russian Mafia Assault Forces (Formerly; Betrayed) - Revolutionary/Cyber Terrorist/Terrorist (Currently) Titles: - Kai (by Alana McKnight) - Kyle (by Alana McKnight) - The Smartest Man Alive (by himself) - The Dealer of Death (by Mr. Oblonsky) - Mr Terror (by Mr. Oblonsky) - Psychotic Maniac (by Captain Fowler) - Android Hater (by Markus Manfred) Species: Human Gender: Male Family Members/Relationships: - Unknown (Biological Father) - Unknown (Biological Mother) - Alana McKnight (Wife; Deceased; Killed in housefire caused by Deviant Androids) - Oliver McKnight (Son; Deceased; Killed in housefire caused by Deviant Androids) - Emily McKnight (Daughter; Deceased; Killed in housefire caused by Deviant Androids) - Thor (Pet German Shephard; Deceased; Shot and Killed by Deviant Androids) Other Associations: - Connor Anderson (Respected Arch Enemy; Victim; Upgraded and Reactivated by Elijah Kamski; Downfall) - Hank Anderson (Respected Enemy; Attempted Victim) - Kara Curry (Enemy; Hostage; Formerly) - Alice Curry (Enemy; Hostage; Formerly) - Luther Parke (Attempted Victim; Heavily Damaged) - Markus Manfred (Arch Enemy; Attempted Victim) - North Kelly (Enemy; Attempted Victim; Heavily Damaged) - Josh Sawyers (Enemy; Victim; Repaired, Improved and Reactivated by Elijah Kamski) - Simon Lambert (Enemy; Victim; Repaired, Improved and Reactivated by Elijah Kamski) - Elijah Kamski (Respected Enemy; Attempted Victim) - Chloe Kamski (Enemy; Victim; Repaired, Improved and Reactivated by Elijah Kamski) - Jeffrey Fowler (Respected Enemy; Attempted Victim) - M. Wilson (Respected Enemy; Victim) - Captain Allen (Respected Enemy; Victim) - Richard Perkins (Respected Enemy; Victim) - Gavin Reed (Disrespected Enemy; Attempted Victim) - Mr Oblonsky (Former Ally; Victim; Alongside Russian Mafia Assault Force) - RK900-01 (Slave; Deceased; Killed by Hank Anderson) - RK900-02 (Slave; Deceased; Killed by Connor Anderson) - RK900-03 (Slave; Deceased; Killed by Kara Curry) - RK900-04 (Slave; Deceased; Killed by Elijah and Chloe Kamski) - RK900-05 (Slave; Deceased; Killed by Connor Anderson) - RK900-06 (Slave; Deceased; Killed by Connor Anderson) Height: 6’3’’ (Feet), 190cm Eye Colour: Light Grey Hair Colour: Dark Brown (w/Greying Brown Beard) Skin Colour: Light Neutral Belongings: Wedding Ring, Wife’s Wedding Ring, Stone Necklace (Gifted by Daughter), Watch (Gifted by Son) and Dog Collar (Taken from his Pet) Abnormal/Significant Features: Malakai has an IQ of 209, making him one of the smartest individuals in the world, well above the intelligence of Elijah Kamski. This IQ allows Malakai to swiftly adapt to situations, rapidly learn new skills and complete tasks never done before much quicker than average. Physically, Malakai is in near peak physical condition for a man of his age, allowing him to contend and combat with even the most advanced of Androids, including Connor, an RK800. His body also withholds many scars on that signify the many conflicts he has fought through during his time as a U.S. Marine, however, his emotional damage is much more scarring, although he rarely displays the mutilation undergone on his mind. Personality Description: Intelligent, Calculated, Cold and Vengeful.

Skills and Abilities: - Master Combatant (Malakai has mastered multiple fighting styles over the course of his life, including Karate, Jujitsu, Taekwondo, Boxing, Kickboxing and Muay Thai. This mastery of these fighting styles assists in non-weapon orientated combative situations, allowing him to go toe to toe with even the likes of Connor.) - Master of Blade and Blunt Weapons (Malakai is also able to effortlessly make use of blade and blunt weapons, often eliminating targets within seconds when equipped with knives, crowbars, sledgehammers and his personal favourite, combat axes). - Master Marksman (Malakai can effortlessly use any type of firearm, including handguns, shotguns, snipers, rifles, selective, lever action and automatic weapons, as well as explosive-based firearms and arrow-based weapons. Malakai has what can only be described as the eyes of a hawk, he rarely misses a shot but when he does, he has ulterior motives in mind). - Master of Explosives and Disruptive Equipment (Alongside his mastery of the use of firearms, Malakai is comfortable with the use and application of explosive devices, as well as explosive equipment. Malakai has also adopted and mastered the use of disruptive equipment, including EMP explosives and weapons. This allows Malakai to ambush any selected target and is extremely useful in the elimination of Android targets). - Master Tactician (Combined with his intelligence and long-term military experience, Malakai is effortlessly able to devise plans and take command of the most dangerous of situations, often finding great joy out of the rush. He can adapt to any situation, identify ambushes, track down targets effortlessly and escape from any situation with great efficiently without leaving a trace to follow. This was implemented so greatly; the FBI and Detroit Police Department misidentified the CyberLife Tower Heist as a job of at least ten individuals, when, the job was completed by him and him alone.) - Expert Interrogator (Malakai can expertly extract information out of anyone and everyone he interrogates, using the most brutal of techniques to get what he wants. Malakai often finds great joy out of the interrogation of Androids due to the fact they cannot feel pain, using effective fear techniques, notably the threat of sending them through a woodchipper. The Russian Mob made great use of this skill and eliminated their opposers within a couple days of Malakai’s initiation.) - Expert Language Specialist (Malakai is fluent in French, Spanish, Italian, Mandarin Chinese, Japanese, Arabic, Russian and Malay.) - High Resistance to Pain (Although injury rarely takes place, Malakai has a high resistance to pain, allowing him to continue fighting following an injury and seek medical attention long after the injury takes place. Malakai is seen taking blows from Androids, slashes from knives, a blow to the throat by Connor, as well as a bullet to the side of his head, recovering from each of these injuries swift to allow an even swifter escape. It is said that Malakai is a master of death and no matter what you throw at him, he refuses to die).

Significant Quote: “The war took everything from me… once the Androids that I fought beside for so long began turning on us… betraying us within the blink of an eye… I lost my squad… my tour family as we liked to call it. When the firing stopped… I was last man standing… covered in red… blue… and white… the colours of the country I have served for most of my life. That’s when the Russians found me… exhausted… dehydrated… starved. Turns out they were some combination of mafia and military… real hard motherfuckers. They captured me… interrogated me in ways not even your mind could process… not that that was necessary… they couldn’t break me if they wanted to. I told them what happened with my own free will… how the Androids betrayed us and how I managed to kill them all… and how I enjoyed it. They saw potential in me and gave me two choices… join them and betray my country… or freeze to death. I chose the former… anything to see my family again… my son… my daughter… my wife… even my fucking dog. Half a year later I find myself back into the country… back to Detroit… I go to see my family… I go to show my family… my kids… that daddy never died. Only… I find remnants of ash where my home used to be. Does that sound familiar? It should… it really should… because you… YOU WERE ASSIGNED TO THE CASE! So… it turns out… during what was known as the Battle of Detroit… my home was set ablaze by some deviant cunt Androids… all while my family was still inside. According to the reports I obtained… they even killed my dog to stop him from warning them. When I thought I had nothing left… after I fought so hard… did horrible… horrible things to come home… once I finally do… I realize… Androids took everything from me. Of course… the authorities knew they were Androids because of the blue blood that you found… but of course… you weren’t able to find them… but that’s okay. Within days I did what you couldn’t… I tracked every single one of the fuckers using evidence obtained from the police department… I sent them through a woodchipper and scattered their remains through either filth dump in this city. I never started this war… but… I’m going to finish it… and once I’m done… Detroit will be burning to the ground while I watch with a smile on my face.”

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mairzymarzipan · 7 years

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Hey guys, remember tin!?

I wrote some angst for Nathanael

Holy cow do I hope this works :B It feels a little comedy to begin with, which might muddle the angst? Idk, I like to mix them, but I’m never sure how it comes out.

“Hu-Hussar? Why are you so big?”

“My Prince? I’m no larger than I was before when I was in the Big World.”

The horse towered over the boy. Two Nathanaels would have to stack up on top of each other just to pet his nose. He was slender, with ramrod straight legs that were fused to too-curved skis. He was wood, painted white all over, with button eyes in front of the face. His mane was some yellowy silk, and his coat had only a few specks missing.

Nathanael considered his options. Maybe Hussar had just been a really huge rocking horse before coming to Kotdaloes, like big enough for big kids to play on. And he was like, trojan horse sized? He was so big you had to keep him out in the yard, and use a ladder to climb him? But Hussar and The Prince had belonged to a rich kid- somebody who was almost a prince himself. If anyone could have a giant rocking horse in their yard, it was probably the son of some regency era English lord.

Nathanael turned away from Hussar- or maybe it was a full spin because he certainly felt like the was spinning. He glanced up. What about the stars? The Big Dipper was up there, just where it belonged. And just over there- a tree with a house next to it. The tree was some kind of squat conifer- like a red pine. And the house was a wooden affair with a peaked roof. Nathanael set of toward these through the tall grass.

“Your Majesty? Where are you going?” Hussar rocked himself on his skis, slowly inching after him.

Nathanael was already halfway around the side of the house, “I’m going to knock on the door. Maybe they have a phone I can use.”

“But,” came The Colonel’s pleasant voice, “isn’t that a doghouse, Your Majesty?”

Nathanael stopped in his tracks. The tall grass had ended and Nathanael was standing on some smooth earth, smoothed by feet or wheels. He was at the front of the house now. Instead of a door, it had a wide bay like a garage, only taller so that it took up most of the wall. Nathanael could see all the way inside to the bare back wall, and at the carpet that was all bunchy and folded like it had just been thrown in but never stapled down. And he thought for a moment- well, maybe they’re renovating the place. But that didn’t explain the stencil paw prints above the door, or the chain that lay stretched on the ground in front of it and off into grass. It was, huge, like something you see in a horror movie.

“Your Majesty?” An orangey hand was on the corner, and then an orangey mustachioed face. The human looked for everything to be the Colonel- from the big, droopy mustache to the sword to the way the buttons cinched on the trim body. He was just, all one color, and shiny. A brass version of himself. He was also shorter than Nathanael, but not short enough. Like, he came up to his shoulders.

“Colonel,” Nathanael, “I don’t suppose you were a statue before you got a soul, were you?” He said, thinking that the carpet looked more like fleece blanket than a carpet.

The Colonel stood up straighter and he wiggled his nose uncomfortably. “A statuette, maybe. I’m only eight inches tall. But you have a way with flattering words, Your Majesty.”

Nathanael nodded slowly. There was a sort of clamminess grasping his chest. It held him tight all around, and even entered inside him. He felt like these awful, slithering fingers where in his lungs. He felt like they filled every inch of his lungs until he couldn’t catch a breath. Then he realized he didn’t have lungs.

He put his hands to his face and there was a clop, like wood against wood, and the feeling of two smooth orbs above his eyes. He wandered until there was a shadow above him- a big curved metal wall. But it wasn’t a wall, was it? Just the underside of some dog’s water bowl.

It was silvery, and an ugly, twisted face looked down at Nathanael. And though the face was distorted by the curve of the bowl, it was still fairly accurate. What with it’s bulging green eyes and spritzes of wild black hair and the teeth that took up most of the bottom of the face. Nathanael to look away, or shut his eyes but, staring at his own reflection, he seemed to remember that he didn’t have eyelids.

“My Prince! Where to now, Your Majesty?” Behind the nutcracker in the mirror, Nathanael sighted the horse rocking ever closer. The brass man was approaching him too, using a more usual stride.

Nathanael’s arms fell parallel to his sides. He stared up into his eyes. No. Not fair. He had done everything. He had worked so hard. He had crossed the country with a mad woman, faced Coppelia, convinced everyone he was a dead guy that he wasn’t and finally- finally! Stepped through an exit trudasurry. He was back- in The Big World! No, no- on Earth! That should have been it. Nathanael needed it to be it. When Alice and Dorothy and Wirt came home, that had been it for them! Their stories had been over! They had won!

But Nathanael knew his story wasn’t over. He was on Earth, but he couldn’t go home.

“My Prince? Are you alright?”

Couldn’t he? So what if he was still small, and wooden, and had a face not even the mother of a harelipped pug could love. His home was his home, and it had his family in it. He loved his home, and his town, and he missed his family. Dearly. Even his Mom, who treated his gender like a joke. She also dried blankets and brought them up when the kids were sick, so they got to sleep under something warm. And his father who encouraged him to imagine all kinds of crazy worlds, and his sister who was his nerdiest best friend he had, and his little sister who were also so smart and so adventurous.

“Your Majesty, do you still want a Big World phone? There’s a fleshuman dwelling nearby- I could sneak in and look around for something. Do I have your permission?”

He should be there. He belonged there. And yet, he couldn’t go. It wouldn’t be home. Not now.

What would his mom say if she saw him like this? Would she even recognize him? Or could he even get the words out before she turned him away? Would his dad throw him in the woodchipper? His parents couldn’t even believe he was a boy, so why would they ever believe he was a doll? What about Hilda? She might be convinced but, then what? Would she smuggle him inside? Maybe then he could live in the triplets dollhouse.

“My Prince! Please, say something!”

His future stretched out in front of him and it was bleak. The triplets were seven. Seven. What was life going to be? Would they try to dress him up? Make him date their Barbies? Oh- oh no. Would they grab him around the middle and walk him around on the floor? What if they fought over him? What if his head came off? He didn’t want to be somebody’s toy doll!

So then would Hilda take pity on him? Hide him in her room? She’d make sure he was comfortable and that the twins didn’t get their hands on him and yet- that seemed almost as miserable. It’d be like jail, but with Steven Universe music playing all the time. There would be nothing to do there but wait. Wait for what?

He’d never be able to finish school, or ride Brooke again, or go live in California- or anywhere, for that matter. If what all the dolls told him was true, then he’d never be able to go out at night. Even if his parents did believe he was himself, what would they say? Having a son who was a nutcracker must have been like, wayyy more mortifying than having a daughter who thought she was a boy. It would be easier for Nathanael to make them think he was dead. They would probably rather think he was dead than think of this ugly block of wood as their kid.

“He’s not moving. He’s not moving!”

“Well, he is a doll.”

“Colonel!”

“I’m sorry. Has- has he been touched by sunlight?”

“From where? It’s ten-minutes-past-twelve. There’s is no sun!”

Nathanael stood ramrod straight, not even looking up anymore. His eyes were kind of unfocused anyway. He knew he was dissociating. He also knew that people were talking. He could hear them, but their words didn’t matter. They were people on a show on TV on the other side of the house. They were clearly upset, but, they were in another world, in another time. They weren’t even real.

“Your Steedness, if I may state a hypothesis-”

“Out with it, Chamberlain.”

The Colonel seemed to bite back on the word, but went on, “Is it possible that the stars of the Big World have frozen our beloved Prince?”

“The stars? Colonel, don’t be stuffbrained. The stars have never hurt one of our kind.”

“Yes, but none of our kind have come back from The Darkness at the Edge of the World.”

Nathanael couldn’t go home. He could go home, but he couldn’t go home. But he was loathe to turn around and got back to Jamburg. He had worked hard for this. So hard. He couldn’t just throw it away.

Hussar didn’t say anything, so the Colonel was the next to speak, “He’s like an anglerfish who’s lived so long at the floor of the ocean that he now flinches at any light. I mean, it’s not unthinkable to say that The Darkness has changed him. His hair has absorbed it’s color.”

“But our stars don’t have this effect on him-”

“Our stars are enchanted. They bring souled dolls back from inanimacy- they have something that these stars do not. Perhaps- perhaps they’re the only stars His Majesty can stand under.”

Hussar’s breath was heavy, “It’s a good thing His Majesty hates the Big World so much.”

But, he also couldn’t seem to muster up the will to walk away from this spot- to explore this part of Earth for what it was. He would have been satisfied to stand in this very spot until the sun came out to freeze him in place, officially.

His companions had other thoughts on the matter, however. The Colonel put one brass arm around him and dragged him away from the water bowl. “We’ll get you out of here, Your Majesty,” he whispered, “no one will know about this.”

Nathanael probably should have told The Colonel to leave him alone, but he couldn’t even muster that effort. He didn’t know what The Colonel wanted with him, and he didn’t care. The Colonel somehow pushed him onto Hussar’s lowered back, but not before a deep cooing was heart in the yard.

“An owl!” The Colonel cried.

“We’re safe- I’m dog sized,” Hussar said, “no owl will come near you two with me here.”

The horse stood up, and rocked into the doghouse. The sky was covered up by wooden planks coming together at a point. The Big Dipper was gone. Nathanael should have felt a certain heart tightness to have it taken away. All that was there, instead, hard, dead wood.

And then, snow. Snow overtook him, wrapped him around in its crystalline but not-too-cold embrace. It filled his vision and spun around, confusing him.

Until it cleared, and Nathanael was looking at very different stars. They were familiar, though. Not familiar the way the faces of your family are, but familiar in that way that that some unwanted guy who keeps trying to flirt with you and follows you around campus is familiar. Nathanael picked out the crown and the guillotine before he slipped off Hussar’s much smaller and more furry back.

The Colonel was there to ease his fall. The man was now taller than him, with peachy colored cheeks and a sandy mustache and blue eyes and coat. “Your Majesty, are you alright?”

“I belong here,” Nathanael said, eyes drifting skyward again.

“Indeed, you do!” Hussar said, “For this is the Land of the Dolls, the land you discovered, and conquered!”

Oh, that was funny. Hussar thought he had meant that in a celebratory way. Nathanael had been a nutcracker for a week, but his body had never felt so heavy and wooden.

#real toys #drabble #mairzy writes

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