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wamatechnology · 1 year

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Trends in Mobile App Development to Watch in 2023 and 2024

The market for a mobile app development company in USA & India constantly changing. Mobile app trends are directly influenced by customer desires, technological developments, and a broad range of other variables.

Keeping up with current trends is undoubtedly the most important factor in becoming successful in this field. I frequently look for trends and consult with other tech executives about obtaining an edge as a member of the Forbes Technology Council.

The list that follows is not simply my own view or a guess. I've identified the top app development trends that will rule in 2023 using fact-based research.

1. Integration of Internet of Things (IoT) apps

The idea of the IoT is familiar. Yet, the increased use of mobile devices across a wide range of industries and product categories has given the Internet of Things what limitless prospects.

People are used to utilizing technology to make their lives better on a daily basis.

The Internet of Things (IoT) refers to the expanding network of gadgets linked to the Internet, providing users convenience and automated control. A prime illustration of the growth of IoT and mobile app development is smart home technologies.

2. Foldable device apps

One of my very first mobile phones was a flip phone, which seems like a lifetime ago now. During the past ten years, mobile phones have unquestionably transformed. The market has been dominated by touch displays with one or no buttons.

Yet in the last several years, foldable technology has started to resurface. Foldable gadgets including the Samsung Galaxy Fold, the Huawei Mate X, and the redesigned Motorola Razr were released in 2019.

Depending on the user's wishes, these cell phones may fold to reduce or increase the screen size. By foldable the gadget, a user may, for instance, make a call while watching a movie on a smaller screen.

3. The 5G Revolution

The introduction of 5G will significantly affect app patterns in 2023. This technology has the potential to transform the way mobile apps are used and produced for developers, resellers, and creators.

Examine the anticipated expansion of 5G smartphone connectivity during the following four years.

Mobile app functionality will finally improve with the adoption of 5G. As a result, developers will be able to update apps with new features without having an adverse impact on the app's functionality.

While testing and developing an app, developers and mobile app resellers should also employ 5G network speed.

4. Wearable device development

Wearable technology has also been on the rise for some time. This isn't always a market innovation. Fitness bands, trackers, and smartwatches have been around for a while.

Yet the potential of wearable technology hasn't yet been fully realized.

For instance, during the 2019 WWDC, Apple made a significant announcement on wearables and app integration. The Apple App Store is now available for Apple Watch thanks to the latest watchOS 6. These gadgets are getting their own independent apps made for them. The possibilities this has given content producers and app vendors is huge.

More mobile apps will be developed in 2023 with wearables in mind. Tens of thousands of apps will be available for users to download just from their wrist.

5. Beacon Technology

A variety of sectors have embraced beacon technology. Beacons may enhance the usefulness of almost any mobile app, from retail to healthcare and hospitality.

Back in 2013, the first mobile app beacons were created. However, this technology has undergone tremendous advances in recent years.

This is an illustration of how mobile applications and beacons interact. Consider that you create applications for merchants as mobile app resellers. Your clients can install beacons in their stores that connect with a user’s smartphone via Bluetooth if the app is on their device. When a user passes by a beacon, they can be instantly notified about a sale or special on products in that store.

6. Mobile Business

Without discussing mobile commerce, my list of 2023 app trends would be incomplete. The years 2021, 2022, and 2023 will all be dominated by this trend.

Everyone appears to be using mobile apps to boost income. There is a lot of money to be earned in this industry, from major merchants to independent content producers and personal branding.

One of the top features that mobile app resellers highlight for clients during client pitches is mobile e-commerce capabilities. Every day, it seems, a new company releases an app to increase sales.

Conclusion

The creation of mobile apps is evolving continually. You won't be able to maintain competition if you continue to develop apps utilizing knowledge from two or three years ago. Industry trends for mobile apps can make or break your project's success.

You might regard the mobile app trends for 2023 as your holy book if you're a reseller or a mobile app development firm. You can have an advantage in your field by doing this. Your team's mobile app developers must all be aware of current developments in mobile app development and incorporate them into their work.

Every trend does not always need to be incorporated into every app you create. Yet, in order to be able to respond to market changes, you must have a general awareness of them.

Every trend does not always need to be incorporated into every app you create. Yet in order to make the necessary adjustments, you must have a broad awareness of how the market is changing.

One of the best iOS app development companies in the USA, Wama offers customers iOS apps that are robust, easy to use, fluid, and secure. Wama maintains its position at the cutting edge of technology by utilizing its access to the most recent trends and its expert experience and in-depth subject knowledge in iOS app development to create distinctive and personalized iOS apps with user-friendly features and potent functionality.

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jaafarb · 1 year

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How are you always positive?

One day, during a busy working week, filled with overlapping deadlines, presentations, and meetings, I was going with my manager to lunch in the company’s canteen. He asked me the regular “how are you doing?” question, I looked at him with a smile and in a joyful tone I answered back “All is good, the day is halfway through, and we are one day closer to the weekend!”. He looked at me in wonder and asked: “How are you always positive? Even in busy times like this”.

To be honest, I didn’t know what to answer right away, as I wasn’t expecting such question. After couple of seconds and a quick-thinking process, I answered with a simple answer, “I’m positive, because I woke up in the morning, most importantly healthy, with a roof on top of my head, I have a stable job that I love, friends and family that cares about me”. I told him that the key to my positivity is that I’m grateful for what I have, yes, I might not be the richest man in the world, I’m still living lonely looking for a life partner, but I know that those things eventually will come one way or another — I have to work for them of course, and I am.

I’ve always found that being grateful to what I have has helped me many times when I was feeling down or upset for any reason. I would say to myself, “look at what you have”, “you didn’t have that last year”, “some people wish they have a stable job like you”, “what is your problems compared to others?”. This helped me in understanding that those things didn’t come easy, and an effort was put to have and maintain them, therefore, what I’m looking for will come eventually like those things, but I will have to roll-up my sleeves and work towards achieving those goals. So always be grateful for what you have, as you never know what the future hides, and someday you might wake up losing something you took all the time for granted, and you will never know the value of it until it is gone.

But my manager’s question kept echoing in the back of my head, and I started thinking again, again, and again, “Why am I always positive?”, I dug deeper and deeper, and came to another conclusion to the main reason of my happiness and positivity, and I found another answer which was: Values.

We currently live in a fast-paced world, everything is moving quickly, nothing seems stable, a lot of variables flying around us. From a personal standpoint, I believe that internet and social media contributed a lot in the creation of those variables, the standards that such platforms create makes people nervous and anxious all the time to meet them. Likes and followers are the new KPI to measure how successful a person is, we are always fascinated by stuff people post online, cars, houses, awards, girlfriends, etc. And we keep comparing ourselves to them, forgetting that everyone of us is different, and we have different values and views on life, and sometimes such appearances can just be a façade, therefore what we are comparing ourselves with are false unachievable standard.

For young ladies and gentlemen who are starting their adult lives and career paths, this can be a dangerous area. They are exposed to a lot of content on social media, bloggers, artists, live streamers, and famous influencers. Who got the money and fame from doing something simple, and for those guys I say “good job” as they were smart enough to take the opportunity and benefit from it, this is actually smart. But the question is “does it work for everybody?” the answer is no. But this is the issue, in pursuit of such fame and material gains, it can be really easy to deviate from values and beliefs, and with no clear goals and ideas in life it will eventually result in a shallow-empty person, who is willing to do anything, literally anything in pursuit of views and likes, regardless of if it was moral, acceptable, or even decent.

Some might argue that this is okay, failure and success are parts of life, how are you expected to learn if you don’t fail multiple times? and I agree with that, I’ve failed and got rejected a lot in my past experiences, but I had my values and internal belief system to cushion the fall. A person whose only value is coming from material gains or possessions, status, and all the “sparkly stuff”, will fall a lot harder once all of those things are gone, that sometimes explain why people tend to commit suicide once they lose all their money or possessions, but that is a different story. My point is, a person who doesn’t have strong values and beliefs will transform to a resentful, angry person, who blames the world for his bad luck. He or she will try some “band-aid” solutions, but I doubt it will be able to fix it, it will rather take him or her to a deeper pit of darkness.

What I want to say is, as you are now getting older and entering adulthood, start identifying your internal values, those that will help you navigate through life like a compass, with all its surprises, problems, issues, and even hard challenges. Life is not always easy, and what you have today can be gone tomorrow, be grateful for what you have, and build your life on a strong foundation of values that you believe in, that will identify you going further, and cushion the fall once you face a hardship. Again, life is not always easy, we fall more than one time, some people manage to get up, and others just give up, the cane that will help you to get up is your values and beliefs, set them early on, use them to navigate, and if you see that they are not taking you anywhere, just sit down, and think again, replace the old ones with new ones, by time you will learn new stuff, that will contribute to what you have already learned. By that you will mature, and become a better person, and if you have chosen the right values, the material gains, money and all of that will come eventually.

#positive words #positivevibes #happiness #values #thoughts #lifelessons #positivethinking

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josephleine · 2 years

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Things to Consider Before looking for Singapore Licensed Moneylender for Renovation Loan

It's time for the next move now that you've picked up the keys to your new house and looked through innumerable websites for decorating ideas. Imagine coming home from a long day at work to a house that is decorated and furnished to your tastes. That's exciting, isn't it?

That is, until you realize how much money it will cost to build your ideal home. If you haven't been actively saving money for your home improvement, you might not have enough cash on hand to pay the expenses that arise. So what would you be able to do in this circumstance? A personal loan, then, could be useful for the refurbishment. So when should a Singaporean choose a Singapore Licensed Moneylender for Renovation Loan?

What Is the Price Of Home Renovation In Singapore?

An HDB flat with four rooms often requires renovations that cost between $50,000 and $60,000.

The final cost of renovations is hard to estimate since there are so many variables at play. Renovation costs for a four-room HDB apartment might range from $4,888 to $110,000 depending on the criteria listed below. Which type of residence do you prefer—an HDB flat, an EC/condo, or a landed house? Renovating a resale apartment may cost up to $67,000, which is often more expensive.

· Age and state of the house: An older property would require far less remodelling work than a newer one.

· How much remodelling you want: Are you OK with the way the house is right now, or would you rather rip it all down and start over?

· Material types: Be prepared to spend extra if you desire flooring made of granite or marble since you have expensive taste.

· The interior design company you choose: Naturally, rates are variable amongst companies. Do your homework in advance, please!

Renovation loans are designed exclusively to finance your home improvements. Personal loans, on the other hand, are set sums of money that you can borrow for any purpose. Are you curious to learn more? Find out more about the additional distinctions between a personal loan and a a Singapore Licensed Moneylender for Renovation Loan here. So, is it a smart idea to take out a personal loan to pay for the restoration of your dream home in Singapore?

Yes, under certain circumstances, personal loans can aid in financing your home improvements.

In the following scenarios, personal loans in Singapore may be preferable to renovation loans:

When You Need to Perform Significant Remodeling That Isn't Just Related To Renovation-Related Works

A personal loan can be a better choice if you wish to modify your home beyond what is often associated with renovations.

A loan for renovations may only be utilized for the following projects:

· wiring and electrical work

· Integrated cabinets

· paintings and interior design projects (e.g. wallpaper)

· structural changes

· External improvements made to the home's grounds

· Tilework and flooring

· basic fixtures for bathrooms

More than S$30,000 is required to pay for your renovation work.

The following query you'd likely ask is, "Can I borrow more from a personal loan or a remodelling loan?"

In Singapore, remodelling loans often have a lower ceiling than personal loans. The maximum loan amount for renovations in Singapore is S$30,000, or six times your monthly salary, whichever is less. Accordingly, even if you can afford to bring out the finest Singapore Licensed Moneylender for Renovation Loan. With a substantial loan amount, it could not fully cover the cost of the remodeling.

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elia-de-silentio · 3 years

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Recap on the Book (+ a theory on Atsushi)

The Book is an element that received little attention compared to the character drama in Bungo Stray Dogs, but it's actually the element instigating it, as the thing almost everyone desires. This time, I want to make a recap on it, and take a look on an interesting theory regarding the connection between it and Atsushi.

The first one to mention it is Fitzgerald. He describes it as pretty much Aladdin's lamp from the original fairy tale: something to make all wishes come true, in his case the resurrection of his daughter. Appearently, Atsushi is the 'guidepost' to the Book, and that's why there was such an hefty bounty on him at the start of the series. Whatever that means, we are all still waiting to know.

It also mentions that it is 'impervious to fire and all abilities'.

But Fitzgerald was in cahoots with two other amiable fellows who were after the same thing: Fyodor Dostoevsky and Agatha Christie. While the latter has not appeared since except for Dead Apple, the former has given us new infos on the prized Book.

He too wants to use the Book, but in his case, the goal is a little more lofty: he wants to recreate the world, one without the 'sin' of ability users. So, the Book's powers aren't limited to just bring back the dead, they really have a reality-altering scale.

(translation by @akai-koutei)

At the start of the Decay of Angels arc, Chief Taneda gives Ranpo a few more informations about our object of interest.

It is in the hands of the government, and it has been studied, via a single page extracted from it, that holds the same power as the whole Book (like a Death Note).

Moreover, we find the first limitation to the power: 'the written content must conform to the rules of karma'. In other words - and we're going deliciously meta here - it must have narrative consistency, unlike the 'real world' in which accidents of any kind and without any meaning happen all the time. Of course it does! If a book had inconsistent plot development and characterization, wouldn't we all be complaining about bad writing?

Lastly, it's suggested that it was created by an ability user, which set its rules to prevent excessive and senseless destruction.

This rule begs the question - do Fitzgerald or Fyodor know about it? 'A girl suddenly springs back to life' doesn't have much narrative consistence, and neither 'all Ability users suddenly vanish'. A way to work around this limit would be rewrite history itself: Fitzgerald's daughter never died/Abilities never existed in the first place. It would erase the timeline in which these events would be impossible, and create another in which they have consistency.

This would also be the reason for the initial plan of the Decay of Angels, using the page to depict the ADA as terrorists ... but before that, they had to 'create' their crimes by killing relevant people that had spoken against the Agency, giving them plausible actions and motives.

It also fits with the Sky Casino: a building that was woven back in time with a complete backstory, instead of just popping out from nothingness. Still, this also show us that there's no need for the details to be absolutely accurate: Dazai managed to figure out that the building had been written from the Book because the 'top secret' details of its creation didn't exist in the first place. Still, these details are ones that do not 'disturb' the flow of a story: it's a freaking flying casino, who is going to think about the funds? Just enjoy the story!

But then we find an outstanding exception: Sigma. A whole human being brought into existence by the Book, without any past that he can remember. He appeared three years ago, in a desert, with only the clothes on his back and a train ticket. No backstory from him.

How was this possible? It's not very narratively coherent, a person popping into existence.

Well, we must consider that we know only what Fyodor says about it. He might be withholding information from Dazai and the audience, or even lying to confuse his opponent; or maybe he doesn't know the answer himself. He recruited Sigma, likely after hearing about his Ability, but did not create him personally.

Maybe Sigma's 'parent' actually did have a backstory and purpose planned for his 'character', but for some reason, they weren't received. Or maybe they knew some trick to circumvent the limitations of the Book. Maybe the government was experimenting with it, and for some reason someone was like 'hey, let's see if we can make a person pop out in the desert, without anyone being around to check if it happens or take care of the eventual human being!'.

Yeah ... this part is rather confusing. I look forward to an explaination on Sigma's origins.

The last time that the rules of the Book are mentioned, is to show us a way to circumvent them. Fyodor had written that 'no police officer will believe the Agency's innocence' ... but he didn't factor Tachihara in. As a member of the Hunting Dogs, he is a police officer; but during his infiltration of the Mafia, he acquired this second identity. He is an officer, and at the same time, he is not. As soon as he inquires other mafiosi on the matter, he becomes clear to him the ADA's guiltlessness, in which he couldn't believe when talking with the othe Hunting Dogs.

And Ranpo in later chapters used a similar strategy, bringing his proofs to a group of journalists to make the masses think; and in turn, this divided the police between those who still obeyed the rule and those who adopted a new perspective.

The human ability to put ourselves in other points of view is the uncontrollable variable that can break the Book's powers.

(By the way, I wonder if that was actually Fyodor's plan. He seems too smart and well-informed to not take this possibility into consideration. Considering that the clashes among the police resulted in riots and chaos; and he commented earlier, talking to himself, that he didn't create the 'perfect' plan his colleagues required because that would be boring ... maybe this is his own plan to undermine Fukuchi's power and get him out of his way, to be the one who will actually puts his hands on the Book?)

After that, an interesting comment was made: the Decay of Angels planned to use the Book 'the next full moon'. It's uncertain if it's because it can only be used in this time frame, or if it can be just be found (in both cases, the Book has another rule that limits its use)

The last time any piece of the Book made an appearence, it was with Fukuchi dangling the famous page, and the possibility of rewriting it, in front of Atsushi and Akutagawa; but that was also the first sound defeat for the Shin Soukoku. Fukuchi still has the page, and now our hopes reside in Tachihara, currently about to face him.

Then, there is supplementary material: the BEAST AU. I haven't read the light novel or manga, so any information I can provide is from the wiki and @looking-for-stray-dogs 's summary.

In this AU, Dazai has managed to obtain the Book, but thanks to his Ability, he retains his memories even in different universes. But didn't Fitzgerald say that the Book is immune to all Abilities? Or only those which try to destroy it?

Still, Dazai used the Book to create his own pet universe - kind of like Fyodor wants to do, but with a much more personal goal: creating a universe in which Odasaku lives. This appearently can happen only if he never becomes Dazai's friend.

However, the definition of 'make what is written in it into reality' is not exact: it is more like a 'container' for every possible universe in existence, and what is written in the pages will not 'rewrite reality', but 'call forth the universe in which it happens'.

Think of it like Michelangelo's ideas about sculpting: the statue is already in the block of stone, the artist merely brings it out.

Beast!Dazai then mentions another clause: if three or more people know the truth about a world created by the Book, the stability of said world gets compromised, and it gets higher possibilities of ceasing to exist. Which is pretty much what is happening in the canon manga.

And this is all we know insofar. Is it enough to make theories? Of course! Anything is enough to make theories!

One I've seen circulating, and that I really like, is 'Atsushi is a creation of the Book'.

Supporting it:

• Atsushi is considered so valuable because he is a 'guidepost' to the Book; it would actually make sense that someone created by the Book mantained some connection to it.

Contradicting it:

• There already is someone who was for sure created by the Book: Sigma. And he is already in the Decay of Angels: if all sentient beings created by the Book mantained a connection to it, wouldn't that mean that they don't need Atsushi? Instead, not only they are still looking for tiger boy, but Sigma needed to threaten and use his Ability on Taneda to find out just where one page was.

Solution: maybe Atsushi was specifically written to be a 'tracker' for the Book, while Sigma wasn't?

Supporting it:

• Atsushi doesn't have any certified past, someone threw him on the streets without giving him anything that could lead back to a birth family. And appearently, nobody noticed someone had a suddenly missing child, or tried to investigate on the abandonment of a toddler.

Contradicting it:

• Who the hell creates a supernatural being that can lead to an even more supernatural book and then throws him in the trash?!

Solution: who the hell creates a supernatural being who can exchange informations and throws him in the desert?! Whatever the keeper of the Book is on, it can't be legal, or even well-cut for the matter.

More seriously, we are told that Atsushi's parents abandoned him, but it was the Headmaster that said it, and he's not the most reliable guy around. Atsushi not only does not have any proof for that, but he also has a faulty memory due to trauma: if he forgot Shibusawa, what else could he have forgotten?

Supporting it:

• The Book can appearently be used - or maybe retrieved, the phrasing is a bit ambiguous on that - under the full moon. Atsushi's Ability is called 'Beast Beneath the Moonlight', and he himself is called a 'weretiger', derivated from 'werewolf', a creature that has a traditional connection to the full moon.

Contradicting it:

• It might be a coincidence?

Supporting it:

• Shibusawa took a very specific interest in him, even going to the point of torturing him to make the 'Beast under the Moonlight' manifest

Contradicting it:

• Shibusawa was obsessed in finding the 'ultimate ability'. The fact that appearently Atsushi has it does not mean that it is related to the Book, or even that it is an objective statement.

Supporting it:

• Fyodor took a very specific interest in him. He was the one who directed Shibusawa to him, as far as six years ago, when Atsushi likely hadn't manifested his Ability. So, how did this rat, who is very interested in the Book and probably spent a lot of time finding ways to get it, know about him?

Contradicting it:

• Dazai appearently knows nothing about it. Considering how smart and careful he is, it would be expected that he did his research on why everyone was so fixated on the Agency's newest recruit. Instead, he looked genuinely shocked when he's told about Sigma's birth. So, whatever Atsushi's connection to the Book is, it's not of that kind. Moreover, Fyodor hasn't had a single interaction with Atsushi insofar. Wouldn't be more logical trying to somehow secure his willing cooperation if he needs it? From his side, Atsushi doesn't seem to know how he looks like (when he thinks about him, the face is always obscured), nor he acts like he vaguely recognize the name before - something that instead happened with Shibusawa

Possible solution: maybe Dazai isn't God the All-Knowing for once in this manga?! Or maybe he was lying to keep a margin of advantage. And Fyodor rarely acts in a very direct way, usually putting other people and convoluted plans between himself and anyone who could be involved. Sending Shibusawa to Atsushi might have been such a case.

Contradicting it:

• Fukuchi has no problem attacking Atsushi. The whole Decay of Angels's plan put the life of Tiger Boy in danger multiple times. An odd thing to do, if they goal is something that can be reached only through him.

Possible solution: they know he has regenerative abilities on a nearly Koro-sensei level? I admit, I'm not very sure on this point.

All in all, I think it's a very plausible theory. And do we want to talk about the drama character development it would bring about? Atsushi already questions his right to live, how would knowing that he had been created for some purpose decided by someone else impact his worldview?

In conclusion, I think that the Book is a very interesting, mysterious element, and I really look forward to see if it will be used, by whom, and why Atsushi seems so connected to it.

Thanks to anyone who bothered to read my ramblings!

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd the book #bsd atsushi #bsd sigma #bsd tachihara #bsd fyodor #bsd fitzgerald #bsd shibusawa #bsd meta #bsd theories #bsd spoilers #elia's recaps

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brawltogethernow · 4 years

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So, I don't think I've ever asked you this... what IS the whole point of the Spider-Sense? It really seems like something that only exists for writers to ignore or work around when they want to inject Legit Tension into a story.

I’ve thought about this power so much, but never with an eye to defend its right to exist, so I needed to think about this. The results could be more concise.

Ironically, given the question, I have to say its main purpose is to ramp up tension. But it’s also a highly variable multitool that a skilled creative team can use for...pretty much anything. It does everything the writer wants it to, while for its wielder always falls just short of doing enough.

I went looking through my photos for a really generic, classic-looking example to use as an image to head this topic, but then I ran into the time Peter absolutely did not reimburse this man for his stolen McDonald’s, so have that instead.

A Scare Chord, But You Can Draw It

That one post that says the spider-sense is just super-anxiety isn’t, like, wrong. It’s a very anxious, dramatic storytelling tool originally designed for a very anxious, dramatic protagonist. I find it speaks to the overall tone of the franchise that some characters are functionally psychics, but with a psychic ability that only points out problems.

Spidey sense pinging? There’s danger, be stressed! Broken? Now the lead won’t even KNOW when there’s a problem, scary! Single character is immune to it? That’s an invisible knife in the dark oh my god what the fuck what the fU--

Like its counterpart in garden variety anxiety, the only time the spider-sense reduces tension is in the middle of a crisis. But in the wish fulfillmenty way that you want in an adventure story to justify exaggerated action sequences, the same way enhanced strength or durability does. Also like those, it would theoretically make someone much safer to have it, but it exists in the story to let your character navigate into and weather more dangerous situations.

For its basic role in a story, a danger sense is a snappy way to rile up both the reader and the protagonist that doesn’t offer much information beyond that it’s time to sit smart because shit is about to go down.

Spidey comic canon is all over the board in quality and genre, and it started needing to subvert its formulas before the creators got a handle on what those formulas even were, and basically no one has read anything approaching most of it at this point, so for consistent examples of a really bare bones use of this power in storytelling, I’d point to the property that’s done the best job yet of boiling down the mechanics of Spider-Man to their absolute most basic essentials for adaptation to a compelling monster of the week TV series.

Or as you probably know it, Danny Phantom. DON’T BOO, I’M RIGHT.

DP is Spider-Man with about 2/3 of the serial numbers filed off and no death (ironically), and Danny’s ghost sense is the most proof in the formula example of what the spidey sense is for: It’s a big sign held up for the viewer that says, “Something is wrong! Pay attention!” Effectively a visual scare chord. It’s about That Drama. And it works, which won it a consistent place in the show’s formula. We’re talking several times an episode here.

So why does it work?

It’s a little counterintuitive, but it’s strong storytelling to tell your audience that something bad is going to happen before it does. A vague, punchy spoiler transforms the ignorant calm before a conflict into a tense moment of anticipation. ...And it makes sure people don’t fail to absorb the beginning of said conflict because they weren’t prepared to shift gears when the scene did. Shock is a valuable tool, too, but treating it like a staple is how you burn out your audience instead of keeping them engaged. Not to go after an easy target, but you need to know how to manage your audience’s alarm if you don’t want to end up like Game of Thrones.

The limits of the spider-sense also keep you on your toes when handled by a smart writer. It tells Peter (everyone’s is a little different, so I’m going to cite the og) about threats to his person, but it doesn’t elaborate with any details when it’s not already obvious why, what kind, and from what. And it doesn’t warn him about anything else-- Which is a pretty critical gap when you zoom out and look at his hero career’s successes and failures and conclude that it’s definitely why he’s lived as long as he has acting the way he does, but was useless as he failed to save a string of people he’d have much rather had live on than him.

(Any long-running superhero mythos has these incidents, but with Peter they’re important to the core themes.)

And since this power is by plot for plot (or because it’s roughly agreed it only really blares about threats that check at least two boxes of being major, immediate, or physical), it always kicks in enough to register when the danger is bearing down...when it’s too late to actually do anything about it if “anything” is a more complex action than “dodge”.

Really? Not until the elevator doors started to open?

That Distinctive, Crunchy Spider Flavor

The spider-sense and its little pen squiggles go hand in hand with wallcrawling (and its unique and instantly identifiable associated body language) to make the Spider-Person powerset enduringly iconic and elevate characters with it from being generic mid-level super-bricks. Visually, but also in how it shapes the story.

I said it can share a narrative role with super strength. But when you end a fight and go home, super strength continues to make your character feel powerful, probably safer than they’d be otherwise, maybe dangerous.

The spider-sense just keeps blaring, “Something’s wrong! Something’s wrong! God, why aren’t you doing something about this!?”

Pretty morose thing to live with, for a safety net! Kind of a double edged sword you have there! Could be constantly being hyperattuned to problems would prime you for a negative outlook on life. Kind of seems like a power that would make it impossible for a moral person to take a day off, leading them into a beleaguered and resentful yet dutiful attitude about the whole superhero gig! Might build up to some of the core traits of this mythos, maybe! Might lead to a lot of fifteen minute retirement stories, or something. Might even be a built in ‘great responsibility’ alarm that gets you a main character who as a rule is not going to stop fighting until he physically cannot fight anymore.

Certainly not apropos of anything, just throwing this short lived barely-a-joke tagline up for fun.

One of my personal favorite things about stories with superpowers is keeping in mind how they cause the people who have them to act in unusual ways outside of fights, so when you tell me that these people have an entire extra sense that tells them when the gas in their house is leaking through a barely useful hot/cold warning system that never turns off, I’m like, eyes emojis, popcorn out, notebook open, listening intently, spectacles on, the whole deal.

It also contributes to Peter Parker’s personality in a way I really enjoy: It allows him to act like an irrational maniac. When you know exactly when a situation becomes dangerous and how much, normal levels of caution go out the window and absolutely nothing you do makes sense from an exterior standpoint anymore. That’s the good shit. I would like to see more exploration of how the non-Parker characters experiencing the world in this incredibly altered way bounce in response.

It’s also one of many tools in this franchise hauling the reader into relating more closely with the main character. The backbone of classic Spidey is probably being in on secrets only Peter and the reader know which completely reframe how one views the situation on the page. It’s just a big irony mine for the whole first decade. A convenient way to inform the reader and the lead that something is bad news that’s not perceivable to any other characters is youth-with-a-big-exciting-secret catnip.

Another point for tension, there, in that being aware of danger is not synonymous with being able to act on it. If there’s no visible reason for you to be acting strange, well...you’re just going to have to sit tight and sweat, aren’t you? Some gratuitous head wiggles never hurt when setting up that type of conflict.

Have I mentioned that they look cool? Simultaneously punchy and distinctive, with a respectable amount of leeway for artists to get creative with and still coming up with something easily recognizable? And pretty easy to intuit the meaning of even without the long-winded explanations common in the days when people wrote comics with the intent that someone could come in cold on any random issue and follow along okay, I think, although the mechanic has been deeply ingrained in popular culture for so long that I can’t really say for sure.

It was also useful back in the day when no artists drew the eyes on the Spider-Man mask as emoting and were conveying the lead’s expressions entirely through body language and panel composition. If you wiggle enough squiggles, you don’t need eyebrows.

Take This Handwave and Never Ask Me a Logistical Question Again

This ability patches plot holes faster than people can pick them open AND it can act as an excuse to get any plot rolling you can think of if paired with one meddling protagonist who doesn’t know how to mind their own business. Buy it now for only $19.99 (in four installments; that’s four installments of $19.99).

Why can a teenager win a six on one fight against other superhumans? Well, the spider-sense is the ultimate edge in combat, duh.

Why can Peter websling? Why doesn’t everyone websling? Well, the spider-sense is keeping him from eating flagpole when he violently flings himself across New York in a way neither man nor spider was ever meant to move.

How are we supposed to get him involved with the plot this week???? Well, that crate FELT dangerous, so he’s going to investigate it. Oh, dip, it was full of guns and radioactive snakes! Probably shouldn’t have opened that!

Yeah, okay, but why isn’t it fixing everything, then? Isn’t it supposed to be why Peter has never accidentally unmasked in front of somebody? ('Nother entry for this section, take a shot.) That’s crazy sensitive! How does he still have any problems!? Is everything bad that’s ever happened to characters with this powerset bad writing!? --Listen, I think as people with uncanny senses that can tell us whether we are in danger with accuracy that varies from incredible to approximate (I am talking about the five senses that most people have), we should all know better than to underestimate our ability to tune them out or interpret them wrong and fuck ourselves up anyway. I honestly find this part completely realistic.

*SLAPS ROOF OF SPIDER-SENSE* YOU CAN FIT SO MANY STORIES IN THIS THING

The spider-sense is a clean branch into...whatever. There is the exact right balance of structure and wishy-washiness to build off of. A sample selection of whatevers that have been built:

It’s sci-fi and spy gadgets when Peter builds technology that can interface with it.

It’s quasi-mystical when Kaine and Annie-May get stronger versions of it that give them literal psychic visions, or when you want to get mythological and start talking about all the spider-characters being part of a grand web of fate.

Kaine loses his and it becomes symbolic of a future newly unbound by constraints, entangled thematically with the improved physical health he picked up at the same time -- a loss presented as a gain.

Peter loses his and almost dies 782 times in one afternoon because that didn’t make the people he provoked when he had it stop trying to kill him, and also because he isn’t about to start “””taking the subway’’””’ “‘’“”to work”””’’” like some kind of loser who doesn’t get a heads up when he’s about to hit a pigeon at 50mph.

Peter’s starts tuning into his wife’s anxiety and it’s a tool in a relationship study.

It starts pinging whenever Peter’s near his boss who’s secretly been replaced by a shapeshifter and he IGNORES IT because his boss is enough of an asshole that that doesn’t strike him as weird; now it’s a comedy/irony tool.

Into the Spider-Verse made it this beautiful poetic thing connecting all the spider-heroes in the multiverse and stacked up a story on it about instant connection, loss, and incredibly unlikely strangers becoming a found family. It was also aesthetic as FUCK. Remember the scene where Miles just hears barely intelligible whispering that’s all lines people say later in the film and then his own voice very clearly says “look out” and then the room explodes?? Fuck!!!!

Venom becomes immune to it after hitchhiking to Earth in Peter’s bone juice and it makes him a unique threat while telling a more-homoerotic-than-I-assume-was-originally-intended story about violation and how close relationships can be dangerous when they go sour.

It doesn’t work on people you trust for maximum soap opera energy. Love the innate tragedy of this feature coming up.

IN CONCLUSION I don’t have much patience for writers who don’t take advantage of it, never mind feel they need to write around it.

#spiderman #peter parker #spiderverse #spidey #marvel #danny phantom #one day you'll see what i'm doing with it in the project i'm collabing on w/ my brother and then you'll all be sorry and hopefully impresse #mirrorfalls #asks answered #essays

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hrtiu · 3 years

Text

@flybynite19 come get your man.

Brit’ni haunted the long aisles of the Coruscant Public Convention Halls, her eyes darting from stall to stall. This was the biggest Galaxy of Heroes miniature convention in the Republic, and if she didn’t find it here, she wouldn’t find it anywhere. Finally, in a sketchy-looking booth in one of the auxiliary wings, she saw it.

It was perfect. A mint-condition figure with articulated arms, first-edition armor, and no helmet. It was almost impossible to find a figure of Captain Tabbard without a helmet, and Brit’ni couldn’t wait to get her hands on it.

She reached out. “How much for-?”

Another hand grabbed the package just before her, blocking her fingers from her prize.

“What’s the price?” the interloper asked.

Brit’ni turned on her rival, ready to throw hands if necessary. “Excuse me! I was here first!”

A Human man blinked back at her from behind huge, yellow-tinted goggles. “As you can see, my hand reached the package first. I believe that means I have dibs.”

“Look, buddy. Just because you have slightly faster twitch reflexes than me doesn’t mean you get this figure. I’ve been looking for it for forever and I saw it first. Run along.” She tightened her grip around his bony fingers and shot him a death glare, then flicked her gaze to the shopkeeper.

The Ithorian man backed away slowly and raised his hands, his translator sputtering out his apologies. “The price is 70 credits. Whoever can pay gets it. Don’t drag me into this.”

“Please let go of my purchase,” the Human in the goggles said. “I don’t have time for this.”

“I’m not letting go until Captain Tabbard is in my bag. Got it, Goggles?”

He wrinkled his nose and shook his head disapprovingly. “This stalemate is productive to neither of us. I propose a compromise.”

“What, you get the head, I get the body? No way.”

“As humorous as that would be, I was thinking something more mutually beneficial. You seem to be an avid collector, and I have several pieces that might be of interest to you.”

Brit’ni leaned closer to him, but didn’t loosen her grip on the figure. “Something more interesting than a first-edition Captain Tabbard? I don’t think so.”

“If you’re a fan of Captain Tabbard, I’d imagine you also enjoy the Chandrilan Guard. But there aren’t any figures for the standard Chandrilan Guard armor. I happen to have a custom pattern made for their armor. I’d be willing to share as many molds as you’d like if you are interested in creating the whole set.”

Brit’ni salivated at the thought. A whole set of custom CG figures? She’d been doing her best to make her own over the years, but with new resources… She’d be unstoppable.

“You have my attention…”

“We split the cost, 50/50. We store the figure in a locker at Coruscant Central. Then we meet up next week. I show you the goods and we decide on the deal. If you don’t want my customs, you take the figure and we go our separate ways. If you do, we make the trade.”

Brit’ni narrowed her eyes at him. “It didn’t take you very long to come up with this plan.”

He shrugged. “I’m smart.”

Brit’ni leaned closer to him, staring him right in those yellow-tinted eyes. She wasn’t in the habit of trusting strangers on a planet like Coruscant—especially not lately. But she really wanted those customs.

“Deal.”

---

“Your name is Tech?” Brit’ni asked doubtfully as they walked down to the magtrain platform together.

“That’s what I just said.”

“Ok, sure,” Brit’ni said. What was it to her if he gave her a fake name? They didn’t need to be best buddies or anything.

“We live in a galaxy of billions of planets, populated by thousands of unique species, each with their own distinctive regional subcultures. I don’t see why ‘Tech’ should be a particularly unusual name, considering.”

Brit’ni laughed and shook her head. “Ok, now I get where you got your name.”

They swiped their muni chits and stepped onto the waiting magtrain, finding a spot near the back where they could both comfortably hold to the hand rails. It was a weekend so the train wasn’t as crowded as it would be during rush hour, but Brit’ni still barely felt like she had room to breathe. Just a few inches from her, Tech’s eyes darted back and forth across the magtrain car and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“New to Coruscant?” she asked.

He looked up in surprise, like he’d forgotten she was there. “...Yes.” His expression was oddly guarded, and Brit’ni raised her hands reassuringly.

“You just look like I did when I was still new to the magtrains. Eventually you’ll get used to the close quarters.”

His shoulders relaxed and he nodded. “So many variables, with all these people around. Too many unknowns for my taste. And sentient life is so… unpredictable.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’d put it quite like that but I think I get you. There’s a reason we collect little plastoid figures, right?”

A single eyebrow peaked out above Tech’s goggles and he tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought about it like that before, but perhaps you are right.”

The magtrain shuddered as it rounded a turn on the old track, and Brit’ni clutched her precious Captain Tabbard tighter to herself.

Why so much interest in Captain Tabbard?” Tech asked. “Some figures are rare because of their popularity, but he was simply rarely produced due to lack of interest.”

Brit’ni bristled like he was insulting her toddling infant. “He’s the best character!”

“I understood that most fans of the serials disliked him because of his treachery.”

“Treachery?” she scoffed. “That’s not treachery. He had good reason to be loyal to both the Old Republic and Tiberian Empire. It was his conflict that made him interesting. And in the end he chose what was right. That’s what makes a good character. Conflict. Struggle. Then overcoming in the end.”

“I suppose.”

“What about you, then? Who’s your favorite character?”

“In Galaxy of Heroes? I don’t know—never seen it.”

Brit’ni’s jaw dropped. “Then why were you ready to fight me over this figure?”

He shrugged. “I’m a completionist. This is the last one I need to complete the set. You know they’re more valuable together, right?”

She just stared at him. Her eyes trailed down to his booted feet, up his khaki slacks, past his drab, navy-colored tunic, and back to those big, yellow-tinted eyes. Who was this guy?

“Deal’s off,” she said.

“What?”

“I can’t give Captain Tabbard to… to someone who won’t appreciate him.”

“I appreciate him! He’s a first edition, mint-condition, ultra-rare piece that will complete my collection! How much more appreciation can you get than that?”

“No.” Brit’ni shook her head. “You’re not worthy.”

Tech pursed his lips and huffed through his nose.”Well I still paid for half of that figure, so what do you suggest we do? Cut it in half?”

She recoiled in horror. “No! I’ll pay you the 35 credits and I take the figure. It’s as simple as that.”

“That’s unacceptable. You have to at least give me a chance to meet your criteria.”

“How could you possibly do that?”

“By watching Galaxy of Heroes. I watch it, I tell you my favorite character, I show my appreciation for Captain Tabbard.”

“Or I could just take Captain Tabbard home now, and have a figure of my very favorite character to display proudly on my shelf.”

The magtrain slowed and a cheery voice emanated from the intercom. “Coruscant Central.”

“We’re at the station,” Tech said. “I suggest you get off, because I assure you my Chandrilan Guard figures are very good.”

He stepped off the train and Brit’ni bit her lip, her grip tightening on the handlebar as she watched. “Ah, sithspit,” she cursed under her breath, and hopped off the train just as the doors closed.

She hurried to catch up to him—he set a surprisingly quick pace considering how scrawny he looked under those pants—and he tilted his head in her direction in acknowledgment.

“Glad you decided to join me,” he said.

“I really want those CG customs. I’ve been saving up for materials for forever but they’re expensive and my job doesn’t believe in working hours that give me enough time to sleep and eat.”

Tech frowned. “What kind of job is that? It seems like a sub-optimal way to treat your employees.”

“I work at one of the Imperial training facilities. I get to clean up after all the sweaty recruits in the exercise halls. It smells and I hate my life.”

He tensed almost imperceptibly at her side and Brit’ni tried not to notice. Plenty of people on Coruscant didn’t like the Empire, but a job was a job. And Captain Tabbard wasn’t going to pay for himself.

“That sounds… unpleasant. I hope you are able to find alternate forms of employment sometime soon.”

“Yeah, me too. But there aren’t too many options these days,” she said with a sigh. “If I had my way I’d be working in the archives or curating the Imperial Historical Society. I have the training for it, too! But I guess they only need a handful of people to do that, and they need thousands to clean the stormtroopers’ locker rooms.”

He nodded sagely, and she wondered if she was saying too much. Scratch that—she was definitely saying too much. But any time her job came up she couldn’t help but try to distance herself from it. To distance herself from the Empire.

“I also wish I could spend my days doing research and furthering our understanding of the universe. But unfortunately I don’t have that luxury,” Tech said.

Brit’ni looked at him out of the corner of her eye, surprised at the wistfulness in his voice. Maybe she’d judged him too harshly. A completionist who’d never watched Galaxy of Heroes he might be, but they might have more in common than she’d thought. He gave the station map a quick once-over, pushing his goggles up his nose as he read the map, and she couldn’t help but notice how oddly endearing the action was. She cursed herself. She’d always had a weakness for hopeless nerds.

They wound their way through the labyrinthine corridors of Coruscant’s largest magtrain station, and Tech seemed to know every turn and forgotten corner. He took them down another flight of stairs to the lower levels, where the storage lockers were, and a squirmy feeling started to bubble up in Brit’ni’s stomach. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to follow a stranger down into the depths of Coruscant Central without telling anyone where she was. But something about Tech felt oddly comforting. Condescending and annoying, yes, but also kind of nice.

Brit’ni cleared her throat and tried to dispel her sudden nerves. “So… what do you do, then?”

“I’m a tech specialist,” he answered immediately.

Brit’ni furrowed her brows. “A tech specialist? Are you military?”

He looked at her like he’d forgotten she was there, then shook his head, oddly flustered. “No, I mean… I do holo repair, comm device repair, droid maintenance—that sort of thing.”

“Oh.” Sure he did.

“It’s, uh, not very glamorous, but it pays the bills,” he said, tacking on an awkward laugh like the world’s worst holo actor.

Brit’ni resisted the urge to roll her eyes. I promise you, dude. Whatever your secrets are, they aren’t nearly as interesting as you think. She found herself wishing he’d just be honest with her, then reminded herself that she didn’t care. She didn’t. He was just a means to the end of collecting Captain Tabbard, not an strangely cute guy she wanted to learn more about.

They approached a squat Rodian manning the checkout counter for locker rentals and paid up.

“And can we get two locks, please?” Brit’ni asked. She needed some assurance that Tech wasn’t just going to come back later, open their locker, and leave.

The Rodian shrugged and tossed them another lock. “Sure.”

They walked down the aisle of lockers and found theirs—locker number 9999. Tech gave a weird smile at the number, but Brit’ni ignored it and opened the locker, carefully placing Captain Tabbard inside and giving him one last look of longing before closing the locker on his beautiful, first-edition face.

They both stuck their locks on the door, and Brit’ni pulled out her portable comm device.

“What’s your comm signature?” she asked.

“I don’t see that that’s necessary.”

“Sure it is. What if I can’t make our meeting time? What if you decide to watch Galaxy of Heroes but its themes and storyline are too complex for you to follow? What if you decide to back out and just want to give me your lock key so I can pick the Captain up?”

He frowned. “Alright, then.”

They swapped comm signatures and Brit’ni stuck her hand out to shake. Tech hesitated a moment, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it, then took her hand.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Brit’ni said with a firm, professional shake.

“Likewise.”

---

A few days later Brit’ni staggered home from her shift at the training facility with a deep and abiding exhaustion in her bones. She swiped open the door to the small apartment she shared with her younger sister and stumbled through the dark room, determined not to turn on the lights. Her sister was already asleep and Brit’ni knew she had an early shift the next morning.

Brit’ni shed her uniform, took a quick shower, and fell into bed. She could easily have fallen asleep right then and there, but she hated going to sleep right after getting home from work. It felt like giving up—like acknowledging that all there was to her life right now was sleep and work. She rolled over onto her side and pulled out her comm device, checking for messages. There were a few from her mom, a couple of taunting inside jokes from her sister, and… one from a signature she didn’t immediately recognize.

She opened the message, convinced it was some kind of advertisement but curious nonetheless.

I am happy to report that my viewing of Galaxy of Heroes has commenced. Will keep you updated on my progress. -T

A surprised smile rose to her lips. Maybe her evening would be a little more interesting than usual, after all.

She gave it some thought, then typed a response. The first episode is great, but the rest of the first season is a little slow. Make sure you keep watching to season 3.

She pulled out a datapad and scrolled mindlessly through several news updates. There was never anything interesting anymore—not since the Empire had taken over. All the updates felt like propaganda, but there was nothing else to read. Then her comm device pinged.

Then why don’t I just skip straight to season 3? I don’t understand how people can be such fans of a program while disliking a significant percentage of the content. -T

She snorted. Don’t skip to season 3! I thought you were a completionist.

He responded immediately. Fair point. -T

Deciding to let him focus on the show, Brit’ni rolled out of bed, determined to do something useful with the evening before calling it a night. She pulled a case of her in-progress figures out from under her bed and hauled them over to the small work desk she’d set up in the corner. She had some painting to do.

Commander Fes’s helmet was beautiful. The design etched across its surface was gorgeous, with intricately weaving strips of color and textures. That also made it an absolute beast to paint, and Brit’ni extricated her tiniest brushes from the bottom of her brush bag.

Eyes straining with the microscopic details, she labored over the good commander’s helmet for a solid half hour before setting her tools down in frustration. She glowered at the thumb-sized helmet, as if her anger would force it to cooperate better, and reached for her comm device.

What paint do you use for your customs? she sent Tech. For the fine details? I feel like I’m going crazy with Commander Fes’s helmet.

I don’t hand-paint details that small. I have a three dimensional stamper, so I design the decals at full size then use the stamper to apply them. -T

Huh. Brit’ni had heard of tools like that, but most collectors had to make them themselves. It wasn’t a simple or easy thing to put together.

I’ve always wanted to use one of those! Did you follow the Talatar template or the Bikqwik one?

Neither. I made my own design, though to be fair the base design was inspired more by the Bikqwik one. -T

Maybe I should make one. I’d love to get those fine details right, but I don’t know if I have the time to figure it out or the money for all the pieces.

That’s understandable. I was able to use leftover pieces from my work, so it wasn’t so expensive for me. -T

Images of a perfectly-painted Commander Fes helmet floated through Brit’ni’s mind, and she had half a mind to ask him to lend her his printer. That would probably be too much, though. She was considering what she should say next when Tech sent her another message.

It’s nice to talk to another collector about customs and painting. My colleagues are not very interested. -T

Brit’ni laughed. Same! My sister and mom indulge me, but they definitely don’t care as much as I do.

She set her comm device down and refocused her attention on Commander Fes’s helmet. It might be nice to use a three dimensional stamper, but this was what she had to work with for now. And as she focused in on the tiny design, she had to admit that it was turning out pretty well.

She soon fell into a groove so deep she hardly noticed the next half hour fly by. Then her comm device pinged again, breaking her from her painting trance.

I’m going to sleep now, but I’m happy to report that I’ve finished season one. -T

Brit’ni’s brows rose. You finished a whole season in one night?

I’m watching it at double speed. -T

That’s cheating!

When you demanded I watch the show you did not specify a required playback speed. -T

Do I have to specify things that should be obvious??

Goodnight, Brit’ni. -T

No longer in the mood to paint, Brit’ni set Commander Fes’s tiny helmet on a stand to dry, then packed up her materials. She crawled into bed and set her alarm, her eyes already heavy with how tired she’d be in the morning. Still, it had been a pleasant night.

---

The week flew by, and Brit’ni was so busy with work she hardly had any time to work on her figures or chat with Tech. Every once in a while he messaged her with updates on his viewing progress, and he was burning through Galaxy of Heroes at an alarming rate. His last message he sent the morning of the day they’d agreed to meet back up at the station—a simple statement that he’d finished the series.

Brit’ni wanted to ask him his thoughts, who his favorite character was, and what he thought of the infamous plot twist in season seven, but instead she’d had to run off to work. By the time her shift ended, she was excited to hop on the magtrain and head to Coruscant Central not only to finally see his promised customs, but also to talk to him. Funny, that.

She walked down into the lower levels of the station and quickly found locker 9999. Tech was already there, typing away on some kind of datapad built into his wristguard. Brit’ni didn’t think he’d worn that the last time they’d met, but she also couldn’t really depend on her memory.

“Hey!” she called out, and he looked up from his datapad.

“Excellent. Right on time.”

He swung his backpack off his shoulders and rummaged through it, pulling out a carefully labelled black box as she approached.

“Are those the custom molds?” Brit’ni asked eagerly.

“Yes.” He opened the box and she could swear the box was glowing from the inside like some kind of mythic treasure.

“I have molds for the standard shock trooper, captain, commander, and the recon units. Four molds in all.”

With a reverent hand, Brit’ni lifted the silicoid molds from their case. The detail work was exquisite, the edges sharp and defined. “I just pour in molding plastoid and let it cool?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes, that should work adequately.”

She stared for a minute longer, her fingers running over each groove and divet. They were perfect. “Alright, you have a deal.”

“No, but… I haven’t told you about Galaxy of Heroes yet…” Tech said, confused.

“That’s alright, the molds are enough-”

“I watched that entire series in a week. I’m going to tell you about it,” he snapped.

Brit’ni shut the case with the molds and stepped back from him a pace, her eyebrows raised. “Alright then, do you see now why Captain Tabbard is the best?”

“He’s such a minor character, it’s hard for me to understand why he is your favorite. But I do see the nuance and conflict that you mentioned earlier. I can see why you admire him.”

“Who’s your favorite, then?” It had better not be that awful Alduous Rux. Or even worse: Leve Bontera.

“K3WO was my favorite, I believe,” he said.

“The droid? Really?” she asked, though as soon as the words left her mouth she had to admit that it made a certain sort of sense.

“Yes. He always remained level-headed, he was intelligent, but he had his own personality. He was my favorite.”

“Ok, fine, I get it. But what about your favorite organic character?”

“Why does it have to be an organic character?”

“Do you have to argue everything I say?”

“It’s not arguing if-”

Tech suddenly cut off, his eyes darting down the hall, and Brit’ni followed his gaze. Two stormtroopers had stepped off the landing and were making their way towards locker 9999. Tech glanced quickly away from them, but the tension in his shoulders was clear.

Brit’ni saw the problem immediately. They looked like they were making some kind of illicit deal here, exchanging goods in the basement of Coruscant Station. The misunderstanding could be easily cleared up under normal circumstances, but Tech obviously didn’t want any attention from Imperials.

Thinking fast, Brit’ni clutched the black case of molds to her chest. “Oh, honey! You shouldn’t have!”

Tech stared doubtfully back at her through his goggles, his eyes growing wide enough to fill the lenses as she grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him to her.

“What are you-” he hissed.

She pressed her mouth to his before he could give them away, her hands snaking around his back to make sure he didn’t pull away while the stormtroopers were still watching. She worried that she might have to fight him the entire time, which would both make her feel like the worst kind of swamp scum and would also make this significantly less enjoyable. But then he relaxed into the kiss and set his hands at her waist, his long fingers careful and hot against her skin. He picked her up by the waist and spun them around, pressing her back into the lockers. Then he kissed up the side of her neck. Heated shivers ran up Brit’ni’s body, and she wondered if maybe she’d gotten in way over her head.

“Good thinking,” he whispered into her ear once he reached the top of her neck. “My apologies for not realizing sooner.”

“Th-that’s fine,” she stuttered, looking over his shoulder to check for the stormtroopers. They were still there. “Still got eyes.”

He nodded, then kissed her again, this time sliding a hand up her back to run his fingers through her hair. She pressed herself further into him, finding surprisingly firm, defined muscle under his plain clothing. Brit’ni doubted that there was an electronics repairman this athletic in the entire galaxy, and the mystery that was Tech just seemed to deepen with each passing moment.

Then one of Tech’s hands slipped lower on her waist and all coherent thought fled from Brit’ni’s mind. Her teeth caught on his bottom lip and she tugged gently. He started against her, and she took that as encouragement. Then she slipped her tongue into his mouth, and he started again, this time jerking away from her in surprise.

Brit’ni’s gaze darted to where she’d last seen the stormtroopers and, Force be damned, there they still were. Staring like a bunch of touch-starved morons.

“What are you looking at, you karking pervs!” she shouted at them.

The troopers flinched away like she’d hit them, then sputtered something about their patrol route and orders to “carry on.” They turned back the way they went and soon enough they were up the stairs and out of sight.

Brit’ni let out a heavy sigh of relief and let her weight lean back against the lockers behind her. “Well, that was a lot closer than it needed to be.”

“Yes,” Tech said, a healthy dusting of red high on his cheeks. “Thank you, by the way. I’d rather avoid Imperial entanglements.”

“Wouldn’t we all?” she said with a wry twist of the mouth.

“And, uh… My apologies, for losing my grip earlier. I… well I have never engaged in kissing before.”

Brit’ni sat up straight at that, her eyes going wide. “Really?” she asked, her skin still tingling from where he’d run his hands up her back. “You could have fooled me.”

“Well, I’ve seen plenty of holos,” he said, shrugging with one shoulder. “The mechanics of it seem simple enough. But, um. I didn’t really know what to expect in terms of sensation.”

“Ah,” Brit’ni said, feeling the heat rising in her own cheeks. “Well, it all worked out in the end.”

“That it did. Now if we could exchange goods?”

“Sure.”

They each unlocked their locks and there Captain Tabbard was, safe in his perfectly-preserved box. Tech handed her back her 35 credit share of the price, then lifted Captain Tabbard carefully from the locker. Brit’ni checked the CG molds Tech had given her one more time, then closed and locked the case.

“I guess we’re done, then,” she said, suddenly not sure where to put her hands.

“A pleasure,” Tech said, and she couldn’t help but wonder if there was some secret meaning hidden behind the quirk of his lips.

“A pleasure.”

---

A few days later, Brit’ni dragged herself to work feeling particularly haggard. She went through the service entrance and changed into her ugly uniform, then jogged to her supervisor’s office just in time to clock in.

She punched the buttons that would start recording her time, then started to walk away from the desk.

“Brit’ni? That you?” her supervisor asked, turning around in his swivel chair. He was a pale, sleight Human who’d barely spoken three words to Brit’ni before today.

She turned back to him slowly, her body already tensing to expect the worst. “Yes, sir?”

“You have a package.”

“A package?”

“Yeah.” He got up from his desk and pulled a drab grey box out from under the counter, sliding it towards Brit’ni with a look of perfect unconcern on his face. “Someone dropped it off early this morning for you.”

“Oh…” That was strange. In earlier years Brit’ni had liked surprises like this, but ever since the Empire… Well, let’s just say that most surprises were bad ones these days.

She took the package back to the locker room and set it down on one of the durasteel benches. Carefully, like she was defusing a bomb, she opened it up. Inside, the perfectly-painted face of Captain Tabbard stared up at her, a bright orange piece of flimsi stuck to his box just over his chest.

Dear Brit’ni,

Thank you for the other day. I should have just given this to you at the time, but I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking very clearly. I hope our paths cross again.

-T

A slow smile crept across Brit’ni’s face, and she picked up Captain Tabbard, holding his box to her chest. She knew she and Tech’s paths would cross again. She’d make sure of it.

#tech x oc #tbb #the bad batch #tbb tech #clone commando tech #tech collects figures now #nerds in love

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hedgiwithapen · 3 years

Note

How about the Leverage Crew arriving in Central City in time for the that time Barry got accused of murdering DeVoe. Basically, Leverage Crew (Classic or Redeption is your choice) meddling in that plan. Because screw DeVoe. Can be in the same universe as The Central City job, or a brand new AU; your choice.

this one Long The courthouse was packed when a sleek black van pulled up to a loading zone. Nathan Ford turned from the passenger seat. “You all know the play?” “Mm, yup,” Parker said, clipping a badge to her blazer pocket. “The Boston skip.” “It’s not the Boston Skip,” Hardison snapped, fussing with his tie.. “You’re just grumpy because you have to play the lawyer again.” Eliot smirked. “Hey, you said only if it comes to a cross examine, I did my job, if you all do your jobs right and it doesn’t come to that,” Hardison’s voice pitched upwards. “If?” Sophie put on the emergency break. “If? Hardison, I’m hurt.” “Soph,” Nate sighed. “Let it go.” “For now. We’re having words later,” Sophie insisted. “Can we just get this over with?” Eliot asked, maneuvering to take the driver’s seat. “ you know I don’t like us splitting up like this.” “It’ll only be for a bit,” Parker said, squeezing his hand. “ We’ll be fine.” They left the van in twos, first Parker and hardison, briefcase and extraneous computer in hand, and a minute or two later Sophie and Nate followed-- and Nate with a plain folder tucked under his arm. Eliot drove in the direction of the police station, ready for the next phase of the plan. They hadn’t exactly called ahead, but that wasn’t going to be much of a problem. Cisco Ramon was the first to spot them. He goggled a bit. “What are you doing here?” he asked as Hardison approached the bench where Team Flash had congregated. Hardison smiled, knowing the prosecutor was watching. “I came to offer my services,” he said, sending a quick text with a thought. “ Where is Ms Horton?” “Here,” the short woman said, her eyes cutting between the two as Cisco checked his phone. “ Who are you? Cisco, who is--” Cisco looked up from the message--you didn’t see us coming?-- and relaxed slightly for the first time in weeks. “I’m part of Mr. Allen’s legal team,” Hardison smiled wide. “He’s ok, Cecile,” Cisco vouched. “ He and his, uh, coworkers have helped us in the past. With Z--wait, that was before you. Um.” “My firm helped get Henry Allen some money, after that unfortunate mess. And we’re here to see justice through again.” He hesitated. “ Or pick up where it leaves off,” he said under his breath. Cecile took in a sharp breath. “When did we hire you?” “Uh--” “Cecile, it’s really ok,” Caitlin joined the cluster. “They know about STAR. And apparently about the recent… developments.” “You think we don’t keep tabs on your crazy city? Now, Ms. Horton, as your co-lawyer, we need to discuss strategy. I’ve got some character witnesses I’d like to introduce, some crucial evidence that needs to be submitted, is there an office we might use?” He steered her away, nodding to Parker, deep in conversation with the prosecutor.

“You let that jerk stick around?” Iris jumped when she heard the voice in her ear. Turning she sighed with recognition. “ Lilli--Sophie?” “In the flesh.” She smiled. “I can’t stay long, but Eliot wanted me to ask.” Iris sighed. “If it’s Eliot asking, I guess you mean Harry. He’s been a lot better since Eliot kicked his ass, that’s for sure. And he has been helpful.” “I’m sure,” Sophie sounded anything but sure. “Listen, we’ve got this pretty well handled, but you and your friends may wish to be ready in case of reprisals. Have you upgraded security lately?” “Cisco’s worked on it,” Iris confirmed. “Good. Hardison would love to take a look, later. We’re probably going to be in the area, we’ve had word something’s fishy at that prison of yours.” When Iris opened her mouth Sophie shook her head. “Iron Heights. Point is, we’ll be around should you need anything.” “Thank you for the offer,” Iris said. She shook her head. “ These people are smart, Sophie. Dangerous.” “Not compared to my team,” Sophie smiled. “Save your worry. Look, see? Hardison’s in place, and Parker’s in the wings. I’ve got to go take care of my part. If you see your husband, let him know, will you?” “I-- sure,” Iris said, and she watched as Sophie stood and walked into a crowd. An entirely different person made her way past a bailiff and into the Juror’s box, leaning over to the man beside her and nodding in the direction of the door Barry Allen had just been escorted through. As Iris stood to take his hand across the gap between his seat and the benches, Sophie gave a little nod to the two of them. “It is strange,” the man said. “But I don’t think we’re meant to discuss the case until we’re in the back.” “Of course not,” Sophie said. “I was just thinking about it, is all. If it were a scene in a mystery novel, I’d call it too obvious.” “You do have a point,” the man agreed. “I’m actually a novelist myself.” “You don’t say,” Sophie smiled. “Classic red herring, am I right? And what a story. Two men in the same family accused of nearly identical murders…” She tapped her com, giving a quick signal. Nate was up. “Ah, a quick word?” Nate stepped away from the wall, flagging down Mrs. DeVoe and her companion. “No,” she snapped, putting on what Nate could see was a reasonably convincing mask of Grieving Widow. Convincing to a mark, maybe. But the Mako was right--you can’t con a conman. “Vultures, all of you.” “Oh, I’m not a reporter.” Nate said easily. He nodded to the tall man at Marlize’s Elbow. “Mr. DeVoe, I’m sure you’ll want to hear what I have to say.” He was pleased to see shock cross the face of Dominic Lanse. The man grabbed him by the arm, yanking him into an empty room. Mrs. DeVoe followed, locking it behind her. “Just so you are aware, there is video footage of you dragging me in here,” Nate said in his most helpful voice. “In case you decide to kill me here, probably not your smartest move.” he glanced around. “Private, though. Good.” He gave his signature infuriating grin. “Make this quick,” Clifford said in Dominic’s voice. “Court begins soon.” “Right, well, that’s going to be your problem.” Nate shrugged. “ Let’s skip the pleasantries. I know everything, about your plan at least. Your computer banks! Normal people couldn’t even find them, so you’ve got that going for you, though the security is lacking once you get past that, so B+. I am not Normal People. I have the best hacker in the multiverse, though, so,” he clicked his tongue in mock dismay, “like I said, my team and I --I’m sure you’re trying to think of who we are right now--know everything.” Marlize glanced at her silent watch, frowning. “Oh, no, no, I’m not a meta.” Nate shook his head. “But the thing is, I don’t have to be to destroy you.” “What--” “Again. I know everything, Thinker. Your basement prison, your hidden files, what you want with that satellite… you really shouldn’t have written everything down… twice even.” He fished a small book out of his pocket, and let them see the plain cover. Clifford’s eyes darkened. “That’s mine.” “Yeah, well, I also have the

multiverse’s greatest thief.” “Our home is under police protection and surveillance. There are officers--” “There right now, I’m aware.” Eliot Spencer, clutching a cup of coffee in one hand, flashed a badge at the pair of officers standing by a door. “Any trouble?” “Nope. She just left for the courthouse. Some work, huh? Just standing here.” “Hmm.“ Eliot agreed. “Though I guess if something did happen, the Flash would swoop in.” “Nine times out of ten,” the first officer agreed. “Or one of his buddies. “ “Maybe 8 times,” the second officer shrugged. “ You new?” “Just transferred from Keystone.” Eliot said. “Not so much nonsense there.” “I hear that. Good to have the backup though.” Eliot nodded. “ You do a walk through?” “Uh, no…. Like I said, no trouble, officer-- “Ted Crichton,” Eliot interrupted. “You haven’t walked through? What if someone’s in there, waiting to assault Mrs. DeVoe when she gets back?” “Well, uh, we don’t have a warrant--” “For crying out loud--” Eliot pulled a paper from his pocket. “See? Now let's go. You stay out here. Who has the back-- does no one have the back door? “ The officers hurried inside. “Don’t forget to check the closets,” Eliot called. -- “ Like I said. Best thief. Best hacker. Now, honestly--and you can run the numbers-- your best bet would be to cut your losses right here, right now. You’re already lying on the stand, so say you were coerced into implicating Mr. Allen--if you need someone to blame I do have a list of patsys that really need the jail time. You do that, put your little plan,” he waggled the book “ back in the box or write it up as the next dystopian best seller for High School English classes to dissect for decades to come, and you can walk away from this.” A laugh. “No one will believe anything you say. That book can’t be traced to me, and even if it could be, it doesn’t prove anything. So someone thinks I’m a supervillain. I’m dead. You have nothing that proves Mr. Allen innocent. You’re out of your mind, Mr. Ford.” “Oh good, you know who I am. Think a little harder.” “As threats go, it’s half baked,” Marlize challenged. “What are you going to do if we refuse? Break Allen out of jail so he can be a fugitive? He’d never go along with it. And the Flash can’t stop us.” “I’d run those numbers again, you’ve left out quite a few variables. But no.” “No?” “If you refuse, if you keep up your little game, lie on the stand, sell that sob story, maybe you're right and the Flash can’t stop you. But he doesn’t need to. I’ll destroy you.” “You.” It was not a question. “For someone claiming to be the smartest man in the world, I’m a bit worried about your memory. I said it already--I’m not here alone. But be my guest. Tell your lies. Right about now the Jury is thinking about what an embarrassment to the city Henry Allen’s trial was and how closely this resembles it… the similarities, the way the timelines don’t quite match up… “ “Really? You’re trying to convince the jury to ignore evidence and go with their hearts? A pathos appeal? That’s not going to work. There’s less than a 3% chance of that even ending in a mistrial, much less acquittal.” “I’m sure that’s what your numbers said,” Nate smiled yet again, this time sharklike. “Cute. I bet you think it’s difficult to get assigned jury duty. “ “It-- we checked all the names. We know--” “You know who they are, yes, yes. But you don’t know who we are. Another sloppy mistake. Now, the jury’s, you're right, not a total slam dunk. So, right now the prosecutor is getting word of some new evidence from a very well respected FBI agent about how helpful the Flash and Mr Allen have both been in assisting with a case against a known human trafficker--you know her, Ammunet Black. The one you bought your puppet from. FBI picked her up…mmm, ten minutes ago? And she had some very interesting things to say. You can guess what they were. Add to that the evidence--” “What evidence?” “The wire transfers between you and Ms. Black. In December and a few days ago. We didn’t even have to fake that first one, but even if the second

one looks a little fishy, the fact that--” “Nate, we got him,” crackled Eliot’s voice in his ear. “--the police just found a metahuman locked in your hall closet--Weeper, I think is what Ms. Black called him-- should make things clear. He wasn’t thrilled about having to stick around much longer but your basement is pretty hard for normal people to find so we had to nudge that a bit. But hey, you’re all for planting evidence. Anyways, court’s in ten minutes…. but the police will be arresting you in about three, if my math’s right-- care to check?-- so I can make this very quick. We have video of you threatening the Flash, holding him prisoner the same night as that wire transfer, proof of Dominic’s powers and sale--my hacker thanks you for all those cameras and bugs, by the way, made his job much easier-- and you add that all up and it sure looks like you got upset at the Flash and Allen for poking into your meta trafficking and decided a frame up was in order.” Nate hefted the folder, “and then there’s this.” “And what,” Marlize asked, shaking with rage, “ is that?” “A copy of files that will be delivered to the FBI, NSA and Dean of Husdson University if you don’t admit to the frame up.” Nate said, thumbing through them. “Proof that you, Mrs. DeVoe, fed information to certain entities across Africa and the Middle East where you were doing your research and aid work to assist in their terror attacks and human trafficking--ties in quite nicely to your work with Ammunet, if I do say so myself. And proof that the “late” Mr. DeVoe plagiarized his thesis, his dissertation, even the syllabi for his classes.” “Lies. No one will believe any of--” “Oh, it’s all very well forged. Except for the bit about the Syllabi. For shame.” Nate tutted. “And part of the dissertation. Can they take away a PH.d posthumously? Anyways, even if it wasn’t, do you really think that no one would believe a man who thinks that giving everyone on the planet late stage Alzheimer’s is going to solve famine and illness? What kind of legitimate history teacher doesn’t know about cholera or the effects of the agricultural revolution? Every lie has a kernel of truth to it.” Nate glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, that certainly was enlightening. And before you decide to simply kill me, run your little calculations with one more variable: Eliot Spencer.” DeVoe’s brow furrowed and what little color he had drained from his face. “ That’s what I thought. Three.. Two.. one.” Nate raised his voice. “ Help! I’m in here!” The door crashed from its hinges. “The Gloat is the best part,” Parker, FBI badge swinging, put an arm over Barry’s shoulders. He stood with Iris next to her and Eliot as the DeVoes were hauled away. “You know, I think I might have to agree,” Iris said, squeezing Barry’s hand. “Or second best, at least,” she added meaningfully. “So… what now?” Joe asked. “I mean, there’s still… the red tape, but… do we need to be worried? Don’t they still have--” “Oh, that sick chair and computer set up?” Hardison asked with a smirk. “I want it.” Harry announced. “When did you get here?” Hardison asked, affronted. -- Parker held up her badge as she pushed the crate up a ramp into Lucille. “Special Agent Hagen! Let me help you with that,” Agent McSweeten said, taking the dolley handle from her. Parker beamed, patting the side, careful not to dislodge the panel on the side. “Thanks!” -- “Anyways, you can’t just call dibs. You’re too late,” Hardison added, giving Parker a fistbump. “We stole it.”

#dammit hedgi day 2021 #leverage #the central city job #the flash

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chibimyumi · 3 years

Note

@thedarkestcrow and a few others have gotten questions about the end of Kuro. The presumption is the final conflict will be between O!C and Sebastian. Many theorize that it will revolve around O!C’s desire to live or not, possibly with his living/reanimated family and friends begging him to escape Sebastian. Of course, even if O!C decides he wants to leave, Sebastian will demand his payment. My question to you is do you think O!C might change his mind about the contract and his will to live?

Dear Anon,

First of all, my thanks for your sweet words ^^

Now, about your question. Very interesting! I myself don’t do prediction theories though; it involves too much guessing based on too little information and too many variables for me to find it comfortable. That’s why I only do analyses of things that have already happened. So I am not sure how much I can help you here ≽▽≼ so my blog might be less amazing to you now, I’m so sorry.

Though, I can use your proposal as a hypothesis and analyse it. This will not be a predictive post, simply a deduction through logic within a hypothesis.

Hypothesis: Undertaker uses Bizarre Phantomhive Dolls to bait O!Ciel into giving up on his contract. Q: “might O!Ciel change his mind about the contract and his will to live?”

Personally I think it is fairly unlikely a zombie-family can cause O!Ciel’s resolve to waver because it is simply too strong.

Character Study

Most human beings who experience (sudden) loss need quite some time to process this information before reaching the stage of “acceptance”. Our boy however, already easily withstood a supernatural being’s positive response about reviving the dead even before he could actually process anything. Most people would not believe a human if they made the same offer, but wished it were true. But if a clearly powerful supernatural appeared before you, that’s a different story; who knows what magic potential they possess?

じゃあ、死んだ人間を生き返らせることは？

Jaa, shinda ningen wo ikikaeraseru koto wa?

And, what about bringing dead humans back to life?

O!Ciel was the one who brought this topic up. Judging from the clear-cut language and lack of emotional markers, it is arguable he said so not because he hoped it were possible, but because he knows it is impossible, and therefore wanted to test the demon’s truthfulness.

Sebastian took the bait, and therewith O!Ciel knew he’d have to strategically use his first wish to seal off the demon’s potential of lying. (Ugh he’s so smart!) O!Ciel’s swiftness in rejecting the demon’s temptation is evidence that he had already fully accepted that what is dead, stays dead.

Discussing Hypothesis

So, knowing O!Ciel has this level of acceptance, how would it play out IF Undertaker does attempt to lure O!Ciel with his revived family?

Had Undertaker really wanted the best chance at making O!Ciel fall for the temptation, he would have to not have exposed the boy to his creations so often. He has seen the in-between stages of reviving the dead, and therefore knows exactly what they are: Just decaying meat manipulated by a lunatic. Being met with the sudden appearance of seemingly flawless living-dead family would no longer be something new to O!Ciel, so it won’t have the advantage of a “pleasant surprise” to him.

O!Ciel is a very clever boy who thinks very clearly as long as he’s allowed the space in his head. So the best way to bait him into making a poor decision would be to disorient or overwhelm him with shocking new information, like at the end of the Circus Arc.

However, shock value is something that declines with every exposure. Now that O!Ciel is already so used to seeing Bizarre Dolls, and every time these zombies just get more and more advanced, he’d know it’s only a matter of time before these Dolls could become basically fully sentient, like his brother did.

Yes, he was very shocked to see R!Ciel back, but if we pay attention he was not so much concerned about his body being resurrected, but what threat R!Ciel’s return would pose to his own position now exposed as ‘the impostor’. Should Undertaker also “revive” his dead parents to try tempt the boy into reuniting with his family, then O!Ciel would be desensitised already by that time. He’d have had too much time to be mentally prepared. Besides, especially after seeing R!Ciel who is the biggest threat nothing would overwhelm him more anymore. You cannot shock somebody twice using the same trick; especially not if the second one is a lesser threat. It would be akin to bad film sequels that over-analyse the success of the original and use the formula of “more = better” to appease audiences.

In this sense, I personally reason that considering how Undertaker has been working so far, he would probably not try to make O!Ciel do a 180 through manipulation; that tactic simply leaves too much space for failure. Also, manipulation does not really seem Undertaker’s M.O.; that’s Sebas’ thing. Undertaker prefers cornering somebody, forcing them to bend eventually – i.e. use ‘hard-power’ instead of ‘soft’, like he did with Sebas on the Campania and at Weston.

How should Undertaker have acted to make the hypothesis work?

If we do go along with the hypothesis that Undertaker does want to use soft-power to get O!Ciel, he had better done things like this:

During the Campania Undertaker had indeed not expected the boy there, fine! That would have been an accident, as well as a competent way of storytelling to inform O!Ciel and the audience that clearly somebody is doing something big, and that Undertaker is not 100% in control of everything.

IF! I were the Undertaker in that situation AND I plan to bait O!Ciel with his “revived” family, I would never have revealed myself to be a reaper, and instead denied any responsibility for the bizarre dolls. Rian Stoker was fully convinced he had worked the disastrous “miracle” anyway, and there is no better scapegoat than one who truly believes himself guilty. Plus, he was scheduled to die anyway. If the scapegoat could just die in an accident caused indirectly by his own doing, the cover-story would have been beyond perfect.

Before Undertaker revealed himself, O!Ciel trusted Undertaker as an ally, and even went to him for sensitive information on which he based his entire job for the Queen. O!Ciel is naturally untrusting, but Undertaker did win that trust, and that should have been too valuable a weapon not to keep. By revealing himself to be an antagonistic and powerful being who mortally wounded O!Ciel’s main security (Sebas), Undertaker proved himself to be untrustworthy.

Now that O!Ciel can no longer trust Undertaker in the slightest, what effect would it have if this untrustworthy lunatic were to try bait him? I find it unlikely that O!Ciel would be stupid enough to take the bait, and Undertaker stupid enough to believe O!Ciel might after all this.

In short, for this hypothesis to work on the naturally untrusting O!Ciel, Undertaker would have needed to:

keep O!Ciel’s trust,

have the advantage of a ‘pleasant surprise’ on his side,

any credibility that his walking-flesh are “really alive”.

I hope this had been interesting ( ´ o｀) Good day to you, Anon ^^

Follow up post: What would O!Ciel do if Undertaker tried to bait O!Ciel with Bizarre Phantomhives?

#Kuroshitsujit #Undertaker #Finale #O!Ciel #theory #character study #Bizarre Dolls #R!Ciel #this is NOT a predictive post!!! Just analysing the potentials of a hypothesis!!!

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buckyskorpion · 4 years

Text

11 hours - part two

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: thank you guys so much for the incredible response i got to part one!! it made me so happy so thank you. let me know wha yall think of this bit, we’ve got some plot going on which i always enjoy. i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist

part one

You don’t hear from Bucky for a while after the party. It’s disappointing - you’re self-aware enough to admit that. But you also aren’t stupid enough to expect anything else. Bucky asked you to that party as a favour, you got a one-night-only special being in his life and you’re not expecting anything else.

You had hoped it wouldn’t have impacted your nightly rendezvous, but those had stopped too. You suppose Bucky decided not to trust you after all.

Almost three weeks later and you’re at work, thoughts of Bucky barely a buzz in the back of your head compared to the job at hand. You’ve always been able to let your work consume you, and it pays off in your line of business. Being a private investigator requires attention to detail, lateral thinking, and a questionable moral compass. Your patented paranoia doesn’t hurt either. Your dad tells you every time you visit that he wishes you’d get into something more stable, something less dirty, but you’re not really good at anything else. Considering the majority of your clients are partners trying to figure out if their significant other is cheating, it also pays well for quite minimal effort.

Quick rule of thumb for aspiring PI’s: they’re almost always cheating.

Today is one of those clients. You’ve tailed the guy in question to a tattoo shop in Red Hook, which is already a red flag. He’s an investment banker and buys Louis Vuitton cufflinks for his ugly work suits. He stands out like a sore thumb in this grungy neighbourhood. You snap a few photos of him outside the store, very obviously checking left and right for a tail before entering the place. People suck at being subtle, you’ve come to realise over the years. And at being observant, because all you’ve bothered to do to hide is sit at the cafe across the road and pretend to be taking photos of the latte art on your coffee.

Entering the tattoo parlour is a no-go, even if your grunge aesthetic would fit in with the clientele more than your straight-laced prey. There are other ways, though. You leave some bills on the table and cross the street into the alley beside the tattoo shop, wrinkling your nose at the dumpster smell. There’s a fire escape which you can reach if you stand on the lid of the offensive dumpster in question, leading to a window you hope will get you some insight into what Mike Shorditch of suspected-cheating fame is up to. Maybe he has a tattooed, lip-ringed young girlfriend he meets here? Or a heavy-set biker boyfriend? Or he just wants a tattoo and his wife is as paranoid as you are.

Squeezed uncomfortably between the bars of the fire-escape, you manage to aim your camera lens at the window and zoom in - jackpot. It’s a small window near the ceiling of the high-roofed shop, letting in minimal light to ruin the dark aesthetic of the place, allowing you a somewhat clear view of the shop inside. It’s really nice, you notice, and they have good taste in music. Slowly Slowly bleeds minimally through the glass and you try focus your lens on the faces inside, catching Mike among them like a unicorn in a goth reunion. He’s talking to someone, waving his hands around dramatically while the guy he talks to towers over him, arms folded over a ginormous chest.

You know that face, you realise as you aim your lens a little higher. The shock burns, almost makes you drop your camera and fall off the fire escape you’re precariously lying on. It’s Steve, blonde head unmistakeable as he glares at your target and dismisses whatever Mike says to him with an eyeroll. Without questioning it, you snap a few photos of Steve’s imposing figure - so at odds with the friendly, downright cuddly man you met at the party a few weeks ago. Just when you thought you’d gotten rid of thoughts about that night, they show up at your work. How is this possible?

None of this sits right with you. This strange coincidence, the weird behaviour at the party towards Bucky and his friends, Bucky’s general evasiveness and the feeling you get of being watched just being around him. Nothing is adding up and you’ve never been the kind of person to leave well enough alone. You snap photos of the shop, as much as you can - Steve’s tattoo sleeve that had been hidden under a jumper at the party, the stencils lining the walls, the locks on the front door, the counter where a scrawny kid in glasses bends over what looks like genuine high-school homework and ignores the adults in the shop. There are too many variables - you have to start making sense of one of them.

The easiest thread to pull is Mike, and he’s the one you’re being paid to solve, so it makes sense to start there. Clearly it isn’t cheating his wife should be worried about, but the meeting he’s having with Steve and the others doesn’t look like a friendly catch up with friends either. His personal cybersecurity is poor enough you figure you’ll be able to solve that particular mystery easy enough.

Bucky and his friends, however? That’s going to take a bit more digging.

***

According to Mike Shoreditch’s bank records, he owes somebody a lot of money. You get this from an account his wife doesn’t even know he has, believing all their money goes into a shared account with a completely different bank. Mike has a lot of secrets but cheating isn’t one of them - the print outs of his secret bank account statements and the pictures of him at Steve’s tattoo parlour would be enough for you to close the case and get your money. But you don’t. Not just yet. You have your own itch to scratch, now.

You’ve taken to watching the tattoo shop’s comings and goings, snapping pictures here and there. Steve comes in at ten in the morning, ready to open the shop up by lunchtime for customers and doesn’t close it until midnight. His customers are the usual sort you’d imagine at a rough tattoo shop in Red Hook - heavy set guys with full sleeves and chest pieces, grungy couples who probably live upstate but are rebelling against their trust-fund parents, random walk-ins who’s nerves you can sense from across the street at what’s become your usual table. There are a few, though, who stand out. Leather jackets and motorbikes they park in the alley beside the shop, using the back entrance you snap a shot of one night once they all went home.

You’re not jumping to conclusions just yet, you’ve learnt the hard way from doing that, but you’re also not stupid. Whatever Steve is into, whatever Bucky is by association a part of, there are some shady looking people involved as well.

It’s one of those days where you’re watching the shop from the cafe, camera left on the table in favour of devouring an almond croissant and cataloguing the people you’ve now dubbed regulars at Steve’s as they enter the shop. You should probably be doing your actual job but you can’t bring yourself to, too caught up in the shady business across the street from you. Absorbed, in fact, so you practically jump out of your skin as your phone rings and you send it flying to the pavement with an errant elbow.

You pick up without checking the ID, and boy was that a mistake. Heart pounding painfully in your chest, you answer, “Hi, hello, hi, this is (Y/n) speaking,” all in a rush.

A familiar, honey-warm laugh rumbles down the phone to you and your previously racing heart all but stops beating. Bucky says, “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Does he know? Had Steve caught you spying and called Bucky asking why the random girl he brought to a party that one time was stalking him? You glance around the street, half expecting Bucky to be standing behind you and catching you red-handed. He’s not, of course he’s not, you’re just losing your mind a little bit.

“No, no, sorry,” you say, running a shaky hand through your hair. “I’m at work. What’s up?”

“I won’t keep you long,” Bucky says, sounding amused, and you hate how the rough catch of his voice through the phone all but erases the suspicions you have for him, warning you to stay away. You had missed him, is all. He says, as if plucking the thought from your brain, “I was missing you.”

“Yeah?” you ask, glad he can’t see the grin you send to the table. “That why you disappeared after the party?”

“Let me explain over drinks?” Bucky asks, dodging your jab with ease. No, no, no, don’t be stupid, he’s bad news and you’ve got the proof, don’t-

“You’re paying,” you say instead, silencing the smart side of your brain.

“Always do,” he says, which is blatantly not true but whatever, “Nine at Joey’s?”

“See you there,” you say, and hang up before you can do anything else stupid.

You bury your hands in your hair, leaning your elbows on the table and letting out a frustrated sound probably inappropriate for a public place. How are you going to go meet Bucky and pretend you aren’t, essentially, investigating his best friend? Maybe you don’t. Maybe you use this to get more answers, full-stop some of the question marks that have been playing havoc with your head all week.

And sex. You’re not going to pretend you won’t be ending up in Bucky’s bed again, shady secrets be damned.

***

Joey’s is a divey, underground bar you absolutely adore, and you’ve met Bucky here multiple times. He introduced you to the place, actually, a week or so into meeting up him. He’d laughed at how excited you were over the movie posters they used as decor behind the booths, the bartender who squeezed fresh apple juice into your shot of Jameson, the dirty bass-heavy music you eventually convinced him to dance with you to. Bucky is clearly trying to win you over by meeting you here, and you can’t say it’s not working. Just a little bit. You’ll still make him work for it.

Bucky’s got a booth at the back when you arrive, two whiskey apple’s already waiting on the table as he stands up to greet you. He pulls you into a hug, not letting you set the tone at all, but you can’t find it in you to mind as you’re crushed into his chest and he rests his stubbly chin atop your head. He smells nice, reminding you of spiced rum or something else warm and comforting, and his hands feel real nice as they dip under your top to press against your bare skin. Had you really missed him this much? You squeeze him tightly, ignoring the thump of your heart as he starts rubbing circles into your back, and you stand there in his arms for far too long to be appropriate.

Pulling away, though, feels like you’ve lost something.

Across the booth from you, now, Bucky slides a drink towards you with his usual cheeky grin. You roll your eyes at him, popping the straw in your mouth and looking out at the bar so you can pretend not to pay attention to him. He bumps your foot under the table but you ignore him, hiding your smirk in the rim of your glass.

“Doll,” he says, exasperated, and reaches across the booth to place his giant hand on the arm you have resting on the table. You look at him then, scrunching your nose up at the pet name which makes him smile. His eyes crinkle up at the sides, all soft and blurry blue, and you feel yourself forgetting why you’re supposed to be mad at him in the first place.

“What,” you say, mimicking his tone just to watch his jaw clench. His frustration is hot, what of it? You love winding him up like this.

“Brat,” he retorts, and oh, that makes you feel something you probably shouldn’t, all low and coiled hot in your belly. “Did you think I was avoiding you?”

“You were avoiding me,” you correct, raising your eyebrows at him. He hasn’t let go of your arm, now taking to rubbing his thumb back and forth across the leather of your jacket. You refuse to let it melt you.

“I was away,” he says, eyes sparkling. He’s practically laughing at you, which is- rude. You huff, barely believing him, and he says, “I was! Did you want me to tell you I was going or something?”

“No,” you say, rolling your eyes at him. You sigh - he’s right, what did you expect? Nothing, and yet you were put out anyway, but that’s a problem you’ve got to deal with on your own. Bucky doesn’t owe you anything and he knows it. You relax, finally, putting your drink down to cover Bucky’s hand with your own. You smile, say, “I’m just messing with you, Bucky.”

“Sure you are,” he says easily, but you know he doesn’t believe you. It’s dropped, then, forgotten as you sit there staring at each other in the dim light of the bar. You really had missed him, even if you still barely knew him. His stubbly jaw, the close-cropped sides of the new haircut he’d gotten since you’d last seen him, the glint of his dog togs against tanned skin disappearing under his t-shirt. The swirl of his chest piece peeking out from the neckline, and you can fill in the blanks because you’ve seen what’s under that t-shirt. You’ve traced your tongue over it, as well as every other inch of him you’re trying to memorise in case another month passed before you saw him again. If you ever saw him at all.

“What?” you ask when you realise he’s starting to smile at you, holding back a laugh. He shakes his head, looking down to pick up his drink and take a sip. You lean back, retracting yourself from his grip and folding your arms across your chest - he’s making fun of you, you know it, but you don’t know why. He does laugh then, also leaning back in his seat and regarding you with that head tilt that infuriates you.

“Nothing,” he laughs, eyes saying the opposite. “It’s just- it’s nice to see you.”

“You going soft on me, tough guy?” you tease, but he sobers at your words, the smile dying on his pillow-plump lips. He stares you down, that deep thing that reminds you how easy it is to get lost in him (if you aren’t already).

“Maybe I am,” he says, and that surprises you. You had been joking, but the heady way he’s looking at you turns it serious. “Would that bother you?”

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to say the right thing. You don’t even know if that’s a good response or not, but you’ve done it now and Bucky nods, downs his drink, all without ever breaking eye contact with you. You get the distinct feeling you’ve just agreed to something you don’t entirely understand, entangling yourself further into Bucky without even trying to. Given what you’d been uncovering about his friends the past week, you should know better. You should leave.

But you don’t. You lean across the booth, coming to him this time, and peel his hand off his glass to entwine your fingers with his. The cool metal of his signet rings offsets the warmth of his palm against yours, and the way he grips your fingers tightly signs the deal. Bucky is too enticing to stay away from, and you are too tired of trying to.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” you ask, but it’s not really a question. You watch his eyes dart across your face, tongue flicking out over his lips, stalling for time. You wonder what he’ll say. My friends run dodgy business deals out of a tattoo parlour? I’m involved in that, too? I’m dangerous, I’m a liar, you should stay away?

“I’m a mechanic,” he says. You try not to show your disappointment, but still, this is information you didn’t have before and you’re greedy for anything. “I have my own shop in Queens. Natasha helps me out, helps me run it. I’ve been obsessed with cars and bikes and shit since I was five.”

You smile at that, imaging little Bucky running around a car yard trying to convince his dad, or whoever, to teach him how to drive even if he couldn’t reach the pedals yet. You imagine him now, the hand you’re holding all greased up and elbow deep in a car’s guts, maybe with his shirt off and sweat dripping down his back. You’ve got to see that one day before you die, you decide right then. That’s too hot to just stay in your brain.

“Your turn,” he says, shit-eating smirk in place like he can read your mind. You blush, despite yourself, and scramble for something to say that’s not I’ve been investigating your friends all week and it’s not looking too good for them.

“My dad,” you blurt out, and Bucky give you a funny look like he thinks that’s your fact - you have a dad, isn’t that something. You curse yourself for starting this, you could’ve gone with anything and you said ‘my dad’? But you’re here now, so, “He raised me on his own, like, I don’t know my mum at all, but he always said he wanted me to have something of her so he taught me Russian. She taught him, apparently, and he taught her English. Now it’s like our secret language.”

“Russian, hey?” Bucky asks, and he seems far too surprised for the anecdote you’ve just given but you suppose it is the first actually personal thing you’ve told him. He doesn’t seem off-put by it, though, like you have expected him to be because you don’t do personal. In fact he just leans closer, almost unconsciously, baiting you to tell him more.

“Yeah,” you say, compelled to keep going. “We’d leave each other notes around the house in ‘code’, y’know, but it was just in Cyrillic. Thought it was so cool.”

“It is cool,” Bucky says, smirking at you again, “You’re cool.”

“Fuck you,” you laugh, kicking his ankle under the table but immeasurably grateful for the tone change. You don’t know why you’ve just told him that. You don’t know if you’ve ever told anyone that - Russian isn’t exactly a handy language to know. You feel drunker than you should be after a tiny bit of whiskey, high on the rush of unleashing a secret. Drunk enough that Bucky unlatching his fingers from yours to grip your wrist tight, a bit bruising, tugging you close, makes you flush from your scalp to your toes.

Bucky looks at you, dark and heavy, and asks, “Want to?”

You nod, throat suddenly very dry, and Bucky tugs you out of the booth without another word. Usually you wait a bit longer before getting on Bucky’s bike, have a few more drinks, maybe dance a bit if you can coax Bucky into it. Not tonight. You’re both on the same page - it’s been too long and you need his mouth on you about five days ago.

He pushes you into the apartment by the shoulders, rough enough you stumble but you’re quickly righted as he strides through the door after you and grabs you by the hips. Bucky crushes his mouth to yours, swallowing your needy whine with soft lips and velvet tongue as you fist his t-shirt and drag you both backwards, going and going until your back hits a wall. His palm slams into the drywall by your head but you don’t flinch, only groan as he smudges his spit-slick mouth across your jaw and down your neck. Bucky bites down, sharp teeth on soft skin, and you rake your nails down his stomach as payback for the mark you’ll have later.

“Off,” Bucky grumbles as he shoves at your jacket, getting it stuck at your elbows and trapping your arms by your sides. He seems to like like this, eyes flashing something dangerous in the dark of his hallway. You hold his eyes, heart thrumming something wild in your throat at being caught, pinned, vulnerable. With Bucky, though, you like that.

You want to reach for him but you can’t, so you wait for him to come to you. Kissing you breathless, hand fisted in your hair, other undoing the front of your jeans. God, you wanna touch him so bad but Bucky has you in his grip, yanking your head back to kiss that same bruised spot. He sucks another under your chin as you cry out, pinpricks of pain-turned-pleasure bursting at the base of your scalp.

He gets his hand in your jeans, in your panties, runs two fingers down your cunt so easy with how wet you are already before rubbing bruising, slow circles on your clit. Your whole body jerks against Bucky’s hold on you, his thighs bracketing your body into the wall and his hand still fisted in your hair. Your mouth drops open in a soundless moan and you feel, rather than hear Bucky laugh against your throat. All executive function has diverted to the radiating ache of pure pleasure from Bucky’s fingers on you.

Bucky lets go of you hair only to press his hand on your throat, cold rings digging into your burnt-up skin and pressing you back into the wall. Long fingers tilt your jaw to look at him, increased pressure warning you against looking away, but you don’t want to anyway. Bucky’s eyes are dark like a sea storm, molten blue, and he squeezes his grip just once before saying, “Still think I’ve gone soft?”

Jesus christ, but you can’t answer him like this - not with your pulse thundering against his palm and the way he picks up the pace on your clit, making your thighs shake with the effort of holding yourself up. Bucky grins, boyish and crinkly, and it’s so at odds with the way he slides his two fingers down and pushes into you, twisting to the knuckle, that you think you might be losing your mind. Unravelling, Bucky pulling at the threads, and the only thing holding you together is his hand on your throat.

“Bucky,” you say, his name a broken breath as you start to lose focus. Everything’s hazy, glassy, your toes are going numb and tingly so you know it’s coming, building tight in your stomach as he rubs his fingers back and forth inside of you. At his name Bucky makes a sound almost like a growl, pressing his body against yours and somehow further into the wall. You need that contact, the press of his muscles holding you up as it gets harder and harder to breath with the heat coiling up inside of you. He presses his forehead against yours so all you can see is blue edged out by black, claiming your every breath and moan, drawing you in deeper and deeper because you’re his, now. There’s no way back from this.

He presses his thumb to your clit, thrusts his fingers deeper into you, mouth parting with yours as you moan as if he means to swallow the sound. You’re there, you’re right there, and then he kisses you so soft you might’ve imagined it and you’re coming, your whole body clenching up and whiting out while he finger fucks you through it.

Trembling muscles come to leant against the wall, barely holding yourself up as Bucky extricates himself and allows you room to breath. He gently tugs your jacket all the way off, freeing your arms to come up sluggish and heavy around his neck, holding on. He laughs, just quietly, letting you nuzzle your way into the side of his neck and breath in that warm honey Bucky smell as you try and regain mental functions. It’s hard. You think Bucky’s just blended up your brain with a swizzle stuck and sucked it out through a straw.

“C’mon,” he says, gravel rough, and nudges his nose against the side of your head. “Not done with you yet.”

“Hmph,” you say, but let yourself be picked up under the ass and wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you to his bedroom. You press a kiss to the skin of his neck you can reach with every second your body comes back online, digging your teeth in a little when he squeezes your ass as he walks. You’re both still fully clothes, basically, but you don’t plan to be for long. You’ve got tattoos to kiss and a dick you want anyway Bucky’ll let you. You’ve got all night, after all.

***

It’s late, you should be going, but you steal a few more minutes lying on Bucky’s chest. He’s sat up against the headboard, trying to braid little pieces of your hair with the cutest look of concentration on his face. The way he goes from dirty to dork always makes your heart do complicated things in your chest. You’re drumming your fingers on his chest, right next to his dog tags, and before you can overthink it too much you pause your drum solo to pick them up.

Bucky doesn’t pause in his hair-braiding but you can feel him watching you as you turn the worn metal over in your fingers. They’re well loved, a bit bent in places and the letters starting to rub flat but you can still read it. His birthday, March 10th, and his name. You’d never thought to read these before - they always seemed part of Bucky’s past, something you weren’t allowed into yet. But tonight has made you bold, and you run your thumb over the letters of his name so you can memorise the feel of them.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you mumble, words half said into his skin. Bucky hums but doesn’t respond, so you say, “I always knew no mother could look at their newborn child and call it Bucky.”

“Watch it,” Bucky warns, but without any real heat. You don’t ask what the tags mean, which war he fought in, when he got back. You lay them back on his skin carefully, straightening out the chain, before turning in Bucky’s arms to prop your chin on his chest piece and look at him.

“I should go,” you say, as you continue to lie there with legs tangled and Bucky’s hand now resting idle, cupping the back of your head. He bites his lip, strokes his big hand down the back of your hair and making you close your eyes for a second. You’re enjoying his touch too much, you’re getting too close for a man you don’t know. A man who you know has secrets you probably don’t want to uncover, but you can’t stop yourself.

“You could stay.” Bucky’s words hang there, suspended in the space between you. He’s never said that before. You never thought he would say that, ever. Bucky looks at you, face unreadable, and you don’t know why you feel sick to your stomach all of a sudden but you do. There are lines being crossed that you can’t backtrack from. You’re not ready to make that step yet.

“Not tonight,” you say, and it’s not a no but it’s not what Bucky wants to hear. He withdraws his hand from you, letting it drop uselessly to the bed beside him. You take that as your cue to go, rolling off the bed and dressing silently with Bucky’s eyes burning a hole in your skin.

You’re pulling away, trying desperately to regain some distance and control from his man who already has you swallowed whole, he just doesn’t know it yet. Even still, you can’t stop yourself crawling back on the bed and straddling his lap, holding his face in your hands as you kiss him. You want him to remember this - not you saying no, but the way your body will always say yes to him as he holds your hips and keeps you there, kissing you back as desperate as you feel.

But now you know you have reason to climb through the laundry room window that night and sneak away from Bucky’s apartment building, that you’re not just being paranoid because you’ve got photos to prove it. It’s that thought alone that makes it bearable to leave him, even if your heart is begging you to stay.

Part 3

#bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader fic #bucky x reader fic #bucky fic #reader insert fic #pov fic #biker!bucky #biker au #biker!bucky au #avengers fic #marvel fic #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #steve rogers #11 hours

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atinytokki · 3 years

Text

Paradise

vi. Bad Habit

“You be good now, son,” were Father’s parting words. “Listen to your grandparents. I’ll see you as soon as I can get away.”

He had already said his goodbyes to Haneul, who was locked away in her bedroom, sick.

With the end of Father’s visit came school, and while San had enjoyed meeting his peers and flying through his course work last year, he was afraid it would be too easy for him this time.

Days spent inside gazing forlornly out windows while someone else told him things he already knew sounded less adventurous than they always made it out to be. And it sounded a lot like Haneul’s current state of existence; a prisoner.

Over the remainder of summer she had worsened and worsened. There was no evidence of this other than her decreasing time spent out in the world and Dr. Hong’s increasing time spent at their cottage.

He had met with Father last night, on the eve of his departure, apologising about taxes and prices and other things San didn’t understand. What he did understand was that Haneul now needed a medicine more expensive than they could afford.

“You’ll do as you’re told, right?” Father nudged as he began to pull away from a tight hug. “They really need you now.”

San could only nod weakly and relinquish his grip on his father as he stepped up to the front seat of the cart and let Grandfather drive on in the direction of the western docks. He would work ceaselessly when he arrived at home, every extra coin sent to Namhae for Haneul’s sake.

Managing household affairs was supposed to be a distant future for San, but already as he stood in the ocean and watched the sunrise, he could feel it creeping up.

He couldn’t be sure whether anything Dr. Hong had done was working or not, and Haneul didn’t seem keen to tell him.

San had fed her, administered every type of medicine they had in the cabinets, sung to her, read to her, played half a game of cards with her, and still nothing was bringing her out of her darkened mood.

Playing cards against someone who would rather stare out the window wasn’t the most fulfilling.

“Is something out there?” A high-pitched voice interrupted his musings. Little Inho had approached, school bag slung over his shoulder, likely expecting San to walk him to school. It was his first year and he was very excited.

“No, no,” he answered in a rush. “Just my imagination. You’re early.”

San’s observation changed the topic swiftly, and Inho went on to explain why he had come at the crack of dawn. “The garrison is finished! Don’t you want to go see it?”

“Are you sure?” San snorted, adjusting his own school bag and beginning the walk into town. The last thing he wanted was for some construction accident to befall the clumsy boy and become his responsibility.

“Yes, the officers who will attend it have already moved in,” Inho told him confidently, leading the way past shops and vendors to the site which had earlier been the source of constant noise and disruption.

“Woah,” San breathed when he laid eyes on it. It was no mere naval building, but an entire complex built near the town hall, complete with a jailhouse, offices, armoury, and some strange sort of display at the front that San couldn’t put a name to.

“Oh, the stocks and the whipping post,” Inho supplied easily when he asked. “Haven’t you heard of it? That’s where the criminal goes.”

“I thought criminals went to jail… or to the noose,” San muttered uncomfortably. They hadn’t been showcased for the town to see in strange torture devices, but then again, San had lived in a small town.

“But sometimes they go to the stocks or the whipping post,” Inho told him matter-of-factly, even as he stumbled over the long words. “To be publicly shamed.”

“Do you think there will be many criminals there?” San asked, not sure who he was addressing his question to, or why he was even asking.

Inho could do no more than shrug and skip away in the direction of the schoolhouse, sending San hurrying after him.

Considering how smart Inho was, San had no worries about his performance in class, so he turned his thoughts to his own situation.

Other than the several new students— children of naval officers moving in, according to the morning announcements— nothing much had changed.

There were more arithmetic problems to solve, more scientific experiments to conduct, and more ancient tragedies that hit too close to home to read.

Due to Haneul’s absence, the schoolmaster sent books home on San’s back for her to read, and even when he tried reading them to her she didn’t become conscious enough to show signs of paying attention.

It seemed like she was getting worse and worse and their relationship was following suit.

The wind fluttered the curtains of his bedroom where San watched birds fly out to sea and wished he could follow.

For the evening it was just him and Haneul while their grandparents went on an evening walk along the beach.

It was the first of many evenings like that, where Haneul stayed in her room and San in his, alone save for his imagination, his books, and the small wooden pirate ship he had whittled in secret.

Regardless of the new boys he sometimes played with, San felt less and less connected as he entered his teenage years. As excited as he had been about Namhae when he arrived as a child, it no longer seemed that he belonged. That he had ever belonged in the first place.

Surrounded by the ocean, the very symbol of freedom, life was nonetheless monotonous and restricting. School was followed by work in the carpentry shop and then sitting in silence by Haneul’s bedside, watching his grandparents leave for their walk, and if he was lucky enough, sneaking out to play with his new friends along the beach at night.

Without really realising it, he was acting out the way he did as a small child when life was frustrating. San was a man of action, and if there was nothing to be done, he resorted to desperate but futile acts in a disturbed mood.

On one such winter evening the year he turned fourteen, his grandparents returned early from a shorter beach walk, hands held the whole time, to see San hurriedly putting the carpentry shop back together after some rowdiness with the officers’ children.

Neither of them spoke, and Grandmother simply padded upstairs to let her husband deal with the problem.

“Is anything broken?” He eventually asked a silent San, who quickly shook his head and continued putting chairs upright and tools back on the bench. “What exactly did you boys do in here?”

San exhaled through his nose before admitting, “We were studying at first but some of them brought die and cards so we ended up playing…”

“And drinking?” Grandfather finished for him, voice unchanged though there was disappointment in his eyes.

“No,” San lied smoothly. “Some of the older boys did, but—”

“But this is how you spend your evenings?” The older man cut to the heart of the matter, settling into his chair while a long pause unfolded in the wake of his question.

Maybe it was the effects of the rice wine but as soon as San opened his mouth, he couldn’t stop.

“I’ve been to probably every place on this whole island. I know everyone who lives here. If this is how I spend my evenings it’s because there’s nothing else to do. Haneul is upstairs dying and no one cares, not even Dr. Hong. Do you know it’s been six months since he recommended a new medicine? The one I feed her every day does nothing. The money Father sends from the mainland does nothing. All the books I read in school, and all the furniture we sell in the shop, and all the friends I make do nothing, Grandfather. Maybe if you would just fix up the sailboat like you promised when we first came, maybe then I’d feel like I wasn’t so trapped on this island where every day is the same and nothing I do changes anything.”

Finally out of breath, he couldn’t bear Grandfather’s heartbroken eyes on him any longer and ran to his room.

As he cried into his pillow he tried to pinpoint the moment it had all gone wrong. His life wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The more he thought about it in his hazy, turbulent mind, the more he realised it had always been this way. And it was never going to change.

Morning brought the same gentle quiet of crashing waves and calling birds and the walk to school. San managed to avoid seeing his grandparents until school was done for the day, too guilty to know what to say to them if he did.

He and Grandfather worked in silence on a set of new sliding windows for Mr. Shim, and San was content to keep it that way, letting his actions speak with apology instead of his words.

But soon enough Grandfather opened his mouth.

“Your father hasn’t been sending money.”

San sat up from his work and furrowed his brows in confusion.

“It’s too dangerous,” Grandfather explained with a sigh. “Pirates and all. We wouldn’t want it to be stolen.”

Pirates were a variable none of them had accounted for. Although San’s friends always assured him the Royal Navy had them on the run, they were enough of a threat for trade to be severely impacted.

“Would you like to come on some of our evening walks?” Grandfather offered as they cleaned up and closed the shop. “That’s how your Grandmother and I deal with being powerless, and it might keep you out of trouble.”

The truth was, San did want to go. He had always wanted to tag along, because anything was better than watching Haneul toss and turn with pained moans, her clouded eyes far away from him and the seaside paradise their home used to be.

But he turned up his nose and faced away to hide his wet eyes. “No.”

Not if the only reason was to keep him out of trouble.

Life went on that afternoon and every afternoon following, with the issue dropped. San didn’t invite his friends over again, and only arranged to meet them at one of their houses or the beach.

Just before winter break, he went out one evening and nearly stumbled over the sailboat. Muttering to himself, he bent down to push it out of the way before the reason for its appearance dawned on him.

“It’s fixed!” He realised, eyes filling up with happy tears as he danced around the thing and quickly ran to Mr. Shim’s to knock on the door.

“Excuse me, sir!” He panted when the old ferryman opened it for him. “The boat— our boat— my grandfather finally fixed it! Can you, I mean would you, if it’s not an inconvenience, possibly be able to teach me how to sail it?”

Mr. Shim blinked at him for a moment before straightening and taking a glance at the setting sun. “I’ll send Jiyong to meet you in the square tomorrow afternoon?”

A slow smile spread on San’s face as he nodded his agreement and bowed respectfully several times over in thanks.

Tomorrow afternoon couldn’t come soon enough.

San flew through his schoolwork and brushed off his friends, begged Grandfather to let him off work early just this once and arrived in town’s central square right on time.

It was busier than usual by the garrison, and as San approached the crowd that had gathered he learned why.

Someone was chained to the whipping post, and an officer was flogging him right there for the whole island to see.

Wincing as a blow struck the man’s skin and left angry red blood trails behind, San wondered aloud who was being punished.

“A pirate,” Jiyong’s voice answered him as he drew up alongside the teenager, joining the crowd with his arms crossed to peer above heads and view the spectacle. “Not sure whose crew he belongs to, but he’s definitely one of the pirates they caught over the weekend.”

It was no disturbing occurrence, San reminded himself in an effort to keep from plugging his ears against the pirate’s cries. He had seen pirates before, almost been attacked by one in that cave on Dalhae.

He should be happy a pirate was getting his comeuppance.

“What’s going to happen to him?” San couldn’t help but ask when the man was unchained and dragged back into the prison, listless and painted in his own blood.

Jiyong let out an acknowledging hum before launching into an explanation.

“Well, you see, according to our laws here in Jaecho, when someone is caught with reasonable suspicion of being a pirate or of aiding a pirate, the navy can within its rights have them imprisoned, whipped, and whatever other interrogation tactics they use in there. But it’s not always a good idea to beat a suspected pirate, especially in public, should the claim be proven wrong and the accused demand reparations and public apologies. That would be… embarrassing.”

“I take it that situation has happened before,” San snorted.

Jiyong joined the laughter for a moment before nodding reluctantly. “A few times that I can think of.”

The sound of the door closing ominously behind the unlucky prisoner brought San’s attention back to the man’s fate. “Will he be executed?”

“Not unless he’s a proven pirate,” Jiyong rattled off instantly. “And to be one of those you must be either found guilty and sentenced to death by court, or marked with a pirate brand from a previous encounter, in which case the trial can be skipped.”

San went pale when it dawned on him why. There must be so many executions to get to that skipping the court process for several of them was necessary.

Jiyong continued, oblivious, “The branding is Admiral Kim’s tactic of keeping track of pirates that may slip through his fingers the first time he arrests them without enough evidence. If he catches them again, in the act of piracy or not, as long as he finds a brand he can have them hung and whatever else he pleases as soon as the schedule allows. And all the other pirates will see the corpse hung from the gibbet and beware.”

San shivered but spoke up as he caught on, “So since this man has been at the whipping post, there’s a high chance he really is a pirate, just an unbranded one?”

“Exactly. Or else we might’ve been watching his execution.”

Knowing that was a sight he would rather not try to stomach, San turned towards the harbour and Jiyong followed him.

“How do you know all this about courts and convictions anyway?” He asked the older man, who laughed and rubbed his neck bashfully.

“I study law when I’m not working,” Jiyong admitted, frowning when San seemed confused by the fact. “Did you think I was only going to work for Mr. Shim for the rest of my life?”

“But you’re his apprentice, you’re supposed to take over his business,” San reminded him matter-of-factly, crossing his arms in a way that probably looked a tad childish. After all, that was what Grandfather expected of him with regards to the carpentry shop.

“There’s no reason I can’t do both,” Jiyong insisted as the ocean came into view. “You don’t have to just take what you’re given in this world, ferrying passengers is fine but if there’s a chance to move up in status, I’d be a fool not to take it. Besides, it’s not like you haven’t taken up some bad habits.”

Clearly knowing too much, he accompanied his final remark with a wink and San found it necessary to change the subject to sailing before his behaviour was further exposed.

San got his first taste that day as Jiyong taught him everything he could possibly learn in a single afternoon about the handling of a small sailboat. And the following weekend he taught him everything else he could learn.

Grandfather had fixed the vessel for him in order to satiate his rebellious desires but, even as grateful as San was for his gift, the boat was quickly put to use for more unruly evenings.

He played hooky on and off for the rest of the school year, just enough to avoid being caught, and went out when he wasn’t permitted to. From his perspective it wasn’t as if he sailed into dangerous waters or endangered other passengers, and what Grandfather didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

For the time being it seemed he had no inkling. Haneul, on the other hand, did.

“Were you sailing?” The muttered question, barely louder than a whisper, interrupted his reading aloud.

San could only blink at her, surprised, as she gazed at him with her clear and piercing eyes, reflecting the candlelight by her bedside.

“You’re awake…” he breathed, stumbling to his feet in excitement. “Yes I was sailing, how did you know?”

Haneul’s expression didn’t change, but she glanced out the window and her eyes landed on the autumn moon. School had begun again after a scorching summer and San continued his nightly adventures unbeknownst to anyone else.

“You smell of the sea.”

San sat down again but closed the book and placed it on the table. Haneul hadn’t directly spoken to him in a couple of weeks, and even when she was coherent enough to do so, they never had much to talk about.

“Is it true you’re going to visit Father?” She asked quietly after a moment. It sounded like she wished she could come along.

San wasn’t sure how she even knew about those plans, considering the fact that he had only just asked Grandfather for permission that afternoon, but he nodded in answer and watched her face fall.

“I would bring you along but you’re still feeling ill and you don’t like sailing anyway and—”

“You need more attention than you’ve been getting,” she translated softly.

And, as usual, Haneul was correct but it embarrassed San to admit it.

“It’s just that I haven’t spent much time with him in the past few years.”

Because when he visits, he spends it with you, went unsaid.

“I’ll go over to Dr. Hong’s and ask if Eunkyung and Eunae can come visit you after school so you aren’t alone,” San offered when she didn’t reply.

The prospect brightened her mood for the rest of the evening, and as promised, San knocked on the neighbours’ door with his request before bed.

Eunkyung and Eunae had been too busy to manage more than a few afternoons at the Choi cottage, especially since there weren’t many games Haneul could participate in from the confines of her bed.

“How long will you be gone?” Inho asked with a pout as San slipped his shoes back on and prepared to go home, arrangements made.

“I’m not sure yet, maybe a week or so? You can survive walking to school without me for that long, right?”

Inho huffed but eventually agreed. “My noonas can take me. They’re boring compared to you, though.”

San couldn’t help but blush at the praise and gave the young boy an affectionate head pat before walking home and crawling into bed.

Perhaps it had been an exaggeration when he thought no one cared about him anymore. Sure, he often was alone and felt more like an outsider than ever, but he had Haneul, he had his grandparents, he had Inho and Jiyong and his friends at school, and most of all, he had sailing.

He dreamed about wind in his hair and sea grass bending over as if greeting a prince, the sky on fire with colour before him as he proceeded to his boat.

It was practically sailing itself across smooth and shining waves and San could sit back and feel the setting sun on skin.

He was where he belonged.

...

A/N: I have become swamped my school :< Been meaning to write this for some time, hopefully I’ll get a schedule underway but thanks for your patience, don’t forget to comment and motivate me lol and stay tuned ❤️

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kettle-on · 3 years

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This one did not go as well as I hoped, but then I always think that when I'm about to post a chapter.

If I knew how to write it, there could be optional smut at the end of this one, but I have zero confidence (or imagination) when it comes to that, so apologies but no, there's none here.

You'll just hafta make it up yourselves

(Still, this chapter does have one of my favourite little bits so far!)

attn: @jessm78 @coincidence-ithinknots-blog

Previous Chapter

Chapter 6

“There’s something almost kingly about waking up alone,” declared John Cleese as he and Eric made their way to the morning room to start the day’s work. They had both set out early, Eric having slept quite poorly, perched atop his typewriter, and John unusually well-rested.

“The peace and privacy and space,” he continued, “Yes, I think it sets one up rather well for the day.”

“If you say so,” Eric abided with a small smile.

Before recently, Eric’s preference was to fall asleep with a girl beside him and by the time he’d wake up in the morning, she would be long gone. Thus went the final years of his previous marriage, rocky and uncommitted – his “asshole years” as he’d come to refer to them. As all things tend to do, marriage seemed like the right idea at the time, but the seductive adventure of fame was more than Eric had bargained for.

“How are things with you and Connie, anyway?” he asked his now strutting friend.

In fact, none of the visitors had seen any sign of John’s wife Connie Booth for months. The two had never been particularly candid about their relationship, but other than seeing her on the television in late-night repeats of Fawlty Towers (of which plans for a second series were now rumoured), she remained mostly unseen.

“I’m not going to talk about it,” said John with finality.

“Oh come on, John.”

“No. I’m not going to,” he repeated, stroking his mustache.

“Not even to advise your old pal?”

They had reached their destined room, and John set to work immediately rearranging the cushions on the sofas and armchairs.

“Eric, you’ve just spent Christmas in the West Indies with a beautiful woman. You don’t need my advice.”

“I just don’t want to mess up again,” Eric confessed heavily, plopping his curled copy of the script onto an end table. “All the shit from before. Is it really worth going through that again?”

“Why? God! Don’t tell me you’re marrying Lyn again,”

“No! No, obviously I mean Y/N.”

“And? She’s a very nice girl, so what’s the problem now?”

Eric was baffled, and searched his hands for an answer.

“Eric, every relationship is a new start,” John began, suddenly soulful. “Every marriage is a new set of conditions and variables. You know that. Y/N comes with entirely different features and functions, and even you - you’re different to what you were before. You’ll be different every time. Except for some things, of course. You’ll always be an ugly, greedy bastard with a smart mouth and no sense of occasion.”

“Cheers,”

“But you’ve come a long way - I’ll say that for you. Anyway, what does Y/N have to say?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it.”

Raising his eyebrows and lowering his chin, John gave Eric his famously unimpressed face, “Well that’s your first problem. I can’t imagine what’s stopping you.”

“Can’t you?” asked Eric, looking up from under his fringe.

Against the wishes of the house staff, lunch was taken later in the day (“teatime” as Terry Jones insisted) on a folding picnic table on one of the many lawn areas around the lot. With the addition of a cotton table cloth and wooden bench seating, Mr. Brown the butler couldn’t refrain from voicing his distaste. Eric and Michael doubled up with charm to convince him to leave it be.

“See how nice it looks with the rhododendrons all around us!” Michael demonstrated.

“Yes, and you needn’t worry about the table cloth; I’ve pulled it off the bed,” added Eric in jest before abandoning Mr. Brown altogether, and they strutted arm-in-arm across the grass to join the others at the table.

Their camaraderie extended even as far as the last piece of fresh olive bread left in the basket. Sat side by side, Eric and Michael were mirror images, their arms reaching into the basket in the middle of the table, when their knuckles collided.

“Oh! Sorry - ”

“Sorry - ”

“You have it.”

“No no, please. Take it.”

“No, I’m fine. It’s yours.”

“Well, only if you don’t want it.”

“I do want it, but only if you’d rather not.”

“Oh, you have it then.”

“Don’t you want it?”

“Yes, but you - ”

They were cut short by Terry Gilliam’s arm of God reaching between them, grabbing the piece of bread, and aggressively gobbling it up.

Afternoon chat was considerably more relaxed and domestic than evening party topics. At this time of day, rockstars and millionaires turned into normal people who were content to discuss the shapes of teabags, and revisit childhood moments of blowing on a blade of grass between their thumbs to make it whistle.

Y/N felt most at ease here. She shifted slightly and propped her feet up on the bench opposite, next to Eric’s side, the table cloth gently covering her toes. Before long, she felt the familiar comfort of fingers around her ankles. Eric was always dutiful to show he was never out of reach.

He was already looking at her when she raised her gaze to him, and his smile grew. From time to time, they’d share a moment like this one - at home in each other’s eyes, unspoken declarations of attraction, of love and affection.

“What are you trying to send that’s costing you 8 dollars?” Eric’s voice cut their silent exchange as he cordially re-entered the table conversation.

Terry Jones seemed to be unsure as to how shocked he ought to be at a recent postal charge.

“Why not just hang on to it and take it back with you – it’s only another ten days,” suggested Eric.

“Well I’m hoping I’ll manage to forget about it, and it’ll be great surprise when I get home,” Terry just about managed to explain before his conviction crumbled into resigned chuckles.

Before long, plates emptied and glasses were refilled from water jugs and wine bottles. Across the table, Eric and Y/N’s eyes met again, exchanging a look of “let’s go be alone somewhere.”

Laying a small paper down on the table, Eric began to manufacture an expertly rolled spliff, and only then did Y/N notice… both of his hands were occupied, and yet her ankle was still being stroked. Shifting her eyes, she caught sight of Michael, peering over his glass at her with impatient eyes, his other hand out of sight. Noticing he’d been found out at last, he lifted his head in exaggerated confusion, darting around and attempting to look elsewhere. Despite herself, Y/N stifled a giggle.

“Coming?” Eric asked softly with a smile as he rose from the bench, and Y/N quickly withdrew her now tingling ankles.

The grounds at Heron Bay included paths perfect for meandering afternoon strolls without straying very far from the main house. This afternoon, Eric and Y/N chose the garden route, passing a tidy swimming pool, and over a small bridge toward the far end of the beach. Clasping hands, their arms swung gently between them as they walked.

“I wonder if I’ve taken enough photos of this place yet.” said Y/N when they stepped off of the bridge. “I don’t ever want to forget how beautiful it is, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to remember all the details.”

“We can always come back, you know,” said Eric. “I wouldn’t pass up another few weeks.

“What about you?” he asked and gently pulled her toward him, wrapping an arm around her back as if they were to start dancing. “Are you having a wonderful time?”

“Wonderful!” replied Y/N with a wide smile.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm!”

“You sure?”

His tone was not doubtful, but the slight furrowing of his gentle eyebrows showed concern. But what was he getting at? Was she not convincing?

“Well I… I guess I’m not really used to being away from home for so long. Especially not somewhere with table service, and a tennis court, and dinner with The Rolling Stones. It’s, um… it’s a lot. But it’s wonderful!”

They continued their stroll along the beach hand-in-hand as before. The mood was once again slow and easy and peaceful, though Eric seemed ever so slightly more pensive – a typical development when “partaking in grass,” as he liked to describe it.

“Have you been talking to Michael?” he asked suddenly.

“Michael?” Y/N repeated.

“He’s great with this sort of thing.”

What sort of thing? she wanted to ask. She still felt uneasy asking Eric to repeat himself or clarify something, as if querying him was proof that they were somehow not in sync like he believed they were. But hadn’t they just had a moment of silent connection earlier?

Stupid, silly girl. She smartened up. Just speak. But just as she opened her mouth, Eric spoke again.

“So have you fallen in love with him yet?”

“What?” Y/N was breathless.

“Everyone falls in love with Mike Palin at some point,” he explained with one of his cheekier smiles.

“I uh...” she faltered, whether from the suggestion or from Eric’s grin, she wasn’t sure. “I don’t think so, no.”

Eric took a long pull on his gradually disappearing joint and nodded.

“Give it time,” he said with confidence. “You’ll see.”

They soon came across a small secluded bower, lightly shaded by swaying trees that dotted the coastline. Here they would pause for a while, away from disturbance, with only the ocean to meet them.

Y/N sat between Eric’s long legs, his arms at either side of her, resting on his knees. She leaned back into his warm chest and he kissed her ear. It seemed like a long time since they had last been alone together – work on the film script had taken over the day time, and famous visitors kept their nights busy and bustling. Y/N pondered the photos she had already taken, and how even the best ones couldn’t capture this current bliss: the warmth of the sun and the ground, the waves hushing in the near distance, the earthy and fiery smell from Eric’s quality cannabis, and his long and loving limbs around her.

After several minutes of comforting silence, Eric spoke:

“So,” he blew out quickly, “what do you think about getting married?”

Y/N turned on her spot to look at him, feeling her heartbeat quicken.

“I think you’re a little too stoned to be proposing right now.”

“I don’t mea-…” he began, cutting himself off with laughter. “I’m not proposing, I just wanted to know your thoughts on it. I guess Ricky and Penny got me thinking, and… and I was just… thinking.”

Y/N kept a focus on him. He wasn’t used to stumbling over words, but now… what was she going to say?

“And I’m not stoned,” he managed to get out through breathy nervous laughter.

“Well, I think…” Y/N turned her gaze to the surrounding trees, and tried to consider her words carefully.

“I think a lot of people these days do it for the wrong reasons, or they think they have to. I look around and see so many marriages falling apart that it kind of takes the romance out of it.”

Eric gave another few nods as he took a final drag.

“If I get married,” said Y/N, “I’m going to have to really want to stay together, y’know? And not just give up when something gets tough. Otherwise what’s the point?”

“Well, there’s money,” suggested Eric sarcastically, and he stubbed out the remains of his joint on a nearby rock.

“Money…” Y/N repeated. She slowly turned to face him again.

“Yeah, marry for money, and then split with a nice settlement.”

“What a great idea,” she said, meeting his hazy expression.

“You think so?”

“Mhmm,” she hummed, and her lips hovered above his. “Sounds sleazy. I like it.”

“Yeah, it suits you.”

They kissed slowly, with no rush or anticipation. Herbal sweetness lingered on Eric’s lips, and Y/N delighted in their soft encouragement.

“Hmm. So, how much money you got?” she asked with pretend seriousness, back to playing the game after their make out.

“Well…” he began. He spoke slowly but animated. “I’ve got… ninety-thousand pounds… in my pyjamas.”

“Oh yeah?” She knew where this was going.

“And I’ve got forty thousand French francs in my fridge…”

“Oh no,” she groaned and dropped her head onto his bony chest. Eric was infamous for bursting into song, particularly ones he was quite proud of having performed for Python.

“There is nothing quite as wonderful as money -,” he began the silly song, bouncing his knees and shoulders as he sang, and snaking his arms around her waist.

“Fuck off, you capitalist!” Y/N protested, though she couldn’t help her laughter.

She was only just able to silence him with kisses, but their shared laughter continued as they lay on the soft ground, rolled over together, and made themselves more comfortable for an afternoon romp.

#it's been pouring with cold rain here for weeks #so this fic is really becoming an escape for me #barbados fic #monty python fanfic #eric x michael x reader #eric idle fanfic #michael palin fanfic #jenny's writing

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thepartyresponsible · 4 years

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this fill is for verdantmoth, who asked for winterhawk. so here’s an alternate timeline where clint goes awol after the battle of new york, and, eventually, he and bucky end up working for the same circus.

Bucky falls in with the circus when it tours through Bucharest. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. They need manual labor and dependable security, someone intimidating enough to scare off troublemakers but not likely to cause trouble himself. And Bucky needs to move and keep moving, needs to eat, needs to sleep.

It’s still cold, so nobody asks any questions about his long sleeves and gloves. Nobody asks any questions at all, really. Except the archer.

As far as Bucky can clock, the archer is the only American traveling with the circus. He’s tall and blonde and muscular and handsome, has spiderwebs of old scars across his knuckles and elbows, lightning-forks of long-healed knife wounds across the blades of his forearms. He speaks Spanish like he learned it in public school, French like he learned it in Louisiana, Russian like he learned it in prison, and English like he’s fresh from Midwestern farmland, like sometimes he likes vowels so much he can’t quite let them go.

His name’s Clint. He gives a different last name every time someone asks.

“And what did you say your name was?” Clint asks, early on, with a half-smile like he knows damn well Bucky never gave one.

“James,” he says, because that’s what he read off the plaque at the museum before he caught a freighter heading east out of Boston.

“Uh-huh,” Clint says. His smile grows roots and blooms, and there’s no aggression in his eyes, but there’s a watchfulness, a weighing-up. “Your parents give you a last name, James?”

“Rogers,” Bucky says, because he figures last names are about families, and Steve Rogers is the only thing that makes him feel homesick.

“Got it,” Clint says. But he doesn’t sound like he believes it.

Clint isn’t in his way very often. He just checks in, from time to time. He must be watching Bucky more than he’s letting Bucky see, because he tends to materialize on particularly bad nights. He brings beer or sometimes whiskey, cigarettes to share. One time, he brings a bottle of clear alcohol in an old jelly jar, and it’s so potent that it almost – almost – has an effect.

“You should be careful with that,” Bucky says, when the bottle’s half gone. Every time he sips, his lips go numb and then sting for a handful of heartbeats. He can’t imagine what it’s doing to Clint, who, despite his perfect aim and perfect arms, doesn’t seem to be enhanced.

“Oh, careful,” Clint says. He half-hums, half-sighs the second syllable of the word, flat on his back on top of his trailer and staring up at the stars.

It’s a strange thing, the night sky. Sometimes, when Bucky looks up, he gets flashes of being here before. Europe was different then. The geography, the buildings. The people. The stars were brighter, he thinks. When they weren’t cloaked over with smoke and ash.

“No fucking use being careful, James,” Clint says. He’s smiling when he says it, but it’s not one of the smiles Bucky likes.

“Plenty of use,” Bucky says. He picks the jelly jar up and relocates it to the other side of his hip. If Clint wants it back, he’ll have to crawl over Bucky to get it. And, as far as Bucky can tell, they haven’t progressed quite that far yet.

“You’re careful,” Clint says, more like a confession than an accusation, “and you’re good, and you work real fucking hard. You try to do things right. And you know what fucking happens?”

What happens is you fall off a train in the Swiss Alps, and HYDRA cuts your mangled arm off with no anesthetic, and they set your brain on fire over and over again until the ashes fall in an arrangement they can use.

“No,” Bucky says. “What happens?”

Clint breathes out, slow and even. Controlled. “You ever fuck up so bad you can’t let people look at you anymore?”

Bucky closes his eyes, and it’s like a lightshow on his eyelids. Faces of all the people he’s killed. We’re building a better world.

Sometimes, he has nightmares. And it should be the things he’s done. It should be all the blood, the kill shots into civilians, the families he’s put down. But it never is. The thing that scares him the most is Steve Rogers, reaching for him. Steve Rogers, with his own blood on his face. Cuz I’m with you til the end of the line.

Sometimes he dreams that Steve finds him, and it scares him so fucking bad he has to go on half-mile, one-mile, two-mile, and five-mile perimeter checks, circling broader and broader and then back in. Can’t sleep for shit after, has to work into the red-gray of exhaustion just to make himself stand down.

Someday, Steve Rogers is going to find him, and he’s going to call him Bucky Barnes, and Bucky doesn’t know what the hell he’s going to do.

He can’t fit back into that skin. They cut him out of it. There’s not enough left to stitch shut.

He can live with being a monster, just so long as nobody knows he used to be a man.

“You don’t like when people look at you?” Bucky asks, because he’s been learning about tightrope walking since he joined up, and what he’s learned is that you don’t look down, don’t think about the rope until you have to.

“Well.” Clint props himself up on his elbows, looks over, and grins, crooked and inviting. If there are ghosts at the backs of his eyes, Bucky chooses not to see them. “I don’t mind when you look.”

Bucky likes watching Clint shoot. He doesn’t go to the shows, because he can’t tolerate the noise of them, the crowd, all the variables he’d need to track to feel safe in a place like that. But nobody cares what he does for long portions of the day, so he finds himself watching Clint practice, sometimes.

He never startles him, and he never tries too. But he doesn’t make a big production about showing up to sit in the grass of whatever field Clint’s found and watch as he nails bullseye after bullseye.

“You ever wanna try, James,” Clint says, once, “just let me know.”

But Bucky isn’t interested in a bow, doesn’t want anything like a weapon in his hands. And he doesn’t break that habit until a bar outside Bratislava, when he’s antsy, feeling exposed, and wishing he hadn’t let Clint’s blue eyes drag him out from the comfortable, anonymous trailer he shares with two hulking Russians who never speak to him beyond asking, politely, what groceries he would like them to pick up.

“They want you, too,” Clint says, half-drunk and animated, gesturing over his shoulder to a pair of locals he’s befriended.

Bucky must make some kind of face, because Clint immediately laughs. “To play,” he says. “Jesus, James. They wanna play doubles. Darts, not a foursome. I wouldn’t just barter you off like that. Not for two beers, come on.”

And he seems happy. Loose-limbed, even-keeled. There’s a misery that comes over him, sometimes, but it’s not here now. And Bucky doesn’t want to ruin that for him. Clint, whatever his secrets, whatever it is he thinks he’s done, is sweet and good-natured and patient with children and stray animals. Good, in all the ways Bucky thinks he used to be, too.

He’s nice. And Bucky isn’t, but Clint makes him want to remember how.

The darts feel like nothing in his hand. Lightweight, not dangerous. He could take out an eye with one, but the tips are so blunted that he’s not sure he could make a killshot. Maybe if he used his left.

Probably if he used his left.

He uses his right. Clint, who’s a showoff even when he isn’t drunk, alternates between hands. They outpace the Slovakians so bad that they laugh off the idea of a rematch, and Clint tightens his hand around Bucky’s wrist and tugs him out into the alley behind the bar.

It’s not that Clint’s mouth on his is a surprise, exactly. But there’s a difference in logically knowing something is likely to happen and actually facing the reality of its arrival. It’s surprising the way Christmas is surprising, like homecoming after long travel or recovery after weeks of illness.

Sometimes hoping for a thing makes it feel impossible.

But Clint’s mouth is insistent, soft and playful. Confident. He tastes like cheap beer, and his hands curl around Bucky’s hips like they’re staking some kind of claim.

“Goddamn, James,” Clint says, mouthing his way down to Bucky’s neck. “You’re a fucking sniper, huh? Been holding out. You never said.”

Something happens at the word sniper. Bucky’s here, and he’s on a ridge, with a rifle, watching Steve give away his position by saluting right the hell at him. Because of course he did. Because Steve plays soldier, but he hasn’t lost one. Not yet.

“Hey,” Clint says. His lips move against the skin of Bucky’s throat, and Bucky flinches, backpedals straight into the brick wall behind him, and he’s not trapped, not in any danger, but numbers rise up in his throat, a serial number that wants out, and he’s too busy swallowing the whole mess of it back down to tell Clint that it’s okay, that he’s fine, that it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just his useless fucking brain misfiring.

“Hey,” Clint says, again. “Are you--”

His hand curls comfortingly around Bucky’s shoulder, but he’s touching the metal arm. He probably can’t feel the cold of it through the thick fabric of Bucky’s jacket, not the way Bucky can feel it every morning, as the metal leeches warmth from his skin, but Clint’s smart, and observant, and it’s only so long before he figures out there’s something wrong about him.

“I gotta,” Bucky says, accent swerving way too far into Brooklyn. “I need to go,” he says, and that’s not even in English. That’s Russian. He’s so far gone that he’s speaking Russian. To Clint. Jesus.

“Okay,” Clint says, hands up, moving back. “That’s fine, James. I’ll just settle up inside, and then we’ll--”

But Bucky’s going to have to pay him back, because he can’t stay. He can’t. He shifts past him, jarring him with his shoulder because his depth perception’s fucked, and then he’s up the alley and gone.

He doesn’t watch Clint shoot anymore. And when Clint tries to find him, Bucky finds ways to make that difficult until, after a week or so, Clint stops trying.

HYDRA tracks him down outside of Vilnius, and Bucky isn’t ready for them. He has a knife at his side and a knife at his back, but his guns are in his trailer, in a locked trunk. The children of the circus are nosy, and friendly, and fond of him; he’d wanted to keep the guns as far from them as possible.

“Soldat,” one of them says. His accent is American. He’s only using Russian now to make it clear he knows the words that’ll rewrite Bucky’s brain. “It’s time to come in for recalibration.”

There are times, even now, when Bucky wants that. He isn’t getting better in a linear fashion. It’s a scattershot, a splatter pattern. Somedays he wakes up, and all he wants is a mission. It was easier then.

But he knows what manner of mission they would give him. And beyond that, he remembers the chair. Steve Rogers may have walked willingly into the machine that unmade him, but he only had to do it once. Bucky’s not sure even Steve’s bravery would’ve held out the tenth time, the fiftieth.

“No,” he says, because he might as well, while he has the chance. While his mouth still belongs to him, he might as well use it.

“Soldat,” the man says, again. And there’s an expression on his face like he’s disappointed, but his eyes are eager, and laughing.

“Gentlemen,” Clint says. He’s beyond the circle of HYDRA agents, fifteen feet back, with his bow in his hands. “Show’s not for another four hours, and he’s not part of it anyway. Time to move on.”

“He’s an old friend,” the leader says. “We’re taking him home.”

“You’re taking him nowhere,” Clint says. Casual, bored, and vaguely annoyed. Like he’s caught someone slipping into the tent without tickets.

“And you’re going to stop us?” the man asks. He’s half-laughing, and it’s well-earned. Clint’s in old sweatpants and a purple hoodie; his hair’s tufted up on one side like he was asleep ten minutes ago. “With your bow and your blunted arrows? I’m not afraid of bruises. Why don’t you--”

The arrow sprouts from his eye like a sapling. Burrows straight through into his skull. He jerks and topples over, dies on the fall down.

“That one was blunted,” Clint says, with that same irritated tone. “The rest aren’t. Got a few that blow up, too. You guys wanna see ‘em?”

There’s a single moment of stillness. The tense bit of pause between realization and reaction. Bucky takes out his knives, and the Winter Soldier goes to work.

They don’t really speak until after they get a motel room in Bialystok. Clint arranges it, chatting in Polish to the desk clerk. He sounds like a native speaker, and Bucky stands there with his bag on his back and reflects on the fact that Clint’s accent was always a choice.

“Look,” Clint says, once they’re in the room. There’s one bed, but Bucky doesn’t think the plan is to sleep. The plan, probably, is to split up. To create a record of them checking in here and then rabbit off in separate directions. Bucky thinks maybe he’ll backtrack into Lithuania or dash down south to Ukraine, maybe catch a flight and leapfrog anywhere.

“We are in,” Clint continues, “kind of a complicated situation.”

“Not that complicated,” Bucky says. “You should head west. I’ll go east.”

Clint’s eyebrows snap together. “I blew my cover all to hell for you,” he says. “We’re not splitting up now, Barnes.”

And Bucky never, ever gave Clint that name.

“Hey,” Clint says. “Hey, fuck you, don’t look at me like that. I’m not a threat to you. I’m just not a Goddamn idiot. James Rogers, are you kidding?”

Bucky saw Clint fight. They left seven men dead, and most of those were Clint’s kills. But in close quarters, Bucky’s better. And in every arena, he’s hardier.

“I don’t blame you,” Clint says, which doesn’t make sense. “For fucking off. I did it, too. But if HYDRA can find you, SHIELD can find you. And if either gets close, Tony Stark’s gonna know about it. If Stark knows, Steve knows, and--- just listen. Jesus.”

Bucky can’t help the way he flinches. Steve’s face, bloodied up. Steve, reaching out, because Bucky wears the face of a dead man, and Steve thinks there’s something left to grab onto.

“We have to go back,” Clint says. He sounds tired. He looks tired. “We were always gonna have to. Better to go than be dragged, Barnes.”

“You,” Bucky says, and then stops. Thinks it through. He knows all of Steve’s Avengers, but there was one who went missing after New York. Hawkeye. HYDRA had marked him down as dead; SHIELD had him as MIA, presumed KIA.

He was blonde, and muscular, and deadly with a bow.

“Hawkeye?” he asks. “You’re dead.”

Clint grimaces at the name and then smiles. “Well, look at that,” he says. “Guess it’s prophecy, right? ‘One fine morning in the middle of the night, two dead men got up to fight.’”

Bucky blinks at him. “Is that what we’re gonna do?” Bucky has a bag of weapons on his back, and he doesn’t want to use any of them. He can feel the blood of the dead HYDRA agents on his hands, hot and slippery, damning. “We’re gonna fight?”

Clint shrugs. When he smiles, his mouth is aw-shucks, but his eyes are aw, hell. “Well,” he says. “Not each other, I hope.”

Bucky thinks, of all things, about the feel of Clint’s mouth against his, the warmth of him, the way he used to look over at Bucky like he was something worth earning instead of something he deserved to keep.

It’s only after he realizes he doesn’t want to fight Clint that his brain starts working on how he’d do it, if he had to. It’s been years and years since he prioritized an emotional reaction over a practical one.

“No,” Bucky says. “I don’t want to.”

“Good,” Clint says. “Me either.”

It sounds so easy when Clint says it. Like that’s a choice he thinks they get to make. But Bucky will hurt anyone he’s aimed at.

“I can’t,” he says. “I’m not--- I’ll do whatever they tell me to do. I’m not safe. I don’t always have control. I kill good people.”

Clint’s smile hooks up wide, but it’s the ugliest one Bucky’s seen yet. Cutting like scalpel. Crooked and hateful and sad. “Well, hell, Barnes,” he says, “we’re a pair. It’s like we were made for each other.”

The way Clint says it makes it sound like a sentencing, but it bounces back and forth between Bucky’s ribs like a promise.

He doesn’t know what Clint did. He doesn’t even know everything he’s done himself. But he thinks, if they were made for each other, that’s better than being made for no one at all.

But, still. He has to say it. He can’t let good things happen just because they’re easy. “If I hurt you--”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Clint says, jaw tightening. “It’s never me that gets hurt.”

And Bucky figures that’s not true. But he understands. It’s the same for him. He does get hurt. HYDRA used to hurt him all the time. But he hurt other people worse, so, in the scale of things, what happened to him doesn’t matter. After all, he lived through it.

“HYDRA’s gonna come looking for me,” he says. It’s a warning, the last one he has.

Clint shrugs it aside like it’s nothing. “Good. That’ll make them easy to find.”

“I’m not worth all this,” he says. And that’s not a warning. It’s a confession.

“Me either,” Clint says, with a smile. ��Like I said, Barnes. We’re a pair.”

Maybe they are, and maybe they aren’t. Maybe they’re just going to get each other killed. But Bucky has nightmares about Steve, because he’s not ready for Steve to see what he’s become. Clint’s had a good long look at what Bucky is now, and he doesn’t know enough to be disappointed or disgusted.

A pair of killers, a pair of failures. A pair of people who kill people better than themselves.

Bucky doesn’t know what he deserves, after everything he’s done. But Clint, at least, deserves not to be alone.

“Okay,” he says. He doesn’t know how the hell he’d even begin to say no, when Clint’s looking at him like he’s the last chance he’s got. “Okay, yeah,” he says. “We’ll stick together.”

Maybe, this time, they’ll get to stay that way.

#writing #fic #fill #winterhawk

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bemused-writer · 4 years

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VNC Chapter 46 Analysis

Mochizuki's ability to pack so much into a singular chapter is truly a gift. In this chapter we get a lot of Dominique's POV, which was awesome, but pretty dreary. However, I don't think any of us can blame her; she once told Noé she worried about him blaming himself for what happened to Louis, but she never mentioned how much she is still bearing a great burden from the very same incident.

There's a lot to unpack in this sentence alone, but it reveals a lot about Dominique's mindset. In past chapters, we've already seen that she harbors a great deal of self-doubt; she isn't living up to her family's expectations and she's convinced the man she loves would prefer a different kind of woman, i.e. someone more like Jeanne. However, we see here that her self-doubt is actually better characterized as self-loathing. She doesn't consider herself suitable for Noé whatsoever. So, what is it that she thinks Louis has that she doesn't? She's gone to a lot of trouble to imitate him, after all. I think we can break her perceived failings into the following: 1) She can't be with Noé 24/7. I think a large part of why she thinks Louis would have been a better partner for Noé than herself is because they already lived together. He could have traveled with Noé to Paris, lived with him there, helped him handle Vanitas, Murr, and even Teacher. Basically, she assumes Louis would be ever present at Noé's side in a way she cannot. 2) An outgoing nature/ease of communication. Dominique believes that Noé had an easier time talking to Louis than he does with her. She saw Louis as smart and capable rather than meek and timid. What she doesn't realize is that Noé and Louis actually had a ton of communication problems and that Louis was incredibly withdrawn. I suppose that's the kind of misconstrued takeaway one has when dealing with someone they idolize and another they're crushing on. She doesn't have the clearest sense of their flaws. (Side note: I think it's kind of amusing that she just assumes Louis would be shorter than Noé. I mean, he was taller than him at the time...) So, even before Louis's death Dominique was dealing with some pretty heavy self-esteem issues, but we really see just how far they've developed over the years. The days following his death seem to really have taken a final toll:

Now, this is something I've wondered about for a while, but it's sad to have it confirmed. As I mentioned, Dominique was worried Noé blamed himself, but the truth of it is Dominique blames herself for Louis's death. The reason she's worried about Noé is because she sincerely believes that the only person worthy of this blame is herself. She thinks that if she had simply kept quiet, Louis would still be alive. Judging by how timid Dominique still is at home, I think this philosophy has followed her for her whole life: stay quiet and out of the way and things will be fine. It's completely different from how she is around Noé, but that's because she is trying to put on a persona she thinks Noé would prefer over her actual personality, i.e. Louis's personality. Of course, Noé cares about Dominique because she's one of his best friends; she doesn't need to do this to herself, but she doesn't realize that. She's fixated on this idea of adjusting herself until Noé sees her in the right light and her family accepts her. Unfortunately, we're dealing with a trio whose communication skills are epically bad. Louis asks Dominique to give Noé the chest "when the time is right." How is she supposed to know when that is? And how could he actually expect Noé to put those stakes to use? But the thing is that none of these characters are thinking clearly. Louis was a young person stuck on the idea that he was cursed and going to die. He refused to talk about it to his friends because, well, what could they do about it? Dominique is ridden with insecurities and couldn't be expected to handle the responsibility Louis gave her, and Noé cared far too much about Louis to fulfill his wish. The only person who could have stepped in and sorted any of this out was Teacher, but he's the one who allowed all of it to happen in the first place. So, Dominique does the only thing she can think to do at the time: stay at Noé's side.

Dominique is terrified here; I really think this might be the first time she's ever stood up to Veronica and it's only because of how urgent things are. We've seen in the present that Veronica has absolutely no qualms going toe-to-toe with her own sister or with publicly shaming her in front of the entire vampiric court. This is not a kind woman. And we see that she was no better in the past. Dominique is frightened of her, and then Veronica gives all of her fears and anxieties the final push they need to plague her for the rest of her life. She takes malignant glee at how her sister has been left in the dark (as if this is Dominique's fault; maybe her family should actually try telling her things...), mocks her, and then reveals her birth itself was a shame on the family.

Cruel though this is, it does remind me of a question I've had for a little while now: how do vampires procreate exactly? Apparently, they have to give birth on a full moon, which is already pretty different from their human counterparts. Now we hear that twins are unlucky because they "steal more life." What, exactly, does that mean? I suspect it doesn't simply imply that it makes the pregnancy more strenuous. Could it be that vampires have to very literally give up some of their lifespan to create offspring? Do they have to perform some kind of sacrifice? But it can't be wholly different from humans; otherwise we wouldn't have dhampirs. Well, we'll undoubtedly learn more about that at some point, but it is an interesting concept. Anyway, Dominique asks Veronica why her parents chose her over Louis. I mean, it's a valid question and it's a moment Veronica could have used to compliment her sister, or possibly console her in some way, so naturally she does the opposite. She basically says it was a whim of their father's. Now, I'm not totally sure I believe that. I had believed Louis was taken away because he was a curse bearer, but Veronica is making it sound like the problem was simply that he was a twin. If what Veronica says is true, that means Louis became a curse bearer after the fact and I think I have a sneaking suspicion of how. Teacher said it would be a waste to simply kill one of the babies and let's not kid ourselves by thinking he had purely good intentions here. He told Louis he wanted to see what choices he made. Well, for an experiment to work, you have to actually have some variable you're testing. I think Teacher (who probably has some connection to Charlatan) cursed Louis himself, perhaps to see how long he would last under those kinds of conditions and how he would try to change his fate. Also, I think it's important to point out that Veronica said "If news that your mother had given birth to twins had gotten out, it would have tarnished the name of de Sade." That pretty heavily implies that Veronica and Dominique do not have the same mother, which would make sense. It also raises yet another question of how vampiric society handles things like marriage. To me, it sounds like their father is the head of de Sade second only to Teacher. Does he have multiple wives? Concubines? If women have to give some of their life to have children, it might make sense not to have too many children with one woman, and if the aristocracy is determined to expand the family name, the easiest way of doing that would be by having several children. The de Sades are clearly concerned with preserving the family name and with having enough heirs to handle... I'm not sure. Antoine seems to be in charge of diplomacy, Veronica is a Beastia, and Dominique... What is it that she's supposed to be doing? What is it that they think she's failing at so badly? After Veronica's big reveal, Dominique wonders if Louis knew the truth and to be honest, I don't know if he was ever told, but I wouldn't be surprised if he was. Teacher wasn't exactly gentle with him and I'm sure he would be curious to see how he handled the knowledge that Dominique was very literally chosen over him. She is his twin sister and she can never know. By all accounts, Louis would have been justified in being cruel to her, but he never was; he was always kind and patient, and I think that says more about Louis than anything else ever will. If he hadn't undergone the horrors Teacher chose for him, he probably would have been a much more carefree person.

This scene is just sad on so many levels. Veronica didn't have to plant the seed of doubt in Dominique's mind that Louis would have been a better heir than her. She didn't have to make her wonder if Louis was simply a better candidate for everything she's ever wanted: better at being a de Sade, better for Noé, better for everyone. And poor Noé has no idea he accidentally fed into this. He was just as traumatized as Dominique and, well, she does look a lot like Louis. Who could blame him for mistaking them when he has a raging fever and is in mourning? But the damage is done. Dominique is convinced that Noé would have preferred Louis over her, and this has no doubt fed into her misery over her unrequited love for him as well. Perhaps, on some level, she believes that if she had been Louis, Noé would love her already. Also, this means that Vanitas's jab in volume two is all the more hurtful:

This always read to me as Vanitas saying Dominique was just a stand in for what Noé really wants and while it is true that Noé has thought of Louis on occasion when he's with Dominique, I don't think it's fair to say he wishes she were him. They're twins and they were both Noé's childhood friends. It would be normal for him to miss Louis in such a scenario. But Vanitas is very good at hitting where it hurts and he did so very well with Dominique. If there's one good thing that could come of this arc, I hope it's that Dominique realizes how much Noé cares about her. He goes to her rescue immediately:

We only see Noé get this serious when it has to do with Dominique or Louis. These are the two people he cares for most; he's not messing around when it comes to her rescue. Also, I really like that he doesn't bother with negotiating or any of that. He goes straight to the fighting and it's great; negotiation isn't going to work with this kid. With anyone else, this would be a great tactic, but Misha has a book and is willing to fight dirty. I really feel like this is going to turn into one of those: "If you'd just told me this in advance things could have been different!" moments that Noé and Vanitas have had in the past.

The text bubble really makes it look like Vanitas is just shouting this in the middle of the restaurant. I find that amusing, but wouldn't it make more sense to be thinking this...? XD But! Everyone is piecing things together way faster this arc and that is kind of a relief. Vanitas isn't going to be taken off guard by Noé acting strangely; he knows exactly what kind of damage Misha can do. Furthermore, Noé swiftly puts it together that Misha has done something to Dominique's name. If nothing else, at least everyone is in the know on how bad things are. 8D At any rate, Noé's attacks swiftly come to a halt when Misha uses the book on him. The technique is the same that Vanitas used on him during the Bal Masqué. It seems to primarily function as a stun, but it looks like Misha's was designed to pack a heavier punch because Noé can't move at all while he was able to somewhat when Vanitas used it. Of course, the main difference is that Vanitas didn't want to do permanent damage to Noé; he just needed to prevent him from hindering his job. Misha on the other hand has no qualms about killing a woman, so he definitely wouldn't be opposed to wreaking more havoc still on yet another individual. It's interesting that last chapter we got to see Noé tell Vanitas he's glad he's the person he is now because he's now getting a very fast intro into just how awful Vanitas could have been if he'd been inclined to. These books have the power to seal a vampire's fate, for better or worse. Misha has chosen for the worse.

"Only this book." I suppose that means he didn't inherit the name "Vanitas." (Did Vanitas really inherit it or did he just steal it?) It could also be a way of emphasizing he wasn't given Vanitas's book; just this one.

Amazing how at the end of their introductions, Vanitas is the one who looks decidedly mad, but it's Misha who is infinitely crazier. I guess first impressions aren't everything. 8D

Okay, he says he's kidding, but the only thing he could possibly be joking about is that he's an "average human being," which, let's be honest, sounded a lot like a lie when Vanitas said it, too. I don't think either of them are "average" human beings. Something about being kin to the blue moon changed them and I think we're eventually going to learn more about what and how.

Okay, so here's the thing. Misha may be "evil" but he's not an evil genius. There have been flaws in his plan from the get go, notably that he thought he could fully control Dominique to do anything that would put Noé in danger because I'm pretty sure his original plan went something like this: Dominique asks Noé to follow her. She leads him to Misha. Noé and Misha sit down for a chat. Noé agrees to drink Vanitas's blood and comes back with info. Only, that isn't how it went and it's unlikely this backup plan will work either. Misha is making a lot of assumptions here: 1) Noé has no qualms about drinking Vanitas's blood (as, perhaps, most vampires wouldn't), 2) Threatening Dominique won't lead to massive repercussions, 3) Vanitas himself won't be involved to mess this plan up, 4) Noé is actually capable enough as an Archiviste to locate specific information. Well, none of that is true. Noé has massive reservations about drinking Vanitas's blood, he absolutely will not forgive this kid for threatening Dominique, Vanitas is probably already on his way, and Noé is more likely to lose himself in Vanitas's memories and wind up traumatized than come back with any useful information. 8D I mean, maybe Noé does drink Vanitas's blood because I do believe he'd do just about anything to save Dominique, but I think it's more likely that Vanitas himself will show up and put a wrench in this entire affair. I guess we're going to find out the answer to that pretty swiftly with the next chapter. Anyway, I'm going to toss in a few predictions for this arc and see if any of them stick: Noé and Vanitas actually have to tell each other some of their dark backstories (in other words, Vanitas has to explain who "Father" is and Noé has to explain Louis), Noé doesn't drink Vanitas's blood, Dominique is lost to Noé, but not because she dies. Rather, I think it's more likely these two are going to have a whole lot of revelations about each other and the sheer awkward factor/shame will cause them to need time apart.

#vanitas no carte #vnc meta #vnc spoilers #Bemused's post #long post

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