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piesandstars · 4 years

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Raising Werewolf Cubs Under His Bed

Posted on Archive of Our Own here.

Riddle laughed his high laugh again.

“It was my word against Hagrid’s, Harry. Well, you can imagine how it looked to old Armando Dippet. On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student… on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest to wrestle trolls… but I admit, even I was surprised how well the plan worked.”

Um… hey. Hey, Tom? Mr. Riddle? Dramatic ass “I am Lord Voldemort” person-sir? Do you mean human children???!!! Hey Joanne, do you mean human children cause werewolf cubs? Werewolf cubs have gotta be human children.

There are four explanations for this line that I can think of. One Doylist (explained out of text), three Watsonian (explained within canon).

The first explanation: JK Rowling did not come up with werewolf lore until after she had written the third book. That explains why she keeps writing about people being afraid of werewolves in the Forbidden Forest even when it wasn’t a full moon and shit like this. She just hadn’t come up with the facts yet.

This explanation, while probably correct, is boring as hell and we will be disregarding it.

Explanation number two barely warrants an entry. Riddle was trying to think of a magical creature and just said werewolves without considering what that would mean. This is somehow more boring than explanation one.

The third explanation is more fun. Wizards are, to put it kindly, mildly, and with some of the love in my heart, dumb as shit.

The Hogwarts education system is shaky at best. Thinking of how little math wizards know makes me want to cry. I would say something like “The class of History of Magic is so poorly taught that I doubt any of the students even know that ___” but like. The class of History of Magic is so poorly taught that I can’t come up with an obvious example of Wizarding history.

Due to the shaky Hogwarts education system, I can partially excuse Ron for being stupid in the area of “what are werewolves” when he talks about werewolves in the Forbidden Forest in book two, as of his two Defence teachers the more competent was Quirinus Quirrell.

(Lockhart’s teachings on lycanthropy involve him curing someone of it by sticking a wand down their throat and saying a spell, which… If it were that easy then Remus Lupin would have had a much better life. If he could fix his furry little problem by eating a wand, the man would have had unicorn hair and cypress soup every night for the rest of his life.)

(That being said, Ron should know more about werewolves. Molly or Arthur should have taught their kids things like that.)

Tom Riddle, in contrast to Ron, went to Hogwarts before the position was cursed. Given that he was the one who cursed it, this makes sense. Riddle had a stable education that, theoretically, involved a competent professor. He should know better.

But also, wizards are dumb as shit.

They seem to have no standardization to their education except for aiming for the OWLs and NEWTs. What educational standards has the Ministry released for teachers to follow? Probably none, that would be too competent. (Ignoring book five, ew.) Just because werewolves were covered in DADA during Harry’s time at Hogwarts doesn’t mean they were in Riddle’s. Maybe they were covered in Care of Magical Creatures, which Riddle would almost certainly not take. Or maybe they weren’t covered at all.

So maybe Tom Riddle hasn’t learned about werewolves in school. He knows about them when he’s older though, so what gives?

Here’s the thing. This Tom Riddle hasn’t had his dark magic field trip yet, the one he goes on after he graduates. What if he doesn’t know about werewolves, but he thinks he kinda gets the gist, and, being Voldemort, assumed he was correct.

Hagrid could have been raising puppies under his bed and Riddle could have been like. “Ah, yes. These are werewolf babies. I am correct on this and will not be corrected by anyone ever because I am the pinnacle of all things knowledge.”

Diary!Tom Riddle is #ForeverSixteen. He is a teenager who insists on being called “Flight of Death” (or, incidentally, Flight from Death, which, yeah). He wears eyeliner, he listens to fascist!MCR, he wants to commit genocide, you know, just regular teenage boy things. Yikes.

(Can you imagine 72-year-old Voldemort having to interact with his 16-year-old self? This insolent boy who doesn’t even know what werewolves are? Harry wouldn’t have had to destroy the Horcrux, Voldemort would do it himself to get the kid to stop talking.

Tom Riddle, age 16: “Lord Voldemort is my past, present, and future.”

Tom Riddle, age 70ish: “You’re about to be past due if you don’t shut up.”)

Anyway, that’s our third explanation. Tom Riddle is dumb as shit. This is backed up by the fact that 1) he is sixteen, 2) wizarding education is a hot garbage fire, 3) grown Voldemort is dumb as shit. He refuses to do research into things he thinks he understands in his seventies, why would he be any smarter at age sixteen?

This explanation is less boring. This is the one that I consider to be the closest to canon one. This makes sense, and it involves making fun of Voldemort’s dramatic bullshit and narcissism, which I approve of.

I like this explanation.

But explanation number three? It doesn’t hold a candle to explanation four.

See, here’s the thing. I believe that Voldemort is dumb as shit and that his education could have been pretty spotty.

But I also think that the boy that has rediscovered Horcruxes by doing too much research would not be completely ignorant of what werewolves are and how they work. They’re considered to be Dark Creatures™ so he would have come across them at some point when learning of the Dark™ Mysterious® Arts©.

So what if.

What if he wasn’t talking out of his ass?

What if Hagrid WAS raising werewolf cubs under his bed? Or, not cubs. Cubs implies non-people.

What if Hagrid was keeping werewolf children under his bed while he was attending Hogwarts?

Picture this: 11-year-old Rubeus Hagrid gets his letter for Hogwarts. He’s overjoyed. His father is a bit surprised that Hagrid, a half-giant, received his letter, but he is also overjoyed.

(The fact that Hagrid got into Hogwarts at all with wizarding prejudices as they are is honestly remarkable. We know that the Wizarding World is awful about treating those who aren’t pure-blooded wizards like people and Hagrid being a half-giant isn’t exactly subtle.)

So Hagrid goes to Hogwarts. He learns. He makes friends. He probably gets in quite a bit of trouble with teachers because he’s never been someone with a ton of common sense or tendency to follow rules. Being in trouble doesn’t bother him too much, he’s young and usually, he doesn’t think about consequences for his actions. Besides, often the reward is worth the risk.

So Hagrid finishes his first year having loved the experience. And he goes home for the summer.

Let’s say that Hagrid and his dad live on the outskirts of a relatively small Muggle town. They’re not quite in the wilderness, but they’re not quite in the town proper either.

A new family, the Canids, has moved next door since Hagrid has gone off to Hogwarts. They have two children roughly Hagrid’s age, a daughter named Freki, age 12, and a son named Geri, age 10. Given Hagrid’s friendly nature and the general boredom that comes with a long summer, the three of them quickly make friends and begin to spend quite a bit of time together.

(Forgive my mixing of Norse and Latin etymology here, I refuse to spend more than three minutes googling names that mean “wolf wolf” or “moon moon” that haven’t already been used in canon.)

Then, one day when they’re hanging out, something weird happens. What exactly it is, I’m not sure. Maybe a branch breaks while they are climbing a tree and no one gets hurt, despite how high up they are. Maybe Hagrid says something unthinkingly cruel on accident, and Geri’s feelings get hurt, and Hagrid’s hair gets turned pink. Maybe Freki finds a magical creature that Muggles aren’t supposed to be able to see. Maybe their father is off fighting in World War II (it is 1941, after all), and there is some unsetting news from the front, and one of the kids causes a sunny day to become a rainstorm.

However it happens, Hagrid figures out that he’s got two underage wizards on his hands. And he knows Freki (age 12) hasn’t received her Hogwarts letter.

Hagrid has never been one to keep his mouth shut. The man at the age of 62 let slip to a group of eleven-year-olds that 1) he had a three-headed dog, 2) the name of the dog was Fluffy, 3) Fluffy was guarding something that was owned or created by Nicholas Flamel, and 4) you can put Fluffy to sleep by playing any kind of music ever. He is not one for subtlety, or for secrets. Honestly, he might have told these kids about magic on accident even if they hadn’t shown signs of being wizards.

So he confronts the kids about the strange things that have been happening. Freki goes dead pale the second he opens his mouth. She begs him not to tell anyone in the village that there is something unnatural about them, Rubeus, please, you don’t know what people will do if they find out.

Hagrid’s confused. If they find out what exactly? Having magic is wonderful, you get to go to school and learn and make friends and discover all sorts of interesting facts and creatures and-

There are two ways this could go.

Either Freki and Geri don’t know about magic and they are delighted to hear about this wonderful place where they could be themselves, and also maybe they could get some help for this weird thing that has been happening to them since they were little kids and there was a wolf attack. Hagrid has to figure out very quickly how to deal with the fact that 1) he has to explain magic to his two friends, 2) his two friends are werewolves, 3) his two friends will not be accepted into wizard society, and 4) he also has to explain that.

Or Geri and Freki already know about magic. They didn’t know that Hagrid knew (they are in a Muggle town, after all), but they knew about magic. Maybe their mom was a witch and dad a Muggle. Maybe the other way around. Maybe both parents are wizards. Maybe they are the descendants of Squibs. Whatever their parental background, they have heard about Hogwarts. And they know the reason that neither of them had gotten Hogwarts letters, know the reason neither of them would ever get Hogwarts letters. And gently, sadly, they explain to Hagrid their situation.

And as Hagrid finds out that they’re werewolves and starts to process what that means for them and their future, Hagrid becomes indignant. And I mean Hermione-founding-misguided-but-well-meaning-organization-SPEW level indignant. I’m talking “thou shalt not insult Albus Dumbledore in front of me” level indignant. Indignant might not be the right word. He gets angry.

Remus Lupin will be the first werewolf to legally receive schooling at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But if Hagrid has something to say about it? Freki and Geri will beat the record illegally by about thirty years.

(This is a man who has been alienated his whole life for his half-giant status. He knows the feeling of being discriminated against for something he can’t change about himself.)

(This is also a man who tried to raise a dragon egg in a wooden cabin. He doesn’t necessarily think things through.)

And so begins Operation Get-My-Friends-A-Wizard-Education.

Phase One: Preliminary Education.

Hagrid spends the rest of the summer teaching these two kids everything that he can remember from his first year of school. He’s got a month. He’s got his books. He’s got enough determination to intimidate God. He’s only got the one wand, but he’ll make do.

And as late August comes? He thinks they’re ready as they’re gonna get.

Phase Two: Smuggling Time.

Now, Hagrid is an oversized lad. And one of the things that comes with being an oversized lad is oversized clothes. And one of the things that comes with oversized clothes is an oversized trunk.

Hagrid also has an undersized father with an oversized heart and an undersized sense of what is a normal and sane thing to do. (The man had sex with a giantess for Pete’s sake!)

With a little convincing, said undersized father could make said oversided trunk be even more oversized on the inside.

Geri and Freki? Welcome to the Hogwarts Express, viewed from the luxury seats of “Inside Hagrid’s Trunk.” No complimentary beverages, I’m afraid, and the view’s not great, but all the oversized clothes end up being quite comfortable cushions.

So Hagrid smuggles two kid werewolves into Hogwarts.

Phase Three: Ah, Shit, Didn’t Think This Through… Er… Live Under My Bed I’ll Bring You Homework

So they live under his bed while he teaches them everything that he is learning in all of his classes, sometimes in the dorm room when no one else is there, sometimes in the Forbidden Forest when they can sneak out, sometimes in empty rooms around the castle. They spend each full moon as deep into the forest as they can go, hoping against hope that they won’t hurt anyone and they will be safe.

(In this universe, the rumors of werewolves in the forest came from somewhere. The stories of glimpses of wolves through the trees during this time were passed down through the generations. “My aunt’s cousin’s friend’s dad saw a werewolf in the forest” may not be the most credible of sources, but in this case, it holds a grain of truth.)

They are careful, and, for a while, they don’t get caught.

How long are they at Hogwarts? I don’t know. A while, certainly. A month? A semester? A full year? Maybe they make it through to when the Chamber of Secrets was opened and everyone became more suspicious and more alert before they were found out.

Once they are caught, the Canid children are promptly sent home. After all, you can’t have monsters in a school like Hogwarts, and what are werewolves if not monsters.

The staff lets Hagrid off with a warning, thinking maybe this was a one-off occurrence of idiocy. But they do view Hagrid with more suspicion after that. After all, he brought monsters into the school. Who’s to say what he’ll let in next?

That being said, Tom Riddle’s probably just dumb as shit.

Posted on Archive of Our Own here.

#harry potter #hp #hagrid #fanfiction #kat talks #look ma i over analyzed #my fic

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erudite-rebel · 4 years

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Title: Forced Offerings Summary: The recounts of Bartholomew Oobleck regarding an incident which took the lives of his parents when he was a child. Characters: Bartholomew Oobleck, Qrow Branwen, OC’s Notes: I’m posting a bit of writing I did. A few people who follow will be familiar with my Magnus Archives AU, or at the very least have seen me spam about it and draw art for the (3) other people who I know that listen to the podcast. I’m actually very proud of this little bit of writing, though I understand not everyone would want to read it. I’m trying to get myself back into properly writing, and though this is fanfic I think getting it out there and maybe receiving feedback could help?

It’s a horror story. One I kind of want to adapt, honestly, to a Creepypasta to submit to NoSleep, but for now it can remain like this.

Warnings for body horror, gore, and guts.

“There has to be some sort of rational explanation for-”

“For someone wearing someone else’s skin like a meat suit?” Qrow’s words were calm. Somehow he was always calm. Even after all of this.

Barty leaned against the chair, hands gripping the back of it until it was twisted and pressed against the table. He had dark bags under his eyes and was unsure of the last time he’d had a proper sleep. Every piece of him felt tired, from toes to fingertips, and he knew if he laid down there would be nothing to gain for it. Just wakefulness, watching, waiting.

“I always thought I wanted it to be real, Qrow,” he said. “All my life. Ever since the wanting to know dug its claws into my head for the first time. Even when we both should have run away after the incident. I- but now I’m here. And I really do know now, even if there’s so much more that I don’t. Hidden. Layers waiting for me to scrape away and dig down into them.”

When he looked back up Qrow’s face was near unreadable, as it always was. As though his old friend had at some point become a spy. “You can still get out, Bart. Quit. Forget.”

Barty laughed weakly. “You don’t… you don’t think I tried? I attempted to write up a letter of resignation, and it was as though the keys had transformed, like staring at some unknown machine as the cursor blinked. So I took up a pen, determined to write it, and I forgot how to write. And when I saw Ozpin I… the words. They wouldn’t be spoken. I don’t think I can quit.”

He sagged then and pulled out his chair, sitting heavily down. His head was laid in his arms, trying to think it through, but what was there to think of? To understand? He was trapped. A group of beings wearing skin suits had attempted to break into the archives. He’d looked at one of them wearing the face of a person he’d taken a statement from. Veronica Chase of Leeds.

“Everything I remembered pointed to… to the world being a very dark place, but I think I. I was too young to understand just how horrific.”

Cool fingers curled around his. Barty squeezed them on reflex, trying to convince himself not to do anything so childish as cry. There was so much going on. Too much going on. And he knew Ozpin, Qrow, perhaps some of the other assistants, he knew they knew more. And those secrets, that untold knowledge, burned like a hunger in him as much as recording statements had become. A part of him, one he didn’t yet know how loud it truly was, wanted to devour that knowledge.

Qrow’s voice broke into his thoughts. “...Have you ever spoken about it?”

Barty considered the question a moment before he lifted his head. Qrow was no longer unreadable. He was sad. Maybe angry as well.

“I haven’t.” He’d alluded to things to Qrow, when they were young and just a few stupid, desperate children, but he’d never told the full story. Perhaps not even to the police.

Qrow nodded to the tape recorder. “Maybe now’s the time.”

“You mean give a statement?” He sounded incredulous, as though that was the last thing he ought to be doing.

The other man shrugged, but thin fingers curled a little tighter. The gesture was soothing. “Couldn’t hurt.”

Barty sat up straighter, looking at the recorder waiting for him to merely press record. It called to him. With a sigh he picked up his glasses and placed them on his face, straightening his back. Qrow’s hands retreated over the table to his lap, and the other man was silent as he slouched and stared at Barty.

The record button depressed with a satisfying click, and the gears within ground softly with their age. The sound tingled along his spine like light, tickling fingers.

“Statement of Bartholomew Oobleck, regarding a series of deaths at Eastwyke Museum of Artefacts and Antiquities in 1996. Statement taken on November 22nd, 2020. Audio recording by Bartholomew Oobleck, Head Archivist of the Beacon Institute, London.” He paused a moment, as memories returned, like he’d merely opened a door. He remembered being a young and curious boy, and the scent of dust and paper and age in the museum’s storage. It was almost as if he were there, and he knew he’d be able to tell the story down to the deepest detail, and when he began to talk he wasn’t entirely sure who he was talking to - Qrow, the tape, or himself.

“Statement begins.”

I don’t suppose there are many people who would remember the Eastwyke Museum of Artefacts and Antiquities anymore. Or if they do, they might pretend not to. The galleries had originated from the private collection of Duke Francis Egerton, who had been the Duke of Eastwyke for perhaps a decade in the eighteen hundreds and primarily concerned himself with gathering rare and unusual antiquities. In the 1950’s several of his descendants saw fit to open it to the public, perhaps to use it to make a little money or invest. Despite that it didn’t see tourism. The patrons were mainly students from Oxford, or travelling academics. Anthropologists, archaeologists, Egyptologists… even had an entomologist come in weekly to just sit in the insect room and take it all in. No, not many people would remember it, but it was my childhood.

My parents, Pearl and Mathis Oobleck, were archaeologists. They were often abroad with work and digs. Sometimes I went with them, sometimes I stayed at home with my grandfather Tennyson, who had a little cottage on the grounds when he worked as curator. When he retired the mantle passed to my father and they were home a little more, unless going off to expand the collection. It was… a happy enough childhood. Maybe lonely sometimes, but I had an entire world of secret knowledge to explore, a library to devour and help curb my hyperactivity. I was content prowling those halls, which felt more like home to me than our cottage.

When I was nine the proprietors purchased a considerable number of artifacts from a private auction, something to do with a portion of Duke Egerton’s original collection that had made it into the hands of a branch of the royal family they’d had a rivalry with. The purchase caused quite a stir. All sorts of wild stories were told… not the least of which was that many of the artifacts there were once bought from grave robbers. I never heard the truth of it, though I suspect it was. Most private collections are just that. Stolen.

I was forbidden to go near the newest items. While it was next to impossible to keep me out of the storage rooms, I had learned early not to touch anything, and was not allowed in the room where they were held without an accompaniment to make sure I kept my hands well off. I remember standing in the middle of the room, hands stuck firm under my arms to resist the temptation to touch the pottery or old weapons. I must have looked like I had seen Father Christmas as I turned every which way trying to get a peek at it. I was a horrible annoyance, I suspect.

One part of the lot, though, I remember very well. It had been a beautifully preserved set of canopic jars. I recall being told they were from the eighteenth dynasty. They were made of black stone, each head carved with exquisite detail, the polish hanging on despite the millenia since. All over the surface of the jar were carved hieroglyphs, uncharacteristic of the usual designs. Several people believed the jars to be fake, as the material was wrong for the time, and the glyphs were unusual, but carbon dating seemed to suggest it was an immutable fact. I think there was a lot of discussion whether to open the jar and study the remains inside.

The largest advocate for their authenticity was Dr. Herbert Renshaw, a loud and corpulent man. I never knew him well. He was the sort of man who didn’t have patience for even a docile child, let alone a hyperactive boy with a million questions. He usually didn’t want me about so I didn’t hear much of them until he’d found me one day loitering near the entrance of the archive where they were being kept and he asked if I would like to come inside.

I remember finding that odd, chiefly because I knew he didn’t care for me, but also because of the look in his eyes. I was never much good at deciphering human emotions when I was younger, but even then I thought there was something of a gleam to them. I readily agreed, though, and darted inside the moment I was allowed to.

We didn’t have much in the way of conversation. He talked at length about the glyphs carved into the rock, and how they’d seemed to be in several different languages. His speech had been rapid, I remember, and I’d had difficulty following along. All the while I’d been edging closer to them, feeling captivated by the staring eyes of the figureheads atop the jars. I felt as though they were looking back at me, urging me in.

I hadn’t even been aware of reaching for them when Dr. Renshaw’s hand slapped down hard over my own, knocking it away. Knuckles stinging, I’d turned and fled as he glared. But even now I’m not sure if I ran from the slap, the look in his eyes, or the fact that there had seemed to be radiant, physical heat from those jars.

For the next few days I was kept busy with my homeschooling and hardly got a chance to go into the museum beyond writing a maths test in my mother's office. Whenever I was in, though, I happened to see Dr. Renshaw. Normally he was a neat and tidy sort of man, with expensive suits and his moustache waxed within an inch of its life, yet… it seemed as though he was keeping less care of himself. Hair unbrushed, buttons undone, bowtie lank or missing. And as he walked he’d mutter to himself and turn a wild sort of gaze on a person, something that made you feel less like a person and more like an object.

When I asked my mother about it she dismissed it as him being overworked and told me to concentrate harder on my studies. I tried, but the memory of the way he walked and stared wouldn’t be banished from my mind.

It was on a Monday that it truly started. I had left one of my science textbooks in my mother’s office and needed it for that day’s lesson, but it was on Monday’s the museum was closed, so I took my father’s key and let myself in the back entrance. I was hardly afraid. I knew these halls like the back of my hand.

As I was passing through one of the archives - it had been stuffy and hot with summer, without climate control - I heard an odd sound. A sort of whimpering coming from further in the dark. At first I rooted in place, wondering if I should run and get my father, too afraid to call out. When the sound came again I crept through the shelves, terrified of what I might find, when I came upon one of the librarians, Maggie Law. I’d always liked her. She let me read what I like and sometimes would sneak me toffee’s or other sweets. I’m certain she had a kind, round face, but now all I can remember is how she’d looked there in the shadows. Yellowing skin and eyes, soaked with sweat, hands clutched over her side. I remember her crying, her voice so broken and small as she said ‘he pulled it from me, he pulled it from me.’

I ran then, straight for my parents. It had taken them a good five minutes to get me to talk enough sense to call an ambulance. I remember watching from my window as she was taken away, staring through old warped glass at the blue lights.

I also remember something else, though. Dr. Renshaw. His face looking out from a window at the same scene. Even though I couldn’t see him clearly, my vision what it was, I felt sick just to look at him. I felt dread.

More attacks followed. The following day the groundskeeper, Kevin Rutherford, was found dead, torch in hand. I overheard the police telling my parents he seemed like he must have had a heart attack while patrolling the grounds that night. The day after that an archaeologist named Judith Churchill was found in a state of shock in the parking lot, having finished up late that night.

The museum closed. Everyone by that point was terrified, and the police were doing regular patrols. I was thirsty to know what was happening but my parents refused to tell me, so I’d taken to listening in on the telephone whenever someone rang. I eavesdropped on one such call and learned that Maggie Law had died. Hepatic encephalopathy, they’d said. I remember struggling an ancient medical textbook down from a shelf just to look it up. It’s a condition caused by acute liver failure.

I was in a right state after that. My parents were making sure to keep the doors locked. I remember my mother tucked me in and told me not to worry. I try to always remember that.

It was around ten pm that a knock came at the door. Unable to sleep I’d made a little tent of a blanket and was reading by torchlight when I heard it. Curious who it could be at that hour with so much going on, I crept from my bed to go to the stairs to watch the front hall. I thought perhaps it might be a policeman, that there’d be some news.

It was my father who answered the door. On the threshold stood Dr. Renshaw, and he looked haggard. Deep bags below his fever-bright eyes, cheeks almost sunken, hair a mess. I remember he had a hand tucked into his jacket.

My father invited him in, of course. There’d been concern in his voice as he shut the door and warned him he shouldn’t be out so late with such strangeness going on.

I remember the door swinging shut. I remember Dr. Renshaw pulling one of the jars from his jacket and noticing the eyes of Qebehsenuf, the falcon, somehow staring out from its black and smooth surface. And then Renshaw reached for my father.

Words do not feel as though they can describe. I watched as his hand seemed to sink through clothes and skin and flesh without a drop of blood. I remember my father’s face going stark white as my mother asked what was going on. And then Renshaw pulled his hand back.

It was like nothing I had yet seen. Pink, almost purplish, tubes were gripped in Renshaw’s hand. My father screamed then, falling to his knees, watching as this mass was pulled from him. There was too much even for Renshaw to hold and it slipped to the ground with a wet splat, and seemed to move like a languid snake.

My father fell over then, as my mother screamed hysterically. All I remember clearly was Renshaw looking up at me as he held my father's intestines like fleshy ropes, letting them drag on the ground and slap his clothing. Our eyes met. They were like I had never seen before. There was something mad there, but also elation or euphoria I couldn’t understand.

I ran then, bolting for my parent's room. I remember crawling under their bed and curling up beneath the headboard, hands over my ears as I listened to my mother scream before it just… ended. I waited to hear boots upon the stairs, for Renshaw to come and stick his hand into me, but he never came. All I heard was the door swing shut.

I didn’t leave until morning when the police arrived. The maid found my parents, and the police found me. Had had to drag me from under the bed, in fact. They didn’t let me see their bodies, and the funeral was closed casket. I told the police who I’d seen but Renshaw had disappeared along with those canopic jars. Jars I worry that had gotten full on what was stolen from his coworkers.

I went to go live with my grandfather after that. There was a lot of therapy. I was pushed harder than ever into my schoolwork, and I treated it like a drug to quiet my mind. Eventually I think I half convinced myself it was a hallucination by the time I went to high school. Now I know better.

Statement ends.

#rwby fanfic #bartholomew oobleck #qrow branwen #rwby oobleck #rwby qrow #horror fanfic #tma au #freeform; my writing #is anything really real anymore?; tma au

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legacysam · 4 years

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It’s a day late for the fic challenge with @fieryfurniss, but it’s almost 3k instead of like... 500 so I think I’m okay with that. Completely unedited bc I am TIRED and I want to at least draft today’s fic before bed so I’m not TOO far behind. Anyway I have feelings about season 4 Martin, enjoy:

[SOUND OF SHUFFLING PAPERS]

MARTIN

Oh. Oh, hello. Suppose you’re all ready, aren’t you? Do you... I mean, we’re going to record the statements, it’s kind of what we do around here. You don’t have to keep turning up all spooky-like and turning yourselves on, we aren’t that bad at our jobs. I mean, not that performance reviews are... standard here, but still.

Do you just, do you enjoy it? Do you... I dunno, feed on this stuff? Eventually going to evolve into a, a boombox or something, like a tape recorder pokemon?

No. No, I suppose not. Probably for the best. Only just starting to get used to you at this size...

[CLEARS THROAT]

Alright, so. Martin Blackwood, assistant to Peter Lukas, Head of the Magnus Institute, recording statement #0070105. Statement of Marina Adamos, given first of May, 2007.

Statement begins.

MARTIN (STATEMENT)

It started in January, right after I got back from my parents’. Or, maybe a week or so after. Came back right after Christmas, it was just too much in that awful little house will the whole family there, all the nieces and nephews and my gran going on about why didn’t I have kids yet, all those people and since I’m the single one, I got the couch for the duration, might as well have booked a hotel really. In any case, got through the holiday, answered all the usual questions, took the dog for a lot of long walks, and got out of there as soon as I decently could.

I don’t mean to sound awful, I love my family, I do. I just get used to the quiet here, in my own place, and when we’re all together it’s a bit... overwhelming.

In any case, I was back in Exeter, getting good and settled in for the rest of winter. I’ve been writing my doctoral thesis, and I’d been at it for... god, must be four years now, four and a half maybe? And I finally got a grant to just sit down and write for a year. No teaching, no committees, just me and the thesis and field trips to a few of my favorite archives. Not this one, sorry. Don’t think I’d even heard of this one until last week.

Anyway, I suppose there was part of me that... I don’t know, maybe missed home? Had some lingering feelings about home, anyway, made my flat seem too empty to get proper work done, and I thought a change of scene might be helpful to get my gears going again after the break. There’s a cafe on the corner across from my flat, one of those that’s coffee during the day and wine and beer at night, can’t miss a chance at getting all the university students in for their various vices. Vices including poetry, apparently.

I didn’t know it was an open mic, obviously, or I never would have stepped foot in the place. Awful tradition, listening to nineteen-year-olds go on about being hopelessly in love as if anybody you date at that age is some grand romance. I almost preferred the angry feminist ones about getting felt up on the tube. I’d already dragged my notebooks over there, though, and in fairness the wine was really good, so I stayed. I had a table at the side, well out of mic-range, and once I got started working I could tune it out alright. I think the only thing that interrupted me was somebody asking if they could take one of the chairs from my table, which was great, actually. Kept anybody from being tempted to join me.

It was maybe an hour or two later that one of the readers got my attention. I still can’t figure out why. He was nothing special, just some nervous, chubby lad whose friends must’ve had to shove him up onstage, because he looked absolutely mortified being there. Though thinking back, I don’t remember seeing anybody he seemed to be with. Nobody cheering him on or anything. Dunno, maybe he was just braver than he looked.

I don’t remember much about the poem he read. It was long, I know that. But there was a bit in there that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. I don’t think I can forget it. He wasn’t looking at me when he read it, but it felt like he was standing at my table reading directly at me, like there was nobody else in the room, and not in a romantic way. In a really scary way, like when you accidentally make eye contact with somebody who’s been staring at you. But he was just looking at his notebook, and he said, “the winter snow that falls at night will cover us in purest white. The sun that comes at break of day will melt the snow and us away.”

It was spooky, I don’t think it fit with the rest of the poem, but I don’t remember any of that. Just those lines. I’m not a nervous sort of person, but I didn’t want to hear anymore, I just got up and left. I sat on my couch the rest of the night watching outside, waiting to see if it snowed. I don’t... I don’t remember seeing the guy leave the cafe, though. I don’t remember seeing anybody leave, but I must have fallen asleep at some point, so maybe that’s why.

I knew I’d been asleep because when I looked outside again, there was snow on the ground. A lot of it, and it was still snowing hard, and all I could think was “the winter snow that falls at night...” I could have strangled the guy, to be honest. Maybe if I’d seen him again I would have, or at least given him a piece of my mind about his creepy poetry.

Anyway I don’t know if it was his fault, what happened. Maybe it was all in my head from the start. That’s what anybody I tell seems to think, anyway. “Oh, poor Marina, the thesis pressure got to her. Such a shame.” Maybe it’s better if they think that.

I didn’t... I didn’t go out again until late the next day. It never got properly light, anyway, just that sort of glowy grey you get when street lights bounce off the snow and clouds. I stayed in and tried to work. It was... maybe 3 or 4 in the afternoon before I checked my phone. It was weird, normally I got loads of texts and things from my parents after I left from a visit, like they were trying to make it longer, you know? But I hadn’t gotten any. No missed calls, either. Everything was just... quiet. It didn’t worry me, I just figured with the snow people were taking a day off and curling up on the couch and not doing anything. I certainly wasn’t, kept reading the same passages over and over. That damn poem kept getting tangled up in them, I’d try to copy something out and find myself writing about snow and people melting.

Late in the afternoon I decided to go for a walk. Quit being a chicken about it and go out in the snow, see everything was normal and all that. And it was. I walked by houses and saw the lights on in the windows, shops were open with people behind the counters, just nobody shopping, really. It looked like I was the only one out, but that’s fair enough in a snowstorm, isn’t it?

So I went home and watched some reality cooking show until I fell asleep.

It was... different when I woke up. Still no messages on my phone. I was starting to think there was something wrong with it, so I opened up my contacts to call somebody and test it and... there was nothing. No contacts. No old messages. Just like as if the phone was brand new. I still know my dad’s number, of course, so I punched it in to call him but it just rang and rang, never went to voicemail. Mum’s too. It had to be broken, right? Factory reset or something, took it back to before it was programmed to make calls properly maybe? I told myself that anyway, though saying it now it sounds stupid.

I put the phone in my pocket and went to look out the window and... the snow was gone. I don’t mean it was melting, I mean it was sunny out and the street was dry. The sidewalks were dry. There wasn’t even any of that grey-yellow slush in the grass by the road, nothing. Like there hadn’t been any snow or rain or anything in days. And there was nobody out.

I told you, I don’t spook easily, I’m not nervous, but I was getting nervous then. Just a low level sort of adrenaline, I was not panicking, I was just... everything was weird and I still had that poem stuck in my head, and I wanted to make sure it was all just some fucked up coincidence, you know?

So I went to the cafe. It was the only thing I could think to do. I think I told myself I was going to borrow their phone, but I don’t think that was really the plan. I think I was looking for... evidence. Evidence of something.

There was nobody in the streets. Nobody. Not in cars, nobody in their yards. I couldn’t even see anyone through the windows. It was like everyone had left without me. Even the cafe, which should have been packed on a day like that, there was nobody. The door was unlocked and the lights were on, but I couldn’t find a single person. I tried to call my parents again. No answer.

I did find the open mic sign up from that night, though. They kept those in a binder by the register. I didn’t recognize any of the names, but I kept it anyway. You can have it, it just spooks me carrying it around, but I couldn’t think what else to do with it.

I don’t... I’m not sure I can properly explain how I felt in that moment. I stole a scone. Didn’t even think twice, just took it out of the case. Definitely tasted like it had been in there more than a day, but it didn’t really register with me. I sat in the window like that for ages, watching the street, just cold. I was thinking about how big whatever this was might be. Was I the only person left in Exeter? In Devon? Was it bigger than that? Had I missed an evacuation notice, was there some natural disaster coming? I’m not religious, but I had a school friend who was, and I wondered if maybe I was the only one terrible enough to be given a miss at the rapture. I was desperate to find something, some explanation, something sensible that would put the world back on track.

That was when I noticed the water in the street. Just a bit at the edge where something hadn’t drained properly, and it looked like it was moving. I went out to see, and it... Listen this is going to sound mad, and I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to take my word for it that it’s true. It was... there were hands in the water. I don’t mean like physical hands, I mean it was as if people were standing over the water waving at it, and it just made waves of reflections of hands. It wasn’t trees, or clouds, or me, it was in the water. That was when I started to run.

I was in and out of shops, went in and out of people’s houses, through yards, everywhere I could think where people should be. I went to the university and opened every office and classroom door in the Washington Singer building. My advisor’s desk had a cup of tea on it, like she’d just stepped out, but it was stone cold and there was a ring above the tea like it had been sat there a while. She practically lives in that office. Something about that, that damn cup of tea, that broke me a little.

I didn’t know where to go. I sat on the steps outside and just watched the empty world. There were birds and things just like there always were, but there was no movement that could possibly be a person. No sound like a human voice. I think... I started to think about whether I ought to go home, barricade myself in and hope that people came back, or if it would be better to go looking. I didn’t have a car, but my landlady did. I knew where she kept her keys and everything. It wasn’t as if she was using it.

I laughed at that. I don’t know why, but I started laughing, sitting there all alone on campus, laughing at the idea of stealing my sweet old landlady’s car. I’d have to leave a note, I thought. She’d think she just forgot where she parked it and she’d go mad looking for it. If she came back. If that water...

I think I tried to ignore what I’d seen in the water, and the way the snow melted, and that damn poem. It was still in my mind, but I had closed off that part of it because it wasn’t helpful. It wasn’t helpful to think that maybe some stammering undergraduate with a terrible poem had somehow magicked the world into...whatever this was. I can’t remember how I locked it all away, but I remember walking down the street toward home just... muttering to myself. “No, no, no...” The kind of muttering that makes you look crazy to passersby. But of course there weren’t any. I could say whatever I liked and no one would know. I could stay in my flat for a week and no one would bother me to come out with them. I could ignore my phone and not miss any messages from my parents. They always worried if I took too long to answer them.

I yelled “FUCK” once, in the middle of one of the bigger intersections, just to see how loud I could be. It hurt my throat how loud I could scream.

I wonder if that was what did it, actually. Looking back, it was right after that that I saw the dog. I don’t know how that would make a difference, but it makes as much sense as anything. Just a glimpse, but I could see a tail and a trailing leash going around a corner a block away, and without thinking I started to follow.

I’d already done a lot of walking and running that day, but I think that was the fastest I’d ever gone in my life. All I could hear were my feet hitting the pavement, and then I started to hear the sound of tags on a collar. And then he was in sight, a big lab like my parents’, running full out, tail wagging like he was playing his favorite game. I didn’t think I could possibly catch him, but I kept going, because what choice did I have? I chased him through yards and parks and down empty streets, and when I finally got close enough, just as he was about to zig zag away again, I threw myself on the ground and got hold of the leash. I still have a scar from my elbow hitting the sidewalk.

It was... like when you unpause a movie and it’s not just that the world starts moving again, it’s like something that was just a picture becomes alive again. I heard a voice behind me, and a woman pulled up in a minivan thanking me for catching her dog, the kids were so upset when he got away from them. And then the kids were there, piling out of the van, and a lady came out of the house we were in front of and offered me a bandage for my arm. There was traffic again, I could hear music from a couple streets over. It was all back.

I didn’t go to the cafe again. I just... couldn’t. I couldn’t risk it. Whatever happened to me, wherever I was that day, I knew it all started there. I wasn’t going to give it a chance to get me again.

I don’t... I don’t know if this is helpful for you, I don’t really know what you do here aside from collect creepy stories, but I just. When I heard about you I felt like I should tell you my story, maybe get it off my hands. I’ve got things I want to do with my life, you know? Time to stop thinking about all this. Time to let it go.

Statement ends.

MARTIN

[LONG PAUSE]

The... the list from the cafe is here. It’s... I... yes. Yes, my name is on it and yes, I used to go read there, but this isn’t... I don’t recognize those lines, I didn’t write them. I didn’t... I wasn’t...

I think I need to talk to Peter about this. I don’t want to. If the Lonely was... I don’t think I want to know. I don’t want to have been... I dunno, destined for this. I don’t want any of it. I...

[DEEP BREATH]

I... I’ll ask Melanie if she can do the follow up on this one. I think she’ll understand.

End... end recording.

#martin blackwood #tma #the magnus archives #okay listen #i haven't read a single tma fic yet i only just caught up BUT #my assumption is that statement fics are a thing and i cannot wait to read some

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erintoknow · 5 years

Text

Snipe Hunt

@hotlineaisui very kindly let me borrow logan for some extracanonical shenanigans. this was a lot of fun to write.

fallen hero: rebirth fanfic, about 3.4k words, no spoilers, i think?

------

You stand in the dark, just outside the circle of light from the streetlamp, propped up against the brick wall of the now closed bakery, a brown paper bag between your hands. Reckon it had been over an hour now, drum your fingers against the contents of the bag. Under your shawl, you’re dressed in your old black skinsuit. Well, old with a few improvements. Being Adrestia outside of your armor feels unnatural, you’ve tried to keep things compartmentalized that way since you started your career. This case will have to be an exception however. Subterfuge is the name of the game and you’ll need every advantage you can get. Thinking of which…

There’s the rising roar of a motorcycle before you pick up the probing presence of her mind. It’s a quick pull to bring your mask back down over your face as Anima comes to a stop in front of you.

“I didn’t know you owned a motorcycle?” You ask through the buzz of your voice modulator.

Anima leans the bike to the side as she brings the kickstand down. “I don’t.” She answers, her voice similarly distorted.

She offers no further explanation.

“…We good to go, Anima?”

She nods. “They boys are ready to jump when I give the order.” She taps the radio clipped to her belt. Anima’s track record is hard to argue with, though it was the network that she brought into play that had convinced you to consider working with her. Like, you tonight, Anima is forgoing her proper villain attire in favor of a black skinsuit and mask.

…You have to admit she wears it a lot better than you do.

She stretches her arms and leans back, as if to prove the point. It’s been a long time since you’ve worked with another telepath, you’re going to have to watch your thinking around her.

You cough and pull a cape out the paper bag you’ve been holding. Like your shawl it’s a long rectangular cut of fabric with a strange silky texture. You toss it to her, and she catches it in one hand. “Thermal reflective,” you offer as an explanation.

She drapes it around her shoulders, fastening it in place.“You saying I’m too hot, Elvis?”

“F-for infiltration!” You sputter. “And it’s Adrestia.”

“Right. You’re the boss, Adriana.”

You grit your teeth, take a breath. Stay focused. It’s time to be Adrestia now.

It’s not a long walk, from here to your target, and sticking to the shadows is old hat by now. Even so, ’dark of night’ doesn’t mean much when the perimeter of the Los Diablos City Archive is a moat of light. It’s hardly the Ark of the Covenant in there. Who would want to steal a bunch of musty old government records?

Well... who beside you and Anima anyway.

A quick scan of the area for prying minds and then the two of you dash across open space to the side door. Anima hunches down to pick the lock while you keep watch.

“Hey,” Anima doesn’t look up from the door as she works. “Can you tone down the concert, Adele?”

You glance down at her, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

Anima taps the side of her head. “Hard to focus when you’re blasting the 80s up here.”

“You have your own mental shield, right? That’s mine.” Still, you try to scale back a little, let more of the world in. You should have already been doing that, be ready to pick up any errant presence on it’s way.

“Yeah… That sounds fake as shit, but whatever.”

You frown under your mask at that. You’re Adrestia. You’re supposed to be assertive, confident, you shouldn't’t have to just take this, this is your operation. “Maybe try actually using yours for a change, Anima.”

Anima tsks only half listening as she stands back up and kicks the door right on the lock causing it to swing in with slam. "Door’s open.”

“A master locksmith.” You mutter as you follow her in.

The lights are low, but visibility is still fine. The building just has that spooky after hours feeling, like there might be ghosts hiding around a corner. Good, spooky atmosphere should make your jobs easier.

You feel the question coming from Anima before she vocalizes it, “So who’s taking what?”

You close your eyes, run over the mental map in your head. Imagine the path as a thread, split in two, running through the building. “Take that third door.” You point down the left of the hallway. “Follow the signs to the backup generator and the switchboard. Then meet back up with me…” You drag your arm through the air, pointing through a wall to where you know the stairwell down is located on the other end of the building, “there. I’ll be waiting there as soon as I clear out the security office.”

Anima nods, “Race you there.”

“It’s not a–“ she’s already half way down the hallway, “–race.”

Welp.

You’re not about to let her beat you.

Turning right you follow the path you’ve already plotted, pausing only to let a tired security guard pass through an intersection. Check in on his thoughts, only to find nothing out of the ordinary. That’s reassuring. You were worried that Anima’s ‘lockpicking’ might have scrubbed the mission before it could even start. Turns out it’s hard to go broke betting against the city government.

When you reach the security office you detect only one person inside, a woman, more focused on their book than the array of TV screens. It doesn’t take much to reach out, encourage her to feel the weight pulling on her eyelids. The assurance that everything’s going to be fine, nothing ever happens here anyway. It’s an easy job. Who can blame her? She deserves a rest.

When you actually step inside, she’s already deep asleep. You gently wheel her chair back away from the desk and scan the control panel. The passwords are listed on a sticky note hanging from the side of the monitor.

Only the best for this city.

You set the tapes to wipe and reset every half hour instead of every forty-eight, then move on to the security system, disabling the motion sensors and alarms. Job finished you step back and clap your hands together. That went far more smoothly than you had expected. You wheel the guard woman back to her spot at the desk to complete the picture. Finally, you reset the passwords to random gibberish. Hope guard-lady enjoys the nap, it’s likely to be her last on the job.

You’re stepping back into the hallway when the lights flicker and go out. Anima’s finished with the power then. With only the emergency batteries most, if not all, of the doors in your way will have automatically unlocked for safety purposes. And if your enemy is going to just ‘leave’ the door open, it’d be downright rude not to walk in and take a look around, wouldn’t it?

Now the timer starts. How long before someone puts things together and raises an alarm? Long enough you hope. You turn on the night vision in your mask, tinging the black around you into a green haze. Someone’s bound to come running to the security room when what’s-her-name doesn’t check in.

Time to get going and make your way through the building to the rendezvous point.

Anima’s already waiting for you when you reach the stairwell. Mercifully there’s no comments about winning the ‘race.’ You have to admit, part of you is surprised she actually waited.

“Don’t be so shocked, Ariana,” Anima holds a door open for you, gesturing you in with an elaborate flourish. “I need you in order to get the archive after all.”

Right. That made more sense. She wanted those files as badly as you did. It’s the main reason you’re taking the risk of trusting her. What is the official report on the Heartbreak incident? The one that even the Rangers can’t access? Hopefully tonight you’ll get some answers.

You push open the other door instead of the one Anima’s holding. The huff of frustration behind your back earning a small smirk under your mask. “Com’on, sweet tea, we’re against the clock now.”

She falls in alongside you as you double-time down the stairs. “’Sweet tea?’ What are you, a southern belle now?”

“Bless your heart.” You reply with the appropriate level of mock sincerity as the two of you reach the bottom of the stairwell.

You take position to one side of the double doors to the basement floor and Anima follows suit across from you. Try to relax, spread out the song in your head and feel for what other tones get caught in the mesh. You can get a sense of Anima doing something similar; a smooth, silvery sensation that splits into fractals before rejoining itself. It’s a little unnerving. Sensation of bad memories.

But the past can’t hurt you, and there’s no one else on this floor who could try either. “Detect anything?” You ask.

“Nope, they’re all running around upstairs.” Anima confirms.

“Works for me,” you push the door open and power walk down the hallway. The server room is at the far end of the basement. No need to drag this out. You can follow the path you already memorized straight there. The two of you manage to pass a whole minute in blessed, if anxious, silence when Anima starts trailing behind you.

“Hey… hey, Adele!”

You keep moving. You may need her support to pull this off, but you’re not going to let her get under your skin the whole time.

“Hey, Avril Lavigne, hold up.”

You’re not falling for it.

“Fucking… Amy Winehouse girl, hey!”

You turn the corner and walk face first into someone’s chest. “Fuck!” You jump back, falling into a defensive stance. The man you’ve just run into similarly steps back, tensing up. Why didn’t you pick up on him? You strain for the man in front of you. Now that you know he’s here you can pick up the faint hum of static. An epileptic? “Fuck.”

“What the hell?” The man is dressed in a crisp white skinsuit and grips a black baton in one hand.

“I was fucking trying to warn you.” Anima hisses as she catches up.

The man glances from you to her and takes a step backward, one hand reaching for his radio. You move forward, aiming for his arm, only to crash into Anima as she goes for his leg. The two of you topple to the ground in a furiously cursing mess of limbs.

The man in the white skinsuit yells into his radio. “We’ve got two intruders on the basement floor! I need back up!”

You scramble to your feet, elbow stinging from where you hit the ground. “Goddamnit.”

“Maybe listen to me next time.” Anima cracks her knuckles as she gets up.

You’re still closer, so the man goes for you first, aiming to bring the baton down on your head. You jump backwards, and fake losing your balance to get him to press his advantage. Like a sap, he takes the bait and Anima uses the opening to kick out the back of his knee.

The man cries out as he collapses forward and you greet him with a punch in the face, reversing his momentum, this time with a broken nose. Anima neatly sidesteps, letting him crash onto the cement floor with a meaty thud. “I call dibs on the next guy.”

You hiss as you shake your hand, it’s been awhile since you’ve punched someone outside of your suit. “So much for stealth.” You frown, and peer down at the prone form. “He had a skinsuit. Was that a boosted guard? I wonder what his power was?”

“Don’t care. Do we still have time?” Anima asks, stepping around the unconscious man.

You pull yourself away, run over the plan in your head again. “I have no idea. If they’re all that easy, maybe?”

“Good enough for me.”

“Here’s hoping.”

It’s not a long run at this point, and just as hoped, the electronic lock offers no trouble as you swing the door open. “Keep watch?”

Anima shrugs, “Fine. Don’t get lost in there Adelaide.”

You spit another curse as you enter the server room.

“What? What’s the problem now?” Anima stands in the doorframe, watching the hallway. You can pick up that silvery fractal sensation now and again, like a pulse.

You gesture at the racks of hardware, stomping your foot. “There’s no power!”

“Uh… yeah, that was the point, wasn’t it?”

“There’s supposed to be a tertiary power supply just to keep the servers running. It’s on every damn schematic and report I could find.”

“Wow.” Anima’s voice is flat. “Someone lied. That’s never happened before.”

“Oh…” You try to think of a curse word strong enough, fail. “Shush up.”

Anima laughs, a hand over her mouth. “'Shush up?’”

“I need to think.” You pace the room. It’s more a narrow hallway with rows of servers on racks. Run your gloved hand across the dusty plastic cases. Which server hard drive has the file? Could you just… take the whole thing?

“Why can’t you just take the whole computer?” Anima asks, still leaning in the doorframe, arms crossed.

You jump. Has she been listening to you think the whole time?

“No, just now.”

You glare at her. Not that she can see it under the mask or the gloom, but you make sure she knows you’re thinking it. “It’s not like a physical file, there’s no… ‘H for Heartbreak’ server.” You grab at a random server, pulling it against the attached cables. “It’s not going to be that easy.”

“What’s it say on the side of that one?”

You sigh. “You know what, I’m not even going to look.” You hold up a hand at her. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction.” You pop the server free of its cabling. “Sense anyone coming yet?”

“There’s some action upstairs, they’re waiting for backup.”

“Can you still reach your people from down here?”

Anima raps the radio hanging from her waist. “Yeah.” You sense a flicker of doubt cross her mind. “Probably? Maybe.”

“Give them the signal. If we ever needed a distraction, now is the time.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on… uh… fuck I’m running out of names… Adana? Was that a singer?”

You close your eyes, take a deep breath. “Just… send the signal, Anima.”

While she talks into her radio you shift your focus to prying the case of the server open. Taking the whole thing isn’t practical, all you really need is the shiny hard drive core. It pains you, to bust a perfectly decent computer like this but there’s no point in being gentle. You brace the case on the rack and pry at the seam with your fingers until it pops open in your hands like a cracked clam, little bits of broken plastic flying into space. Just another deed to add to your list of crimes.

“Hey, uh… Avril?”

The nervous energy Anima’s putting out makes you tense up. “What?”

“I’m not reaching anyone down here.”

“Come again?” It only takes a good tug to pop the hard drive free of the bay. No screws, thank god.

“I don’t think the radio can reach from down here.”

“Of course it can’t on it’s own, you need a relay to bounce the signal outside… You just said you could do it.” You keep your hands steady as gently place the hard disk into a reinforced container clipped to your belt.

“I said, I thought I could.” She waves the radio around in her hands. “I’m not the techie here, that’s your job!”

“I assumed you would knew your own equipment!”

She crosses her arms, points the hand holding the radio at you. “Well, that’s hardly my fault, now is it?”

“Yes it is!” You press your hands to your head. “Okay. Okay. Okay.” Deep breaths. Stay focused. Stay in control. “Well, we have a hard drive. Who knows what’s on it. At least that’s… something. Let’s just get out of he– What are you doing?”

While you were having your moment Anima had clipped her radio back to her belt and walked over to the nearest tray of servers and with a grunt she, tips the shelving unit, sending them all toppling to the floor. “Covering our tracks.” She moves to the next row and tips that over too. “Now, you got an escape plan?”

You close your eyes, reach out and get a sense of all the little minds scurrying around, plot them to your mental map. “How do you feel about service elevator shafts? They aren’t as guarded.”

“What about these?” You open your eyes to find Anima pointing to a grate in the ceiling.

“The air vent?” You try to remember where those were on the map. “I didn’t consider– It’s a little cramped in those, isn’t it?”

“See,” Anima is already shifting a tray of servers to bring her in jumping distance of the vent. “This is why I’m here. We can just use this and bypass the party at the stairwell.” You pick up an image of the building schematics, from her. Slightly different from your own, higher resolution.

“…I hate tiny spaces.”

Anima jumps and her fingers catch the edge of the metal, and for a split second the grate holds her hanging from the ceiling before it gives out and Anima falls down, a brief moment of panic leaking out before she hits the ground. “Shit!”

You jog over to her as she kicks the metal grate away from her.“You alright?” You ask, offering a hand up.

“Fucking– yeah, I’m fine. Fucking fine.” She pushes herself up, doesn’t take your hand. Fair enough. “You can climb, right?”

A brief memory of scaling bridge struts flashes through your mind and you suppress a shudder. “It’s been known to happen.”

“Well, it’s happening today, come on.”

Crawling through the vents is every bit as terrible as you imagined it would be. Still, you have to admit, Anima was right, it lets you get out without a fight. That’s a -begrudging- plus in your book. Once outside again, the two of you put some distance between you and the sound of the incoming police cars. Stopping to take catch your breath after a couple of blocks.

Anima takes the chance to climb the stone wall fencing off an old church and perching on top. She swings her legs against the edge of the stone, suit scuffed and dirtied. “That was a fucking disaster.” In the far distance the two of you can see the red and blue flashing lights of police cars bouncing off windows.

“If you hadn’t spent the whole time trying to mess with me, then maybe, maybe we could have gotten the correct files.” You clench your hands into fists as you look up at her. “I’ll let you know what I find on the disk we did steal, but don’t hold your breath.”

She waves a hand at you dismissively. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so easily messible, Themis Themyscira of whatever. We’re supposed to be villains. You’re like, fucking Radio-Free Casper over there.”

“Anima, not once in this whole night have you even bothered to call me by my proper name.”

“Yeah well,” Anima turns her head, looking away from you. “Same goes for you too.”

What?

“I’ve called you Anima the whole time.”

“Not my name.”

You frown at that, pull up your mask so she can properly see you, you Ariadne, not Adrestia, glaring at her. “What are– what are you talking about?”

“Anima isn’t my name.”

Where’s she going with this? Is she just fucking with you again? “That– that’s the name my contact used to, uh, get me in touch with you.”

“Yeah, well, they must have been an amazing and incredibly attractive liar.”

You sigh, rub the bridge of your nose. Don’t even try to puzzle that one out. “Fine. I– I apologize?” As you say it you realize you actually mean it. You, more than anyone, ought to know how important a proper name is. “What’s your– your actual name then?”

“I’m not telling you now.”

You stand there and wait her out, hands on your hips.

She huffs and pulls up her mask, and now it’s just Logan who looks down at you. But only for a beat before she focuses on some building in the distance. Logan takes out a pack of cigarettes and lighter from a pocket. It’s a whole process she deliberately drags out; fishing up a single cigarette, lighting it and putting it to her lips.

As Logan puts the pack and lighter back, she takes a long drag and then exhales a curling wisp of smoke.

“Sidestep.” She says.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘Oh’.”

You have to think about this one, slide the new information into place. Finally, you say: “You– you miss it too, huh.” It’s not a question.

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero #fallen hero fanfic #fhr #fanfiction #fhr/Ariadne #*logan #everything goes great guys

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kirkstanbulstrode · 5 years

Text

Ravenclaw.

It had been days, weeks since his conversation with Gilderoy Lockhart in the bar area of his casino, and it hadn’t left his mind since. They’d had plenty of conversations since then, of course, because the man couldn’t go a day without bugging him in his own lobby, but Stan kept going back to how odd Gilderoy had been acting that afternoon. Their banter had turned into a guessing game, because while Gilderoy knew a bit about Stan, he in turn hardly knew anything about his resident author, and it was frustrating to say the least. He prided himself on knowing everyone to at least some degree, but despite the man’s carefully crafted About the Author section of his books, Stan knew jack shit about the person underneath the author.

He’d thought he’d made headway when dissecting him to find his Hogwarts house, but he was only left with more mysteries.

Ravenclaw, he was in Ravenclaw with me. That could be so many people, but Stan wasn’t a Ravenclaw for no reason: he knew how to research, how to narrow down what he was given to come to the proper conclusions. People seemed to forget there was a brain behind the casino owner; it worked in his favor normally, but it was endlessly frustrating when people were shocked by his smarts. The next logical step, at least to him, was to look into the Hogwarts archives, maybe for a yearbook of each graduating class. No one could just visit Hogwarts for no reason, though; it would take a bit of writing and gaining permissions so he could get into the library and scour the shelves under the watchful eye of the school librarian.

Walking through the halls, even with an escort, decades after graduation didn’t make his return to his alma mater any less weird.

“Is there a reason you want to look through the yearbooks?” his escort asked, and Stan put on a charming smile as he answered,

“Just need to check something, that’s all.” He shrugged. “Or maybe I’m feeling nostalgic. Either way I won’t be long.”

The escort accepted the vague explanation and pulled out the yearbooks he’d requested--his graduating class (1961) and what he assumed Gilderoy’s was (1966)--before giving him a bit of privacy, which he was thankful for. Stan brought the books over to a table and cracked them open, a bit taken aback by everyone he saw and recognized. They were so young, he thought fondly, and when he saw his own picture he snorted at the full head of hair that he’d meticulously styled like his father used to teach him. He didn’t talk to anyone from his year anymore, which was sad to realize--they’d been his best friends, people he thought he’d know for the rest of his life.

They didn’t understand why he’d leave magic behind, though, and refused to learn muggle technology to stay in touch, so there went that friendship. Stan frowned and quickly looked away, looking down to the third years and examining the photo carefully. His eyes went over a few of them, those like Arissa McElroy who were snobbish know-it-alls and Gerald Hartley, a particular third year who seemed to have a knack for theatrics and seemed less thrilled in studying like the Ravenclaw stereotype called them to do. No Gilderoy Lockhart, though, and his frown deepened.

There was always the possibility that Gilderoy hadn’t been lying, that he genuinely hadn’t gone to Hogwarts after all, and with that he moved onto the second yearbook.

People didn’t change much from when they graduated to their present self, save for some wrinkles and general signs of age. Arissa had changed drastically between third and seventh year, but he had been able to recognize her on the streets of Diagon Alley after a moment of wait I know you that had him pausing in the middle of the street. Most of the other students were the same, and his face fell slightly as it passed by Gerald Hartley’s photograph in the yearbook, his hair fluffy and full of wayward curls and his general appearance ordinary in the Hogwarts uniform. He sighed and stared at the plain boy, head tilting to the side as he thought. Would he recognize him on the streets? His eyes examined his features again, and Stan was picturing him in far more stylish clothes and meticulously slicked over hair, head tilted up so he could look down on those no matter how much shorter (or taller) they were than him.

Stan froze when he connected the dots, looking at the photo far too intently. If he stared any harder, the page would likely catch fire.

“Is everything alright?” the escort asked, and Stan looked up quickly, coughing to recover himself as he nodded.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he said a bit hoarsely, handing the books back to them and watching as they were slotted back into the archive’s shelves. He waited a beat before venturing, “Did Gilderoy Lockhart go to Hogwarts by any chance?”

The escort laughed. “Don’t be silly. Everyone would know if he’d come here. Besides, last I heard he’d attended Beauxbaton, out in France. Why?”

“No reason. Do you know what happened to Gerald Hartley?”

The escort frowned. “Only once, right after his graduation. I always figured he’d gone off to do something in theatre, given how he acted in school, but I suppose not everyone is meant for fame. I saw his name in the Prophet a few times, though, but not for years.” They shook their head and put a smile back on their face. “Was there anything else we can do for you?”

Stan chewed the inside of his cheek and shook his own head, glancing back at the shelf. “No, I don’t think so. Thank you.”

He was led back off the grounds with a quick stop to say hi to Mercy, who’d been walking to class (and very surprised to see her father willingly in Hogwarts), and Stan pondered what he’d discovered once he got to Hogsmeade over a cup of coffee at the Three Broomsticks.

Gerald Hartley.

He looked far too similar to Gilderoy Lockhart to be a coincidence, but not so much that anyone would realize it off the street. If Gilderoy were trying to distance himself from the little farmer boy he’d noticed a few times in the Ravenclaw common room, he’d done a good job of it. The thing was, Stan didn’t understand why he would go to such lengths to ensure that Gerald Hartley was essentially dead to the world. Hell, lack of studiousness aside, he recalled Gerald being a relatively smart kid, one who knew what he deserved and had the determination to get there. It was admirable, really; maybe he should have talked to him more while in school, but why would Stan have talked to a kid five years his junior?

Besides, it was all a theory.

Why would Gerald Hartley be Gilderoy Lockhart? Similarities aside, they could be two different people for all Stan knew--but there was one way to find out. He finished his coffee and disapparated to Diagon Alley, once again scouring archives after convincing the receptionist at the Daily Prophet that he needed to look through older editions of the paper. His Hogwarts escort had said soon after Gerald’s graduation, but how soon?

It took about two hours to find a few articles penned under Gerald Hartley--his name was small print, but the articles themselves were on various topics and of various lengths. What stood out the most was the flair that Gerald wrote with, and Stan had seen that flair before. Several times before, in fact, particularly when Mercy had first brought the name Gilderoy Lockhart into his mind and insisted she have her own copy of Break with a Banshee.

Gilderoy Lockhart was, in fact, Gerald Hartley.

Stan was frozen in surprise, rather than shock, when he confirmed his suspicion. If anyone had enough information to go off of, they could easily connect the two together, and maybe that was why Gilderoy was so elusive in giving out information about himself. If it was this easy for Stan to find out, imagine his image if the general public figured out. Not that he’d ever give Gilderoy away, of course, but it made a bit more sense as to why he acted as aloof as he was.

That, and it was likely just part of his personality.

Stan thanked the receptionist for her time and left for home, the Century being run smoothly by his manager in his absence. He was distinctly aware that, not many rooms away, Gilderoy was likely basking in his melancholy over Gadding with Ghouls not cooperating with his vision, living a life that he deemed suitable for himself rather than the life of Gerald Hartley. Despite his revelations, Stan wanted to hear someone address Gilderoy as Gerald, or perhaps hear it from Gilderoy himself, as if hearing it from someone else’s lips would solidify what he already knew.

Likely, going up to Gilderoy with anything but speculation would end very poorly, and he wrote down what he’d found on some loose leaf paper, his short-hand indecipherable to anyone save for himself. Stan wouldn’t give away Gilderoy’s secrets, but he did have questions.

He just had to bide his time to get them answered.

Until then, Stan would sit idly by, entertain Gilderoy like he did every day… and wait.

@gillockhart

#thread: gilderoy #self-para #groundhog day

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esseastri · 6 years

Text

Megan Reads Oathbringer (part 8)

AAAAANND WE’RE BACK!

Hello, fronds, apologies for the brief hiatus, but I had to pause the reading/liveblogging because I was busy finishing my novel. YEP, I FINISHED WRITING MY BOOK, WHOOO! And then it was December, and there was Christmas, and traveling, and retail job at Christmas, and Star Wars, and what little time I had to myself I spent chilling because I was exhausted, but ANYWAY, I’M BACK, FRONDS, LET’S GET ON WITH THIS.

Part 8 encompasses pages 557-666 (previous parts)

whooooops where did I leave off, OKAY INTERLUDES

Why...why are we doing anything near Aimia? Listen: Axies the Collector is cool, but two-thousand-cremlings-in-a-trench-coat was waaayyy too far over the horror line for me. I do not want more of this.

So...there’s a third storm? But this one is stationary and around Aimia?

MORE REASON NOT TO GO THERE

Whoa, that sure is a side effect of Soulcasting... #yikes

Or is it not soulcasting? Is it something Radiant?

Oh fuck. Fine. This is fine. You know, the previous Stormlight books didn’t have this much body horror in them.

Ahh, shit, wasn’t there an Oathgate on Akinah? I don’t want a direct line to two-thousand-cremlings-in-a-trench-coat.

“the creatures that accompanied the spren” So...like......their Cognitive shadows? the versions of them still in the Cognitive Realm even as bits of them manifest visibly in the physical? Or...something else?

I’m sorry, did they just...die?

What the

What even is Aimia, really?

Mmmkay, actually, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know the secret of Aimia, I am not interested in being EATEN by two-thousand-cremlings-in-a-trench-coat.

Genuis!Taravangian is an asshole. I’m not surprised, I’m just. Stating a fact.

!!!! Are his secretary and the Dustbringer a thing? Are they together? Get it, girls!

I still don’t trust the Dustbringer.

Aslo “the most likely to accept their cause” Why? Is the “cause” like...destroying the world? I don’t remember if we know the Diagram’s endgoals.

...There’s a danger line for the “too smart” end of the sliding scale? Smart.

Also his name is Vargo? Vargo Taravangian? hehehehehe

IT’S NOT ABOUT DESERVE.

I think I hate him.

Dumb question: if Taravangian wants to take over Alethkar--presumably so he can take over the world--then aren’t he and Dalinar working toward the same goal? They both want a unified Roshar. So why kill Dalinar instead of working with him? The logical solution is to work with him, since he’s more charismatic and has a higher chance of actually succeeding, and then kill him off after he’s succeeded in laying the groundwork, and take over from there?

Not that I’m encouraging this, I’m just saying: Taravangian needs to sort out his priorities.

“kill those children” seriously, fuck this asshole, what a douchecanoe.

Also Renarin the wild card HECK YES.

The farming question can be easily answered: Progression.

Not all the Radiants’ powers were battle powers.

“the part of the world that mattered” OH FUCK YOU. That’s not how it works. It’s not about deserve. It’s about having the ability to help, which gives you the responsibility to help. If you can, then you should. No exceptions. No “matters”. Everyone matters. Everything matters. Everyone deserves to be saved.

Except maybe Kylo Ren, but that’s a different story.

Buddy. Odium already made a deal. He wants out of it now. Also he’s not a spren or a god, so why should your pathetic rules hold him?

Oh. Duh. Somehow I didn’t connect Listeners and gemhearts? But of course they do. How else would they bind spren? They infuse their hearts.

Oooohhhhh snap, they done got possessed.

Aw, Venli...things not going your way anymore?

Idk, I should feel bad for her, but I don’t? She brought this on herself. And on her friends. And on her sister, who is still dead. This is her fault.

“The listener gods were not completely sane.” I mean, idk what you expected.

Though, neither are our gods, so I guess we can’t talk.

Seriously, what did Alethkar do to them?

Oh. Wait. Where was Jezrien from? King of the Heralds, right? Prooobably his idea to make the OAthpact? His fault they were bound? That’s probably what Alethkar did to them...

Oooh, the new epigraphs are from the library at Urithiru! Heck ye, Radiant archives!

Though Taln and the Stonewards need to take a chill pill on the self-sacrificing front, apparently.

(Eks would be a Stoneward, pass it on)

Wait, no, hold on--the whole of part three with no Moash pov? But I’m WORRIED about MY BOY.

I’m unnecessarily suspicious of literally every guard that’s not Bridge Four. But particularly of this Rial guy. What is he, Bridge Thirteen? I don’t trust him. At all. He’s too...glib? with Dalinar to be a proper bridgeman. Around other bridgemen, fine, but with Dalinar? I don’t trust it.

I’m with Navani. “The greasy man is...unfitting.”

ooohh, Dalinar...... he “reminds him of friends from the old days.” Tho, bud, how many of those died, betrayed you, or left to become ardents?

Dalinar should know by now to just...not trust people implicitly. Always question.

I really, genuinely can’t imagine how awkward Kaladin and Shallan’s excursion to Theylan City was. Didn’t they fly? Shallan was probably all SCIENCE!! about it and Kaladin was definitely grumpy “let me fly in peace” boy. Nerds.

Sorry, hold on--you’re counting on Kaladin “Impulsive” Stormblessed and Adolin “Disaster Bi” Kholin to make sure Elhokar doesn’t do anything stupid? That’s like asking two kittens to babysit the new puppy.

“I can’t afford to lose you.” AAaaahhh

omg, no, don’t give Kaladin land. What will he do with it? Turn it into the Land of Misfit Bridgecrews?

Five times...so what’s it been, 50 days? Not even? That’s so little time!!

“Or is someone else receiving [the prayers] instead?” ...Isn’t that just the most chilling thought.

There has to be an explanation beyond “The Heralds are nuts” for Shalash to be erasing herself from visual records.

I’m sorry, rockbuds blossom? and have fragrance? Stop and smell the rockbuds?

“I am a diplomat.” Yeah, and I’m a rockbud.

How is Taravangian such a good actor? Or is he really this emotional on days when he’s not a raging asshole of a genius?

Aw yis, non-hereditary monarchy! I love!

“Does it involve punching someone?” It’s Dalinar, so, what do you think?

“Stone-sinew, Herald of Soldiers.” But...Taln’s focus is bone? Ishar is sinew?

I suppose “Stone-bone, Herald of Soldiers” would be a little too ridiculous-sounding...

brb, changing my url to “stone-bone-herald-of-soldiers”

“It was as if Odium had a grudge against this one in particular.” SAD ABOUT TALN FOREVER: THE MEGAN STORY

I s2g Dalinar is the most Extra son of a bitch in all of Roshar.

HOw do I prove I’m not trying to take over your country? I know! I’ll let you stab me through the chest! This is the BEST IDEA.

oooooooo Tension, maybe?

TENSION!! THIS SHIT IS SO COOL OMG

Also his special power--resonance? right?--is listening and that’s delightful. Or...I’m guessing that’s what it is.

Heck ye, Renarin!

“Strength and passion, the Vorin way.” In other words...Honor and Odium....hmm

So it’s Kaladin, Elhokar, Shallan, Adolin, Skar, Drehey, and...who? Some other bridgemen? It’s gonna be a fun roadtrip, tbh.

Buddy, Shallan ignoring her problems IS a problem! Don’t support this impulse! Don’t encourage this!

omg of COURSE Adolin hates flying. Nerd.

“No wisecracks about missing boots?” No, because that wasn’t funny.

“First assess the area for danger, get the lay of the land. Then gawk.” I LOVE MY SON SO MUCH, WHAT A TRAVEL NERD, BUT ALSO #SAME BRO

...we knew that Elhokar had a kid, but every time I’m reminded of it, I get really weirded out. He’s not old enough to be a dad.

PLease meet up with Moash. Please. I’m dying. My crops are failing. My skin is dry. Help me.

the advantage of living through Bridge Four is that you can sleep well anywhere? Well, I mean. I GUESS That’s an advantage. Sort of.

OH of COURSE it’s an Unmade. We do have eight more of those to encounter and deal with.

Whose is this though? Kaladin’s? Or are Elhokar or Adolin finally going to manifest?

(This is assuming that my theory about there being one Unmade for each order of Radiants to defeat is sound.)

Elhokar is trying so hard to be good.

Also Shallan is mean to Kaladin again, news at nine. *rolls eyes*

So, it’s going to be Kaladin’s Unmade then.

Elhokar, you know that the more you tell yourself you’re going to fail, the more likely you will? Stop it. Have confidence.

“Adolin made you want to laugh with him.” Yeah, he doesn’t punch down.

Also, the Kadolin is REAL, and I’m living.

Kaladin really is too good for this world.

I’m sorry, the fancy lighteyes’ gated villas have guards to keep the refugees off their perfectly manicured lawns? Fuck that. Fuck them.

“I needed someone I’d trust with my life, or more. So I brought us to my tailor.” THIS CHILD IS A DISASTER AND I LOVE HIM

Oh snap! we’ve made it halfway through the book!

“Even his voice was adorable.” HONESTLY, people who don’t ship Shadolin: how? It’s so pure and good and supportive and wonderful!

How did Aesudan know the parshmen were voidbringers? And why did she order them killed only to desert the city?

I suppose fabrials do trap and use spren, right? So it makes sense that the yellowgold...voidspren? would be offended by that sort of...I guess, spren enslavement? Sort of? But why are they so concentrated here? Which Unmade is it and what does it do other than corrupt other spren? and influence people.

How To Corrupt Spren and Influence People, a new bestseller by Odium, found in stores near you!

“I am the only one here who has confronted one of the Unmade directly.” Yeah, you, the Kholin bros, and most of Bridge Four who protected you while you did your thing. But sure.

Kaladin, when will you stop seeing your brands as part of yourself and let yourself heal?

Aw, I’m proud of her, admitted Veil is--oh. “They are both equally fake.” Hon, no... please. Talk to someone about this.

Aharietiam, or as I like to call it, “that other stupidly long and impossible-to-pronunce “A”-word.”

Sorry, but the fact that Shallan takes pleasure in pissing Kaladin off-- “he glared at you in the most satisfying of ways” --is really....gross. Uncomfortable. I’m not here for it.

Like, yeah, teasing is fine, but like... if it strays over from teasing into Actively Pushing Someone’s Buttons Just to Make Them Angry, then it’s BAD, okay? It’s really bad. I can say from experience: it’s very bad.

Well, I mean, that explains why no one’s come back from the palace.

“As a connoisseur of things that have killed me...” honestly. what are we up to now? Poison bread. Shipwreck and drowning. Run through with a sword. Dear god, child, you need to be more careful.

Kaladin making bad puns and smiling is giving me life though. Petition for more.

So, the Skybreakers and the Windrunners did not get along? Justice vs. Honor, I suppose...not unexpected. Especially is one is corrupted.

Isn’t Ishar...Bondsmiths? Herald of Luck? Are you sure?

“He is now as mad as the rest. More, perhaps.” Yeah, I got that vibe from Edgedancer.

Shit. Of course he set himself up as a god-king.

(He and the Lord-Ruler should make t-shirts.)

Dangit, Ishar founded the Oathpact, so bang goes that theory about Jezrien and Alethkar and the listeners.

“The Stormfather hated to be misquoted.” Pppfffft.

HECK YE, Bridge Four got a sword!!

Also omg Navani invented alarm clocks. Bless her.

She packed him lunch! BLESS THESE ADORABLE NERDS. God, they are ridiculous.

Dalinar hitching a ride to Azir with Jasnah and her just going, “Byyyeeeeee” and leaving him alone is HILARIOUS to me.

I wonder if the color of the gemstones in the epigraphs correspond to the radiant orders. Like, if the Windruners recorded in sapphire, and the Lightweavers recorded in garnet, etc.

Okay, I went back and checked, and that seems legit. I’m going to guess that’s been #confirmed by people who finished this book earlier than me, but listen.

“covered by a magnificent bronze dome” Lift voice: “boobies” Me: snrk

SPIRITUAL ADHESION!? WTF THIS IS SO COOL

OMG, he brought them an essay, that’s magnificent. Especially because they all had to write essays to apply to be king. Or.. Prime? WHATEVER THAT’S HILARIOUS AND I LOVE AZIR SO MUCH

hello, I love Jasnah, this is news to no one, but girl wrote an essay in rhythmic meter and *melts*

...the Azish parshmen negotiating for pay is...very Azish of them. And the Alethi parshmen gathering for war is very Alethi. And the Theylan parshmen sailing off into the sunset is very Theylan of them.

HA, Dalinar just said the same thing in the next paragraph, go me.

LIFT ATE HIS LUNCH, I LOVE HER, HELLO BBY I’VE MISSED YOU

“The crazy spren who lives in the forest.” 1. I love Lift a lot. 2. uuhhh...we know the Heralds are crazy, and I assumed Odium was crazy, but Cultivation, too?? Is ANYONE here sane anymore?

oh wow they agreed.

didn’t...see that coming. Not with so much book left.

OOOHHH SNAP HE REMEMBERS. HERE WE GO HERE WE GO AAHHHH

Every time I’m reminded that Adolin is only, like, 24yo, I have to tell myself that I was about that old when WoR came out and he’s not actually a child.

Anyway, 12yo Adolin is a gift. “Neat!” this kiddo aahhh

“It was gratifying to see how much one could accomplish in both politics and trade by liberally murdering the other fellow’s soldiers.” PUNK!DALINAR NEEDS TO LOOK AT HIS LIFE AND HIS CHOICES AND RECONSIDER HIS WORD CHOICE AT THE VERY LEAST

hugs are un-Alethi. this is why they have so many issues. they are emotionally constipated from lack of hugs.

“The other son” fuck you, punk!Dalinar

also “she’d never be a great scribe” yeah, that’s ‘cause she’s left-handed, you Vorin jerks

haaaa, he has a point. That even if he and Gavilar know that he wouldn’t ever betray Gavilar for the throne, Gavilar’s advisors aren’t stupid and will find reasons for Dalinar to be...elsewhere.

“Storms, I don’t deserve her, do I?” NO YOU FREAKING DON’T

tbh, I’m not even sure present-day Dalinar deserves her. Like, he’s better now, but he’s still... a soldier. He’s still a strategist. And Evi deserves a soft, gentle person who loves her.

Evi deserves the world, tbh, and I’m Upset because she’s going to die and I’m going to be Sad.

#op #Megan reads OB #Oathbringer spoilers #Stormlight Archive #Oathbringer #Brandon Sanderson #I'm back y'all #hopefully I will finish this book by New Year's...we'll see if I manage it but that's the goal #thanks for your patience everyone!

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thescarhead · 4 years

Text

Chapter 3: Grammar and Power

"Hagrid, I'm wondering, can you tell me more about the Professors?" Harry said after getting himself comfortable around Hagrid, although he didn't have the ability to eat Hagrid's cooking, while Ron enjoyed himself with pampering 'Fang,' Hagrid's hound dog.

"Well ain' 'hat a good question. Known mos' of 'hem back when I was in school. Of course, 'he Dark Arts 'eacher keeps changin' for a while now and 'he potion masters are fairly new, been aroun' for ten years give or 'ake," Hagrid said pouring more tea.

"But isn't that strange?," Ron said with mild skepticism, "why have two potion masters? Why not one?"

"Well ain' 'hat a funny story. When Professor Snape became 'he potions master, people were worried if he could handle it; given his past an' all, but 'hen Dumbledore wen' off to France one day an' came back with Professor Black, draggin' him by 'he collar; it was quiet 'he show," Hagrid said laughing at the memory.

"Of course, 'he other professors seemed even more cautious to him 'eaching, given his family matters, Black himself 'ried runnin' away whenever he got the chance, yet Dumbledore always dragged him back in 'ime for dinner. I'm not sure wha' convinced Black to stay 'hough, you'll have to ask him or Dumbledore, maybe even Snape if your lucky. 'hen pretty soon things jus' started to work out well and it's been like 'hat ever since." Hagrid said and looked at the clock.

"Blimey, it's getting late, I wouldn't wan' you two gettin' into 'rouble on your second day, now off with you, careful not to get Flinch to fin' you." Hagrid said as he ushered them out.

As much as Hagrid explained, it still left Harry in questions.

What was Professor Snape's past? Why was Dumbledore at France? Why was Professor Black so reluctant in teaching? How did Dumbledore convince Professor Black to stay?

But Harry supposed that could be a answered for another time.

———

Classes went by for the next two weeks as perfect as Harry could imagine.

Well; they went just about exactly as how Harry have imagined it.

In Transfigurations, they wrote down difficult anagrams and translations to which made knickknacks change into other knickknacks.

In Charms, they learned to use basic charms as well as learn when they were invented and why.

In History of Magic, they slept through an explanation of Greek and Roman wizards which brought muggles to reason that there were gods.

In Herbology, they learned about soil properties and there reaction to certain plants.

In Flying Class, they learned what makes a broom fly and the parts of a broom as well.

In Astronomy, they learn how to track star movements and tracing the lunar cycle.

In Defense Against the Dark Arts, they learned that Professor Quirrell was scared of just about everything.

And then there was Potions...

Don't get Harry wrong, it wasn't a strange class compared to his other courses, but it was strange in its teaching style.

The first thing he does in class is place a potion in front and have the students write down what potion it is using only three clues hidden around the room.

As far as Harry was concern, only Hermione seem to like it. Then Professor Black would go off in demonstrating making a potion while the class followed along which was the normal part of class; then does something completely unexpected.

It could be anything.

One time the professor just decided that, to check if are potions worked properly, dropped eggs into the steaming cauldron which out popped a fully grown chicken, or geese and turkey if you messed up which was found out by Neville, that only lead to the school being overrun with foul of all kind. This lead to Professor McGonagall having plenty of practice trials for her class in making chickens to pillows and Professor Sprout feeding her carnivorous plants fresh meat. Not to mention, to no ones surprise, there were a lot of chicken based meals serve the next day.

Another time the Professor handle the students clay dolls to use as containers for the potion which only proceeded to make it come to life and keep trying to untie shoelaces. On course, Professor Flitwick took most dolls and used them to teach the fourth year how to use the cutting charm on moving objects while Professor Kettleburn who teaches Care of Magical Creatures took just enough to keep the bowtruckles at bay from attacking students.

It turned out that whatever potion was made was then explained after the potion was created to make sure everyone was fair game in brewing so not one knew what to expect as the final result. Then the school takes use of it and make it a never ending cycle of 'learning productivity.' At least that's what the other teachers call it.

The good that Professor Blacks tactics brought was an easing environment for the students to learn, so not anything any student, especially the Slytherin, could hate about. It came to the point that no one could ever truly hate his classes.

Of course, that is if Harry could manage to get his potions right the first time around.

"Not bad, not bad, but you can do better, I'll make a potioneer out of you yet; Miss Ganger if you could do so the pleasure in helping Mister Potter with his potion I would be oh so great full," Professor Black said as he hurried over to Seamus's cauldron which seem to be bubbling uncontrollably and quite ready to explode.

But this left Harry vulnerable.

Just as class was about to end, Draco smirked and wrote on a piece of parchment to which he soon crumbled up and threw it at Harry.

But before any piece of crumped up parchment could when get anywhere near Harry, Professor Black appeared, or in this case apparated right on time to catch it.

"Mister Malfoy, bulling will not be permitted in any house and even more so in class," Professor Black said in a calming elegant tone as he opened the crumped paper, walking to an empty chalkboard. "As wizards and witches, by stooping to such means we become nothing more then primitive creatures. If one decide to prove themselves as superior; we show this though are abilities and are skills."

Harry saw Draco's face redden with embarrassment and anger. "This does bring into account that grammar is important when writing a message, there are proper words per proper means. For example Y-O-U-R is used when describing something that belongs to you while Y-O-U-'-R-E is used is phrasing "you are." Professor Black explained as he wrote it down on the board.

"With this being said I will expect an essay 10 inches long on the potion that cures boils which can be found in your books on page 43," Professor Black said as the student started to put their items away to go to their next class.

"AND MISTER MALFOY," Professor Black said louder then needed, "If I catch you bulling or using improper grammar, after school classes will be put into order which I'll make sure, your father will find out about. Class dismiss."

——-

By the time school ended, the Gryffindors in the common room were spreading their daily gossip on the Notorious Professor Black.

"Is apparation truly that difficult?" Harry said, not really sure why everyone was making a fuss about apparation.

"It is, witches and wizards that fail in it can end up appearing to one place missing a leg or hand. Not to mention that you need a license to by allowed to use apparation," Ron explained, "But to think, he would apparate just for show?"

"He didn't just do it for show, didn't you hear any word of his lecture? He was making a statement against bulling and the truth behind power. Yet I will admit, he was able to do advanced magic without a wand and quite effortlessly if I might add, being the fact the if you read Hogwarts: A History, the schools barriers make it difficult to preform such magic, and near impossible to apparate outside or inside Hogwarts. He must be extremely powerful to be able to apparate on school grounds so freely," Hermione inputted from her little corner of books as the other first years sat in the common room next to the fireplace as they continued on in discussion.

But of course, the Weasley twins took it upon themselves to bring trouble to the conversation.

"Don't be to surprised."

"Apparatation isn't the only thing his good at."

"Every year during winter break"

"Dumbledore and Black have a duel just outside of Hogwarts grounds."

"You can see it from the great hall if you like."

"Last year, they got a little overboard and knocked down the astronomy tower!"

"No one got hurt though."

"Then they went off for ice cream."

"After an hour, they came back."

"McGonagall, sent them to the corner and made them clean up their mess."

Fred and George started laughing just thinking of what would happen this year but this did not help the first years imagination and worry of their teacher accidentally crushing them with a tower.

Percy took a moment to think of what to say to calm the situation down and took in a breath, "All the Professors at Hogwarts exceeds in their teaching fields but then we have Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Black who've excelled in multiple fields. But unlike Headmaster Dumbledore, Professor Black does everything in his power to excel all forms of magical knowledge which is why his called in to teach a class when a professor is not able to make it."

"So his a bloody genius," Ron said as he slinked down into his chair.

"No Ron, his studious which is something you should be doing as well, if you end up failing a single class, mother might just turn you into a cow," Percy warned.

"Then we can name you Ro-Moo," the twins said simultaneously which got Percy to chase them around which only proceeded to give the twins a good laugh.

Extra

•Regulus is a grammer god and no one can prove me wrong.

•Bold of you to assume that Regulus wouldn't train hard in magic knowing Voldemort is still alive.

•Every winter break, Regulus duels Dumbledore to see if he could hold his ground against him.

•The last duel held for 40 minutes, with Dumbledore toying with Regulus for the last 20 minutes to see how long the boy would last.

•They destroyed the astronomy tower and then went out for ice cream and McGonagall grounded both of them.

#regulus black potions master #regulus black #regulus black au #sirius and regulus #harry potter #hermione granger #ron weasley #fred weasley #george weasley #albus dumbledore #severus snape #draco malfoy

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purge-that-urge-rhackathon · 7 years

Note

Rhackothy for "you're such a bitch?"

This labeled as Whipped. Also on my ao3 here.My masterlist archive of bullshit i write can be found linked at the top of the blog or you can click here.:)

–

“Please Tim?”

“You’ve got it.”

“Can I have cherries too?”

“Yup.”

“And nuts?”

“Do you want peanuts or walnuts?”

“…Do we have pecans?”

“Pecans? No…” At the look on Rhys’ face, Tim frowned. “But I can go out and get some?”

“No no, if it’s going to be trouble–” Rhys coughed, and then groaned at the soreness in his throat. The suggestion of ice cream had been taken a bit further than a quick stop at the market, but Tim wouldn’t back out now. Especially if it would alleviate some of the symptoms.

“I can do it. Just rest, okay? I’m going to pick you up some chicken noodle soup, too. Nothing that can’t cure,” he said with a smile.

“Can you get it from Genos?” Rhys asked pathetically. “They have the best noodles.”

Tim was planning on just picking up a can at the grocery store along with the ice cream…and cherries and nuts and everything else… but he could stop there without the ice cream melting in time, he was sure.

“You’ve got it.” He placed a kiss on Rhys’ forehead before leaving the house. It was an hour before he was actually back, but he’d managed to get everything and beat the crowds and traffic. He was currently putting the soup in a proper bowl that the amber-haired man could sip from if he wanted while Jack just snorted from the couch.

“What?” Tim asked with a sharp look.

“You.” The older man looked amused, and Tim waited for him to clue him in on what he found so funny. “You’re such a bitch.”

Tim knew exactly what Jack was referring to, and chose to defend his decisions instead of playing dumb. “He’s sick, okay? You want what you want when you’re sick, it’s that simple. It’ll make him feel better.”

“He would have been fine with a carton of something and any old can from the corner market,” the older man said with a shit-eating grin. “He’s made you his bitch.”

Tim was about to go on a ‘you’re one to talk’ tangent when Rhys stepped into the room, blanket wrapped around his shoulders and dragging pathetically after him. The other man looked at Tim hopefully, eyeing the soup eagerly and coming in to nuzzle Tim in thanks.

“You should be laying down, you know.”

“I heard you were home. Jack’s just watching tv, loudly, while I’m trying to rest.”

Jack didn’t even spare Rhys a look while selling him out. “You’re playing on your phone in there, I don’t know who you’re trying to fool, kitten.”

Rhys frowned at being sold out, but Tim ushered him back into the bedroom, ignoring his grumbles about how Jack was surely going to make him sicker.

Tim sat him back in their large bed and fluffed up pillows to make him comfortable. Rhys gave him a wide-eyed look of supplication, upping his pathetic factor by two. “Can I have the ice cream now?”

“It got a little soft on the way back so I popped it in the freezer real quick. I’m heating your soup up right now, and I’m going to get you some soft crackers with it. Just rest for the moment.”

“…Can I eat in bed?”

The thought of crackers and crumbs in bed made Tim’s nose wrinkle, but he sighed. “Sure thing. Just go rest for now, okay?”

Tim left the other man in the bedroom while Jack smirked at him from the couch. “Bitch.”

“Oh shut up.”

Tim brought Rhys his soup a bit later, and came back out for the crackers and some tea that Rhys especially loved. Jack gave the double a silent, smug look, and Tim just told him to go to hell without the older man even saying a word. Jack’s cackles followed him into the bedroom.

–

“Jaaaaack. Jack please?”

“No, Rhys.”

“But you didn’t even look.”

“Because I know we don’t need it.”

“Please? It’ll make me feel better.”

“What part of you?”

“…my humble origins?”

The older man snorted. “The winter house already has a hot tub, kitten. We can go kick it there until you get better if you want.”

The younger man pouted as he sat next to Jack on the couch, blankets wrapped around him and still in pajamas. Truthfully, Rhys was more or less better already. A runny nose hardly made him an invalid, and his sore throat and fever had been gone some days now.

He was sure as hell committed to playing up every last ounce of pity he could get, though.

“But Jaaaaack…”

“Rhyyyyys…”

The younger man pouted fully next to him. Time to try a new tactic. “You can’t take the time off right now to go to the winter house. The company needs you.”

“That’s okay, you and Tim can go and get some R&R for me. Just don’t fuck on the new mattress yet. I wanna personally be there for that ribbon ceremony,” the CEO said with a filthy chuckle.

Rhys burrowed in closer to the older man, his voice taking on a more pathetic octave. “It won’t be the same without you there… I’ll miss you too much.” Jack sighed and ruffled Rhys’ hair affectionately, but didn’t comment. Rhys sensed weakness there and seized the opportunity. “You know how bad I toss and turn if you’re not in bed with us… I’ll just get worse, Jack.”

“Kitten, we don’t have room for a hot tub.”

Negotiation. Rhys could work with this. “What about next to the fence under the grape vine terrace?”

Jack snorted. “Tim would skin me if I co-opted his plans for a vegetable garden this year.”

“Then near the edge of the yard? By the barbeque?”

“And get smoke in our faces when the wind kicks up?” Jack gave the man at his side a nonplussed look. “You trying to do me in that way, cupcake?”

Rhys rolled his eyes and relaxed back into the older man. There was silence a few moments while Jack flipped channels, optimistically thinking the conversation was put to bed.

“…what about the balcony?”

Jack looked at Rhys like he was crazy. “Do you know how heavy those things are?”

“No no, hear me out. You’ve been wanting to remodel the bedroom for some time, right?” Jack was silent, watching him suspiciously. Rhys took it for a good sign. “Just widen the balcony, some extra supports, we can have stairs from the garden to the bedroom and right to the hot tub.”

Rhys was practically worming his way into Jack’s lap as he spun the idea. The older man held him close, fingers tapping a rhythm on Rhys’ thigh as the younger man made himself comfortable.

“Think about it. We can grow more grapevines up the sides, torches up on the balcony itself, sitting in nice warm water on colder nights and look out into the valley.” Jack hummed at the idea. Rhys was pretty sure he was sold. “Soothe all those sore muscles from working too hard, handsome. Real therapeutic. If you call the contractors now, they can probably have it done before the week is over,” Rhys purred. “Everyone knows Hyperion can make the impossible happen…”

“That lady from innovations or whatever the shit did want to come to the house for the PR interview…”

“Imagine how impressed she’ll be with something Handsome Jack himself designed for his own house. President of the company is just as skilled as his employees. Imagine how it’ll raise stock.” Rhys wiggled in Jack’s lap and the older man laughed.

“That’s some pretty crafty bullshit there, baby.”

“But you know I’m right.”

Jack snorted. “Those magazine types eat this shit up.” He pressed a kiss to the younger man’s temple before shunting him off his lap. “Go pick out the style you want, sugar, and I’m going to make some calls.”

With the energy of one definitely not sick, Rhys jumped up and headed straight to his computer in their home office, blankets wrapped around him trailing like a cape. Jack wondered for a moment if he didn’t just get played, but decided to think about how he’d get to view Tim and Rhys in bathing suits from their bedroom instead.

–

“So I hear we’re getting a hot tub?”

Jack looked up from where he was drafting plans on his desk, glasses askew on his handsome face as Tim looked on, smug as hell. Jack ignored his expression with a simple explanation. “It’s therapeutic or some shit.”

Tim gave Jack a raise of his brow that seemed to say “Who’s the bitch now?”

“Shut up Timothy.”

The other man only chuckled. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“Thinking what exactly?”

Jack frowned deeply. “That I’m his–”

“Bitch?”

Jack snorted. He deserved that. “He’s a persuasive little shit, isn’t he?”

“Maybe,” Tim offered with a grin. “I’m pretty sure he’s not even sick anymore.”

“…That little shit.”

“Just admit it, he’s got us both whipped.”

“Maybe,” Jack conceded, smiling up from his plans with a dirty grin. “But if he thinks he’s not paying for this in blowjobs aplenty, then he’s got another thing coming.”

Tim laughed and asked if Jack was being literal. The older man tossed a pencil at him as Tim fled the room, leaving Jack to question why he even put up with his two ultra-hot sexy young boyfriends.

He rolled his eyes at himself with a grimace and drafted up plans for benches and a built-in beer fridge while he was at it.

#poisonjack #rhackothy #LOLOL this was too much fun xD i was having trouble envisioning how to use this prompt but hot damn it worked out well BWAHAHA #rhys is a little shit oh man xD they love him far too much to say no ahahaha #my fic #borderlands #handsome jack #timothy lawrence #rhysothy #rhack #fanfic

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drink-n-watch · 5 years

Text

I has been a week of blistering afternoons and wild festival movies and lots and lots of work. And lest you think I be complaining, these are all very good things. Except for the heat – I could do with less of that. But good and fun as these things may be, they can end up a little exhausting, so I was looking forward to lazing around on the weekend and having a nice little Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba chat with my friend Crow. How are you Crow?

I’m well, thanks for asking! It’s pretty hot down here in the States, too. Better than a couple of weeks ago, though. I’ll be bold his week (it still feels like an unnatural state!) and to be clear, there may be spoilers! What an episode, too! I can’t wait to dig in!

This week opened up not on our heroes battling the giant spider demon, but on what I can only assume is fan favourite Giyuu (if fan art is to be believed, this guy is everywhere!) and the butterfly girl whose name I’m not sure we know.

They mentioned her name like once in the previous episode. She’s Shinobu Kocho.

Crow, is she the same girl that passed the final trial with Tanjiro? If so, she must have risen in the ranks extremely quickly to be accompanying Giyu now!

She looks just like her — seems to have an affinity for butterflies, too! So I dug deeply into the archives and searched for hours (okay, I Googled for a few minutes) — I think they’re separate. The other survivor from the trial is Kanao Tsuyuri. They have absolutely got to be connected somehow. I think that Shinobu is a demon. Can they have kids? Or maybe Kanao is her younger human sister?

So, the scene opens on these two arriving in Spider forest to either rescue the surviving Demon corp members (about time there guys…) or kill the demons. The organization seems rather martial and hawkish, so my money is on the latter.

The butterfly girl whose name I don’t know (Hey! I just told you! Oh, right, writing is asynchronous! Sorry — carry on!) I just forgot sheesh – whose name is Kachow, is extremely cheerful through all of this and has this high pitched sing songy voice that clashes with the surroundings. I’m not scared of spiders at all, but butterflies creep me out. And this girl sends chills down my spine. It’s likely only due to my personal brand of crazy, but I have immediate distrust towards this poor young lady.

Actually, I think she earned it. I found her attitude to be quite scary. Not head spider-level terrifying, but enough to make me draw a sword. If I had one. And I don’t.

After the opening credits, we catch up with Inosuke and Tanjiro trying to deal with giant spider papa. Throughout the fight, he keeps repeating “Stay away from my family.” He’s consciousness seems a lot dimmer than all the other spider demons. Despite Tanjiro’s insistence to the contrary, I’m almost certain this guy is not one of the 12. Sure, he is very physically strong, but his mind seems mostly gone, like one of the underling demons.

All the higher ups have been frighteningly smart. They’ve needed to use some brains to survive, I suppose. And we know that Kibutsuji isn’t exactly the patient type. I don’t see him putting up with spider dude for very long. Nope! I’m calling super obvious red herring on this one.

I don’t know for sure, but I agree with you!

This said the fight was fun to watch. Choreography remains stellar. I think my favourite moment was seeing Inosuke skip across the water like a flat stone.

In my notes, I had written, “Inosuke skipped like a stone…” Great minds and all! The water animation, too, I thought was just fantastic!

My second favourite part was seeing Inosuke run away. It was played for laughs and possibly that’s all it was. A gag. But in the context of that character, it’s a huge growth moment. Inosuke does not know when to quit. Often putting his life at risk and losing the advantage. He is a straightforward brawler without any strategic sophistication who considers anything other than raw strength embarrassing. But he still opted for a tactical retreat without anyone telling him, and he wasn’t that wounded yet. To me, it shows forethought and strategic thinking that were out of reach until now. Not to mention that he had to let go of whatever “honor” or “power” ideals he was holding onto. Even I think I’m reading too much into this.

I hope you’re not, because I picked up on the same thing. I think Tanjiro’s a good influence on him!

We got a quick look at how Zenitsu is doing as well. In short, not great. Even the little nightmare spider creatures felt sorry for him. In what he thinks his last moments are, all he could do was uselessly apologize to Nezuko. I’m not sure for what. Not saving her I suppose. Still, it wasn’t a show of self pity, grief or vengeance fueled anger. It was regret of not being there for another. I thought that was sweet.

Of course, I don’t think we’re going to lose Zenitsu any time soon. It may be very gory but Demon Slayer is still something of a children’s show. Like those old terrifying fairy tales. The heroes don’t just die in the middle like that.

Sadly it’s suspicious butterfly girl that comes to his rescue so he may wish he had died…

The animation of her butterflies, then her descent onto the cabin, was hauntingly beautiful. Her outfit even looked like butterfly wings as she landed. Given her cheerful and carefree attitude, I wonder if Zenitsu thought he was hallucinating? I’m pretty sure I would have thought so.

Now all three main Demon hunters are separated. Tanjiro, having been thrown far from Inosuke and the Spider papa, is just landing in another part of the woods. I almost expected him to fall on Giyuu. Instead though, he pulled off a pretty smart move, using his water wheel to curve and slow the trajectory of his fall allowing him to survive the landing. Although not exactly unscathed. I really liked this. It was a smart functional use of water breathing. Were you as impressed as I was, Crow?

Yes, I was! He used a similar technique when he fought the dying vector demon back in episode 10, didn’t he? Tanjiro never stops thinking, and I like that about him.

Tanjro may not have landed on Giyuu, but he did seem to land on little brother and sister demon instead. There were some really interesting speculations in the comments of last week’s post, over on Crow’s blog, that the two may actually be one and the same. It seems they are physically separate at least, not that they couldn’t turn out to be linked on some level.

That little sister is just so meek for a demon. She seems gentler than Nezuko and aside from calling for her daddy when a maniac wearing a bore head started screaming that he was going to kill her and brandishing weapons, she actually hasn’t done anything even remotely aggressive. And from my description, I bet you can tell I don’t think that was aggressive either.

The story is purposefully showing her not attacking a lot. I’m thinking there’s a reason behind that.

I had a hard time finding her name, but it seems to be Kumo oni: Ane. I’m reading her character the same way you are. And though I’m sure it’s just because I’m wired to feel sorry for a sobbing female, I really felt bad for her. Rui’s obvious cruelty helped that along, I’m sure!

Out of the blue and unbelievably unharmed, not scared and rather jerky demon slayer shows up to give little bro a chance to show off his overpowered skills. I understand the function of the scene, but considering all that has happened, the odds are just too impossible that a random guy got separated from the group, has been just fine all this time and is happy about bumping into demons he can attack? It was way too contrived. There must have been a better way to establish little brother’s skills and power level. Magic glasses or something?

Even the little extra bit he said — about advancing up the ladder so he could earn more money, almost hinting at some kind of fiscal corruption, didn’t help. His attitude was the most un-Demon Slayer like we’ve seen.

I could only come up with two explanations. First, we’re going to learn something amazing about that character in the near future that’ll blow us away. Or, the main writer went to get a drink or take a restroom break, and the junior writers just wanted to get to the next scene.

I’m thinking number two. And you know what – you tried guys!

We got back to Inosuke, and I suddenly had a series of revelations. First, I realized that the characters are better individually than together. They just don’t have the proper chemistry as a group. They should be pen pals from now on. Second, as a wounded Inosuke is hiding and trying to survive, I realized that I was genuinely worried for Inosuke. How, why huh? Is it just a function of proper tension and dramatic timing? Inosuke is my least favourite character and I think he is responsible for a lot of the elements that don’t work in Demon Slayer, but I was biting my nails wishing that he would be ok. I’m so fickle!

Then, as he had his grand moment chopping of the demon’s arm, we got a fantastic scene where papa dropped everything and high tailed it out of there! I loved it and instantly changed my mind about the papa demon character (for now). Do I just like people who run away? Maybe I do. Maybe that’s why I’m a lot more forgiving of Zenitsu than most folks are. I respect people who know when to give up!

Pen pals? “Dear Insouke. I hope the day finds you well…” Well, it would certainly make for different pacing! But I see what you mean. I loved seeing Inosuke develop as he was apart from Tanjiro. He was forced to be honest with himself, especially given how powerful his opponent was.

But do you know what else I thought was really cool? You could see the impact Tanjiro has had on him in their short time together. Inosuke probably couldn’t put it into words, but he’s starting to really respect Tanjiro. Remember, just before papa spider sent Tanjiro practically into orbit, Insouke watched Tanjiro power up and thought, “He’s about to do something totally mind-blowing!” That’s not something Inosuke would have said just a week ago.

Character development rocks.

Sadly, papa isn’t actually a huge demon version of Zenitsu, and he was just finding a safe spot to turn into… basically the same thing. A bigger version of himself with more eyes and I’m guessing even stronger and tougher but still just a brute strength gear check.

Too bad, he was really interesting for a second there.

Not that an unstoppable force isn’t an impressive opponent. Inosuke took quite the punishment and the skull crushing scene was difficult to watch. But at this point, it just seemed like something we’ve seen before. What do you think Crow?

Sure, papa spider 2.0 was an upgrade, but you make a good point. The only thing I thought was different was how Inosuke reacted. He nearly gave up, re-found his courage (always a stirring moment for me!), and tried again.

Was that Inosuke’s mom we saw as he hovered on the edge of unconsciousness? Now I want to know more about his past!

I think it was. It’s how I read the moment.

For the third time in the episode, we had a Demon Slayer unexpectedly showing up next to one of our main characters. This time Giyuu. Ok, I get it. Giyuu has a great design. I would draw him too!

Moreover, Giyuu uses water breathing. Did we know that?

Okay, now I know you somehow snuck into my computer and read my notes. At 20:19, I had written, “Did we know Giyuu uses water breathing techniques like Tanjiro?”

I guess the other way to answer that is by just saying, “No!” Pretty cool, though. Assuming Tanjiro survives (and I’m trying not to get ahead of ourselves here!), he has quite a powerful future to look forward to.

Since Tanjiro learned his technique from Urokodaki, does that mean Giyuu also trained under him? And Crow, did you see if Giyuu had a black sword? They made a big deal about that but then just sort of forgot about it. So many questions!

Re-watching the scene, I think you’re right — it does look black. Good catch!

The very last scene returned us to Tanjiro facing off with little brother. Nezuko still presumably in that crate on his back. I still don’t understand why we haven’t seen her in this arc. The episode ends on a first-person cliffhanger. Cheeky! And quite visceral. I felt that one!

I think this is the worst cliff-hanger they’ve sprung on us. What the heck, Demon Slayer?

I’m excited to see what Giyuu and Butterfly girl can bring to the mix and curious about what little sister is hiding. She even looks a little like Nezuko. I think… We haven’t seen her in a long time. Any final thoughts Crow?

I’m still annoyed about that cliffhanger! That aside, I enjoyed seeing Inosuke and Tanjiro both pushed to their limits. Isn’t it interesting to see what a character does at the point of greatest stress? It really shows what they’re made of.

That cliffhanger, though…

Reviews of the Other Episodes

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 01: Cruelty

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 02: Trainer Sakonji Urokodaki

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 03: Sabito and Makomo

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 04: Final Selection

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 05: My Own Steel

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 06: A Friend fo All Humans

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 07: Muzan Kibutsuji

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 08: The Smell of Enchanting Blood

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 09: Temari Demon and Arrow Demon

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 10: Together Forever

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 11: Tsuzumi Mansion

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 12: The Boar Bears Its Fangs, Zenitsu Sleeps

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 13: Something More Important Than Life

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 14: The House with the Wisteria Family Crest

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 15: Mount Natagumo

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 16: Letting Someone Else Go First

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba Episode 17: You Must Master a Single Thing

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba Episode 18: In which Tanjiro Dispenses Good Advice I has been a week of blistering afternoons and wild festival movies and lots and lots of work.

#action #anime #Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba #Horror #shonen #supernatural

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