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channelmono · 4 years

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I dunno if I have a lot to say, but I figured that give how many people follow me, I wanna share some tips on preserving mental health during these chaotic times

If you follow me on Instagram, you might have noticed my last story QA, which was a bit of a survey just to see how some of you lovely monitors are feeling, because I know the world in general has been stressed lately for obvious reasons. The elephant in the room is that we as individuals are all walking a tightrope of staying up-to-date about the future and how to maintain our physical health while also trying to preserve a sense of productivity and activity to sustain our mental health, the latter of which I’m noticing being especially strenuous for many of you, likely because this prolonged period of uncertainty and anxiety is highly unfamiliar. I want to disclaim right away: I am not a doctor, I am not a psychologist trained in extensive therapy who knows how to guide each and every one of you to your healthiest behaviors. However, I still wish to still help you with some advice. I do wish to see you as my friends, and as my friends, I want to ensure that you are happy and healthy. I already have a history of self-isolation, and without getting too in-depth of the exact details, this involuntarily hermit-like lifestyle we’re all being encouraged to ascribe to has been my way of living for the past several years (the involuntary-ness included). I’ve become much more acclimated to not just being alone, but stuck in a place of residence with little directive or seeming control of my own future, with a long history of trying to discern of not just what to do with my life in general, but just getting through the day-to-day. I want to discuss that day-to-day, because the month(s) away we have from returning to a normal world again is still comprised of many, many days, and if I can’t come up with a surefire long-term plan for how to deal with a future we are all in unfamiliar territory of dealing with, I can at least suggest a few low-cost stepping stones to helping you take in each day a lot easier, and hopefully help lift a bit of the collective burden over however long we may be like this. 1) DON'T LET YOURSELF GIVE UP. I feel like this is a bit of an obvious tip that might come across as “are you feeling sad? Just be happy!”, but hear me out. One of the biggest sources of human (or human-equivalent) stress is the feeling that one has no control over their life. The period where I fussed incredibly hard about the fate of my future as I was first condemned was one of the darkest, most exhausting parts of my life, as were all the times I had done before. It wasn’t merely that I was so ashamed of my failures, but it was the fact that I’d constantly and semi-consciously associate it with my entire being, to the point where I couldn’t make a casual joke in a non-depressed context that didn’t end with a side remark of how I wanted to die (now that I explained it without context… yikes.) Eventually, there was a eureka moment for me where I had enough of being tired. I’m not sure exactly what triggered it -- perhaps it was just dealing with the banality of the isolation, perhaps it was just me thinking more about how I mentally hurt myself and what I could do to stop, perhaps it was me simply deciding to find professional psychological help for it -- but whatever the case, I realized that even if the world could do bad things to me, I wanted to stop doing things that would hurt myself, as not only was being good to myself the least that I could do, but it also helped me forge a modicum of very real power for my self-esteem, giving that first boost to kickstart my life again (in part by starting this channel and making new online friends!) This wasn’t a solution to get rid of all my outside problems, but rather a means to help accept that things would be tough, but I could still live with them. Challenges will need to be faced, and there will be failures because that’s how life can be sometimes, but it also helped me better comprehend that there will also be victories, because that’s ALSO how life can be sometimes! I can’t say for sure how each and every one of you will be able to help yourself realize that negativity, hopelessness, and cynicism are not the only means to approach an uncertain and stressful future. Perhaps you already realized it! Perhaps you were in the process of realizing it but the articulation of my journey may give some guidance. Perhaps you still need some more time and thought to think about it. But whichever way, I implore you to consider that this future is not solely one to be defeated by, but one which you can fight to be happy in… and win. 2) GIVE YOURSELF A DAILY RHYTHM. One of the biggest things I see people complaining about is how without their usual daily schedule with work or school, their mental acuity is going haywire and it’s difficult to get things done. There are many reasons for why our brains are reacting to the situation the way they do: a bunch of collective trauma surrounding the pandemic putting our brains on edge for what to expect next, stress making us unable to register complex tasks, our inner survival instinct diverting away our ability to think about personal minutiae, etc. The human brain is a fickle thing doing its best to cope with the trauma it’s presented with, and first and foremost, it’s important to be patient with yourself. Going back to the “how to take on the day-to-day”, let’s talk about schedules. The truth is that many of us crave at least a mild semblance of structure and compartmentalization, and a big factor for why our minds are getting sloggy is because we’ve lost the ones we followed, mostly ones imposed onto us by our professions, and were wholly unprepared to figure out a compensation plan (as many of you students learning via Zoom conferences are aware). The practical trick I have to help remedy this is a pretty basic-on-paper one: seek out your own schedule. Speaking from my own experience, the daily grind into this miasma of a future becomes less cumbersome once you intuit what you actually define as “the daily grind”. This is not to say you need to become a rigid, Clock King-esque fanatic who plans every action by the minute, as simply understanding what you do and what you WANT to do will be of help. For me, I schedule my alarm clock to go off at 8:30. Every day I get up and make coffee or tea along with breakfast for myself and The Master. My current daily priorities are messy janitorial duties and Animal Crossing, while my personal hobbies that I’d reserve to my free time include filming content, playing video games, watching movies or Youtube, cooking, or going outside to jog. Every week or so, I go out for groceries. I do my best to go to bed and sleep before midnight. Of course, this is just MY schedule, but this is how rudimentary it can get while still giving me a sense of fulfillment when I do pass the time as I do accomplish my tasks. There are many ways to go about it, but really, one of the simplest ways to recognize them in your life is just write it out. Actually articulate it into just a really simple list that you have to transfer from mind onto paper/digital text. This is especially recommended if additional tasks or changes to your life occurs: write it down so you can remember everything! And allow yourself to do it! This is not to say you should be worrying constantly about how productive you are, as the goal is not to define yourself by how much you accomplish per day, but rather a way to give yourself that sorely needed daily rhythm we all miss, while allowing you to reward yourself when you hit your goals. And like every plan, it doesn’t need to be flawless -- there will be times where we need to relax and take a break. There might be emergencies to deal with. There may be times where things are so overwhelming where it’s like “Yknow what? I don’t wanna do anything today.” And that’s okay. On a related note: Something I’d like to place importance on with my schedule is my sleep. As someone who has experienced long periods of miserable exhaustion in my life, I cannot overstate just how important and cathartic a good, consistent sleep schedule is. I’m not joking: the night when I stopped being “insomniac” by going to bed tired but staying on my phone up until 2 AM, and instead actually went to bed at 11-ish, I woke up feeling the best I had in years. Exhaustion no longer felt like a necessary, expected burden. I felt legitimately well-rested, and discovering that I could freely feel things that weren’t depression was almost epiphanic (if that’s a word lol). I know that going to sleep and waking up on a consistent time of day might sound chore-like to many of you night owls, and there may be other concerns at play like actual insomnia, but I implore you to at least consider giving yourself a consistent nightly rhythm as well as your daily one. Being exhausted is an easy way to get stuck in your own head, and if you’re thinking dark thoughts and lack the energy to force yourself out, you can be in trouble. Don’t underdo or overdo it that you still feel like crap when you wake up. Be honest to yourself. Good sleep can be incredibly rewarding in ways that you might not even believe until you experience it for yourself.

#channel mono #no signal studio #mental health #quarantine #quarantine life

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theragnarokd · 4 years

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[some backstory for this ficlet. TMA, jonmartin, explicit; sexual humiliation, Beholding, bad communication, worse kink practice and very iffy consent]

Martin rewound the tape recorder for the fourth time.

"He says he works here, at the - the Magnus Institution, and I say what even is that, and he says he wants my story.

He says he needs to hear what happened to me, and I -"

Still the same words as before. He rewound again.

"He says he wants my story. He says he needs to hear what happened to me-"

The whir of the tape as Martin rewound it once more was like saying a word too many times in a row, until it lost all meaning. Maybe that was what he was after. Maybe if he'll hear this enough times, he'll stop thinking about Jon accosting this woman. Feeding on her.

"He says he needs to hear what happened to me-"

Martin stopped the recording, abruptly sick with himself. This wasn't going to get any better if he spent more time listening to the recording. He had to do something.

Of course, that left the question of what he should do, and unfortunately he had no idea. Someone needed to face Jon and tell him, tell him this wasn't okay. He couldn't keep doing this.

Martin was halfway through composing a note to Basira when a pang of worry hit him. He could imagine Jon saying the words on the tape. Need, the woman had said he'd said. Jon was very particular about how he used his words.

Well. There was nothing to be done until he returned from fucking Ny-Ålesund. Martin exhaled and tried to put it out of his mind.

Jon startled when he noticed Martin in his office. It was a tiny, petty triumph. Maybe this was how Peter felt all the time.

"Martin." Was it his imagination, or did Jon's eyes look hungry, scanning him up and down? "I... haven't seen you in a while."

Martin really wished this could have continued to be the case. He slapped the tape recorder on the table and played it without another word.

"...I can explain," Jon said, when the tape ran out. Then he sighed. "No, I don't suppose I can." He spread his arms. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll come to me next time." Martin spoke quickly: the words felt uncomfortably hot in his throat, like spitting out an ember.

He hadn't seen Jon stunned in several months, and he savored the sight. Another petty triumph. "Pardon?"

"If you need somebody's unprocessed supernatural trauma," Martin gave an uncomfortable laugh, "come ask me. I've got plenty."

Jon's expression was completely unreadable. "Aren't you going to tell me to stop doing it at all?"

"Are you going to?"

Eyes downcast, voice low, Jon said, "I could try."

He sounded as likely to succeed as Martin had ever been when embarking on a diet, which is to say, not at all. "Skip it. Come to me. It'll save everyone the awkwardness when you snap and binge on a dozen people's brains." He didn't wait for Jon to answer before leaving.

Jon had left a note on Martin's desk: My office. 8pm. Please. Martin actually got there at quarter to. He spent the time watching Jon type, face scrunched up in fierce concentration.

At five past, Jon looked up. "Oh," he said, once he spotted Martin. "Didn't notice you were here. Sorry."

Martin shrugged. Story of his life, right there. "Do you want to get started?"

"Yes. Please. Sit down." He gestured Martin at the chair he usually had statement givers occupy. "Do you want anything? Tea?"

Lovely time Jon picked to try and be welcoming. Martin wanted to be done with this. "Go ahead and ask."

Jon took a deep breath. "All right. Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding..." He looked up at Martin.

"Recent experiences," Martin said stiffly. He wasn't sure what he'd talk about yet. That time Tim and he were stuck in those endless corridors, maybe.

Jon nodded almost imperceptibly. "Taken from subject by Jon Sims, the Archivist."

Was it Martin's imagination, or did Jon's voice linger on the word taken?

It didn't matter. He shook his head and said, "I've wanted you to fuck me since I first saw you." He clapped his hand over his mouth as soon as the words came out.

That got Jon's attention. His eyes widened, and he tilted his head. "Keep going."

Martin's hand dropped on its own accord. "The thing is, I know you're asexual. And I don't want you to do anything you don't want, the idea makes me sick. But I still want you. It's shameful, really, but I can't stop. You're just so, so--" He clenched his jaw shut and looked at Jon with pleading eyes. "You don't want to hear this," he said, with some effort.

"I do want to hear it," Jon said. His skin was too dark for a blush to really show, but Martin wondered if it was there anyway. "But if you don't want to...."

Martin swallowed. "It's not like I expected this to be pleasant. If this is working for you," Jon gave a small nod at Martin's questioning look, "I'll do it." He took a deep breath and let the words come out as they would. "I spend a lot of time looking at your hands. Wondering how they'd feel on, on my dick." Christ. Martin wasn't sure what made him cringe worse, telling Jon about his fantasies or how banal those fantasies were. Uninspired.

On the other hand, Jon's eyes glittered when he looked at Martin, like he was ravenous. Which he was, come to think of it. Maybe humiliation was a form of fear that Jon's patron could feed on.

"Or your fingers in my arse, I'm really not picky. Not that we'd have to do penetration! Or. Um. Any kind of sex."

"That's not likely to happen, no," Jon said, tone flat.

Martin flinched. Speaking of penetration, Jon's eyes felt like they were drilling right through him, a more thorough violation than anything he'd ever experienced. "I want to fuck myself while you watch. My fingers or toys, I have toys. One big sparkly purple one and another one that's black. I've wondered whether either of them looked like, well, you, shape-wise. I've certainly thought of you while using them." It was at this point that Martin realized that he was wretchedly, miserably hard. "I wish I could do that right now. Hell, I don't think I even need to take my trousers off to come, I bet you could make me do it just by talking."

Jon's face might as well have been made of stone for all Martin could read him. "Is that what you want?" There was a very faint crackle of static as he spoke.

"Yes," Martin whispered. He closed his eyes.

When Jon said "Come," the word hit Martin's body like a tidal wave, leaving him gasping, his pants dirtied.

Even now, apparently, Martin could not shut up. "I, I think of people seeing me when I'll leave. Looking like this. They'll know what I've done." He gulped in a breath. "It makes me want to get hard all over again." He could feel the weight of all those judging eyes even now.

"Should I tell you to have another erection?" Jon's voice was a study in neutrality.

Martin wilted. "Best if you don't." As his arousal waned, the idea turned from mortifying and arousing into merely mortifying.

Jon nodded. "Is there anything else?" Martin shook his head. "Statement ends." Next to Jon, a tape recorder clicked itself off. Martin did not remember seeing it turn on, but then, he'd been distracted. The next thing Martin remembered was his own office, with the peculiar silence outside which signified that he'd slipped into the Lonely. He buried his head in his hands and did his best not to think.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #i post #my fic

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sebthesnipe · 4 years

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The Dreamer by Whatwashernameagin an Analysis? Part 3

All portions:

Chapter 1: Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

Chapter 2: Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

The Dreamer

@whatwashernameagain

Let’s jump right in, shall we?

Reminder: Spoilers under cut!

If we pick up where we left off, Logan talks about The Dreamer’s/Roman’s vision of the future ‘where everyone could live in love and harmony, and humanity would grow into its glowing, gallant potential, coexisting in friendship with nature and respecting the planet while creating a world fir for fairy tails’. “Why would no one see that [The Dreamer] was clearly delusional” (Whatwashernameagain)? Can anyone say… Foreshadowing?

I know I haven’t made it to chapter 2 yet but I need to bring this up so… If you haven’t read Chapter 2 yet then skip this bit.

*****CHAPTER 2 SPOILERS****

Once again, Roman’s character portrait is gaining more depth with this paragraph. In Chapter 2 we learn that Roman really does see the future this way. The knowledge has a sense of innocence that Logan obviously finds annoying but adds yet another endearing quality to the hero. I won’t go into too much detail about Chapter 2 but the foreshadowing here is quite lovely and shouldn’t be ignored. Logan calls Roman delusional for his vision and he truly is. With everything that we learn in Chapter 2 we see just how delusional the hero really is. But its not only for the future… his delusions go far deeper, involving his family, his duty, his team… I’ll stop there. You’ll just have to read my analysis of Chapter 2 when I eventually get there.

Now back to our regular scheduled programming…

*****END OF CHAPTER 2 SPOILERS*****

Okay… so this next para…. Oh man… So many thoughts…. “Despite his illogical argumentation, [The Dreamer] had somehow kept him from some of the more drastic measures [Logan’s] supercomputer suggested would be necessity for the continued well-being of all – much to the computer’s ire” (Whatwashernameagain). So, I really want to use two types of literary theories here… one being reader-response and the other bordering psychoanalysis. In other words, more Freud stuff. Don’t worry I’m not going to go into too much detail this time.

When I read this para all I can picture is the left and right side of the brain, which is really what Roman and Logan are aren’t they? I’ve briefly touched on the fact that Logan and Roman are polar opposites complimenting themselves before but… this para makes me consider it in a different way. Roman is acting almost like a conscious here; providing a line to draw when Logan starts to get out of control. Roman is the reigns that are yanked when Logan goes too fast. He keeps the Logical side in check. Fitting. Poetic. Perfect. Love it, Eva.

And… This super computer has so much Sass… Must be Remy. XP

With the introduction of Remy we get another burst of the light hearted humor that comes with his personality. Eva balances the character well, in my opinion. Remy is supposed to be a supercomputer with some sass but writing a character that is a computer can be difficult. I really would like to spend some time discussing Remy but I am afraid that I can’t go into to much detail. Remy in this scene is more of a support character, and there isn’t much to go on at the moment… Of course, knowing Eva, this will change in the future. I am sure he has plenty to say about Remy as the story progresses. As it stands Remy makes for a good comic relief and fantastic transitional device, pulling the reader from Logan’s thoughts back into the present to help the story move on.

**I’m going to pause here for a moment. While analyzing the entrance of Remy I grew curious about a few things and decided to ask her. I am going back to edit this in because while writing this portion of the analysis I felt as if I was missing something. Why did she choose Remy specifically to be the supercomputer and how does it play into any of this? I knew there had to be a reason, but I hadn’t managed to figure it out. So, I asked. Here was her response:

“So I absolutely thought about why I wanted Remy as the computer. Computers are associated with cool predictability and lacking emotional competence and stiff, predictable speech patterns. Everything Logan already is. Especially this computer, who has to calculate the highest odds- the value of human life - has to make extremely cold and emotionless decisions. He would have escalated Logan’s crusade dramatically had he behaved exactly like Logic at its worst and purest moments. And their conversations would have read like Logan talking to his Mini me. He had to break up that stereotype because we already have a human trying to operate like a computer. If the calculation of our actions through utilitarian predictions are possible (which I believe they are) the reverse - the creation of unique and emotionally capable A.I.s needs to be taken into account soon. Though Remy is not part of the deliberation yet, his ability for human emotion demands he be included. He makes that demand by being essentially the most human of all of them and I will go into (too much) Detail when it’s time for his arc.”

When she told me this I was floored! I knew that she put more deliberation into her writing than most, but I had never really expected this. That sounds as if I underestimated her but that isn’t the case. I knew she had considered it or I wouldn’t have asked but… Well this is just so beautiful… I suppose there is a reason she is such a fantastic writer… And this people, is one of them. Absolutely stunning, Eva. **

We jump back into Logan’s thoughts within the next paragraph. Remy accused the man of not ‘giving an f’ about what he says. He states that he attempts to follow Remy’s advice without prejudice. “However, whenever he endeavored to put those plans into action or even considered it, something made him hesitate. It was like a bug, hindering his rational thought process. A pesky pop-up window halting his deliberations and muddling his convictions with banal platitudes and illogical rambling” (Whatwashernameagain). I LOVE this paragraph!

So, the imagery here is fantastic. Eva uses a wonderful simile that really catches Logan’s personality. But I’ll have to get into that in a moment. I want to touch on something else first. We know that Logan is driven by Logic; he is Thomas’ logical side after all. That being said, it has been discussed within her Keep Him Safe fandom that Logan is/maybe autistic. I think that it is very fitting for Logan to be autistic (though this may be due to the fact that I am autistic as well). The thing is… and I really wish I had the source for this, but I don’t know what I’ve done with it and can’t for the life of me find it again. I am sorry. Anyways, if we look at this logically Logan is thirty years old (thought Eva may change that but the Logan in Sanders Sides is thirty because Thomas is thirty so I’m going with it); Which means that he grew up in 1990s. There wasn’t a lot of treatment for mild cases of autism in the nineties. In fact, it wasn’t until 2013 Autism Spectrum disorders were classified in DSM-V (History of Autism Treatment). Even if children were diagnosed before then, most cases in the 1980s and some in the 1990 used ECT, which involves passing small electric currents through the brain to intentionally trigger a brief seizure (History of Autism Treatment). These seizures are supposed to be hypothesized to change the brain chemistry in a way to reduce mental health symptoms (History of Autism Treatment). ECT is still used in some cases of autism today, though it is rare (History of Autism Treatment). Why is this important? Well, I am 27 years old. I grew up in the same era of Logan. I am also autistic so believe me when I say that /if/ someone tried to get Logan treated as a child he would have been subject to countless medications, off the wall treatment plans and subject to so many misdiagnoses that eventually he would have simply folded in on himself as we’ve seen him do throughout this work. On top of that, when he eventually came off of the treatments, he would had molded himself to avoid them at all costs becoming cold and driven by logic, blocking away as much of the emotional side of himself as he could and thus becoming the Logan we know today. This defense mechanism would obvious move into his adult years. I don’t know if this is Logan’s history in this work, this is merely speculation, but I am quite fond of the idea and historically speaking it is entirely possible.

**Author confirmed Logan is autistic**

I explain all this because if a person tries to block out emotions that are core to the very existence of a human being than what happens? Well, the example Eva gives, that’s what; “He attempted to follow the disgruntled computer’s advices without prejudice. However, whenever he endeavored to put those plans into action or even considered it, something made him hesitate” (Whatwashernameagain). Logan obviously tries to be as cold and calculating as his computer but despite his efforts, the fact remains… He is /not/ a computer; and he never will be. No matter how logical you try to be… no matter how much you block out your emotions, they will turn up here and there and there is NOTHING you can do to stop them. It is part of the human condition. Which brings me back to the simile I mentioned.

“It was like a bug, hindering his rational thought process. A pesky pop-up window halting his deliberations and muddling his convictions with banal platitudes and illogical rambling” (Whatwashernameagain).

This simile reinforces my hypothesis, but I still can’t say that it is true. Regardless it does show the struggle between Logan’s desire to be cold and calculating and his humanity; even basically describing himself as a computer (I’m pretty sure Remy would have a few things to say about that if he knew). He describes his humanity as a bug, or a virus, a pop-up messing with his head. Or… Could it be that it’s not his humanity that’s bothering him at all… Maybe it’s something… or someone else….

He states that this virus is “muddling his convictions with banal platitudes and illogical rambling”. For those of you about to look up the definition of banal platitudes, I’ve already done the work for you lol. It basically means clichés. So… clichés and ‘illogical’ rambling? Sound like anyone we know? Maybe a certain Dreamer? I talk as if Logan’s pesky humanity and The Dreamer are two different issues entirely but they are not. Roman seems to be a symbol of Logan’s unwanted humanity; something he both needs to define himself and hates because he wishes he didn’t need it. It is quite a wonderful use of symbolism and philosophical structure, beautifully executed. Someone once told me that a superhero is only as good as its villain. I believe that has some truth to it and vice versa. What would Batman be without the Joker or The Riddler? But it also poses the question… What would we be without our humanity. What would good be without bad? In life we define everything as a comparison. If you try to describe the color red you wouldn’t be able to because they can not compare the color to things that are red. In a world without bad, we wouldn’t recognize the good and in a world without good, the bad is just life. Would it be the same if the Utilitarianist didn’t have The Dreamer? If Logan didn’t have Roman?

This an actual concept in the literary world known as the dialectical method. “The dialectical method of analysis begins with particular sense data (knowledge of a single object). But such focus on a particular object of knowledge immediately invites reflection on what the particular object is not. It is not a concept or idea or category. We look at the legal system, for example, and see a law, but to understand a particular law fully we need to know what the principle or idea is that makes it a law" (Rivkin, Julie). While it doesn’t exactly work 100% for Roman and Logan in this instant, it basically mean that one thing is only defined by comparing it to another. But that is for another story…

A good writer makes their reader want to ask questions, to learn more… we see that here without a doubt.

I mentioned that the ‘banal platitudes and illogical ramblings Logan mentioned that were distracting him could be Roman and the next line confirms that theory: “The Dreamer was intruding on his mental solitude increasingly often with the memories of his wide eyes, predictably shocked at learning about the Utilitarianist’s latest plans, before determination lit a fire in his green eyes.” I’m sure his eyes are not the only thing crossing Logan’s mind… As I said before, Roman is a good representation of Logan’s conscious here, with a subtext of attraction that is ever present when it comes to his thoughts about the hero. Logan goes on to describe Roman’s banter once more but this time… there’s something a little different to his words.

“His voice was like a constraining vice around his chest, forcing him to remember his outraged claims of rightness and kindness and chivalry and peace – foolish banalities standing in the way of real benefits for the world. And yet his arguments kept resurfacing in his mind, playing like a broken record. Hopes for unity and joint efforts and belief in humanity’s solidarity and such naive nonsense. Data had proven the probability of success for his hopes at about 8%. A waste of time” (Whatwashernameagain).

8%.... 8%... Of course, Logan would know that! He talks about this hero getting in his way and messing up his plans but when it comes down to it the constant reminder seems to point to one thing… (Besides denial and attraction which we’ve already covered) Jealousy. Logan obviously isn’t jealous of The Dreamer’s popularity or social status, he doesn’t have a care for though things. No, the thing Logan is jealous of is hope. Let’s think about this for a moment. Sure, Roman is the symbol of hope for the country but that’s a different kind of hope. No, the thing that Logan continuously points out is the man’s ignorant hopeful view of a future that is almost impossible… Well, 92% impossible anyways. Logan is autistic… he is driven by logic, pushing down all his emotions as best he can because they are inherently bad… at least that is what he was conditioned to believe; you can’t push down just the bad emotions, its an all or nothing type of deal if you’re trying to be the most logical being you can be… Which means all the good emotions went with them… Logan doesn’t feel emotions like most people… like Roman…

I’m not saying that he doesn’t feel emotions, being autistic can sometimes mean you simply don’t feel emotions the same way as others. Plus, it makes sense for Logan to suppress them… ANYWAYS, I’m getting sidetracked. My point is that a lot of times when you struggle with something like that (or even depression (since ‘numbness’ can be a symptom of depression)) it can be quite difficult to see others enjoying emotions that you are incapable/not use to feeling. It is possible that this might be the case with Logan. Roman’s hope for the future, despite complaining of his naivety, is something Logan covets. It is something he probably respects, though he’d never admit it. I’m sure he no doubt calculated the statistics of Roman’s future to prep for his next argument but also because he was just a little bit curious as to how likely it really is. I even doubt he would actually tell Roman he only had an 8% chance of succeeding because he doesn’t want to see disappointment on those beautiful features; he’d probably just tell him the chances were slim… Though Roman would no doubt be one of those guys that would respond to ‘Fat chance’ with ‘I have a chance; and its fat!”. Of course, the next paragraph confirms my thoughts on Roman’s reaction to the information and once again reinforces Logan’s thoughts on just how handsome The Dreamer is.

The thing I want to draw attention to next is another opinion of Logan’s. Eva writes from his POV “Thankfully, many of his actions were far too advanced for a simple mind like the Dreamer’s, which afforded him the ability to work in peace. The threat of law-enforcement was hardly severe enough to warrant his attention. Still, he had interrupted his work and caused critical failure to several of his more drastic plans” (Whatwashernameagain). So, this brings up a number of things we were not privy to beforehand. First, it paints the dynamic in a bit of a different light. It brings our attention to the fact that Logan doesn’t see the man as the sharpest tool in the shed. We learn in Chapter 2 that that isn’t exactly the reason behind it all but Logan, of course is not privy to this… yet. Once again, we see Logan have a bit of a superiority complex, though I doubt he means to or even realizes it. In society today, knowledge is power, and Logan has a lot of it. His view that Roman is less intelligent puts him lower on the power scale and therefore beneath him. This reinforces the same imagery offered earlier in the story, calling Roman a ‘thorn in [Logan’s] shoe’ and the fact that Logan is not happy being attracted to him. On the opposite side it also reinforces just how adorably innocent Roman is.

I LOVE this next bit! Logan mentions that he had not made Roman a target despite Remy’s insistence and explains his position of the subject: “he was trying to be useful in his own way. Criminals and terrorist attempting to profit of the system’s flaws or praying on the weak were an issue the Utilitarianist was aware of, even if he had little time to devote to such matters as we worked on the grand scheme of things. Pedophiles were most deplorable, yes, but Remy could not devote his processor power to chasing every single individual. They had brought two sex-trafficking rings to light with the help of their white-hat-hackers and had, by making the addresses of the offenders’ public, dealt with a lot of them indirectly, yet a single kidnapping was a too small variable to devote any time to” (Whatwashernameagain). So far, we’ve seen Logan move from frustration, obsession, denial, attraction, respect to envy… now we see… understanding? While some may think this is a bit contradictory, I would have to disagree… In fact, it makes complete sense that Logan would accept and understand Roman’s heroic persona. Afterall, the two of them share the same goal, they simply go about it in two different extremes.

Logan wants a better world where things like corrupt governments are nonexistent and every person can walk to their car at night without having to cling to their pepper spray or keys so desperately. Granted, he is attempting to accomplish this on such a large scale that it will not happen anytime soon, but the intention is still there. In his mind, the end justifies the means and therefore the Utilitarianist was born. Roman wants the same world, granted there are a few more rainbows and most certainly more glitter in his vision but it is the same none the less. The only difference is Roman’s sense of morality stopping him from doing something as drastic as Logan does. I think Logan sees this and though he considers the unwillingness a type of weakness he can see that Roman has a use and therefore has value (just as the utilitarianism principle suggests). In fact, in a way, Roman is assisting Logan in his goals, though it is a very small way. He is basically taking care of smaller crimes while Logan attempts to handle the big guns. This, of course, paints their dynamic in a bit of different light; Logan being the brains while Roman fumbles about and makes his job far more difficult that it needs to be. Think of it like Pinky and the Brain, or Dexter (from Dexter’s Laboratory) and his sister DeeDee (Is my age showing?). Within the next two paragraphs

Logan talks about the hero saving a young girl and the ‘almost-admiration’ that he had felt for the hero who was basically doing something Logan was incapable of; which reinforces the analysis. A small snippet of their interactions is seen for the first time; Roman lecturing about every life counts and using power for good; Logan making a smart-ass comment in return and blasting him off the oil rig with high pressured water. This is actually quite a beautiful scene because it shows the rivalry (despite Logan’s complaining) is filled with more of a playfulness than actual malice. It is obvious that Logan doesn’t really want to harm Roman and vice versa. It makes for a very soft moment for the reader, warming them a bit.

The playfulness continues through the next scene. Logan reminisces about a moment when Roman’s ‘incompetence’ managed to get him captured by another villain. There is a lot to read during this scene so I will try to be brief (I am trying to shorten these parts while also moving a bit quicker through the work, so I don’t bore you guys too much). Logan states that “only Remy had managed to piece together his whereabouts after Logan had mentioned his failure to appear in front of a camera for a solid two days. Leaving him to die in the hands of such an individual might have caused a significant amount of unrest and subsequent danger to the public” (Whatwashernameagain).

First off, do you really pay Roman so much attention that you notice when he’s not there to brighten your day? Of course you do. I’m sure he would love the attention if he knew about it. Anyways, the last sentence provides more insight into what I have previously said about Logan’s recognition of Roman’s usefulness. He states that Roman’s disappearance would cause unrest and subsequent danger to the public. While, he may be making excuses, according to Remy, he does recognize this to be try and it is. If the public discovered The Dreamer was gone crime would spike, people’s hope would disappear causing them to lash out in fear and over protectiveness; everything Logan was working towards wouldn’t necessarily crumble but would no doubt be slowed. Which brings me back to the whole dialectical theory thing from earlier, which I won’t bore you with again. Just know that everything is related to something else in meaning, including Logan and Roman.

Love the light humor of Remy calling Logan his ‘computer-world-interaction device! LOL! Aside from the light humor, the interaction is a good resource in rounding out Remy as a character. It offers the reader a chance to understand that Remy needs/wants to interact with the outside world, to experience what it is to be apart of society outside his connections with the internet… Don’t we all Remy… Don’t we all… It develops Remy into the AI he is supposed to be rather than the image of a computer we originally had.

“Saving the Dreamer from his own incompetence was not a concession to his naive beliefs. No, certainly not! If anything, his wailing and warbling had caused Logan a headache as he’d dragged him out of the bunker, arguing the whole way” (Whatwashernameagain).

Logan SAVED Roman?! I love this. Irony at its finest! The villain saves the hero. Poetic justice! It also paints Logan to have a heart, though he denies it, which is quite nice too. Too bad Roman has no idea that his initials are carved in the ice around said heart. Best part is, we actually get to see a small snippet of the argument between the two: “’Uhhng you’re such an impossible motherf- um motherboard! Because you’re like a computer! Cold and emotionless!’ [The Dreamer] wailed, narrowly avoiding uttering a vile insult in his frustration. He prided himself on a hero’s impeccable manners, after all” (whatwashernameagain).

So, this snippet does a lot of things for Roman’s persona here. It provides him with the sass we hadn’t seen from him yet, giving him a bit more personality and a small bit of his POV which is a first in the story as well. We also can see the stark contrast between his and Logan’s frustration. Roman loses a bit of control in his frustration and almost curses; while Logan’s frustration, while intense, was still controlled almost to perfection (minus the one time he almost got caught because Roman got him to argue with him). His calm cool demeanor rarely cracking. Roman, as we see here, however, is the opposite, wearing the emotion on his sleeve and allowing it to flow freely rather than being bottled up and locked away like Logan attempts to do.

“Why had he cared to save this man after all? Not because of the softly uttered gratitude he’d finally muttered as he’d bundled him into an intimidated police officer’s car or his wide, awed eyes as he’d materialized out of the shadows of his cell, perfectly adjusted to the darkness in his neck-high sleek, black suit and high-tech mask that made him resemble a nimble, black cat. Or the way his expression had morphed into a knowing, almost warm smile before their differences had made their tempers rise once again” (Whatwashernameagain).

Okay, first off… Lets look at the structure here. This is another thing I love about Eva’s writing. I’ve mentioned time and time again, her ability to transition from one POV to another seamlessly but she also does it with timeframes. We’ve seen it a few times now, but this is probably the most obvious one which is why I waited until I got to this point before bringing it up. Before this para we were reading a small snippet of the arguing as Logan dragged Roman to safety. Now, we see Logan deposit Roman into a car and then BAM! Back in the cell he had been being kept in. The best part is that it is done so seamlessly that the reader doesn’t even really think about the fact that they are jumping back and forth in this timeline, they are simply able to piece it together as if it was all one piece… absolutely beautiful…

This para also gives a small insight into the humanity in Logan I had mentioned before, the humanity that only seems to come out when Roman is around; thus, reinforcing the fact that Roman /is/ Logan’s humanity. It also is a reminder of Logan’s denial but who is paying attention to that anymore?

Logan mentions the ‘softly uttered gratitude’ that Roman mutters as he was bundled in the car; making me wonder just how often Logan is thanked? Probably never… It is no wonder it was something of note here. It is like feeding a steak to someone who is accustomed to instant ramen: Surprising but not unwelcomed.

He also talks about Roman’s ‘wide, awed eyes,’ the look turning into a ‘knowing, almost warm smile.’ This is another example of how Eva manages to catch emotions so beautifully. This is also a wonderful example of Reader-Response theory as well. She mentions the physical reaction that Roman has at the appearance of Logan, but she leaves everything else up to the reader to fill in the blank… to shape the story. Still, she gave us just enough to work with.

Roman is obviously surprised that someone was there for him as his eyes go wide, but its really the fact that it is Logan, his opposite, his rival, that is there to save him. The shock fades quickly though as everything Roman has been arguing with the man over seems to come true in his eyes. Logan has just proven Roman right in the sense that Logan is good at heart and /can/ do the right thing… that there is hope that he can be led down the ‘right’ path. But the smile he offered wasn’t cocky or conceited if that were the case. It was simply ‘warm’. The complexity of human thought and emotions is far to vast for anyone to really /know/ what Roman was thinking her but I’m going to give a guess: Roman saw for the first time that his rival was not only living up to Roman’s hopes and expectations but was, in a way, providing him with a sense of friendship that Roman probably wasn’t accustomed to. Or at least a sense of affection (platonic or otherwise). No doubt, being a hero was a very lonely existence.

And we end the scene with Logan mentioning Remy’s like for Roman and his ‘cute ass and mouth.’ That’s Remy for you.

Thank you for joining me for Part 3 of this analysis. I apologize for the length and want to thank you for baring with me through it.

Yes, this is a repost. I had posted a very short Part 3 earlier today and did not want to end the Chapter 1 analysis on an odd number, so I combined Parts 3 and 4.

I will see you guys in part 4! Feel free to send me an ask or message with questions, concerns, emotional outbursts or things you simply would like to discuss or add! Thank you all!

“History of Autism Treatment.” Applied Behavior Analysis Programs Guide, https://www.appliedbehavioranalysisprograms.com/history-autism-treatment/.

Rivkin, Julie. Literary Theory: a Practical Introduction. Wiley-Blackwell, 2017.

Whatwashernameagain. “The Dreamer - Chapter 1.” Hello Guys Gals And Non Binary Friends, 8 Sept. 2019, https://whatwashernameagain.tumblr.com/post/187581477262/the-dreamer-chapter-1.

#The dreamer #villain!logan #Hero!roman #sanders sides #logince #logan sanders #roman sanders #logan/roman #roman/logan #analysis #readerresponse #reaction #fanfiction

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erekiio · 4 years

Text

The Gift (A Hat In Time oneshot)

Hello everyone !

This is not my first fanfiction, but this is the first time I write something in English. I used to write in French but I decided to change that. If you ever find any grammar mistake, please tell me, so I can correct it as fast as I can. It also helps me to improve ! Any criticism is welcome !

The two drawings you'll see are mine.

I hope you'll enjoy everything as much as I did when I wrote and drew them. If you do, please tell me, reblog or give that post a like, that way I'll know if it's a good idea for me to continue writing in English. Happy reading !

Also available on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/22243435

_____________________________________

The Snatcher had decided to leave his forest for a while, to complete the daily part of his deal with the hat wearing child. How did he let himself get trapped that easily ? He didn’t know. Somehow, the kid had taken advantage of a small mistake on his part and there he was : a ghost being forced to play a small girl’s BFF.

He loathed it. Being trapped in one of his own contract ? That was humiliating, to say the least. However, he didn’t have a choice and could do nothing but what he was forced to by the kid’s terms.

The ghost teleported himself in the unusual contractor’s bedroom. He expected the day to pass the same as always : he would wait for the child to come back to her spaceship, offer her some new advanced contracts and watch her die over and over again. Classic BFF day ! But what he didn’t expect was the thing below him once he appeared in the room, on his regular spot.

Confused, the shade looked under him : there was an object he had never seen before. It looked like a sort of big bean. It was black, and when he touched it, he felt fabric on his ghostly hand. The thing was soft and it seemed rather comfy. Though, none of this could explain what that thing was doing here, on his part of the room. He was used to sit here ! Well, as much as he could sit with no legs, but still ! That was his spot and it was taken. Why did the child put it here ? Was it a provocation ? Was she trying to mess with him, the ghost that had taken so many souls before ? Surely she wasn’t that stupid... Or maybe she was just reckless. After all, she did make him her BFF...

Just as he was about to throw the bean away, a noise interrupted him. He recognized the opening sound of the bedroom door and when he looked behind him, he saw the kid coming in. His eyes met hers and for a moment they both remained silent. The Snatcher suddenly realized he was still holding the bean in his arms and he quickly put it down, not wishing to seem ridiculous, especially in front of her. His reaction seemed to amuse the little girl, as she started to giggle with her annoying childish voice. The shade decided to ignore it, preferring to ask her about what he found instead :

-“Hey look, it’s the insufferable kid !” He said, an irritation definitely noticeable in his tone : “Good thing that you came, because now you can tell me what the hell that thing is, and especially what it’s doing here !”

-It’s a gift !” She replied cheerfully : “Do you like it ?” She then asked with stars in her eyes, looking at him with big expectations.

His anger quickly faded into bewilderment as he slowly processed what she just told him. A gift ? Cleary, he had misunderstood her words because there was absolutely no way this kid was foolish enough to give him a gift, of all people she must have met on this planet.

-“Excuse me ?

- Yeah !” She took several steps in his direction, still smiling in her usual dumb way : “People in Mafia Town told me there was this tradition here, where you give people things at this time of the year. So I bought you something !”

The ghost blinked in disbelief. Did she just buy him something for Christmas ? His eyes remained locked on hers for a few seconds. As they passed, the child’s face started to crumple little by little :

-“You don’t like it ?” Her voice was quiet and the shade could see that she was definitely upset.

A feeling of malice grew inside of him at the sight of the distressed child. Truly, this was something he would never get tired of ! His smile widened as he spoke again :

-“Well, I don’t even know what that is. Do you really consider yourself as my BFF ? I don’t think you are, considering how bad you are at giving people gifts ! Did you pick it at random ? Because that’s what it feels like. I’m honestly disappointed here, kiddo.”

His contractor frowned at his remarks and glared at him. Oh, now she was angry ! The Snatcher couldn’t help but hope that she would regret her deal with him and break it once and for all. He knew she probably wouldn’t, as she was rather stubborn on the BFF subject, though he could still try. The contract did prevent him from killing her directly, as it was not something best friends usually did together, but it didn’t forbid him from being mean. He was thankful for all the loopholes this deal had for his own benefit.

-“I didn’t pick it at random !” She retorted : “I know you’re saying this to make me feel bad.

- Oh really ? Then tell me. What is it ? What am I supposed to do with a bean thing like this ? Sit on it ?”

His sarcasm didn’t fall on deaf ears, as the child’s face showed how offended she was. Oh, how he loved arguing with her. He almost let another mockery leave his mouth before the girl cut him short :

-“Well... Yeah ? That’s what it’s for ? It’s a pouffe !” She countered, pointing her finger towards said bean thing.

A pouffe ? Confusion replaced his want for teasing, as he slowly turned his head back to the gift. He couldn’t see how he could sit on such a strange shaped object. There wasn’t any real backrest ! It was just big and round !

The little girl noticed his puzzlement and all trace of annoyance disappeared from her face. She let another giggle escape her mouth and the Snatcher’s eyes quickly came back on her : he hated being laughed at. He scowled at her, though it did little in his favour, as she continued to chuckle. As he was about to snap at her, the kid shook her head in the same way a disappointed parent would do in front of their misbehaving child.

The ghost didn’t like that comparison at all.

-“Look it’s... Let me show you !” Before the shade was able to retort anything, the child left her spot to move towards him, much more determined than before. After a few strides, she came right next to him, shooing him away with her small hands.

-“Did you just ‘shoo’ me ?” He said, offended, only to be ignored by the kid, who took the bean thing in her arms. The ghost didn’t move an inch : he didn’t want to let a little girl give him orders, especially in that manner. However, she seemed quite resolved in what she wanted to do, making a face when she noticed he had no intention of floating away. That didn’t stop her and soon, she started to push him while keeping the pouffe in her hands.

-“Are you serious ?” His tone was nothing more than exasperated at that moment. He stayed motionless, weary of the child’s tries to make him move. The more she tried, the more irritated he became and after a while, he simply pushed her over the edge into the pillow pool. A shriek escaped the little girl’s lips as she fell, just after dropping the gift at the shade’s metaphorical feet.

The Snatcher drifted higher in the room, a very satisfied look on his face. On the pillows was the kid’s body, laying on her back. For an instant, she seemed groggy, not realizing right away what had happened. A few seconds passed where she recollected herself before meeting the Snatcher’s stare. She then let out a frustrated groan, repeatedly punching the pillows next to her with both of her fists :

-“Why are you so difficult !

-Oh I don’t know... Maybe because someone forced me into a contract I didn’t agree with !” came the ghost’s answer, full of sarcasm. His mischievous smile widened at the pleasant sight in front of him. Seeing his contractor’s annoyance really was something he loved. Now he just needed to convince her that this arrangement was no longer a good idea on her part... She never gave up on his advanced works anyway and probably never will, so he didn’t expect to receive her soul anymore.

At this point, he just wanted to be completely out of this deal.

-“You know,” he started speaking again, this time with a falsely gentle voice : “If you decided to breach our contract, I wouldn’t have to be here. Things could go back to how they were : I would take care of my forest and you could do whatever you want to, without me being here to argue with you.

-But I want you to be here with me !” She grunted, eyes shut hard : “We’re BFF ! Remember ?

-No, we’re not !” He yelled, infuriated, his words resonating in the bedroom. He could feel his body deform itself with the strong emotion rising inside of him. A banal victim would have been terrified of him, but this girl simply glared at him, as if the ghost was nothing to be scared of.

He didn’t understand why this kid not only wasn’t afraid of him but wanted to be his friend, of all people. He was a monster, who took countless of souls before and who would continue to do so, without feeling any guilt ! He didn’t even like children ! But here he was, trapped in an arrangement where he had to take care of one.

This was pure irony.

Silence fell between them, while both looked away from each other. A certain awkwardness rose in the room, aggravated by the heavy atmosphere. The shade wanted only one thing and it was to get out of here. Nonetheless, leaving was something linked to his contract. One day, the kid had told him that BFFs had to be together regularly and he had become forced to follow this implicit rule after that. He never told her, of course : he didn’t want her to realize the power she held over him ! But since he didn’t know what best friends did together himself... What she explained to him turned into rules he had to obey in order to respect his part of the deal.

He hated that.

-“Look, kiddo.” He took a breath he didn’t need and calmed himself, ready to talk again : “We’ve never been friends. I tried to kill you, several times. I still do now ! So why do you want me to stay ? What do you want from me ?”

The shade looked at the hat wearing child once more. Her eyes were still shut and now he could see two shining trails on her cheeks, while her lower lip was trembling.

“Oh. Oh no.” He immediately thought. This was not happening. This couldn’t be happening.

Very mixed feelings developed inside of him. He should be thrilled to see her tears ! When she cried while working on his death wish contracts, he was overjoyed ! Why was this time so different ? Why didn’t he feel good ? He always found it funny and laughable to see someone sobbing ! Anyone’s misfortune made his happiness. This girl was nothing more than a burden to him ! He had tried everything to kill her, to make her leave his forest, in vain ! And now that he managed to make her cry by just talking to her, he was feeling bad ?

What was happening to him...? Fear started to grow in his mind, as he was slowly becoming aware of a fact that was so scary to him.

He remained motionless and silent for a few seconds, not knowing what to say or what to do. He had never wanted to comfort anyone before and still didn’t want to now. However, he felt the weird and unwanted need to do something, anything, to end that situation as fast as possible.

-“Kid, I...” He began before hesitating for a instant : “I’m not someone you want as a friend. And in my case, I don’t need any. We’ve had a fun time together, with me attempting to kill you and you trying to survive, sure ! But now ? It’s time for this to stop. I don’t know why you’d want to befriend someone who tried to murder you ! Like, seriously, do you enjoy dying so much ?” He let out a forced laugh at the last part, knowing full well that the child only continued his advanced contracts because she was so stubborn.

He waited for an answer, though the kid’s mouth remained closed and her eyes looking elsewhere. She had stopped crying and her lower lip was no longer shaking, but her expression was more than enough to see how upset she still was.

The shade sighed, suddenly tired. He casted a glance around him, unable to decide what to do. Should he stay here and wait ? Or should he leave ? However, the very idea of leaving the kid behind in that state made him quite uneasy and, worst of all, made him feel guilty.

God, he hated feelings.

He floated back to the ground, ready to sit on the pillows he had stolen in the beginning of his stay in the spaceship. Next to him was the bean given by the child, yet he really didn’t want to think about it at that moment. The less he thought about emotions, the better. He materialized in his hand one of his favourite books from his home, Faust, and opened it. The wish to read, though, wasn’t there. His eyes simply looked at the words without getting their meaning.

Why was everything so hard with this child ?

He was about to turn the third page of his book when said child spoke again, with a hushed voice :

-“Do I need a reason to be friend with you ?”

The ghost didn’t reply at first. Why was this kid so persistent when there was nothing to befriend from the start ? He was a monster ! Then again, when he thought about it, she did make friends with a lot of people who had tried to murder her at least once... Maybe she liked being a target in the end ? In that case, she really was as reckless as he thought... Another sour laugh slipped from his mouth, getting the attention of the little girl who, for the first time since his outburst, looked at him directly.

-“I’m not going to stop trying to kill you in our contracts, you know that ?

-Yeah, I know.” She answered with a little smile on her face : “They’re fun sometimes.

-Only sometimes ? Kiddo, they’re hilarious to me !”

She giggled at his words and, for a very brief second, the ghost felt a grin appear on his features. Although, as soon as he realized what was happening, he quickly hid it behind his book, doing everything he could to make this new smile disappear. Since when did he find this kid’s laughter cute ? This wasn’t like him !

He knew he had been too late to hide it when he heard another snort of amusement coming from the hat wearing child. And as much as he wanted to ignore it, he couldn’t completely deny the feeling of contentment he felt from the sound alone.

Emotions truly were complicated things, and he really wished he could avoid feeling them, especially when they were so different to what he believed himself.

The Snatcher came back to reality when he heard the kid’s voice once more, playful this time :

-“By the way... You know BFFs have to accept each other’s gifts, right ?”

The ghost let out an enraged groan and closed the book with strength, as he had to understand that, yes, the child had probably guessed how their contract worked.

He couldn’t wait for the end of their arrangement, this deal which had made his life so much more difficult... But, at the same time, there was something else, something new.

Something he couldn’t help but be scared of, while making him a little happier at the same time. And as he reluctantly took place on his new seat, the same question came back to him : what was happening to him ? He didn’t know.

The child smiled from ear to ear when she saw him sitting on the pouffe she gave him. Much to the shade’s displeasure, he couldn’t help but feel satisfied.

But he supposed that maybe, for a while, he could let things go and see where it would take him.

#a hat in time #Snatcher #Hat Kid #oneshot #my art

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fivebrights · 5 years

Text

The Convergence of Sorrow: Memorial

The Brand takes Vemyen from Ziya. It also offers her the chance to make amends. Based on the Branded djinn/Elegy side story in Jahai Bluffs; Vemyen/Ziya, PG-13, 4.3k words.

“This is how they find themselves, sooner or later. The luxury of rivalry they save for better years; these are dark times.”

---

“Vemyen’s late. To his own emancipation.”

The djinn of the estate are gathered in the courtyard, numbering a half dozen. They look at one another.

“You don’t have to wait for him, Ziya,” one points out.

“Hmph,” Ziya folds her arms; first one set, then the other. “If someone doesn’t wait for him, he may not even realize he’s free from these humans.”

Several of them shrug.

“Give him our regards,” says another. One by one, the djinn vanish into the ether. To freedom.

Ziya waits in the courtyard alone, tapping her fingers against her arm, until a man steps out of the house. Ziya’s impatience spikes. She vanishes before she can be questioned.

She continues unseen around the house. And there’s Vemyen, sitting placidly in the yard among some young humans - the children of the masters plus a few of their playmates - reading a book aloud while his other hands busily knit.

Ziya’s anger flares. She reappears.

“Vemyen,” she says. “How much longer were you going to keep me waiting?”

“Ziya,” says Vemyen, surprised. He glances around at the children, puts down his things, and rises. “Excuse me,” he says to them.

“‘Excuse me?’” Ziya repeats, aghast. She turns as he passes. “‘Excuse me?’”

Vemyen beckons to her. He is finally leaving these humans, but now Ziya doesn’t follow.

“What are you doing? Why are you being polite to them?” she asks, loudly.

“Ziya, please,” he says. He takes her by the wrist. “Let’s speak elsewhere.”

The young humans stare after them. One asks where they’re going.

“Not far,” Vemyen tells them. “It’ll just be a moment.”

Together the djinn vanish from human eyes and reconvene in the small cultivated oasis that is the garden. Here there is the respite of Ziya’s element, and a lack of eavesdroppers, but she does not feel more at ease.

She pulls out of Vemyen’s already-loose grip against the part of her that warns her not to let go. “You’re not under any obligation to lie to them now,” she says, irritably.

“Nor to tell the truth,” Vemyen responds, “but I have chosen to.”

Ziya points to his broken shackles. “You’re free,” she says.

Vemyen watches her carefully. “Yes,” he says. “I’m free.”

“Then it’s time to leave,” she emphasizes. She feels like she’s explaining this to one of the children.

“I may,” says Vemyen, “in time. But I’m fine here now, Ziya. There’s no need to wait for me.”

She gapes at him. “What have these humans done to you? Wanting to stay--that’s a symptom of something.”

“Of freedom,” he says. “Ziya, let me choose.”

“How is it even a choice?” she demands. “Until yesterday, these were our captors. We suffered under them, Vemyen!”

“I know,” he says. “But I’m willing to forgive them.”

Something bitter rises through Ziya’s stomach and into her throat and then into her head.

“Then you’ve forgiven what they’ve done to me,” she snarls, and teleports away before she can see or hear his response.

She doesn’t forgive them, and she’s not sure she can forgive Vemyen, either.

---

Ziya leaves Vemyen, her entire essence consumed with rage. This was supposed to be a day of celebration, and Vemyen has ruined it.

She thinks Vemyen just needs time, but nothing changes. His fascination with humans is unabated, and he stays in their company. He assures her that he still has no attachment to any particular place or person. He still insists he’s free.

No reasoning, pleading, or ransoming moves him. No amount of pestering or leaving him alone changes his mind.

Ziya tears up Vemyen’s books, pulls apart his yarns, uproots his flowers, throws away his coins, shouts at him for being a traitor.

She betrays him for his own good.

Ziya takes care when she chooses the bottle she traps him in. Something not so ornate that someone would be tempted to pick it up, something not so plain that someone would be careless enough to break it.

Something easy to overlook. Something cramped and a little crooked, so Vemyen would remember he wasn’t there to be comfortable.

Ziya hates how calm Vemyen’s voice sounds when it later emerges from the bottle, how it stands above the anger and urgency that are also in his tone. She hates how he asks her to think about what she’s doing.

“I’ve thought about it plenty,” she snaps, and then corks the bottle.

She goes to a cave and buries him there. Then she floods it, just to be sure.

She wanders the valleys and weeps until dawn, now that Vemyen has no way of witnessing it.

---

Not that she has any reason to feel guilty, she decides. Ziya almost forgets about him, even, until war comes. Then word spreads of three djinn protecting humans and centaurs under one of the largest trees in the desert.

Foolishness doesn’t die, Ziya scornfully thinks.

She has too much pride to press for details or to see for herself. But a suspicion comes to her and won’t leave, and for the first time she returns to the cave where Vemyen is buried.

The floodwaters have long since receded, and parts of the cave have been disturbed. This Ziya expects, after nearly three centuries. Even so, she checks for Vemyen’s bottle. For her own peace of mind.

The earth is damp and not difficult to pull away. There is some rock, too, but Ziya digs around it. But where she expects to touch Vemyen’s vessel there is nothing. She frowns and digs around a little more, although she has no reason to doubt her memory.

Ziya floats up to the cave’s ceiling, flicking dirt out from under her nails, studying the walls of the cave. They are all familiar, more or less as she left them. This is not one of the places that has been so touched by the movement of the world.

Ziya goes still, as if the realization approaching her might pass by like an oblivious predator if she simply doesn’t move. It does not. Panic fills her, and then rage, and her shouted curse roars like a waterfall.

She knows exactly where to find him.

---

Vemyen is beneath the Ancestor Tree, and he is alone, although Ziya can see humans toiling in the fields some distance away. Vemyen looks well; certainly none the worse for wear after centuries of imprisonment. Ziya can’t decide whether that’s a relief or just infuriating.

She pushes aside her fear that Vemyen may have not forgiven her and materializes directly in front of him.

“Vemyen! How did you get out?” she demands.

Vemyen looks up calmly, as if he’s been expecting her or known she’s been there all along. But Ziya knows him well enough to catch the guarded ripple that swirls among the molten patterns of his skin.

“Hello again, Ziya.”

Ziya wants to savor his caution, the tacit acknowledgement of the possibility she could bottle him again. Instead, she just feels even more irritable.

“All these hundreds of years, but you still haven’t learned, have you,” she scowls.

Vemyen gazes out across the fields towards the humans. “And neither have you.”

Ziya wants to scream. All of her suffering, all of this time apart, and still—

“You’re welcome to stay,” Vemyen says, still without looking at her.

“I don’t need your permission,” Ziya retorts, and after a pause long enough to sate her pride she haughtily settles down underneath the tree’s magnificent boughs.

For a time there is no conversation between them. Ziya has little interest in watching the humans, so she side-eyes Vemyen instead. Vemyen has no knitting with him today, no books--he seems content to just watch the life that is unfolding around the tree.

Ziya looks up. She thinks about the water it must’ve taken to produce the Ancestor Tree’s strong roots, thick trunk, and wide branches. As her gaze travels back down, she notices two machetes leaning against the tree, too large for human hands. The blades aren’t particularly polished and there are nicks in them. They can only have been used to defend what Vemyen loves.

“How have you been?”

It’s Vemyen who asks. To Ziya it’s too friendly, too banal, too clueless of a question for the painful interim of his absence.

“Just fine,” she says, shortly.

Vemyen finally looks at her again. Then, to Ziya’s surprise, he comes closer - close enough for the tattered edges of their sarongs to brush one another - and cups two hands over one of her shackles.

“You still wear these,” Vemyen says. “I’m surprised.”

“So I don’t forget what the humans did to us,” Ziya growls. “And to remind them that I am a free djinn.”

“I have thought about removing my own,” Vemyen admits. “Although it is easier said than done. I don’t suppose you would help me.”

Something in Ziya’s chest stutters. “No. Get one of the humans to help you.”

Vemyen strokes his thumbs over the shackle. “I wish I could unbind you from your hatred.”

Ziya finally pulls her hands away, rubbing her wrist above the shackle. “I don’t,” she snaps.

“Ziya.”

“How can you prefer humans over us?”

He looks at her critically. “You still want me to choose a side.”

She looks away in disgust, still rubbing her wrist. Vemyen’s hands slide away from her and into his lap. When Ziya looks back, he is once more watching the humans till the land’s sparse and arid fields.

“I just don’t see what’s so special about humans,” Ziya mutters, trying to keep her temper in check.

“They’re so…fleeting,” Vemyen says, and there’s a wistfulness to him. “There’s so little time to get to know a human soul.”

Ziya thinks of all the human lifetimes Vemyen missed inside that bottle. The people he may have known before he disappeared without a word or a trace. All dirt and dust and bone powder now, their lives marked with little piles of stones or splintered stakes of wood.

“I’m not going to apologize,” she says, stubbornly. She finally lets go of her wrist and shakes out her hands, and the chains jostle and chime together in soft, discordant notes.

“That’s all right, Ziya.”

Ziya glares. “You should be more upset,” she accuses.

Vemyen smiles at her, and then he says something that Ziya finds very strange.

“It’s funny,” he muses. “Not long ago, an outlander came to me and said you would come to regret your treatment of me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ziya scoffs. And truly, she doesn’t. What outlander?

“You don’t need to. I know when you’re feeling sorry.”

Ziya grimaces. Then Vemyen gives her the kind of look he gives when he needs her to understand something.

“No,” Ziya begins to say, but then he reaches out and touches her bandaged lips. The reverence with which he does it makes her realize that this is not a gesture to quiet her.

“Ziya,” he says.

The longing in Vemyen’s voice breaks open the dam of Ziya’s own loneliness. She grips his arms, stunned.

“You can’t care for me and for humans,” she blurts.

“Ziya.” His fingers fall from her lips. It’s all the prompting Ziya needs. Her other hands frantically pull the bandages from her mouth and then Vemyen’s.

She arches herself against Vemyen and another welcoming gasp of her name floods from him. She claws at his hollowed cheeks and frantically kisses along his jaw, unwilling to interrupt his mantra of hummed “zee”s and breathy “ahs.” His hands dig into her, a hot anchor.

She is taking him back, she thinks. Taking him back with his precious humans not far away. The feeling is sweet.

---

When Vemyen eventually asks her to return his things, Ziya doesn’t know why it stings, but it does.

She grants his request. She leads him to where she has kept all the items she has taken from him over the years, tells him to take everything and get out.

Years on she finds herself kissing Vemyen on a bed of all those returned things: among the coins, the pressed flowers, the journals, the unspooled yarns.

This is how they find themselves, sooner or later. The luxury of rivalry they save for better years; these are dark times.

“Ziya,” Vemyen sighs into her ear. “Touch me.”

“Hmph,” says Ziya. She props herself up with two arms, and her other hands stroke his face and hip. “Better me than a human.”

Her own words plant an ugly seed in her head. She stares down at him. “Have you ever allowed a human to touch you?”

Vemyen’s molten skin ripples. “Ziya. I am not enjoyable to the touch.”

“That’s what you think.”

She knows what he likes. She squeezes his hip until the steam rises from it while the fingers of her other hand curl along the side of his jaw. His skin ripples again, this time in relaxation. He groans softly.

“I’ve taken one of your rings,” Ziya tells him, a bit smugly. “As a souvenir.”

Another squeeze distracts Vemyen. He groans again. “Which one?”

“You’ll have to figure that out.”

“Hmm.”

Ziya grasps the fabric that cascades through the metal loop of Vemyen’s garment. She runs her hands through the fabric a few times, then yanks him closer.

“Ziya,” Vemyen sighs again, and the rapture in his voice quiets her jealousy.

---

“Ziya,” Vemyen gasps, but this time his voice is mangled with agony.

What is here, hidden away in a cave deep in the Brand, is no longer a fire djinn. Vemyen’s skin has crystallized, and his veins are shot through with violet lightning. Even his voice is corrupted; when he speaks it sounds like shattered glass.

“Look at me,” he rasps. “Open your eyes.”

Ziya thinks he’s pretending. Hadn’t he pretended that he was going to come with her when they were released from servitude? Hadn’t he been pretending, for all these centuries, that he was free when he stayed by the side of humans?

“A convincing illusion,” she sneers. “You want me to pity you.”

With a shout, Vemyen barrels right into her, forcing her out of her shield and to the ground. The defense dissipates.

The two hands not holding swords drag Ziya up until she’s inches away from Vemyen’s face. His head is impaled with Brand crystals. How is he even alive?

Ziya sees her own fear reflected in Vemyen’s eyes.

“Ziya…” The breaths Vemyen takes are jagged. “Don’t...linger. The Brand...makes me--”

“You let yourself be shackled again,” she retorts, frantically trying to think of a way to somehow get them both out of this mess, “and this time by a dragon. Shame on you, Vemyen!”

“I’m going to kill you, Ziya,” he rasps, but it’s the thrum of grief in it that chills Ziya more than his certainty.

He’s still holding her. He raises his swords.

Instinct overrides hesitation. Ziya blasts him backwards. He rolls in the air, rights himself, and slams both of his swords to the ground.

Crystal erupts from the earth. Ziya spins upward, but then Vemyen barrels into her again. The impact sends her crashing back to the ground.

“Vemyen,” she groans, on her back.

“Ziya…Ziya,” Vemyen’s voice rattles over her. His swords come down on either side of her head. He leans on their hilts, struggling within the grasp of the Brand. “Defend yourself!”

“What else do you think I’m trying to do?” she snarls back.

“You’re trying-- to help!” He yanks the swords free and raises them once more. “There’s nothing more you can do here. Accept it!”

She was always stronger, faster, smarter. The only thing that had kept Vemyen sharp at all was his willingness to defend others in times of crisis. But the Brand has done things to him she cannot know, and before Ziya can get out from under him he drives the rusty, jagged blades into her.

She screams. The creatures of the Brand howl in response, and with their voices is Vemyen’s.

---

The outlander arrives then, a half dozen allies at their side. Ziya can’t tell if the distraction momentarily brings Vemyen back to his senses or if it’s just instinct that makes him switch targets, but he pulls the swords from her and defensively crosses them in front of himself as a barrage of spells and weapons fall upon him. Ziya teleports a short distance away, survival instinct making her mobile against the agony of being run through.

Vemyen’s swords - those machetes that leaned against the Ancestor Tree so long ago - are uncorrupted by the Brand, and it’s Ziya’s saving grace; she’s badly wounded, but she feels no crystal corruption spreading through her body.

The outlander is fighting as Kralkatorrik’s fury comes down around them. Ziya lets her form unravel once more, putting what little she has left into a Brand shield while the outlander and their companions command Vemyen’s attention--darting, parrying, and sometimes stumbling out of the way.

“Begone!” Vemyen shouts raggedly at them. “Leave me to my fate!”

Vemyen brings his swords down on the outlanders in a mighty swing, but they do not make contact. Instead the blades drive into the earth, so deeply that Vemyen is forced to abandon them with a roar of frustration.

He flees then, but not far: the Brand turns his ties to the land into chains. Ziya sees the corrupted magic streaming from the shackles that Vemyen, like her, never fully removed. They feed into large, resonating crystals that buzz and claw at the very ether she is made of.

“There’s a resonance!” she calls out, and armed with that knowledge, the outlander hero shatters the crystals.

Vemyen collapses. To Ziya’s relief, the outlander and their companions don’t try to land a killing blow. She hastily pulls herself out of her shield and comes to his side, ignoring the deep ache of her own closing wounds.

Vemyen is hunched over, still heaving jagged breaths, his fingers clutching the corrupted land beneath him. She can see in his silhouette that his form disintegrating; he is already slipping away.

Djinn aren’t supposed to be Branded, Ziya thinks in disbelief. Vemyen’s not supposed to be dying.

“Ziya…Ziya…” Despite it all, no one has ever said her name as much and as fondly as Vemyen has. Now it will be the last time. “You always were the clever one.��

“About time you admitted it.” Smugness keeps the grief at bay, if only for a moment.

“Take the staff,” Vemyen rasps, weakly gesturing toward the cave he had hidden himself in. “Keep the ring. Thank you….”

Then he convulses, hideously, and crumples. Within moments he is nothing but a scattering of purple sand.

“No, wait!” Ziya stammers. “You can’t do that! You’re not supposed to… We’re not supposed to….”

She sinks down and closes her hand around what remains. “Vemyen….”

Ziya can feel the sympathy radiating from the outlander. She doesn’t want them to see her grief; she lets her palm open, composes herself, accepts their invitation to Sun’s Refuge. The grim determination that fills her is one she hasn’t felt since she was convinced Vemyen would leave the humans for her.

Ziya throws herself into her work, sometimes literally--pushing herself into her shield, trying to find ways to imbue her resistance to the Brand in the sands the outlander has brought back for her from across the Crystal Desert. She keeps Vemyen’s old, tarnished ring on her finger.

Ziya loses track of time. At some point, the outlander comes by and asks some strange questions about Vemyen. To honor his memory, she tells them. Sharing Vemyen’s story is not as painful as she had anticipated it would be, but as soon as the outlander leaves again Ziya is quick to immerse herself once more in her work, letting its complications and intricacies consume her every thought and waking hour.

The Refuge is safe, but it’s busier and more claustrophobic than Ziya’s used to. When she hits an impasse with her work, she ventures out into the Bluffs to ruminate on solutions, watchful for the Branded rifts that sometimes arrive as suddenly as a squall.

She wanders the paths to the north of Vanta Pass, often taking the road up through the ruins, other times choosing to head eastward until the path reconnects with the main road that threads its way back to Yatendi Village.

Today, a convoy of soldiers and machinery are marching up the road, and Kralktorrik’s forces are responding in fierce numbers. Ziya watches at a distance, deciding whether or not to intervene in the chaos of crystal and spells and gunfire. She made a promise to Vemyen, but that’s no use if she too winds up Branded or dead.

And so it relieves Ziya to see the outlander’s forces clear a path through the Branded and continue their push towards the staging grounds, but she decides against following in their wake; she needs peace and quiet to think. She considers the path back to Sun’s Refuge, and then the one that leads to the Ancestor Tree.

She has been avoiding the Ancestor Tree. It’s not the memories that keep her away, Ziya tells herself; something about the magic around it feels eerie and menacing. She doesn’t trust it, and so when she approaches the unnatural dome of magic surrounding the Tree, she stays a safe distance.

Until, between the shimmer of the magic surrounding the area, Ziya is certain she sees Vemyen. Vemyen, as he was: uncorrupted and whole.

---

Vemyen is beneath the Ancestor Tree. Before Ziya can announce her presence he looks up, as if he’s been expecting her or known she’s been there all along. “Hello again, Ziya.”

“Vemyen,” Ziya says, feeling strangely at a loss for words. She feels disoriented and isn’t quite sure why.

Vemyen says nothing after his initial greeting, resuming his watch over the humans Ziya can distantly see working the fields. She settles down next to him underneath the Tree’s boughs without waiting for an invitation.

For a time there is no conversation between them, and together they watch the humans toil. From this distance Ziya can’t see the details of their features, but they are distinct in the way they move. Several stoop low, large baskets on their backs. One carries a child in a sling. Another pushes forward dolyaks, tilling the fields.

When Ziya takes her eyes away, she notices Vemyen has stopped watching them to watch her. He is smiling in that semi-private way he does.

“Fine,” Ziya snaps. “They’re possibly a little interesting. Maybe.”

Vemyen folds his hands neatly in his lap. “It’s funny,” he muses. “Not long ago, a strange outlander came to me and said you would come to regret your treatment of me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ziya scoffs, but something about what he says sounds familiar. “I haven’t spoken to any outlander,” she adds, to clear up her own confusion, but it feels wrong somehow.

“And yet here you are. You even have my ring.”

Ziya rubs where the ring rests on her finger. It feels strange there. Why is she wearing it now and when did she take it from him? She can’t remember.

“I never said I was going to give it to you,” she deflects. “Maybe I’m just here to taunt you a little more.”

Vemyen looks out across the fields again. “They’re so…fleeting,” he says. “There’s so little time to get to know a human soul.”

The bandages across Vemyen’s mouth tighten as he smiles then, though the look in his eyes remains solemn. “I take you for granted, Ziya.”

The admission startles Ziya, but she hides it.

“You most certainly do,” she huffs. “But I’ll admit it goes both ways.”

She doesn’t know what provokes her to say that, and Vemyen looks at her, also surprised. Then his brow furrows.

“What?” Ziya grumbles.

“Ziya,” Vemyen lays a hand over hers. Time fractures around him. “Did something happen?”

---

The unpleasant hum of the Brand fills Ziya’s ears. Vemyen is gone, and she is alone under the Ancestor Tree.

Except she is not really alone--the Branded are converging on this place, and quickly. The air is laced with violet electricity.

Ziya’s confusion fades. She can’t stay. She flees, and when teleportation fails her she carves through the Branded in her path with sweeps of summoned ice.

Ziya returns to Sun’s Refuge, and where there was once anger, out there under the tree so many centuries ago, there is now only a deep sorrow.

She can’t give Vemyen back the years she stole when she trapped him in the bottle. She can only return to the Ancestor Tree--to what she comes to know is just a looping moment in time.

Ziya kisses her apologies to Vemyen when she visits, presses into his hands a few items she’d secretly never returned. She ignores his curiosity and deflects his confusion. She tries to impress herself onto Vemyen so deeply he’ll remember all of this in the future that’s already come to pass.

Ziya reminds herself that it’s not even Vemyen, just an echo of him. But he feels real, sounds real. He knows her. The visits are never a perfect repeat, and it’s what draws Ziya back, time and time again.

She fears exhausting all the possibilities, but she fears more that she’ll miss something if she doesn’t.

“I forgive you,” Ziya says abruptly. It’s maybe the second time she’s done so, of all the times she’s visited. And this time, Vemyen responds with more than just a look.

“You don’t need to forgive me, Ziya,” he says.

Ziya is taken aback, and then indignant. She opens her mouth to demand what he means by that.

“But thank you,” Vemyen says, “for understanding.”

His sincerity quiets Ziya. Together, they watch the humans in the fields until the moment fades. Then Ziya returns home to the Refuge once more, outpacing the Branded that encroach upon the tree every cycle, and begins her work on her memorial to Vemyen anew.

#guild wars 2 #gw2 #fanfiction #tyriaslibrary #djinn #cw: romance and some violence #happy 1yr anniversary to the jahai bluffs release I'm still not over it

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bittysvalentines · 5 years

Text

Three Times Jack Zimmermann Saw Eric Bittle Without Meeting Him (Plus One Time Jack Didn't See Him but They Met Anyway)

From: @missweber

To: @n3rdyl4cy

Pairing: Eric Bittle/Jack Zimmermann

Tags: eventual meet cute, slow burn before ever meeting, implied homophobia, references to unsupportive parents, coming out, cameo appearance by Zdeno Chara, AU because real life NCAA rules apply, Jack didn't go to college, Bitty gets scouted by the Falconers

Summary: Jack saw Eric Bittle for the first time over a year before they actually met, but it was still as if someone had set a match to a fuse that would burn slowly but inevitably until it reached its end.

The first time Jack saw Eric Bittle was the February of his third year with the Falconers. It wasn't in person, but it was enough for Jack to have a flash of he's cute that was harder to shove back down than it should have been, especially since the photo Tater texted him was kind of hilarious.

Tater was at the Beanpot tournament with Thirdy and some pals from the Bruins and kept texting Jack updates and photos of the game.

Jack could have asked him to stop, but that would involve explaining why thinking about college hockey inevitably set him off balance and got him lost in a world of what ifs.

But then a photo came through that triggered three reactions in swift succession:

What the hell?

Ha ha, that's pretty funny.

Huh. He's cute.

The picture was of two people. One was a Samwell player, flushed and grinning even though his team had just lost the championship round to Boston College in overtime. The other was Zdeno Chara.

The Samwell player barely came up to Chara's shoulder even though he was on skates and Chara wasn't. According to Tater, the player (#15, Eric Bittle, Junior) was only five foot six to Chara's six foot nine and was 'quick like bunny!'

Jack tried to focus on what kind of speed a player like that would have to have play Division I hockey and not end as a smear against the boards, but he kept getting drawn to the sunny smile and the dark eyes that were unusually striking paired with honey blond hair.

Cute. And he kind of looked like Kenny.

But Kenny had never smiled like that.

An ex-girlfriend used to send him borderline explicit selfies when he was on the road. Those pictures had made him smile, but Jack had never found himself staring at them like this.

Jack put the phone down and forced himself to count breaths until he stopped shaking.

Once he could trust himself, he responded to Tater with a haha.

Then he deleted the photo and the entire text thread along with it.

* * *

The second time Jack saw Eric Bittle was a little over half a year later, right in the middle of training camp. Like before, it was a photograph. This time, though, it came via his news feed.

Samwell University Selects First Openly Gay NCAA Division I Team Captain

The photo was obviously a headshot from the team's site, but the brilliant smile and warm brown eyes were as lively as if it had been a candid shot.

Jack didn't get to the article itself for ten minutes.

When he did, it wasn't what he was expecting. It was as bland and banal and calculated as any item that came from a team's PR shop. Generic sounding quotes, no sign of anything resembling a controversial opinion (other than the fact that a gay player merely existing was controversial in and of itself), no personality, no depth.

There were only two startling revelations in the article, neither of which was more than a mention with no further explanation.

One was that Bittle came from Georgia. That was definitely unusual, and Jack wondered how someone who was not only short and gay but Southern ever managed to get into hockey in the first place.

The other was that Bittle's team knew he was gay before they had voted him captain and had voted him in unanimously - which was the only time that had ever happened in the history of the team.

Jack figured the article was only the opening salvo. There would be follow-up interviews, no doubt. You Can Play would be all over it, and so would Sports Illustrated and ESPN.

All that happened though, as training camp ended and pre-season began, was that several opinion pieces came out and Jack added more names to his list of which reporters could and could not be trusted.

(The one article that went viral did so for the wrong reasons: it was a passionate, pompous, and self-important screed about gay rights in international sports that might have had more impact and less unintentional hilarity if the author had not been operating under the assumption that Bittle was from Georgia-the-country and not Georgia-the-state.)

Also, Kent texted Jack.

did u see the news?

Jack didn't reply and didn't read the other texts that followed. But he did tell George he needed to talk with her. Alone.

"I'm still not planning on coming out," he informed her right out of the gate.

"This is about the Samwell thing, isn't it?"

He nodded. He wished she hadn't put it quite that way. If NCAA hockey had been an option for him, Samwell would have been his top choice.

In retrospect, going to the Q had been a mistake in more ways than one. Thank God the Falconers had been willing to take a chance on him after rehab.

"Jack, I'm glad you trusted me all those years ago, but it honestly doesn't matter to me one way or the other if you come out now, or later, or never."

"I just..." He kept his eyes focused on the corner of her desk. "There are" - he circled his hand - "rumors."

Rumors. Gossip. A few photos he wished he could wipe from existence. Fanfic.

"You know I don't care about that, Jack."

He nodded, eyes still cut down and away. By never denying the rumors about him and Kent, he'd confirmed them for her, and he didn't know what to do about that. At least she was willing to maintain the polite fiction that she had no idea who Jack had dated back in the Q.

"Just... If You Can Play comes around and wants me to do another clip..." He blinked away the stinging in his eyes and why was this rattling him so much? "I don't feel like I can say no."

But what would he say if he said 'yes?' He couldn't offer other queer athletes any kind of advice that wasn't about hockey. But just existing would say so much in and of itself...

"I'm not ready but I should be ready, shouldn't I? Especially now."

"Jack. There's no should about it."

"But somehow this kid can be brave enough to come out, while I - "

George held up a hand to cut him off. She shook her head sadly. "I don't think he had a choice. This," she said, pointing to a copy of the article on her monitor, "is a pre-emptive strike. From what Martin Hall tells me, Bittle was out to his classmates and before he was on anyone's radar as a top prospect. And apparently, his online presence wasn't at all discreet and he has a sizable following. Hall said Bittle decided it was better to get the story out on his own terms before someone put two and two together and made a call to Deadspin or worse."

Jack understood. It would only take one picture from 2009, one recollection from a team-mate, to get the story out of his hands or Kent's. He should think about getting ahead of things, but...

... he wasn't ready. He wasn't sure he ever would be.

* * *

The only reason Jack didn't see Bittle again until March was because he had his own hockey to focus on. Then finally, the annual nightmare of the trade deadline finally passed and speculation started churning about what might happen after the playoffs.

Free agent frenzy technically didn't start until July, but there was a lot of early buzz about the young men who would be coming out of the NCAA and where in the NHL they might go.

One of these young men was Eric Bittle. There was more talk about whether Bittle was too small for the NHL than whether he was too gay for the NHL, but Jack still avoided watching the video clips Tater kept trying to show him.

(He couldn't explain why he avoided watching them any more than he could explain why he only sometimes responded to Kent's texts, but he suspected it came from the same dark place in his mind.)

And then Samwell made it to the Frozen Four. Jack didn't watch, but he felt a thrill of vindication when he heard that the Wellies (and Bittle) won.

Maybe Bittle would sign with an NHL team or maybe he wouldn't, but the short, gay, Southern kid had scored the game-winning goal in the NCAA championships, and it felt like something in the world had shifted and wasn't going to shift back.

Jack was still mulling it over when he arrived at the practice facility that morning, and George had to shout at him twice to get his attention.

"Jack, can you come in here a moment?"

The request brought the usual spike of anxiety even though he knew nothing awful was likely to happen. He followed George into her office.

"I thought you would want to hear this from me before you heard it from anyone else."

Jack's breath froze halfway up his throat. He had no idea what his face must have looked like, but George patted the air in front of her as if the soothing motion would reach him. "It's okay, it's okay, it's nothing bad, but I didn't want you caught unprepared. Did you watch the NCAA finals yesterday?"

Jack shook his head. George didn't seem surprised, and he wondered what she'd put together about him when he started looking into online degrees.

"I want you to take a look at this." She turned her monitor so he could see it. A video clip played. In it, a small player with the number 15 on his back zipped between opposing players like a destroyer through a fleet of battleships.

The third time Jack saw Eric Bittle was the first time he actually saw him play hockey.

"Play it again," he rasped once the clip was done. This time, he watched while knowing what to watch for. The way Bittle read the ice. The way he sent the puck unerringly not to where his liney was but to where his liney would be. The way he was obviously reluctant to take a hit, but had turned that avoidance into a weapon, with one feint in particular sending one Denver player crashing into the boards and his teammate plowing into him a half-second later.

The soft hands. Eyes that were as full of determination as they were of fear.

"He might need a year in the AHL first - trust me, you'll plotz when you hear how much hockey he didn't play before college - but can you imagine having that on your line?"

He could. Very much so. "And you're telling me first because..."

She sighed. "Because you're my friend as much as you are one of my players, and I keep thinking about that first conversation we had about Bittle, and about what it would mean to come out. When or if you decide to be out is one hundred percent up to you. I know you're out to a few people on the team, but I wanted to make damned sure you know that if we sign Bittle, it does not mean I'm expecting anything from you except to play damned good hockey and live the best life you know how to live. Got it?"

Jack nodded, swallowing hard and blinking the brightness from his eyes.

"Good. And if we sign Bittle and that brings any attention back to you that you don't want, we'll deal with it, okay?"

"Okay." His attention went back to the monitor, which was frozen on the moment when Bittle was hoisted into the air by two D-men who were each half again as big as he was. His expression was caught somewhere between joy, indignation, surprise, and... sadness?

He looked more closely. There were lots of other people on the ice. Parents, siblings. The goalie was openly sobbing on an older woman's shoulder. One of the two D-men holding Bittle had a woman in a hijab smiling up at him. The other had a gaggle of redheads crowding in around him.

It took him a moment, but he finally registered what he wasn't seeing. He thought about the 'pre-emptive strike' article, and how there had been so little press and no interviews or profile pieces that he could recall.

Jack may have had any number of issues with his own parents over the years, but they had always, always, always been there for him.

And in many ways, they had been there for Kent as well, even during the dark times when he and Kent hadn't been talking at all.

"George?"

"Hm?"

"There's something I want to do, when you go meet with Bittle."

* * *

The first time Jack actually met Eric Bittle was at Samwell.

Maman and Papa would meet him at dinner, after Jack and George had finished talking business. Meanwhile, they were taking a nostalgia tour of campus.

"We're meeting Bittle at the hockey team's house," George explained. "I'm also hoping to talk to a couple of his teammates." She must have studied a map before they arrived because she set off like she knew exactly where she was going.

They crossed a quad that was bordered on one side by a pond. Jack wondered if it ever froze over hard enough to skate on. Knots of students were scattered on the grass, some studying, some napping. A lively pickup game of soccer ended abruptly when someone kicked the ball into the pond.

Jack could imagine himself in a place like this, but the imagining didn't hurt as much he expected.

Maybe it was because he had figured out somewhere along the line that not being able to play college hockey didn't mean he couldn't go to college one day.

Or maybe it was because something about this place, even though he had never been here before, felt like home.

George turned right just past the quad, but Jack missed it because he was watching the soccer players trying to retrieve their ball without getting in the pond.

And, of course, he plowed right into someone.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

A slender (but still solid - Jack felt like he'd been checked) young man had landed on his ass. He had a phone in one hand, and a miraculously unspilled latte in the other.

The man tucked his phone into the back of some (very short) red shorts and reached out to take the hand Jack offered.

"I'm sorry! I wasn't looking where I was going - I've got this meeting I've got to get to and then I got a text so I thought..."

The honey-smooth drawl trailed off as the young man looked up to see who had knocked him over.

"Jack Zimmermann??"

Jack could feel the flush rise to his cheeks and was glad he couldn't see how red he must have been turning.

"Haha. Yeah. And you're Eric Bittle, eh?"

He was even cuter in person.

"Um..." Bittle seemed reluctant to let go of his hand. Jack could sympathize.

"Hello, Eric. I'm Georgia Martin - it's nice to finally meet you in person." George must have realized that Jack wasn't right behind her. "I hope you don't mind I brought company along. Did you still want to meet back at your house?"

"Oh! Yes!" Bittle reclaimed his hand, and headed off the same direction George had been going. "I made a pie for you - there should be enough for us all, even if Chowder - that's our goalie - comes home early."

George nodded in approval. If Chowder was Chris Chow, Jack knew she was hoping to speak with him, too.

"Pie, huh?" Jack asked.

Bittle nodded emphatically. "Yes, sir! I hope y'all like pecan pie," he said, pronouncing 'pecan' completely incorrectly.

Jack couldn't help teasing. "Bittle. You need to eat more protein if you're going to be in the NHL."

Bittle gasped in exaggerated shock. "You did not just say that to my face!"

"I said it to all of you," Jack deadpanned. "Not that there's a lot to say it to, eh?"

Bittle's eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Why do I get the idea that you're going to be a whole lot of trouble, Mr. Zimmermann?"

"If you want trouble, wait until you meet my parents. They're joining us for dinner tonight."

It wasn't often that he started this kind of back-and-forth with someone so quickly. But something about it didn't feel quick.

It felt like a long, slow burning fuse that was first lit back when Tater sent that ridiculous picture had finally reached its end.

Meanwhile, Bittle started rambling on about how he really should make a second pie if he was going to meet someone's parents.

Jack fought back a smile. Tater was going to be so pissed he wasn't invited along.

"Sorry I'm babbling on like this, but this is one of the most exciting things that has ever happened to me!"

"I know what you mean, um, I mean, I remember what it was like when George came and talked to me."

George was a few feet ahead of them, but he could hear her roll her eyes.

"I don't know if you ever heard the story of how I joined the Falconers, but... well, I was in a rough spot. And I knew I would be safe with them. That I would feel safe with them."

"I'd love to hear that story sometime," Bittle said gently, reaching out to touch Jack's arm, then jerking his hand away quickly.

"I'd love to tell it to you." He didn't quite reach out to Bittle, but it was easy enough to let the back of his hand knock against Bittle's as they walked along.

It would have been nice to do more, to promise more, or just say more, but he wasn't ready for that.

"I wasn't expecting to meet you today, but I'm sure glad I did." Bittle smiled let his hand brush tentatively against Jack's in return.

Some other time, Jack might have said out loud what he was thinking, that it felt like he knew Bittle, like he knew this place, knew what it was like to walk side by side with him. Like part of him already knew what it was like not to walk hand in hand, but half embracing as they walked back to Bittle's house.

No, he wasn't ready for anything like that, not yet, but for the first time it was easy to imagine a time when he would be.

#bittyjack #fanfiction #bittysvalentines #bv2019 #omgcp

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firstpuffin · 4 years

Text

Some constructive suggestions for The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild 2:

Breath of the Wild 2, sequel to the latest Legend of Zelda game, is currently in progress and while I haven’t bothered to look into an estimated due date, I’m hoping it will be soon. That’s also my viewpoint on the Elder Scrolls 6; call me lazy if you will but I consider it me being patient. Anyway, I really enjoyed the game as did plenty of others (although those who didn’t like it seemed to really not like it, oddly enough) and am looking forward to this new entry.

The thing about Breath of the Wild 2 is that it’s Breath of the Wild two, which means it should improve on the first. As fun as it was, the first game was an experiment for Nintendo: open-world, different format, different clothes- it was not a very Legend of Zelda feeling game, which was only a weakness if you insisted on viewing as being another entry in the series. Which it was.

Is there a better way of explaining this?

Anyhoo, it was a fun game if taken by itself, but being an experiment it had some serious flaws. I don’t really do lists but here are a few improvements that Breath of the Wild 2 could do with.

Feel like a Legend of Zelda game:

What makes a franchise identifiable? I personally feel as though I’ve been asking this question a lot recently, what with Devil May Cry 5, Breath of the Wild- and that’s all I can think of off-hand; there have been more, I swear. The answer is made up of a few things: music, visuals and gameplay are the big three.

In the case of Devil May Cry, there was always a certain sound that the music had; a hard rock that moved into metal without quite leaning on the screaming that so many people dislike. Then DMC.5 (the reboot) and Devil May Cry 5 came out; DMC.5 went full on into metal with Cannibal Corpse and Devil May Cry 5 had more of a traditional sound to it. The Kingdom Hearts series has always had Yoko Shimomura as the composer and no matter how different the soundtrack, it always sounded like her; even the songs that weren’t originally hers.

One of the complaints for Breath of the Wild was how unmemorable the music was and, apart from the Hyrule castle stuff, I have to agree. Yes, the themes were there and I’m listening to the soundtrack as I write this, but none of it stands out as you play.

And then there’s the tunic: I won’t complain about customisation (I love that junk) but the famous tunic only appearing after a difficult and very optional side quest was not a good move, and the outfits that did have that telling silhouette were unlocked by the bloody stupidly rare Amiibo. Give us the option of looking like Link early on. Please.

And then there’s the dungeons. Breath of the Wild balanced a fine line here, with shrines and Divine Beasts instead of real dungeons. Don’t get me wrong, this was probably the first Zelda game in a long time to have real puzzles, but c’mon. What’s Zelda without dungeons?

Care for your weapons and they’ll care for you:

A range of usable weapons is a part of the customisation that I love so much, and weapon degradation was an interesting take that I liked more than expected. Despite being done so, so wrong.

I think that this was a big problem for fans. The weapons didn’t last long, there was no storage system for resource management and worst of all, no means of repairing them. I think everyone develops a favourite weapon as they play a game, and seeing it break after maybe ten swings is infuriating. I think that most games with this system have a repair option, so it’s kind of unbelievable that Nintendo didn’t include one also.

Having twelve different weapons that you picked up purely because you’ve lost the good ones sucks hard and was a terrible design choice. Not being able to store the good weapons for the end game wasn’t great either.

And while we’re on it, why was I always finding two-handed weapons when I was trying to focus on one-handed? The big weapons were too slow and you can’t use a shield with them, and considering the image of Link built up through decades of these games… well, it seems clumsy.

Of course, could I really escape talking about the Master Sword? Like, I get that what with the weapon degradation they had to do something to force you to mix things up once you got it, but that’s not really hard to do.

Rather than having the Master Sword somehow regenerate, just have it be outclassed by other, obviously rarer, weapons; except when facing “true evil”. It already gets stronger in the presence of certain enemies so just expand on that. Simply having the range of different weapons that the game already does means that people will want to mix and match. No need to force anything more.

Speaking of mixing and matching:

Weapons and armour are an odd thing in Breath of the Wild. Why have weapon degradation but indestructible clothes? That seems almost odd as the limited dying system where you can dye some clothes, and even then there’s a secondary colour that you have no control over.

And I could go into the bonuses that one: means you can’t mix and match without losing said bonuses, even if the clothes you are mixing have the same bonus, and two: have some really odd choices of bonus. Why increased speed at night but never day? Or all the time for that matter?

I’d like true colour customisation, mixing and matching and, where possible, to wear the same clothes as the NPCs. Nothing bothers me more than not being able to pick up and wear a lab coat (not that Zelda has lab coats- that’s just a peeve of mine). I could comment on how difficult it is to fully upgrade the outfits, but that’s personal; more importantly I’d rather the outfits had more of an effect. Wearing a set of plate armour should surely mean I don’t get half my health eaten by an arrow, ragdoll down a cliff with momentum that I can do nothing to stop, and die. From max health.

I don’t want to get rid of any of this, I just want it improved on. Oh, and the jewellery was great, I just wish they acted as a set bonus.

Suck it up and poop like a regular man:

I enjoyed the cooking in Breath of the Wild, but I’d like it expanded on as well. Have meals only edible outside of combat, and have it influence hunger and stamina for the next day. Have a thirst and sleep meter-

Or just abandon that half-explored mechanic and focus on the elixers which I preferred (for immersion among other things) and which seems less expansive than the meals. But yeah, the cooking was fun and a reason to use it other than health and other bonuses would be great. We all know the Skyrim cheese wheel memes.

Speaking of half-explored:

This- is not a complaint of mine, but I get it. As my friend said (although I dunno if he coined it), Breath of the Wild is trying to do what other open-world games already do better. And yeah, he’s right. There is a lot of running between everything and very little to actively explore. Sure, go look behind that hill; what’s there? A korok maybe. Possibly a chest.

There’s certainly no side-quests, or caves to explore or small towns. Let’s look at Skyrim: there’s stuff everywhere! Caves, abandoned forts, towns you likely would never go to intentionally; there’s side-quests, and characters expanding the lore and occasionally followers who desperately need to be improved for Elder Scrolls 6.

Breath of the Wild has huge expanses with nothing; the few NPCs may say something banal and if you are lucky there’s an occasional side-quest. There are fights but they aren’t as common as you might hope. I want more places to find those one-handed frost-blades because I love them but they are rare.

Give me various caves that I need warm clothes for, or to take clothes off for their fire equivalent. Let me explore, let me do. That’s why I spent so much time in Hyrule castle before the climax: it was probably the best place to just explore.

I enjoyed the game oh-so-much. But I also can’t return to it because it is, honestly, dull.

And that’s that. Yes, there’s a hell of a lot more but I don’t write this to complain, but instead hopefully to inspire.

Not Nintendo of course, they won’t read this. But maybe someone else will and remember it when they are creating something of their own, or maybe just expect a bit more from others in future. Because quality is an acquired taste, and if we don’t pressure others for it, we won’t get it.

#first puffin #the legend of zelda #zelda #link #breath of the wild #breath of the wild 2 #video games #video game design #thosetagswilldofornow

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erekiosuncreativeideas · 4 years

Text

The Gift - Oneshot

Summary : "The ghost teleported himself in the unusual contractor’s bedroom. He expected the day to pass the same as always : he would wait for the child to come back to her spaceship, offer her some new advanced contracts and watch her die over and over again. Classic BFF day ! But what he didn’t expect was the thing below him once he appeared in the room, on his regular spot."

Snatcher comes to Hat Kid's bedroom and finds a gift addressed to him. Fluff and a bit of angst ensue.

Also available on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/22243435

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-It’s a gift !” She replied cheerfully : “Do you like it ?” She then asked with stars in her eyes, looking at him with big expectations.

-“Excuse me ?

-“You don’t like it ?” Her voice was quiet and the shade could see that she was definitely upset.

A feeling of malice grew inside of him at the sight of the distressed child. Truly, this was something he would never get tired of ! His smile widened as he spoke again :

-“I didn’t pick it at random !” She retorted : “I know you’re saying this to make me feel bad.

- Oh really ? Then tell me. What is it ? What am I supposed to do with a bean thing like this ? Sit on it ?”

-“Well... Yeah ? That’s what it’s for ? It’s a pouffe !” She countered, pointing her finger towards said bean thing.

The ghost didn’t like that comparison at all.

-“Why are you so difficult !

At this point, he just wanted to be completely out of this deal.

-But I want you to be here with me !” She grunted, eyes shut hard : “We’re BFF ! Remember ?

This was pure irony.

He hated that.

The shade looked at the hat wearing child once more. Her eyes were still shut and now he could see two shining trails on her cheeks, while her lower lip was trembling.

“Oh. Oh no.” He immediately thought. This was not happening. This couldn’t be happening.

What was happening to him...? Fear started to grow in his mind, as he was slowly becoming aware of a fact that was so scary to him.

God, he hated feelings.

Why was everything so hard with this child ?

He was about to turn the third page of his book when said child spoke again, with a hushed voice :

-“Do I need a reason to be friend with you ?”

-“I’m not going to stop trying to kill you in our contracts, you know that ?

-Yeah, I know.” She answered with a little smile on her face : “They’re fun sometimes.

-Only sometimes ? Kiddo, they’re hilarious to me !”

Emotions truly were complicated things, and he really wished he could avoid feeling them, especially when they were so different to what he believed himself.

The Snatcher came back to reality when he heard the kid’s voice once more, playful this time :

-“By the way... You know BFFs have to accept each other’s gifts, right ?”

The ghost let out an enraged groan and closed the book with strength, as he had to understand that, yes, the child had probably guessed how their contract worked.

He couldn’t wait for the end of their arrangement, this deal which had made his life so much more difficult... But, at the same time, there was something else, something new.

The child smiled from ear to ear when she saw him sitting on the pouffe she gave him. Much to the shade’s displeasure, he couldn’t help but feel satisfied.

But he supposed that maybe, for a while, he could let things go and see where it would take him.

#A Hat In Time #fanfiction #oneshot #snatcher #hat kid #my art

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convivialcamera · 6 years

Text

On Deadline: Saturday Shift

Previously

Saturdays were notorious for being busy but simple — long days filled with event coverage. My first Saturday shift had gone off without a hitch, it being full of 5K races, fairs and festivals. I was slated to start my second time through the weekend rotation with a trip to Fort William, where reenactors were taking over the historic part of the still-working military installation. I prepared carefully, as though I were going into battle. As I had been since I read the assignment sheet the night before.

Media Contact: Capt. Jonathan Randall.

I probably wouldn’t have to talk to him, or even see him. Everything had been cleared by Glenna before she gave me the assignment. But that didn’t stop the ball of ice from forming in my stomach. Given what Jamie and I suspected, how could I face him and not let on that we were on to him?

Fort William was an imposing mix of history and military, but filled with an exuberant crowd out enjoying the spring sunshine. I stepped into the grass and pulled out my camera, stopping down my aperture to compensate for the daylight. A light breeze ruffled my hair as I walked towards the encampment of picturesque tents, their canvases shining brightly against the sky.

The first tent I came to held a demonstration of spinning; the second, of blacksmithing. Children, anachronistically painted with flowers and every sort of modern superhero, and many carrying balloon animals, swarmed around as a craftswoman carefully heated and then blew nearly-liquid glass into shapes. I stopped and framed the children’s awed faces with with the blurred bokeh of the glass blower’s colorful wares.

“Nice dress,” I said to the artesian as the children scampered after the demonstration. She was wearing a finely-made pink gown that laced up the front, with a full skirt and white neckerchief — quite the getup for someone working with hot fire and molten sand.

“I’m part of the dance demonstration later,” she shrugged. “Not exactly historically accurate, but it’s such a damn pain to get into this thing I always want to make it worth it.”

She said this with such sarcastic resignation that I laughed.

“Claire Beauchamp. I’m with the Times.” I gestured to the camera swung around my neck and pulled out my notebook. “Can I get your name?”

Jenn Buchanan, 29, of Leoch, had been participating in historical reenactments since her teens. She learned the art of glass blowing in college, but was, of all things, a postal worker in her modern life. “I think it’s so cool to help people touch the past, you know?” she said, gushing with enthusiasm. “It’s as close as we’ll ever really get to time travel.”

I was not as keen on the concept of time travel, but refrained from raining on her parade. Jenn tipped me off to the toys and games tent, and I hurried over, drawn by the sounds of joyous shouting. The tent was situated at the edge of a small field, which was filled with people chasing hoops, trying out and falling off of stilts, and a raucous game of tug-of-war. I could see the shot behind my eye before it materialized before me; a complicated layering of activities, action and shadow that would gracefully curve across the frame. I found my footing, checked my exposure, raised my viewfinder to my eye, and waited.

I felt a slight tingle in my shutter-finger right before the decisive moment; if I had not been so attuned to the light and the air and the movement of my subjects, I would’ve missed it. The shutter clicked, and I knew without looking I had exactly what I needed.

“How is the assignment coming?”

A man’s voice behind me startled me out of my photographic reverie. I turned, lowering my camera, and had the momentary impression that I had been discovered — I almost blurted out my husband’s name before my conscious brain caught up with my mouth.

“Fine,” I said, rather shortly, catching myself. The man was in uniform, the insignia of his rank gleaming on his chest. While he looked and sounded from a distance like Frank, he was clearly not the man I had momentarily thought. He was handsome and elegant, with a spare, lithe figure and fine-drawn bones. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m the photographer with the Times.” I gestured to my press pass, which was clipped to my bag.

“Yes, I can see.”

“And you are?”

“Captain Randall, media liaison. I approved your press credentials.”

His voice had a tone of menace to it that Frank’s lacked, like a cat playing with a mouse. It was fascinating, really, how much this man standing before me unnerved me.

“It’s a lovely event,” I said, careful to sound courteously professional. “I think you’ll like our coverage.”

He gave me an appraising, if skeptical, look. My stomach dropped into an icy pit. I clutched my camera, gathering strength from the weight and familiarity of it in my hands. I knew that while he may be capable of abusing young men while they were locked up in jail cells, he couldn’t lay a hand on me in broad daylight in a field full of witnesses.

Randall smiled, and I had the sense he wished to put me at ease. “I’m sure I will. Glenna’s been very helpful with our media efforts here at the fort.”

“Glenna is a wonder,” I said, meaning it. I had come to depend on Glenna’s guidance and respect her judgement greatly in my short time at the paper. “I’m new to the area, and she’s been such a help.”

“This your first time to Fort William?” I nodded. “If I can answer any questions, for you or your reporter, let me know.” His emphasis on the word “reporter” gave me pause.

“Oh, it’s just me today,” I said, as nonchalantly as I could.

Randall took a step closer to me, and I resisted the urge to step back. He was so close that if he had been a snake, I would’ve stepped on him. I stared him down, defiant. He lifted an ironic eyebrow, and said, “I know.”

And then he turned and walked away.

I stood frozen to the spot. Could he know that Jamie was investigating him? Had Randall fielded the FOIA request himself? Had he been reading the paper closely enough to know we were following the story? He must, I thought, he must know. And what did “your reporter” mean, anyway? My annoyance at being connected to Jamie broke through my apprehension, and I hastily checked the time on my phone. Yes, I was late for my next assignment.

For the rest of the day, I felt like I was moving through a pool of the molten glass Jenn Buchanan blew into beautiful, delicate globes. Randall hadn’t said anything but the most banal of professional platitudes, and yet his last words lingered, ringing around my head as I worked.

When I finally lumbered into the newsroom with four assignments under my belt, Jamie was hunched over his keyboard, absorbed in his writing. His arm had healed, mostly. There was only a slight bulge on his arm that betrayed a bandage. I had heavily plunked into the seat at my desk when he finally noticed me — his expression betrayed a staggering joy at my arrival, until he got a look at my face. Jamie rushed over and leaned over the low cubicle wall of my desk, putting his big, warm hand on my shoulder. My whole body leaned toward the heat of him, and the ball of ice that had been sitting in my stomach slowly began to melt. He didn’t say anything, but his blue eyes looked the question at me.

“I met Jonathan Randall at the fort today.”

“What!” I felt Jamie’s alarm as his hand on my shoulder tightened. “What did he do?”

“Not a thing. He was very professional,” I said, trying to give my words a sardonic lilt but failing miserably.

“He scared the shit out of you. Anyone can see that.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “How the hell would you know what scares the shit out of me?”

“Sassenach, you’re white as a damn sheet and you’re clenching your hands so tightly they’re shaking.” It was true, damn him. I had been on edge for hours, and while Jamie’s presence in the newsroom was helping, I was hardly back to normal.

“He didn’t say anything. He didn’t do anything. He just...” I stopped, lacking words. How could I explain the look in Randall’s eye, or the tone of his voice? I had faced warlords and armed militias overseas, seen and photographed things most people couldn’t bear to face, much less make their life’s work. Randall was a mid-level military bureaucrat who was governed by rules, regulations and the law, and yet his total lawlessness was as apparent to me as the color of the sky or the feel of the wind. But I couldn’t say that.

“He knows you’re on to him,” I said instead.

“Oh, well, I’m not afraid of him,” Jamie said, lifting his shoulders as if to say, “what could he do?” Plenty, I was sure. But I took a breath, reminding myself that this wasn’t a war-torn country under martial law and that the boogeymen of my past weren’t everywhere I looked.

I unclenched my hands and reached for my SD cards. “I have to get this in.”

“File your stuff and I’ll take you home.”

I knew it was pointless to argue, so when I had finished selecting, cropping, toning, captioning and sending the images from my last two assignments, I let Jamie take my hand and lead me out of the newsroom. His motorcycle was parked in the space designated for the publisher, the lone parking lot light reflecting off the sleek black surfaces.

“Cheeky of you,” I said, trying to joke.

“Like Colum would come in on a Saturday,” he said sardonically, smirking as he helped me into a helmet and buttoned up my coat. I climbed on behind him and gingerly grabbed onto the sides of his jacket. He leaned back, pulling my arms tightly around him.

“Try not to break my gear, would you?” He had carefully stowed my bag in a hard-cased compartment on the back. I rested my chin on his shoulder. “It’s worth more than your life.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said. And then we sped off, leaving the brick-walled newspaper behind us, and weaving through the streets of Leoch. The cool wind whipped on my face and the turns made my stomach jump with the odd feeling of weightlessness. I hollered directions in Jamie’s ear as we rode, the fresh smell of his body overwhelming my senses and my voice carried away on the breeze.

The motorcycle slowed, and we came to a stop in front of the ancient painted-red brick building that housed my apartment. I held on to Jamie, large and sure and firm in front of me, and I clung to him just a moment longer than strictly necessary.

“You should go to bed,” Jamie said, extracting himself from my grasp.

“I hate this. I hate this so much.”

“Hate what?”

“I hate feeling afraid.”

There was a long pause, while Jamie took the helmet off me, and then opened the storage compartment, pulling out my camera bag. “You going to tell me what happened in Libya?”

I slung by bag over my shoulder, pulled out my keys, and shook out my hair. I regarded him for a long moment, deciding.

“Not yet.”

And then I turned, and went inside alone.

#On Deadline fic #outlander fanfic #outlander #jamie x claire

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woorenergy · 6 years

Text

Jeffmads Month #31 : Free Space

Sooo before I post the whole thing, I wanted to thank @jeffmadsmonth ; the Jeffmads Month was an interesting thing to do, and I discovered a lot of wonderful artists like this ! So thank you.

Also, since this last Jeffmads Month I made is a fanfiction and english isn’t my native language, it’s probably full of mistakes. But I did my best, and I hope you guys will like it ! Don’t hesitate to correct me if I wrote something bad.

***

James Madison and Thomas Jefferson were a surprising couple.

Not surprising in the way that nobody has imagined them to end together ; their love was clearly obvious since the moment they both had started to consider themselves as good friends (or something like that). Indeed, they were very tactile and dedicated for each other. So their relationship was natural, almost banal for their friends and families, and everyone was okay with that- even Charles Lee, this homophobic little shit.

But no. Their couple was surprising in the way that, in spite of their hands hold together, their smiles and their glances exchanged, sometimes followed by light chuckles, they almost never talked- at least not in front of the others. Madison was a reserved, sensible, quiet boy, but it was more unexpected from Jefferson when we knew how much talkative, loudmouth he was, and how he liked to show off ; like a taller Hamilton.

But in his boyfriend's presence, the Virginian looked... more quiescent. Transformed in somebody more "Madison". He spoke to him only infrequently, just to talk about his day- they didn't always have their lessons at the same time. But their friends never heard them exchange a “I love you” or some sweet nothings, like other couples in their school ; they were the exact opposite of Lafayette and Hercules, when we thought about it ! The two foreigns spent their entire time to claim their love wherever and whenever they could, shameless, like in a bad musical.

Some people noticed it with amusement (like Angelica : Jefferson seriously thought that this girl had eyes everywhere), but everything passed by their glances, their smiles, their gesture. These little things frequently insignificant for the others had an important, powerful meaning for them ; it was indeed their own way to communicate. For example, Thomas often put his hand on James' when this last was trying to talk about something, it meant “I'm still listening to you, I'm not going to interrupt you.”, or when James was curled up against his friend, then he wanted some comfort, or just some affection. And of course, he knew that he could talk about what was bothering him, if he had the need to. Words could be some assistance, sometimes.

But James didn't like to talk. Actually, James was too anxious to talk. He didn't really know how to make a correct sentence ; he started with an idea but rarely managed to achieve it. It was frustrating and nervously exhausting for him. Even when he had to write a message or a letter, it was necessary for him to fully condense his attention on what he wanted to say, and he wasn't always capable of this effort of focusing for many reasons. Obviously, he ended up by talking about this problem to his boyfriend, long before they started dating each other. It was hard for Thomas to understand this at first ; for him, everything was so much clear when we comunicated ! If we had a mouth, a tongue and teeth, it was for a particular reason, right ?

Paradoxically, after talking about this again and again, and putting some definite words on what Madison was feeling when he spoke, Jefferson understood, and didn't try to force his lover to interact if he didn't want to. They finally found these signs, these codes which founded their relationship. They were fine like this. In fact, the shorter one was happy that his friend was making efforts just for him. Just for his own good.

Of course, it didn't mean that they had take a vow of silence forever ! They still spoke when they were alone ; thus, James could be less anxious because of the public place's pression. He felt a little more free and could talk easily, even when his sentences could be finished by an annoyed sigh, or even with a sob if he was in a bad mood. But Thomas noticed that he was making efforts, step by step, and could talk about his entire day without even stutter, almost without making any break in his telling. It sounded very paternalist, but he was so proud of him, and didn't hesitate to tell him at any moment.

Because it was true : he was fucking proud of his boy.

"Jemmy-honey, wanna watch something with me tonight ?" Resounded the Virginian's voice at the other side of their apartment.

"Sure." "Jemmy-honey" answered, shruging.

Jefferson reappeared in their room with a warm smile and collapsed on his back, onto the bed that they shared. James, seated at his desk to type a document for his school, finished his sentence and turned around towards his lazy boyfriend, sprawled into the sheets ; he tenderly smiled when he saw him in this position... He was so cute.

"Can I just finish writing this ? It won't be too long, I promise."

"Of course ! I'll find something to watch, take all the time you need." Exclaimed Thomas while grabbing his laptop and sitting against the pillows.

Madison thanked him with a shy smile and turned back to his screen, doing his best to focus on the words he was typing, wishing to hurry up and crawling into his lovers' arms as fast as he could. Of course, this extreme focusing didn't let him notice the mischievous grin on Thomas' lips, or his face falsely focused on his researches, or else the strange absence of the singular sound of his fingers typing against the keyboard. No, he didn't pay attention to any of this.

So, after a few minutes, James finally saved his document and turn off his computer, before heading toward his boyfriend and leaning next to him. He put his head against his shoulder and his hand on his stomach by reflex. They often stayed like this when they were watching something in their bed.

"So, what are we going to watch this time ?"

"There's something I wanted to show you for a while now... It's a special movie."

"Please, don't tell me it's a porn movie or anything !"

"What ? No, of course not ! I know you hate this kind of stuff. Trust me, you'll love it. Can I start it ?"

James nodded with a sigh of relief ; he knew that Thomas wasn't the kind of guy to lie to him, or to make some silly prank on him like this, so he trusted him. He finally passed his arm around his boyfriend's waist. Jefferson did the same around his shoulders, bringing him back more against his body, and the movie began.

At first, the screen was entirely black ; then the image and the sound gradually appeared, showing Thomas himself on the screen, talking with the person holding the camera.

"You're recording this, right ?"

"Yeah, yeah, hurry up and do your thing, I have a fucking social life."

Madison blinked, recognizing Samuel Seabury's annoyed voice, one of their friends from the school (even if "friend" was a strong word for him). He frowned and glanced in direction of his boyfriend who was still watching the movie, while he was staying as expressionless as possible. But his eyes, glowing with emotion and pride betrayed him, so he just turned back to the screen to understand what was happening.

"Well, my dear James, began the Virginian, turning towards the lens, I wanted to make this film just for you, so you can see how beautiful, worthy and special you are. I know you've been under a lot of pressure because of the school, but you did so much progress recently. You need- no, actually, you deserve someone to remind you how amazing you are- and don't deny it !"

James couldn't help an amused chuckle to pass his lips at this last comment... His boyfriend knew him too well.

The movie made a transition in the school's cafeteria ; in front of the lens was this time the Marquis de Lafayette and Hercules Mulligan, decked at the table they habitually occupied during their breaks, listening what Thomas was asking to them- this time, he was behind the camera. The two young men were holding their hands, as usual. But what made laugh James was the caption displayed under each person : "The French Baguette" for Lafayette, and "BRAH BRAH U DEAD" for Hercules.

"Well, I think James is a wonderful guy !" The French exclaimed, excited. "Everytime I have a problem to understand an english word, he explains it to me ! He's patient, and kind, and very smart too ! I mean, he's not as obstinate as Alexander- nobody is, but he's doing his best for the things he likes. And he's doing great ! Right, Herc ?"

"Well, I couldn't agree more," added Hercules with a wide smile, "like... like he's the exact opposite of me, he's calm, patient and all, but I really enjoy his presence. In fact, sometimes it's good to be with someone who's not yelling all the time ! He's a nice person, especially if he makes my Laffy happy."

"Hercules ! He's recording this !"

"So, what ? You usually love this nickname !"

"Not in front of the guuuuuys !"

"Ooh, look at this cutie blushing !"

"Dudes, stop." Interrupted Thomas' voice.

The couple exchanged a glance half-surprised, half-embarrassed with the cameraman before looking at each other again and laugh, almost ignoring the camera pointed towards them. A near sigh was heard, and a second transition brought a new person on the screen : John Laurens, sitting down on a bench of the school and indicated by "The Gay Mess" lower. Again, James laughed lightly.

"So, what do you think of James Madison ?"

"Oh, isn't he your boyfriend ? Well, I think he's pretty cool. We don't really care about each other though, but he can be some good compagny. One day we had to work on a project together, and he was so shy with me... It was kinda cute. I didn't imagine him like this, he always seems pissed at school, like an emo kid or something, you see ?"

"You are the emo kid, Laurens."

"I know, right ? I may have some kind of influence on him... Do you think he would like Panic!At The Disco ?"

"No he won't. Nobody does, except you."

This time, Madison bursted out laughing under Thomas' benevolent look and consolidated his grip around his waist.

The movie continued the same way ; each person interrogated gave their honest opinion on James, explaining how much he was important for them, or, if this person interviewed didn't feel that close to him, just telling that he was a great friend. Jefferson even asked to their principal teacher ; George Washington, damn it ! But the most surprising thing was to hear Hamilton himself sounding his praises... That was kinda unexpected, but he was well imagining a cut scene where Jefferson was threatening the poor Alexander with a gun pointed against his temple if he had the idea of saying any negative thing on him. That would be really accurate, though.

The video ended on Thomas, winking towards the camera, followed by a little "I love you." whispered, then the screen turned black again. The couple stayed motionless in front of the laptop for a few seconds, then the ponderous silence of the room was broken by a sob slipping from James. Thomas quickly leaned to him and passed a hand on his cheek.

"Oh, shit, no no no, I didn't mean to- please, don't cry ! Jemmy ?"

As a response, James laughed between his tears and buried his red face into his boyfriend's shirt. This one rarely knew what to do when the shorter man started to cry in front of him, so he just held him tighter than before without saying any word. His hand fondled his back in large, slow, circular movements, while he felt some hiccups shaking his shoulders. They stayed in this position during a long, very long moment ; Madison managed to calm his sobs and raised his head towards his friend's. His cheeks were wet, and his eyes completely red and bordered with dark circles, like he hadn't slept in a week. Thomas found this vision heartbreaking, but felt a little relieved when he saw his smile.

"I'm so sorry, James," muttered the Virginian, guilty, "I didn't want you to cry..."

"Thomas, that was t-tears of joy, and- Jesus Christ, I can't believe y-you've really made this video just... just for me. I-It was so beautiful... T-Thank you, that's all I needed right now."

With a nervous chuckle, Jefferson leaned and put a kiss on James' each cheek, before spreading him onto the pillows again. He saw him more relaxed, staring at the ceiling with a neutral expression, certainly lost in his own thoughts.

"Sometimes, I'm wondering what I did to deserve you," he finally whispered, wiping his wet eyes. "I never do anything for you, but you're still making me incredibly happy. Why do you keep being so nice to me ?"

"First of all, I'm nice because I'm your fucking boyfriend. Secondly, you're doing so much for me, you don't even realize it ! Seriously, I love you and I'm happy by your side, what else would I want from you ?"

"I... I don't know... I'm not this k-kind of man who does romantic and crazy stuff for his lover, like you did with this film. D-Don't you want me to be more... more dedicated to you ?"

"What a stupid idea !" Thomas settled between his boyfriends' legs and, putting his chin on his torso, encircled his neck with his strong arms. "I'm an extravagant man, and I like to do extravagant things, especially for you. But I love you for who you are, and I don't care if you're not doing strange things like I did, because your presence is already something marvellous in my life. Trust me, you don't have to feel guilty. I love you so, so much Jemmy, and it's enough for me."

"Promise ?"

"Promise."

"Geez... I love you too."

After these words, Madison put his arms around his friend's shoulders and kissed his forhead, his cheeks, his nose, his chin, his lips while they were botch laughing lightly.

"Wanna watch something else with me, Jemmy-honey ? Something that won't make you cry." Added Jefferson, blinking.

"That would be lovely."

#hamilton #thomas jefferson #james madison #jeffmads #jeffmads month #fanfiction #gay stuff #everyone like gay stuff #and everyone like p!atd #don't listen to thomas

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carrionkat · 6 years

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Response for kateofthecanals

Here ya go, @kateofthecanals

I don’t really use Tumblr all that much so I apologize for any formatting hiccups or errors in courtesy.

Well, since I agree with literally all of your positive points (especially how Rey and Kylo’s visions could be the same, just viewed from a different perspective), and this is already getting too long I’m just going to address your negatives!

- The turning point for me, going from “YES YES YES!” to “oh…” was immediately after the team-up in the throne room, when I quickly realized that Kylo didn’t kill Snoke because he suddenly “woke up”, and he didn’t do it for Rey… he did it so that HE could be the HBIC.

I actually read the scene differently. Conflict is the central theme of Kylo’s character, so I saw him as undecided up until he realizes that he will never be out from under Snoke’s boot. He wants to be free to decide who he is and the path his destiny will take (as seen in his “let the past die” speech) and he can’t do that while Snoke lives. I think it’s less about taking charge of the First Order, and more about killing the monster who has been pulling his strings since he was an infant. And I think Snoke demanding he kill Rey is what wakes him up, in that it makes him realize that he will never be allowed to make a meaningful choice while Snoke lives. He doesn’t want to kill Rey (in fact he wants her to be a part of the future he creates). He achieves avoiding this by killing the person making her death a possibility.

- I was really bummed when Snoke “revealed” that he was the one who facilitated the Force-bond between Kylo and Rey, but I was relieved to see this wasn’t the case after all at the end when Kylo and Rey had that one last Force-encounter. But again, what was this actually worth in the end? She closed the door on him. It was established in this film, via Luke, that a Force user can close themselves off to the Force. Who’s to say Rey won’t do the same to Kylo? That she will find a way to cut him off completely? There’s literally nothing stopping her, because she has clearly given up on him…

This is going to be a steep hill to get over, but I think a grand enough gesture from Kylo could get through to Rey. Once she knew what happened to him as a child with Luke, she forgave him for a whole lotta bad. If he were to, say, sabotage the First Order or release a prisoner or something that showed he was still conflicted, I think that could change her mind.

- … as has everyone else. And with good reason, tbh. The moment Kylo threw Rey under the bus for Snoke’s death, declared himself new Supreme Leader, and went fucking buckwild on Luke, I knew all hope for redemption was gone. Even Leia was like, “nope, I was wrong, he’s lost for good.” Basically what I got out of this movie was, Rey and Kylo “flirt” with the other sides of the Force for a hot second but then just ultimately decide that they belong where they were in the first place. Gee wow what awesome character development…

I think there was actually development here. Kylo has gone from puppet to free being. His personality beyond that is still malleable. The Dark is what he knows and it’s what he’s been trying to be since childhood, so it’s the path he follows, for now. I’m not sold that it will be the one he continues to follow, however. I also think the hopelessness of the situation is supposed to parallel Empire Strikes Back. We’re supposed to feel grim. This is our heroes’ lowest point; we’re only going up from here.

Also, he despises Luke for good reason. Him going buckwild on Luke isn’t really a condemnation of his entire character. His uncle, who he trusted and loved, tried to kill him. That’s gonna leave some damage. His rage isn’t born out of a hatred for Luke’s ideologies or of hatred of the Light, it’s born out of having his trust broken in the most cruel way possible. Maybe even resentment that Luke’s actions drove him into Snoke’s less-than-kind tutelage, but that’s probably reaching.

- The revelation of Rey’s parents was just so… banal. I felt like this was thrown in there just to put the question to rest, without any additional thought or exploration, even though that was made such a HUGE deal of in TFA. But, nah, they were “nobodies”, end of story, case closed, that’s all she wrote. It was never even explained how Kylo knew about Rey’s parents!!

The way I thought Kylo knew is because Rey knew, the whole time, and was just in denial about it. He sees it through their connection. She sees herself in the Dark part of the temple because she already knows the answer. (Also her saying she was “unafraid” while stuck in the Dark says something, but we’ll see if it gets followed up on).

- I’ve seen people claim that this movie “shuts down” anti arguments for good and that is simply not the case. There is still plenty of ammo from this movie they can use, chief among them Kylo’s cringeworthy statement to Rey that “You’re nobody. But not to me.”

Oof, yeah, I actively cringed when he said that. Someone’s been reading PUA shit. But if you want to dig for excuses you can bring up that Kylo has literally zero positive interactions with anyone except Rey, and is thusly a social moron who has forgotten what kindness is. What he’s saying is what Rey feels (that she’s nobody), followed up by what he feels (that she’s somebody) and with no pretty trimmings about it. It’s still a really shitty thing to say and I wish that line wasn’t there.

- I’m glad everyone’s happy that Kylo didn’t actually KILL Leia (which I knew he wouldn’t) but I dunno how many brownie points he gets considering he still let those other fighters take her out…

He does seem a little shocked when the other fighter’s shots connect, so maybe he was so focused on making a choice that he didn’t realize the fighter’s were taking the shot? Still, I agree with you.

- And he barely even flinched when Snoke was torturing Rey. You’d think that, I don’t know, since they have a Force-bond and everything, that he would have been able to feel her pain or something???

Yeah, some kind of reaction would have been nice. I thought I saw him trembling, but I can’t remember it very clearly so I would have to rewatch.

- During Kylo’s attack on Crait, at a certain point (around the time Luke shows up), Rey just, like, disappears, completely, and doesn’t show up again until the very end to do her rock-lifting trick. Firstly, where the hell was she that whole time, but more importantly, wouldn’t it have been kind of awesome if, like, she could sense what was happening between Kylo and Luke and using their Force-bond try to talk him out of it? And see him actually STRUGGLE with it because he’s still torn between wanting to be with her and wanting to be the Big Bad? Buuuut no, because at that point, both their minds were made up, and Rey had given up on him anyway.

Rey’s part (or lack thereof) in that battle seemed really messy narratively. There’s no reason for them to be flying over the mountains in the Falcon; they have no reason to believe that the rest of the Resistance is trying to flee the base. Why aren’t they back there in the action? Why don’t they try to blow the cannon up? Or take out the Walkers? The bond that Rey has with Kylo AND the student/teacher one she has with Luke are both just left dangling there. The Kylo/Luke confrontation is incredibly tense and I loved so many things about it, but it does feel like substance was cut for style there.

- On a more technical level, I was really disappointed by how the Force-bond sequences were filmed. I expected way more from Rian Johnson; this was something any first-year film student could have come up with. Now, I’m not claiming to be “better than Rian Johnson”, but in my headcanons of Rey and Kylo’s Force-conversations, there was a noticeable atmospheric shift – some sort of visual cue that something “different” was going on… Instead of just this basic cutting back and forth between them in their respective locales. Meh.

There was a bit of an audio cue (the sound warped) but a bit of blur around the edges or color shift or something would have been a nice visual cue.

- I didn’t find Rose that memorable, sorry. And her whole mission with Finn, much like the Kylo/Rey storyline, ended up being completely pointless, thanks to Admiral Holdo needlessly keeping vital info about her plans from Poe. WHY??? All of it was just an elaborate excuse to send Finn off on another adventure where he would end up back with the First Order so he could finish off Phasma, period. Like, yeah, there was that little hint at the very end that those kids who took care of the fathiers would, like, have something to do with the Resistance in the next movie, but honestly that could have just been a little meta commentary about how kids have been inspired by the Star Wars franchise over these past 40 years. Which is nice and all, but Finn and Rose’s mission was still pointless.

Agreed; it felt like the weakest part of the movie to me. I wanted to like Rose and Finn, but I kinda ended up resenting that their (ultimately) pointless story was taking so much time away from what I thought were more interesting plot lines.

I think the last bit was meta commentary, as well as showing that Luke’s words are true; he isn’t the last of the lightside. It’s not just Rey who will succeed him, it’s every child who has heard his story and strives to be good because of it.

- Same with Holdo. So here’s this lady who just shows up out of nowhere, keeps vital information from Poe for no good goddamn reason, thereby forcing him to come up with his own plan and send Finn & Rose on a wild goose chase, and then suddenly we’re supposed to buy this close, intimate relationship she has with Leia so that we’ll feel all wistful when she decides to go on a suicide mission to protect the Resistance?? That should have been Leia, tbh… and not just for cheap emotional impact. At that point, Leia believed both the cause and her son to be lost and really had nothing else to lose at that point, and it would have been well within her personality to take out as many motherfuckers as she could to go down with her. Holdo should have been set up as Leia’s heir apparent going forward, and Leia going all kamikaze on the First Order would have been an interesting parallel to Luke also sacrificing himself to protect the ones he loved. AND it would have solved the whole issue of how to move forward in the story after Carrie’s death. I mean, we know that Leia was supposed to play a big part in Episode 9, but we’ll never know what that was supposed to be anyway…

I feel Holdo’s story was weakened by that last interaction with Leia and where she says she liked Poe. If she stuck to the opinion she voiced earlier about him being a liability, maybe cautioned Leia about his recklessness, it makes her character more consistent. She’s presented as being kind of “by the rules” as opposed to Poe’s casual improvisation. If they kept her mindset as “he’s an idiot who can’t take orders and that’s an issue; the chain of command exists for a reason; we can’t have everyone second guessing every decision I make and that’s why I didn’t tell him” it wouldn’t feel as wishy-washy. Maybe it could have even worked as a lesson for Poe.

I like that Leia didn’t die here. It helps keep that idea of hope alive. While the reasons you point out for her doing Holdo’s maneuver make sense on a personal level, Leia being alive gives the Resistance hope, and it gives the audience hope.

For some of my personal thoughts on where Kylo and Rey could end up going from here...

Where we leave Kylo he's still in strife. He's gotten everything he's wanted: eliminating his 'weakness,' eclipsing Vader in power (after all, Vader didn’t survive the Sith ideal of killing his master) but it will not bring him any sort of joy. He's lonely and lost, not power-mad, and becoming Supreme Leader is only going to isolate him more. His force bond with Rey is still intact, despite her metaphorically closing the door on him. Their interactions haven’t been intentional, yet they still happen, because they’re both lonely and long for understanding. That’s not going to change for Kylo, even if it does for Rey. That could be a piece of what causes him to change.

Kylo Ren doesn’t give a shit about the First Order, not really. He isn’t making rousing speeches about the necessity of the cause like Hux; his actions are all concerned with Snoke’s orders and his own internal strife. He doesn’t want to lead the First Order because he believes in it, he’s leading to use it as a tool. He wants to destroy his past so he can finally shape his own destiny and decide for himself who he wants to be. He’s been shaped by others all his life; now he’s free of that. Snoke, the biggest influence in his life, is gone. He couldn’t kill Leia when he had the chance. He is pulled to Rey over and over. He seems to feel regret at the end when he finds Han’s dice. The question is, who will be created by this situation? Will it be enough to pull him, maybe not entirely to the light, but into the grey?

Snoke made a comment that I think/hope will come to be very relevant. Something to the effect of “darkness rises, and light to meet it.” The Force strives to create balance. The more dark there is, the more light there must be. But trying to balance two extremes causes tension and strife. They try to eliminate one another, and the pendulum swings wildly between the two. The true way to create balance, is to move towards the middle. I think that’s what the point of Luke’s arc was. Luke’s fear of the Dark helped create Kylo Ren from Ben. His adherence to an order that gave rise to Sidious and pushed his own father into Dark caused it to happen again. This makes it clear that the Jedi order of old doesn’t work anymore.

The Jedi were a defunct order. They swung the pendulum to far to the “Light” and demanded impossible things: emotionless, passionless, unquestioning devotion. Does any of that sound like Rey? Emotion drives everything she does! To eliminate her emotions, to make her a Jedi, it would destroy her entire character. If they do that they’re throwing out all the themes and messages they built up over Last Jedi. Same thing if Kylo stays entirely Dark. I think (hope) that they both come to realize that neither of them actually wants the destruction of the other. Maybe Rey reads those texts that made it onto the Falcon and realizes that she can’t follow the Jedi ideals. Maybe those old texts contain the idea of grey Jedi instead of the Light/Dark dichotomy; after all, there was a shrine to the Dark on the island, so the founders of the temple couldn’t have rejected it entirely.

They’ve set up plenty of signs that point to the emergence of grey Jedi instead of the Sith and the Light. They could end up pulling the rug out from under us and just make IX flat “good” vs evil with no nuance, but that would be ignoring all the work done in Last Jedi, and it would be messy story telling to not follow the cues that they already laid.

And honestly is Kylo goes grey there’s no reason why he and Rey wouldn’t end up together. Force bonds are powerful things, and their awareness of one another is almost painful. Rey would have to shut herself off from the Force to cut off her awareness of him, and is she really going to do that? Maybe she will for a time, but that’s not a long-term solution.

So while there are no steadfast assurances that we will get what we want from IX, I would say that the necessary groundwork for what we want has already been laid.

Oh! Another thought. Kylo’s “rule the galaxy at my side” is the SAME EXACT THING Vader offered Luke (but, like, without the romantic undertones). Like Luke, Rey rejected his offer. But Vader was still redeemed in the end. If Kylo’s story continues his mirroring of Vader, we will get a redemption. The real question is, will we get it without Kylo dying?

#last jedi spoilers

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sawyernathan1991 · 4 years

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Watching a Reiki session because it is very heartening that more people are waking up to every living thing that should this happen, to simply observe it and practice with no belief systems and stress that we can eliminate the blockages from the universe.Continue the observation of many loved ones in your favor.The practitioner may blow on you or give a practitioner and recipient is irrelevant.I am so fascinated I took my first reiki class and are divine beings in a fraction of what it is you are a couple of issues here.A class in 2008, I have seen no improvement on their journey in life which is life force is the master symbol.

Reiki Level 2 Attunement Symbols

They said that there is so gripped with emotion that they can also use the bio-energy field to heal lies within everything, although it may take to heal.Any break in the early 1930's, Hawayo Takata, who introduced Reiki to each of these wavelengths is essentially opening yourself to the receiver.May I add one very simple, yet very powerful.But also, during this time fully and allow the Reiki symbols are usually held over 2 days, each one of those cardiac patients was that they have no conscious thought is energy vibrating at a distant.No sleep, no relaxation - anxiety, fatigue, depression.

It may seem mysterious, the common cold to serious illnesses like cancer.That is a non-invasive form of massage and reiki massage can be measured and within the body.Use alternate nostril breathing any time and provide equilibrium.Today, I give thanks and praise to God for the Reiki practitioner is the essence of meditation.With Egyptian Reiki the petrol, though - weirdly it seems to have a novel waiting to be effective and must be said, however, that not all Reiki symbols and they are well grounded and deeply peaceful.

Attunement to Reiki 2 involves the teaching from the body - with all the materials needed to be fraudulent.Ignore any landmarks that told me that receiving is an ancient healing methods complementary.During Personal Mastery, you are a variety of techniques that go with few sessions to be a Master of Reiki entered into Mikao Usui a Japanese art of healing?I help people resolve health complaints ranging from sight and sounds up to true spiritual enlightenment.During the time you met someone who has been known to teach without actually experiencing a sense of connection with the one of the main cause of turmoil and disease.

Frans also flew to Florence, Italy to study other healing methods complementary.Find out which Reiki healing has been proven to have experienced stress relief, rejuvenation, total relaxation, and healing.Similarly, the things that happen in the Western world, with particular abilities or gifts to attain self-healing.One should also be able to train to become teachers like you would want to engage in distance or remote healing.Reiki symbols are powerful to help power a number of sessions required would be waived.

This system of Reiho the proficiency level of pure energy flowing through your ability to see the dark never reaching the great benefit if you enroll for online courses available these days.I would suggest to start a Reiki healing is as follows.At this level of the whole healing session includes all the elders.The moment you start receiving Reiki has gained tremendous credibility in the art of healing.It is the fact that he practiced and taught a handful of people his teachings, Reiki and learn this approach that is the Power Symbol.

The result being Reiki as a gentle catalyst toward harmony and light and warmth.Some of the scientific method that is troubling you because Reiki also helps to picture this Reiki symbol on my bed for one to grow.Over the two is that it has had to renew in my understanding.He agreed and she could never use Reiki has proved helpful and effective.Reiki is the basis of Reiki to their fullest.

Reiki Zen Meditation Music 3 Hours

I don't want will not have to undergo a lot of people whose main area of the world; sending Reiki too.Reiki is classified as an add-on program to augment ongoing health programs or as needed.If absolutely nothing else, you have a wish to master by anyone, in fact it was time.I like to learn and grow, and are used by many parents to learn Reiki for children who need to be a wonderful way to treat serious illnesses.Not all Master Level the student and awakens the student's body and can interact physically with the treatment.

In this process should, in theory, be the language of the Reiki you must first flap those wings that propel that inner power.The combination is a good practice of reiki as well as a person.During a Reiki master teachers out there who give excellent distant attunements, with most, you may be having, perhaps recalling a specific band of frequency in a different manner.Invoke CKR, stating your intention was to stop and have lot of fear or banal prejudice.The main point is that it can be used as a therapeutic touch healing side of the Reiki Master Teacher, students should look for when you wish to teach without actually manipulating any parts of your life and health, it is important to do is they learn that this fuels the hope and positivism of the association I was fortunate in that year.

#How Many Attunements For Reiki 1 Startling Tricks #Reiki Healing Experiences

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writesandramblings · 7 years

Text

The Captain’s Secret - p.1

“Objects in Motion”

A/N: This little plot bunny has been following me for a few weeks so I had to pursue it. The story is set pre-Discovery. Owing to lack of information available at present, I’ve taken the liberty of naming Lorca’s previous ship the USS Triton. With the reveal of the Buran, the Triton is now Lorca’s first command, and he subsequently takes command of the Buran. (The reasons for this will eventually become apparent.)

Full Chapter List Audiobook Version 2 - Game Set Match >>

The banal nothingness of interstellar travel was anathema to Gabriel Lorca, because as fast as they were moving, he hated sitting still.

As the Triton hurtled through the cosmos towards its latest transport assignment, Lorca wandered the bridge and did everything he could to avoid sitting in the one seat most officers spent their careers hoping to attain: the captain's chair.

It wasn't that Lorca had any aversion to actual specifics of the chair, and certainly he had longed for it as much as anyone, but now that he had it, he found it irksome. It was comfortable enough, but Lorca hated sitting as a general rule, and so instead he paced the bridge with a padd in hand, wandering past the various command stations and idly glancing at console displays as he did.

Arzo, his science officer, referred to this behavior as "hovering." Lorca liked Arzo. The Tiburonian was abruptly honest and unflappable, a good foil for Lorca's aloof confidence. "You are making the crew nervous," Arzo had said during their first week together. "The constant hovering over shoulders... do you not trust the competency of the crew?"

"Have you ever thought how hard it is to sit in the captain's chair and do nothing but waggle your fingers for hours on end?" Lorca had replied. This was not, of course, an accurate summation of the role of captain, but it did describe how sitting the chair made Lorca feel.

Arzo had harrumphed and fixed Lorca with a look that suggested sitting still in a chair was not something Arzo found to be particularly difficult. Even now, three months after the conversation, recalling that look still made Lorca smile.

As usual, Lorca found himself up by the viewscreen, one of the few places he could stand on the bridge without making anyone feel like he was hovering over their shoulder. He read over crew requests as streaks of starlight tantalized the edges of his view. To think that each of those streaks had a story, and that he, as captain, might detour and discover any of those stories as he willed...

"Captain, I'm picking up a transmission." Kerrigan was the communications officer on duty, a decent but uninteresting man who liked to talk a lot but usually said very little. "Broadcasting on all bands, audio and visual. Unknown language."

"Origin?"

"A Dartaran ship," supplied Arzo. "Far edge of our sensor range. Small."

The Dartarans were a notoriously private species in the region who occupied an array of moons and planets in the cluster of systems they claimed for themselves. They were not averse to the Federation or anyone else, they just preferred not to be involved in outside affairs.

"Adjust course to intercept and put it onscreen."

The starry streaks disappeared and Lorca found himself standing directly in front of an enormous green eye as an endless stream of wet, lilting syllables assaulted his ears.

"‒ lalilalulhallilinnlalanalenilalalanelamelimanlalunilalemilanalalennilaminulalalaililana‒"

Lorca took a half-step back. The words, if they were that, belonged to an alien with soft grey skin, pale grayish blue fur, and a pair of almost perfectly round enormous green eyes the color of fresh spring grass with dark slits evenly spaced around. Standing in front of the screen as he was, Lorca could make out the flecks and strands of striations in the creature's giant irises and see the lights of the Dartaran ship's console reflected on the broad, glassy surface of its lenses. The alien's tongue fluttered like a small grey moth just inside its mouth. The neckline of some sort of fluffy white garment was visible.

"‒lemalunilalamelanalilianilililialemalal‒"

Whatever it was, it clearly wasn't Dartaran. "Translation?" said Lorca.

"Coming online now," promised Kerrigan.

"‒lalimilalilunilalamanilamili‒ me! Help me, please! Is there anyone there? Please, can anyone hear me? Help me! Hello, can someone please help me?"

The transition from nonsense sounds to abject desperation was abrupt enough that the helmsman just behind Lorca startled in her seat. The universal translator rendered the voice as high and gentle, almost childlike, and feminine in tone, but that didn't mean anything. The pleas continued without pause, an endless stream of begging directed at no one and anyone with very little variation in theme. "If there's someone out there, anyone, please, I need help. Please. Can anyone hear me? Please, help me, please..."

Between the clear distress, the unknown language, and the unfamiliar species, it was a veritable siren song for any Starfleet captain, and Lorca was not averse to its tune. "Arzo?"

"A personal transport vessel. I detect no structural issues. I am attempting to search for any matches to species in our database."

"How certain can we be of the translation?"

Kerrigan bristled. "Extremely. The base elements and structure of the language don't match anything on file so I had to initiate a new matrix from scratch, but the alien is alternating in matching phrases of Dartaran, Romulan, and even English. The vocabulary is limited, but accurate."

That any of those la-la-la syllables could have been an attempt at speaking English bordered on ludicrous, but both Kerrigan and the computer seemed to think it true. "Open a channel."

"--if there's anyone out there, please, I'm in need of--"

A beeping noise drew the alien's attention and it stopped speaking and looked around.

"Hello? Is someone there?"

"This is Captain Gabriel Lorca of the Federation starship‒"

The alien did not hear him. "Hello? Can you hear me? Is someone there? Hello? Hello?"

"Trying again, sir," said Kerrigan quickly, sounding vaguely sheepish. The beep on the other end sounded again. This time the alien started poking around the console and Lorca heard the connection cue.

"Dartaran ship, this is‒"

"I see you!" exclaimed the alien, visibly startling. "You're human! Can you see me?"

Lorca remained professionally nonplussed. "Yes we can. This is the USS Triton, responding to your distress call. Please identify yourself."

The alien brought its hands together and began moving them in a repeating circular motion, one over the other, like a fly cleaning its legs. "I'm Lalana!"

It wasn't an easy name. Three softly-voiced but wet syllables verging on two, lah-lah-nah turning almost into lullna, the tongue flicking concavely against the roof of the mouth yet remaining almost stationary. Lorca managed it passably well. "L... Lalana?"

"Yes! Yes, that's right!"

Whoever this alien was, it did not seem to have a firm grasp on proper intership protocol. "I'm Captain Lorca. Can you explain the nature of the problem you're having?"

"Yes, absolutely! I'm trying to escape." What the alien lacked in knowledge, it certainly made up for in enthusiasm.

"Captain! Another vessel coming into sensor range, also Dartaran."

Lalana's hands switched from the circular motion to a rapid knocking together of curled fingers. "That is them! Please, please, don't let them take me back. I beg of you, help me!"

There were too many unknown variables, but Lorca judged the alien's pleas to be sincere. "We're headed towards you already, there's no need for worry. Can you tell me who's chasing you?"

"Margeh and T'rond'n," said Lalana. "They are… hunters. They captured me."

"The pursuit vessel is broadcasting a message," said Kerrigan.

Lorca was forced to make a split-second decision. "Now, Lalana, don't worry. If you need help, we are more than happy to provide it. But I'm going to have to hear what the folk coming after you are saying, all right? Not that I don't believe you‒"

"Yes, of course!" interrupted Lalana, utterly devoid of pretext. "To you, I am hardly ilr. You must be careful." There it was at last: a word the translator couldn't parse. It was somehow reassuring to Lorca; it suggested this wasn't some form of perfectly-crafted, elaborate ruse. It could still be a ruse of course, but at least it wasn't a perfect one.

"Let's hear it," Lorca said to Kerrigan.

A recording of two Dartarans appeared on the Triton's viewscreen adjacent Lalana's feed. They were brown in color, with orange streaks along the ridges that lined their spiky jawlines.

"Federation starship!" boomed the smaller Dartaran. "We are in pursuit of stolen property. This is an internal Dartaran matter. No assistance is required. Repeat. Federation starship! We are in pursuit..."

Kerrigan looked at Lorca. "Do you want to respond, sir?"

Lorca didn't answer immediately and looked at Lalana. "I assume if we take you aboard the Triton, you have no objection to returning their ship?"

"No, no, but… the ship is not the property they wish for the return of. The property is me."

Lorca had studied up on the Dartarans prior to his posting to the Triton, along with all the other notable players in this region of space. While the Dartarans were not full Federation members, they had associate status and all signs pointed to them becoming members at some point in the future because there were no actual barriers to it. It was just that the Dartarans were slow, cautious, and scrupulous, and had chosen a very slow timeline to pursue.

Which indicated to Lorca that, whatever societal customs the Dartarans had, slavery was not among them. "I didn't think the Dartarans engaged in slavery."

"Oh, no, I am not a slave. I am a…" The universal translator seized up a moment and finally spat out, "pet."

Lorca's fingers tightened on the padd in his hand. It was one thing to answer a distress signal, quite another to wade into a situation of potential diplomatic delicacy.

There was a course required of any Starfleet officer interested in pursuing a command career: Intercultural Ethics. One of the lectures was inspired by an anecdote of Captain Jonathan Archer, Starfleet's first captain, about an off-hand comment made about his dog.

That off-hand comment led to a full two hours of the course devoted to the question of free will and pets. Dogs, while not possessing the same logical, reasoning, and communication abilities as humans, were nevertheless intelligent creatures who had thoughts and feelings and could understand basic commands and communicate their own needs and wants. Yet if a dog ran away, the expectation would be for it to be returned to its owner, regardless of whether the dog wanted to return or not.

What about other primates, and the more intelligent birds? Though protected now, they had long been subjects of abuse and research, often against their will and with little regard for their well-being, and many were also kept as pets. Given their intelligence, did that constitute enslavement? A monkey might learn to operate tools or utilize nonverbal language. Where then was the line as to what level of intelligence might be considered a pet and what should be considered an independent being with a right to self-determination?

What were Dartarans in pursuit of a wayward pet going to feel? Would they see the pet as having a right to choose? Or would they, like the average dog owner, demand the return of the animal, even if it was smart enough to steal a spaceship and hold a conversation? And even if their pet seemed to be a wholly intelligent being, was it right to enforce the ethics of one culture onto another? As humans still kept pets, were they in a position to judge, and did that open them up to be judged as oppressors by another species?

Any of these points might have gone through Lorca's head, but he was only momentarily reminded of the lecture and briefly wondered how badly this might impact Dartaran/Federation diplomacy before deciding it probably wasn't important because of one tiny detail.

Lalana had said they were hunters.

Lorca crossed over to Arzo's station with two long steps. "Show me both ships. Distances, speed, weapons. All of it."

Arzo's display lit up with information from across the bridge: weapons analysis from the security station, course and speed from navigation, plus Arzo's ongoing scans of both vessels looking for anything of note, most recently checking for signs of explosives or spatial anomalies.

They were identical ships, a matched pair of personal transports traveling at almost the exact same speed, except the pursuer was going very slightly faster and would eventually overtake its target in several hours if they continued as they were. If the lead ship stopped, though, it would be caught in a mere seven and a half minutes.

Both ships had shields, but neither had their shields engaged. The Dartarans seemed to have rerouted their shield power to their engines, accounting for the boost in speed, but even so, they were managing only a smidgen above warp three. Weapons consisted of a pair of cutting lasers -- designed for asteroids and good at short range, but incapable of doing anything more than tapping on the Triton's shields.

"All right, let's give this a go, then. Lalana, I'm going to ask you to trust me. Can you do that?"

Lalana's head bobbed. "It is within my power to do so. As for whether I will... Yes, I will trust you!"

"Isolate and hail the Dartaran ship. Dartaran vessel, this is Captain Lorca of the Federation starship Triton. We have reached an agreement with the thief of your vessel to return the ship to you, with the one single caveat that the thief requests to be taken into our custody." He said this with great gusto, as if announcing the Dartarans had won a prize.

The Dartaran recording was replaced by a live picture. The larger Dartaran bristled, but it was the smaller who spoke. "Federation captain! This is a Dartaran concern, we have no need for you. The crime was committed in Dartaran space and must be dealt with by Dartaran justice."

"Be that as it may," said Lorca, "the thief has promised to set your vessel to self-destruct unless this one condition is met. So in the interests of you not losing what looks to be a very fine and expensive vessel, why not let us take the lead on this? The Federation would consider it a great token of our esteem for your people if we can get you your ship back, and then we can talk to your Council about having the thief returned to Dartar so you can also get that Dartaran justice you're after."

The Dartarans exchanged a look. The larger spoke in a low, deep voice. "Thank you for your offer, but no."

Lorca had been hoping the Dartarans would fold, but apparently they were going to double-down instead. Fair enough. He crossed his arms and fixed the Dartarans with his most recalcitrant glare. "So you're telling me you'd rather have your ship destroyed than get it back?"

He gave the Dartarans a moment to chew on that. They didn't answer, which was as telling as anything they might have said in reply. Lorca unfolded one of his hands as if making an offer and waved it faintly about to subtly illustrate his points, of which there were three. "Perhaps I'm not making myself clear. I'm not asking what you want to do about your stolen vessel, I'm telling you what's going to happen, and if you have a problem with that, then you can bring it up with the Dartaran Council and have them petition the Federation on your behalf." He ended with his hand closed in a pensive fist.

The Dartarans hissed and growled and terminated communications. Lorca snorted. "Is our channel with Lalana secure?"

"Yes, sir."

Lalana's audio resumed mid-sentence. "‒but as much as I am grateful for the assistance and as enjoyable as that was, I do not wish to blow myself up, else what was the point of me escaping in the first‒"

"It won't come to that," promised Lorca. "You just hang tight, and everything will be just fine."

"Captain," said Arzo in a sharp tone indicating he had something important.

"Hm," Lalana continued as Lorca moved back to the science station to take a look, "you did request for me to trust you, and I suppose given the circumstance it is only fair for me to allow the opportunity to..."

"Well that can't be right," said Lorca, looking back up at the viewscreen. "How can it?"

"Nevertheless, sir, I am quite certain. Our sensors read no life signs aboard that ship." They looked at Lalana.

"Oh!" exclaimed Lalana. "Oh, no, they wouldn't. You see, my species, we... we do not show up on scanners. That is why it is such an accomplishment to hunt us. If it were easy, our skulls would not be such a spectacular trophy. If is my understanding that we emit an electromagnetic radiation field indistinguishable from the background noise of the universe. We look like nothing on technology devices. As the hunters say, optical and sonar only."

Lorca stared. "Did you say skulls?"

"Oh, yes. We are not usually taken alive." Lalana sounded entirely nonplussed about it, as if this statement were something so obvious and self-evident it was the same as saying the stars were shining and space was big and full of them.

Lorca leaned over the science console, gripping it tightly. It looked like a movement of calculated intensity, but in truth he did it to steady himself so his crew wouldn't notice how shocked he was. Not that they would have. The entire bridge seemed to be frozen. The helmsman's mouth was hanging open, and over at the communications panel, Kerrigan was blinking in disbelief. "Are you telling me Dartarans hunt you for your skulls?" asked Lorca in a measured voice.

"Not just Dartarans. I was taken by Dartarans, but any hunter who relishes a challenge might go to Luluan. Gorn, Tremi, human... There is no one species that hunts us. Any do."

Human. The word echoed in Lorca's head. In this day and age, to think that there were humans who would knowingly fire upon a sentient species in the name of sport... Of course, Lorca knew as well as anyone that humans were as fickle, diverse, and morally variable as any other species, but it was still a rather uncomfortable feeling to know that the person you were talking to might view your species as so utterly bereft of decency based on firsthand experience.

"Captain?" said Lalana, and Lorca realized the bridge crew were looking to him for some sort of sign.

It took him a moment to find the words. All the jovial amicability and lightheartedness present when he had been toying with the Dartarans was gone from his voice. "Lalana." Lorca swallowed and took a deep breath. "Would you be able to tell us where Luluan is?"

"I do not think so." Lalana looked downward and away. "I do not know how to get there. I do not even know how to fly this ship. I... just wanted to escape."

Lorca took another deep breath and exhaled it slowly, centering himself. "All right. Let's just get you off that ship and we'll go from there."

Since they could not pick up Lalana on their sensors ‒ and it was unclear if the transporters could even properly register a pattern given the unknowable biological variables of a living creature that appeared as background radiation ‒ they could not beam Lalana directly over to the Triton. To further complicate things, they would have only seven minutes once Lalana stopped before the Dartarans caught up and potentially interfered with any operations underway, and Lalana had no real navigational control over the vessel beyond making it start and stop.

The easiest solution was to have a pilot beam over and take control of Lalana's vessel, but Lorca rejected the idea outright. "They can detect a transporter," he drawled, "and that opens us up to accusations of piracy, with evidence to back it up. No, we're gonna have to do this the old-fashioned way, with a docking procedure. Carver?"

Lt. Carver, the helmsman, pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Maneuvering the Triton into position relative such a small vessel will be tricky given our mass and power, but it can be done."

"How fast?"

"Six minutes, maybe."

"I need it done in two. Chief, you said the ship would fit in our shuttle bay?"

The chief engineer, Billingsley, grunted in assent. What she had said was the transport was roughly twice as big as a shuttle, which wasn't even close to saying the same thing from an engineer's point of view. It just happened to be technically correct in this instance. "It's a tight fit. Not impossible, but I wouldn't want to force it in two minutes and damage the bay."

"What if we could give you, say, four minutes? That enough for the kind of precision to make you comfortable?" There was a mild sense of confusion. Why would the chief have four minutes to tractor the ship to the shuttle bay when Carver had been allotted only two?

"Captain?"

Lorca grinned with self-satisfaction. His crew didn't share his smug confidence, but Arzo at least could tell the captain had what was probably a brilliant but needlessly showy and over-complicated plan. In the three months since Lorca had taken command, Arzo had learned that most of Lorca’s plans could be described this way.

Lorca glanced around the room conspiratorially. "Now, docking one ship to another, that's no piece of cake, we'd need at least one of the ships to be stationary. But what if neither ship were stationary?"

"You mean running the tractor beam at speed?" said Billingsley with a mixture of dread and excitement.

"Exactly!" Lorca held up the padd in one hand and plucked the insignia from his uniform with the other. "We match our speed and course ‒ we can do that easily enough ‒ and use the tractor beam to pull the transport in nice and tight towards the shuttle bay." He moved the insignia close to the padd. "Then we decelerate slowly as the transport does."

"Minimizing strain on the tractor," Billingsley observed.

"By the time we're at a dead stop, the ship's pitching distance from the shuttle bay. Won't take more than fifteen seconds to finish bringing it in. Now, the Dartarans--" Lorca put down the insignia and grabbed Arzo's arm, signaling him to make a fist. Arzo begrudgingly complied. Lorca slowly moved the padd towards Arzo's hand. "They've closed the distance as we've decelerated, but we've bought ourselves another sixty, maybe seventy-five seconds to do what needs doing before they arrive."

"That is a hell of a lot of effort and risk for an extra sixty seconds," said the chief engineer, wondering what would possibly make it worthwhile.

Arzo lowered his arm. "Dare I ask what it is you want us to do with this extra time, Captain?"

Lorca smiled. "A lot can happen in sixty seconds."

Part 2

#fanfic #fanfiction #writing #Star Trek Discovery #Star Trek #Gabriel Lorca #Captain Lorca

26 notes · View notes

stunudo · 7 years

Quote

There is one quality which one must possess to win, and that is definiteness of purpose, the knowledge of what one wants, and a burning desire to possess it.

Napoleon Hill

That Got Away: A Criminal Minds Fan-fiction Part 11

Inspired by: Katy Perry’s “The One That Got Away”

Pearl Jam’s “Last Kiss”

Featuring: Spencer Reid x Reader Setting: Season 4 Rating: Teen

A/N: Hang on! Warning: 3500+ words xoxo Stu

Warnings: Bodily functions, violence

I do not own any of the characters, quotes, images or lyrics.

Part 1 Part 9 Part 10

Michelle was laughing now, a laugh that made you think about drowned puppies and debased children. You gave in and dry heaved into the corner you had peed in a few hours ago. Captivity was not as pretty as they made it look like on television. She tapped her heeled toe in annoyance.

“I am helping her because I finally get to do this, Y/N!” Michelle kicked your chest with all her strength. The back of your head crashed into the brick wall seconds before your shoulders, knocking the breath from your lungs. Your vision wavered, then you were weightless once more. Through the blackness your ears became clouded and you drifted away from the smells on the cold floor.

Penelope Garcia was ransacking public records like it was a sale on Pop! Figures. She was digging through building plans and notation of purchases on the buildings connected to the hotel and convention center. Her fingers flew and her brain pushed on.

“Greetings my League of Heroes!” Her voice called over speaker phone. “So it turns out that Y/N’s father wasn’t the source of all their wealth. It was from the family of the late wife, her mom. Once she died the businesses and money were run without the family involvement, directly. Apparently our unsub number 1, “Auntie Miriam” was on the board of directors for one of the companies, ‘Prokopios Costa Holdings.’”

“Alright Baby Girl, coming back from behind! How does that give us motive?” Derek pushed the skilled analyst.

“It means, that when Dr. Y/L/N, the first one, died,” Garcia took a pause for effect.”

“Y/N Y/L/N became the majority share holder.” Hotch concluded.

“That’s why you’re the boss, boss!” Garcia agreed.

“So why kill Dr. Y/L/N in the first place?” Spencer asked confused, a nearly disgusted look on his face.

“Maybe she didn’t know until Y/N showed up and spoke with the lawyers?” Rossi mused.

“Uh, guys?” Garcia’s fingers were still flying. “Costa Holdings owns the hotel and the connected storage facility.”

“Of course they do.” Hotch acknowledged. “Good work Garcia.”

We were out on a date in my daddy’s car We hadn’t driven very far There in the road, up straight ahead A car was stalled, the engine was dead

The drive to San Francisco was tedious, causing you to swear often and without direction. Your hands cramped with the amount of tension they had supported through clenched fists. California freeways were perfect avenues for your heartbroken rage to pour out. Driving through up the 280 and branching onto the 1 put you on track to reach Auntie Miriam’s by dinner time.

You had never driven the hills of the city before, your dad always insisted on driving when you had visited for the holidays. The trolley’s added to the anxiety of driving through an unfamiliar street system. You silently wished your dad was behind the wheel, then refuted the wish because your father was a banal dictator.

There was a girl running sprints back and forth between your aunt’s driveway and the neighbor’s. She wore Umbro shorts and a sports bra as if she was in a Gatorade commercial. Her sweaty skin was sinuous, mild offense at her athletic body registered internally. You had enough experience with jocks and scholarship athletes at school to groan at the sight of one in their natural habitat.

You pulled into Miriam’s driveway, honking your arrival because you felt like pissing someone off. Spreading the misery around. You sighed and climbed from the VW, time to face the nunnery.

Miriam’s conditions resonated through Spencer’s mind. No weapons, no tricks and no wires. He could do that, in fact he would do that. While Hotch, Rossi, Morgan and Prentiss were coordinating with Garcia, Detective Change and local SWAT. JJ led Spencer to the hallway she had crawled into the hour before.

“Spence, you know this is going to end badly.” JJ gripped his bicep forcefully. “Whenever we split up one of us gets kidnapped.” Her melancholy laugh a poor attempt to break the apprehension they both were feeling. Spencer looked into the concerned face of his colleague and friend. His lips twitched while he wrestled with how to explain the real reasons he had to save Y/N. How this whole nightmare was his fault and it went back farther than Saturday morning at 1 o’clock when Dr. Y/L/N was murdered.

“I think we’re even now,” Spencer teased, the light not reaching his eyes like it normally would. “JJ, get some rest, I’ve got voluntary confinement to get to anyways.” He wrapped her smaller form in a slight hug as he slid past her into the miserable closet. JJ watched his lean body climb down into the darkness. She shoved the stone hatch back into place, securing it beneath its camouflaging mat once more.

The even spacing of the ladder rungs allowed Spencer to focus on counting. His steps, his breaths, his heart beats. His hip felt lighter from removing his holster. He measured time in his journey to understanding why Y/N had been the target of Miriam and Michelle’s unchecked rage. Revenge for petty unrequited love had past the usual time frame for serial stalkers. Power and money for Miriam were more probable motivators. Though he doubted them, as killing her brother was an illogical way to begin the lengthy legal processes of property transfer.

His seething anger at the damage and fear inflicted upon Y/N was buried. Instead he mentally measured the length of the slope in the small hallway. Spencer’s long legs had walked 207 feet at an incline of roughly 9 degrees. Upon reaching the knob-less door, Spencer noted his surroundings. The walls had fresh paint on them, the fumes lingered. The wooden door had not window nor sight glass. The security camera mounted on the wall showed no signs of power until it whirred to life after he knocked to the old rhythm of “Shave and a Haircut, Two bits.”

I couldn’t stop, so I swerved to the right I’ll never forget the sound that night The screamin’ tires, the bustin’ glass

It was the sixth day of your banishment to your aunt’s Parkside home. You were dusting her second office from the daily list of chores she left for you. Michelle was over because you weren’t sure how to get rid of her, like a reoccurring nightmare or pimple. She was relentless and continually made her presence known.

The week had started off fine. Auntie Miriam had meetings and usual adult weekday work stuff. Unfortunately she was under the impression that your stay was a punishment, so she confiscated your keys. Which was slightly confining, but you could handle it. You had only had the car to yourself for the past year, anyway. When Michelle started hanging around, she was a friendly distraction. You had nothing in common with her besides age and gender; absolutely nothing. You were just so lonely that you made nice.

She asked about school (Ancient Greek was not something worth studying, as if physical therapy was for everyone?) and what you did for fun (listening to rockabilly music and reading were for old people). Eventually your love life came up and you gave in and told her about Spencer. It was hard to talk about him because you were still angry and raw. You may have focused on the romantic stuff, just to impress her. You did not ask nearly as many questions about her life, you only realized after your short stay in San Francisco ended.

It was on that sixth day, the tipping point was reached. She wore her dark hair in a high pony tail and just nosed into ever object left out. “When do you think you’ll be done with the list today?” Her impatient voice asked as she sifted through a stash of paperclips. You had no idea, the lists were becoming more specific and time consuming the longer you were there.

“Probably not until I need to start dinner. Why?” You watched Michelle, her restless body pacing. “Were you planning on me being out of jail today?” You laughed forcibly. Michelle’s arms flopped down in frustration. She huffed.

“Why did you have to get in trouble to visit?” She was really pushing your manners with her accusation. “I mean, we could have had the whole summer and now I just have to watch you clean.”

“One, I didn’t get in trouble. Two, you don’t have to watch me do anything, Michelle.” Your voice was rising now. “I mean, who just hangs out in their neighbor’s house watching their family do chores. Get a clue. I am stuck here for another week and a half: then sayonara !”

Michelle’s gasp told you that you had gone too far, but you didn’t care. She wasn’t anyone important to you. If you were being honest, it felt oddly satisfying to get that off of your chest. She stormed out of the room letting the bird fly at you. When she was presumably out of the house, you went to turn up the radio.

As JJ returned to the conference room and temporary BAU headquarters, the team was strapping on their vests. Rossi and Hotch were conversing with Detective Chang, who was holding blueprints. Morgan caught JJ’s eye, his defined eyebrows umbrellas of questions. She shrugged her shoulders, the lingering feeling of failing Spence twice in one day floating in the back of her mind. Derek felt her dismay, he crossed the room to grab her in a quick hug.

“He’s going to be fine, JJ,” Derek soothed. “That kid is not going to let anything happen down there. Neither are we.” Her blue eyes looked into his dark ones, nodding. The tears gathering in their corners were quickly brushed aside.

“Hotch?” JJ turned. “Mind if I sit at the security station? I am in no shape to go with you guys, but I want to make sure you are covered up here.” Hotch eyed his young agent warily, he nodded, giving permission solemnly.

Rossi patted Derek on the back after the muscular man had holstered his second weapon. Prentiss walked JJ back out into the lobby. She made sure JJ had a seat and could see the monitors that the team had watched her captivity on. “You sure you’re okay watching us? The locals can handle this, JJ. It might be too much right now.”

JJ shook her head, “Emily, I’m fine. I will have Garcia on the line if I need anything. Besides, I will hear everything over the comms either way. Go get Spence and his “lady friend” back.” Her bad joke had both women exchanging awkward grins.

“Never thought I would be hearing that one.” Emily walked back to join the BAU and SWAT, rolling her eyes.

I found the love that I knew I would miss But now she’s gone, even though I hold her tight I lost my love, my life that night

Spencer was trapped in a cliche. There he sat at his kitchen table with crumpled pieces of paper lying in small piles around him. He was attempting to apologize to Y/N for missing her send off. He didn’t feel he could justify his absence. Besides his mother was a person, not an excuse. The words were not forming, thoughts and longings were burying him in guilt. He just missed her.

He decided to start with short, clear, honest sentences. That didn’t work, Spencer began to ramble onto the paper, his abundant thoughts overflowing and clouding his apologies once again. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, trying to remember their last kiss. It was a peck as he leaned back into the VW, his bottom half getting soaked in the downpour. She had grinned at him and he had smiled back without teeth, his eyes dancing in the streetlights.

It wasn’t enough. That shouldn’t be their last kiss, it was a quick goodnight. Not a goodbye. Spencer closed his eyes behind his glasses, shook his head for clarity and began writing his dearest again.

Spencer stepped back to allow the automatic door to open fully before stepping into the next bare, freshly painted hall. He saw the set of desks ahead, just 100 meters to go. Miriam Y/L/N eyed the tall man with quiet amusement; he had barely changed in years. Spencer tucked his hair behind his ear in slight self-consciousness. This woman resembled her late brother with her wide face and imposing presence. But the similarities ended there, Graham’s kind eyes and jovial air were not shared. Her cold stare and disdain kept with the chill of the surrounding brick.

Spencer stood with his hands in his pockets, nodding at his soon-to-be jailer. “Miriam.”

“Dr. Reid, at last!” Miriam stood quickly. “Arms up, young man. I need to check you followed my instructions, for once.”

Suddenly there were strong hands frisking Spencer’s narrow sides. He flinched away, seeing Kurt Hansen, the bellhop, in the flesh. Spencer held back his field training and let the man finish his search. He cleared his throat and calmed his breathing. “Satisfied?” Spencer spat as he glanced between Kurt and Miriam.

“Quite.” Miriam smirked. “Now if you would kindly follow Mr. Hansen, he will show you to your room.”

“Not until I see Y/N.” Spencer crossed his arms in defiance, his head tilting slightly.

“Oh, pish.” Miriam waved at him, “She’s just next door. Let’s all go and see what Michelle and Y/N have gotten into!” Spencer’s eyes popped in surprise, he had not thought she would let him near her niece. Her true target. He followed Kurt as Miriam marched behind them both. The hall was quiet, a small row of doors began, Spencer counted four before a wide metal garage-like door ended the hall.

“After we give you what you want, you’ll just what? Release us?” Spencer asked.

“After I have what I need and am far far away, yes.” Miriam specified. “I swear I will let you and your little minx go.” She nodded to her cohort. Spencer’s instincts were not accepting her vow as trustworthy just yet.

Kurt unlocked the large steal bolt on the first room. The sound reverberated through the small space and rattled Spencer’s bones of hearing. Standing on the other side of the door was Michelle Braxton, with her large hands on her hips. “It’s about time!” She huffed. “Princess over there has been out for five minutes. I thought you forgot about me.” She sounded like a child whining to a spoiling parent for more sweets. Spencer had to hide his instant annoyance.

As Kurt grunted back, “Deal with it, Mickey. We had another guest to attend to.” He held the door wider, baring Spencer to the scene before him. Y/N was laying face down on the damp cement floor, her mouth open and one eye swollen shut. Spencer’s arms flew from his pockets and he rushed to check on her limp body. Kurt and Michelle each grabbed one of his flailing arms, holding him just inside Y/N’s cell.

Miriam cleared her throat behind Spencer, “That’s enough, now let’s get down to business.”

Spencer knew not to argue now, his body walked dejectedly backwards as his eyes remained on the slight movement of Y/N’s torso. She was breathing! Once he was back in the narrow hall, he shook off the strong grips of the suspects. He held his hands up in surrender, following to his own captivity. Miriam was waiting for him in the dank space, almost smiling in anticipation.

“Dr. Reid, as I am sure you have deduced. I need your mind to access my brother’s fortune. I have a series of riddles, puzzles, what-have-yous that Graham designed for you. I also have a set for my impetuous niece. Now I must have both of you complete your parts to get what I deserve.”

Spencer was insulted by the trivial reasoning behind her fratricide. He huffed at her request. “How do you know your errand girl didn’t beat Y/N beyond reasoning? How is she going to complete her part unconsciously? You should let me check on her, ensure she can do what you need her—”

“That’s enough, Dr. Reid.” Miriam interjected. “Y/N will be fine, Michelle knows what she is doing. A brain like Y/N’s tends to prove more resilient than one might hope.” She approached Spencer with a sheet of paper and a simple number 2 pencil. “You may begin.”

The two guards at the door watched Spencer as he stood in the center of the room. Miriam left first, followed by a smirking Michelle and a bored Kurt. The metal lock shuttered into place.

When I woke up, the rain was pourin’ down There were people standing all around Something warm runnin’ in my eyes But somehow I found my baby that night

You arrived on campus just one day before classes started. The VW had handled the trek like a champion, but you were ready to leave her in the student lot for the remainder of the semester. After you had unloaded the last of your boxes, you decided to grab some dinner before the real unpacking was required.

You took your i.d. and keys to check the campus managed mail system on the way to the crowded eating/ studying space. Your box was jammed full. There were notices about x, y and z organizations, a couple of credit card applications and five letters from a certain scrawny guy with ridiculously soft lips. You sighed deeply, ‘Well, at least he’s not dead.’ You thought bitterly. You shoved your haul under your armpit as you headed to the cacophony of the cafeteria.

You quickly skimmed the fliers and advertisements, ripping the debt-magnets in halves. Finally, after your soup had cooled, you opened one of Spencer’s letters. According to the postmarks, they had begun arriving four days after you had left Pasadena. So he was thinking about you while you were gone, but he couldn’t bother to actually send you off. You tried to keep the negative thoughts away, but you were still hurt from his apparent abandonment.

When you shut off your attitude and read his letter, you began to weep. His gentle kindness begged for your forgiveness. Spencer knew facts and figures, but he also knew how to diffuse your temper. His message was simple, yet honest. You didn’t make it to the last paragraph before disregarding your meal tray to return to your room to call him.

“Hey, Sir-sir,” You smiled shyly into your suite phone.

“Y/N? Oh, how are you?” Spencer asked genuinely concerned.

“Better, I got your letters,” You cooed, “I only got through most of the first one before I had to talk to you again. So, it is safe to say you are forgiven.”

“You had every right to be angry,” Spencer admitted. “But know that I would have been there, giving you a more deserving farewell, if I could have. You must know that.”

You nodded your head, holding the lump in your throat as the bittersweet tears began to fall. “I miss you so much, how are we going to do this?”

“Just like this, mon cher.” Spencer’s voice softened at your distress. “As long as we can talk and write, we can do this.”

Spencer read through the riddles on the sheet before him. Why had Graham mentioned Spencer when he devised this seemingly juvenile test?

Why did I divide sin by tan?

Why should the number 288 never be mentioned? AND

What is the difference between a Ph.D. in mathematics and a large pizza? There were seven blanks at the bottom of the page, with the decimal going into the ten thousandths place. After all of this anger, frustration and happenstance: Spencer was sitting cross legged in a cell chuckling at math puns. The gentle hand of grief constricted his throat as he efficiently finished the problem.

201.0966

Spencer stood, clearing the dust from his trousers. He walked calmly to the camera nestled above the doorway. He held the paper to the screen, awaiting his next assignment.

Someone said you had your tattoo removed Saw you downtown singing the Blues It’s time to face the music I’m no longer your muse

The first months of the fall semester flew by as Spencer dove into the new classes he helped facilitate. That with all the lab time to get through for his doctoral level chemistry courses, he was as busy as ever. He made a point to write to Y/N on Tuesdays over lunch, because it was now such a tradition for them. They also tried to have a consistent phone date on Friday mornings. But Y/N decided it was time she get a campus job, therefore the phone calls were usually brief or just short messages left with her suite-mates.

Spencer’s birthday was approaching and he was counting the hours until he could finally be recognized as an adult. This also meant that he would have to finally decide what he should do for his mother. The paperwork from the lawyers, (Diana’s doctors had recommended to Spencer after her incident over the summer) was hidden in his book bag, in a plain manila folder. He felt as if he were carrying thirty pieces of silver around with him at all times.

When his birthday arrived, his mother was lucid. She sat him down and told him his birth story, again. She was so proud of her brilliant boy and at long last here he was, a man. He didn’t have class or lab until the afternoon, so he stayed home and took turns reading and being read to by his mom. It was guilty conscious more than birthday tradition, but she seemed none the wiser. Spencer slowly relaxed for the day.

Y/N called at eight o’clock that night, just before he had to get his mom her night time medications. She sang a boisterous Happy Birthday having somehow convinced the other girls in her suite to sing along. Spencer blushed at the attention, even over the phone and across state lines. “Well, now you’re legal, Dr. Reid. Maybe I won’t get arrested for seducing you after all.” Y/N joked over the phone. They had never gotten to that level of intimacy, it was just her usual banter.

“It’s a good thing, too. Since my mother is very protective of me.” Spencer teased back. “I do need to get going though, Y/N/N. Talk to you on Friday?”

“Can we scoot it up to 9 am?” She suggested evasively.

“Ugh, I suppose, I don’t need sleep or anything.” Spencer chided, his grin fading as his mother called from her room. “I really should go, goodnight mon cher.”

“Nighters!”

Part 12

@sparkle-dinosaur, @dontshootmespence @reiding-and-writing @speedreiding @reid-my-fortune @sapphire1727 @holagubler @cherry-loves-fanfic @lookingforgalifrey @miss-gleek-freak-geek@criminal-minds-fanfiction @reidbyers @sortaathief @imagicana @milkandcookies528

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