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joviantwelve · 1 year

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Hello! I've been doing some long, hard thinking about my current commission offerings.

TL;DR:

I am doing away with my "standard" menu (headshot/halfbody/fullbody/etc.) in favor of more experimental work.

Effective June 1, my commissions will close completely, including the waitlist.

If you want any of my current offerings, please let me know before then. You will be added to a final waitlist queue, with payment only required once I get to you.

If you're currently on my waitlist, or are interested in what's next, please see the bottom of this post. Once the final orders are complete, I will focus on relaunching.

Below is a more elaborate explainer of why I'm doing this, and what I'll be doing next.

Introduction

Essentially, commissions have worn on me more and more as time goes on (which may be tangible if you ordered one recently and it took months). Part of me wondered if I was burned out on art in general, or it was just becoming less of a hobby for me, but that sentiment didn't feel quite right. After all, I could still get grabbed by a picture idea every now and again, which I would then crank out in one evening.

Was there some sort of difference between the pictures I could hammer out quickly vs. the ones I couldn't? Well, I wouldn't make a post about an investigation without already having a prime suspect.

My Art Style

When I first started drawing aliased, it was to quickly crank out panels for my forum adventures, mostly because I was using GIMP and didn't know anything about brush settings. I was way too frustrated with anti-aliased lines and how little I could make them look how I liked, so I retreated into something completely different.

It worked for a while, but as I became more comfortable with the style, I developed bad, perfectionistic habits (something I've already mentioned being A Problem I Have). I would tweak lineart at the pixel level, just because some stray bump or two bugged the hell out of me. I consider this one of the reasons my art output has slowed down.

Trying to embrace a "perfectly inconsistent," or "consistently imperfect" look as "my style" just created its own irony. For example, I will deliberately draw patterns and textures by hand, because it sticks out too strongly otherwise if I just paste it in. You can bump into this quickly enough by scrolling through my various character references.

I would love a world where all my OC references feel "current," but as it stands, I'm finding it increasingly hard to work on the remaining characters I want to draw while commissions are also an obligation. Taking a break from aliased character art commissions in order to work on aliased character art references is...just doing more of the same? It isn't a break.

In order to create breaks that actually feel like breaks, I have to compromise. ONE of these has to go home and change. My personal art gets priority here, and I still very much want my OCs to look consistent in their reference art, so...I need to find a more efficient way to draw for money that keeps my dysfunctional brain entertained.

The Long, Slow Realization

Back when I used GIMP, I tried the chalk brush on a whim and ended up quite liking it. The rough look helped me ignore what I would consider "imperfections" otherwise. However, perhaps because I had a comic or character references I wanted to keep consistent, I mostly considered it a fun oddity and nothing more.

More falling dominoes that would eventually lead to this post were my experimental style offerings that I introduced last year (at the time, I just offered it because I thought people may be interested in art that looked relatively unique), Art Fight (having to agonizingly obey "finished not perfect" because of the event deadline), and other gift art I did around this time (the reasoning being, it's gift art, they wouldn't mind if I used it to experiment).

Now that I use CSP and am no longer bound by webcomic obligations, I've been experimenting more with brush settings. Wouldn't you know it, most of my modern art of my original stories is no longer aliased. I go "off-model" deliberately, fuck around with layer settings and effects, and enjoy creating pieces just because I saw a cool tutorial, brush, or program I wanted to try. These are the types of pictures I mentioned I could crank out in one evening. Maybe they're not "formal," but I feel like they're the most "me."

With all this new experience swirling around in my head, I finally realized: Why am I not selling art I actually find fun to draw?!

The New Offerings

Currently, I'm leaning toward one style of illustration only, cheaper than the experimental style I offer presently, and "rougher" as a result. I want something equivalent to my '22 Art Fight output; something flashy, unique, and most importantly, quick to do.

The specifics are what I intend to figure out while I work through the queue. Here are some thoughts already rotating around in my brain:

Should I offer price "tiers" that roughly equate a level of "polish" (equivalent to sketch/flats/shading) or just go with one-price-fits-all?

Should I still offer sketches as a cheap alternative, or is that too confusing with my Ko-fi already sort of being that?

Should I offer specific pricing for bust/halfbody/fullbody/etc., or was that another symptom of why I had commission burnout before, and should be avoided?

Should I eschew all of the above and just offer one thing at one price (e.g. "give me $50 and I'll draw your OC" with no other choices for the buyer), or is that too intimidating?

And so on. The last option is currently what I'm vibing with the most, but it's definitely the most daring idea of the bunch, too. (& If you have any thoughts on this, let me know! I have so much more thinking to do.)

The Old Offerings (But New)

When I reopen, I would like to have as few options as possible. However, I have considered the possibility that an old offering would speak to me and I would add it to the new menu again. Here are some thoughts on those:

Icons have a pretty high chance of coming back.

I've always liked drawing faces and headshots the most. If I decide not to bring back headshot sketches, I could just roll it back into "icons" and instead offer colored sketchy headshots. This would be similar to the headshots I did for Art Fight, but...with colors.

Half/fullbodies would depend on how the new style goes.

This is elaborating on what I said in the previous section. While I'm sure my core audience (i.e., you) will be fine with a potentially spontaneous angle to my commissions, buyers I'm less familiar with might not be. I want to try "one price fits all," but if someone gives me shit about me drawing a bust when they were anticipating a fullbody, I might have to add options to specify this.

Regardless, the style would still be "experimental" either way--the composition is what's important about it (which is also why I feel like I can get away with one single price). If anything, I feel like forcing myself into the little boxes of "halfbody" and "fullbody" was partially what was stifling me. Like, when do I ever consciously decide to draw a halfbody of an OC? I don't. It feels very arbitrary, and I'd like to distance from it.

MOST IMPORTANTLY: Character design is NEVER coming back!

I deeply appreciate those that did want a brand spanking new OC from me, but I've never considered myself to have a terribly strong design sense. They just kind of ended up being extra nervewracking to do because I had to design a character on top of drawing a fullbody. I will still take the final requests for these, but this is your absolute last chance for a Jovian Twelve™ Brand Original the Character.

What if I'm Already on Your Waitlist?

You don't have to do anything! I will get to you when I get to you. After June 1, I will close the waitlist, and whoever is on there will be able to have one of my old commission types, as promised. You can change your request anytime as long as I'm not currently drawing it!

Reminder that my waitlist is NOT "first come, first served;" I order it based on the complexity of what's wanted. Because of my slow pace, I didn't want to keep someone waiting forever when all they want is three sketch headshots, you know? This is a heads up that if you change your request, your position in the list may change as well.

I have no ETA when the current waitlist will be completed, given that currently, fullbodies are taking me months. Sorry :( Just another reason I'm making this post!!

What if I Want the NEW Style?

I will accept up to five (5) waitlist slots that want to "test drive" the potential new commission style, placed after the "traditional" queue is all cleared out. (So, you'd be waiting extra long.) If you're interested in this, get in touch! I will offer them to you at a lower rate than what I'm expecting to charge for the real deal, as thanks.

If you're already on the waitlist for something else, and want to test the new style instead, let me know! Just be aware this would bring you to the bottom of the queue as described above (but it WOULD give me one less commission I'd have to go through to get to the new stuff, WINK).

In the chance I get no takers the entire time it takes me to go through the waitlist, then the first five commissions I do in the new style will just have to be "test slots" instead.

Final Word

I know these long posts might not be terribly interesting to anyone that's not me, but I find it therapeutic to scrawl my thoughts out in text. Additionally, I'm over 30 years old and conclusions are still the hardest part in writing an essay. I can feel my writing style begin to devolve the closer I am to the end...

Uhhh.

Thanks for reading, and understanding?! See you soon, maybe?! Get in touch if you want to discuss Commissions From Me?? 💃 Cool.

#text #commission #why do i type huge essays like this? what's wrong with me #at least that's off my chest now I GUESS

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imaginethebeautifulworld · 3 years

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prussia x reader: silly squabbles

Hello, lovelies~ I was plagued by images of this dumbass and his general ridiculousness, so of course I had to write it all out. This fic is pointless, but I hope you enjoy anyway.

"You are really annoying."

"And yet, somehow, I'm not detecting any real annoyance. Wonder why?"

His words hung lightly in the air, gentle and playful, just shy of taunting.

You did your best to ignore them, trying to focus on your book. But his fingers were moving again, trailing over your back in an inconsistent pattern, heavy enough a presence to register, yet just light enough to torment.

You were sure, in some long-winded, ridiculous, roundabout way, he would blame you for this predicament- for not reading as fast as him, for not paying him enough attention during a lazy day in.

Regardless, you tried to focus on the passage at hand, rereading the same paragraph for the tenth time now as he teased a particularly sensitive spot near your ribs.

He wasn't quite tickling you- not yet- but the shifting tempo and pressure all played upon the obvious threat.

Only mildly irritated- really, you were too familiar with his shenanigans by now to ever be truly annoyed- your focus landed on the bookcase, the only immediate target for your long-suffering gaze. "Do you mind?"

There was a hint of pride in his voice as he answered, a cockiness at successfully distracting you. "Nope!"

His fingers- now having tasked themselves with massaging more than teasing- paused between your shoulder blades. "Why? Do you?"

Rather than allow him another victory, you huffed quietly, pointedly making an effort to lose yourself once more in your book. "No... Not at all."

If he was amused by your answer practically being ground between your teeth, he made no indication of it. Instead, he resumed his massage, keeping his palm mostly flat against your spine, adopting a steady rhythm that lulled you into some semblance of security.

You allowed yourself to relax, turning your attention fully to your tale, praying he would at least let you finish this chapter in relative peace.

It was a hope to be short-lived alas, his posture shifting, bringing him near enough to read over your shoulder.

You were far too invested to truly pay him any mind, but then he was hovering near your temple, fingers drifting ever closer to your neck, once more dancing in that maddeningly light way which he employed solely in effort to agitate you.

You knew what he was doing, and you'd be damned if you'd let him win; summoning every ounce of self-restraint within you, you purposely, blatantly, chose to ignore him.

It took only a few moments for him to acknowledge your determination towards defiance (a few torturous moments where he had started tracing his nails against your hairline and whispered some of the passage aloud), his huff of displeasure bring you a small taste of sweet, sweet victory.

You would have been naive to think he had given up, knew it would be foolish to assume, to dare to presume, that he didn't already have other strategies in mind.

What you couldn't guess, regretfully, was exactly which plan he would attempt next.

When he sat upright once more, leaving you to lounge peacefully on your stomach, you unwisely surmised that he was actually finished with the whole affair, that he'd grown bored, that he would actually leave you to your novel in peace.

Feeling him shift back to the head of the bed, hearing him tapping away at his phone- these factors allied with his distance away from you all allayed your worries, letting you escape once more to the realm belonging to the pages before you.

The temporary tranquility was somehow less than simply fleeting; it had scarcely existed at all.

Not even five minutes had passed, and you felt teasing fingers once more, now grazing ever-so-softly against the bare skin of your ankle.

A jolt of panic fueled your reflexive movement away from him, your legs kicking, book falling to the floor in your surprise.

You shot upright and fixed him with a glare, hoping to convey just how furious you were with him. "I swear to God-!"

The villainous grin on his face revealed vanity in its purest form, and it did nothing to reduce your resentment.

Scowling now, and forcing yourself into an upright position, you narrowed your eyes at him. "What do you want, asshole?"

He was quiet for a moment, by all appearances still savoring his triumph. But then his smile shifted, the self-satisfied smirk falling slowly into something softer, fonder.

It took you by surprise, sent a stutter through your pulse, all irritation rapidly transitioning into confusion. "What?"

He shifted forward, leg bending beneath him as he drew closer.

Suspicious, but not too concerned, you offered an unimpressed expression, relaying your distrust. "Gil?"

There was a flicker to his smile, but it was soon replaced by something far more serious, his eyes languidly studying your features.

Briefly, more a passing fancy, you considered teasing him for his sudden quiet, yet there was something too tremulous tormenting him, and you dismissed the thought as quickly as it came, instead offering your concern. “Teuton?”

Whatever spell that had held him within its grasp was finally dismissed, his head cocking to the side and a considering tone coating his next words. “You love me, right?”

It sounded innocent enough, and his behavior certainly suggested no ill-intent. But you knew him, and knew all-too-well not to fully believe in it. “Is that a trick question?”

You made sure to keep your words only just on the side of playful, but tempered with enough sincerity to assuage any possible self-doubts that may be afflicting him.

It was clearly the right approach, the left corner of his mouth only just hinting at a smile, a familiar spark almost tangible in the air. “It’s a simple question, Liebling. No need to sound so suspicious!”

You felt your eyes narrow as you studied him, his wording only heightening your wariness. “You know- The fact you feel you have to say so really isn’t winning you any points here.”

His grin was back at that, disorienting in its intensity, just enough that you nearly forgot his previous grimness. “I’m just asking if you love me, mein Schatz. ‘Snot like I’m asking you to sell me your immortal soul or something.”

You neglected to point out how those two things were near one and the same, instead choosing to offer a faux sincerity. “Oh no, you’re right. I hate you so much,” you quipped, each syllable oversaturated in sarcasm.

He scoffed, melodramatically pressing a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning down just long enough to rescue your book from the floor, marking your page and setting beside you on the comforter. “I’m sure your pride will be just fine."

“I dunno…” His words trailed off, and you could make out the distinct, irritating sound of him sucking on his teeth. “I think it may be mortal this time.”

You decided to play along, content to lose yourself in the absurdity. “Oh no,” came your reply, emotionless a tone as you could muster, in spite of the smile playing on your lips. “How could I possibly live with myself?”

He hummed, running a finger over his chin as if he were seriously considering it. “You’d probably take my fortune, settle somewhere warm.”

You fought a laugh, unsuccessfully. “Mm, definitely. Have sordid affairs with all the cabana boys and the waitresses.”

“Sing drunken renditions of Mamma Mia during karaoke night.”

“And I’ll adopt some ugly, exotic pet that I insist travels with me everywhere.”

“Only after your third husband disappears after mysterious circumstances, of course.”

He was only half-serious, and you couldn’t resist raising an eyebrow in mock offense. “Only three?”

Your question made him snicker, his eyes shining in amusement, but he didn’t continue the exchange.

Several moments passed, and with them the lingering ridiculousness of the “argument” faded away. There were many of these odd backs-and-forths, all somehow sillier than the last. The quiet was just as pleasant though, and you embraced the comfort it carried.

That was, until, he was biting his lip in thought, his amusement long abandoned.

Concerned, you shifted closer, studying his features carefully. "Gil?"

His eyes were glued to some distant place you couldn’t see, miles and centuries away from the here and now. “You do love me, right?”

“Of course,” you replied almost reflexively, still taken aback by the sudden shift back to solemnity.

“Really?” His eyes turned to yours once more, unguarded, open, a haunting fragility shining in them that made your heart clench inside your chest.

Wherever this insecurity came from, you wished you could rid him of it, tear all traces of it from his psyche, make it so he would never question his self-worth ever again.

As it was, you did what you could, lifting his hand to your lips and pressing a soft kiss to his ring, meeting his gaze as you lingered against the silver. “Would you be wearing this if I didn’t?”

There was a smile, the one you fell in love with: fond, slightly shy, just a little cocky. “Good point.”

You couldn’t help but feel as if something was still off about him however, something bothering him that you couldn’t even hope to guess. “Why do you ask, anyway?”

He took to studying your features again, his free hand rising to trace his fingers softly against your cheek. His eyes were warm and gentle, posture completely at ease. His words however-

“Sometimes I can’t believe this is real, or how lucky I am; some days I swear you’re just a figment of my imagination.”

His words carried an almost unbearable amount of loneliness, layered among disbelief and adoration. They triggered several different emotions within you, stirring them into a frenzied muss of affection and sadness, leaving you breathless.

Several potential reactions came to mind, but were all dismissed as you weighed his words, compared them to the relaxation of his shoulders, the familiarity as he languidly brushed his fingertips behind your ear, lightly teasing your scalp.

You could easily surrender to it, could already feel your own posture relaxing with each steady shift of his fingers. Still, you weren’t quite ready to abandon your prior playfulness, offering a haughty hum to prelude your reply.

“Unfortunately for you, I’m very real.” You felt a passing smirk flicker to life for a moment, blazing brightly before it was gone again, sober sincerity settling once more in its place. “You’re stuck with me, Beilschmidt. Forever…” you finished in an elongated stage whisper.

He breathed a laugh, the slightest hiss, his grin irrepressible now. His tone, however, mimicked nonchalance. “Eh. There are worse things, I guess.”

The tease was impossible to ignore, especially as that all-too-familiar deviousness was taunting in its own right.

You tried to keep your words accusatory, but they came out entirely too fond. “You’re a dick.”

He smirked, offering a half-hearted shrug.

“Guilty,” he sang, almost entirely too proud.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he was cradling both of your cheeks, and before you could guess at his next move, he was shifting forward, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But I’m a dick who loves you very much.”

Thanks for reading!

#prussia x reader #readerfic #gilbert beilschmidt x reader #hello lovelies!#i'll add more tags later ugh #aph prussia #hws prussia #i hope y'all are well!#i've missed writing #i'm hoping i can get back to this one ancient artie request i received aeons ago #thanks for reading!#aph prussia x reader #hetalia prussia #hetalia prussia x reader #hws prussia x reader #gilbert beilschmidt

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sylvanfreckles · 3 years

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Between the Dragon and His Wrath

(yes it's finally here)

Rating: T Major warnings: graphic violence, mention of miscarriages and stillbirths in chapter three (the tags are for the entire fic) Fandom: Supernatural

Summary:

Great is the Daughter of Heaven, whose hand is a net and whose embrace is death.

When Castiel investigates a series of omens, he finds himself at the center of a deadly plot to free an ancient entity from the darkest plane of Hell. As his time runs short and the enemy’s power grows, Sam and Dean must race to save him before he becomes the final sacrifice to unleash chaos on an unwary world.

. . .

Chapter One: The Angel of Thursday

. . .

“I'm serious, Cas, you just gotta ask. I'll ditch this gig and come help you.”

“You're already three hundred miles away,” Castiel replied. His phone sat on the dashboard in front of him, his call with Dean on speakerphone so his hands were free to page through what little evidence he'd managed to collect. He was tracking down some fairly unusual omens—missing persons, strange carvings or graffiti in other languages—and Dean, typically, was trying to interfere.

“I'll speed.”

“The sheriff said he'd be here in ten minutes.”

“Just tell him to wait for me.”

“Dean...”

“Look, Cas, it's just.... All these weird scribbles? Sammy can't crack them either, and if the two of you can't figure it out there must be something bad going down, right?”

“They're dirty limericks that have been badly translated into several ancient languages,” Castiel replied. He picked up two of the photographs from the case file and held them up to study. “I deciphered them late last night.”

“Ooh, how dirty?”

“Dean.” Castiel set the photos on the seat beside him and glared at the phone. He refused to admit it had been his phone call with Claire, of all things, that had gotten him on the right track. He'd expressed frustration that a piece of jumbled 3rd century Greek verse seemed to reference the island of Nantucket, which had been known by a much different name until the 17th century. Claire had given a dirty laugh and, to his growing concern, recited an obscene limerick about a man from Nantucket.

It had fit, with some inconsistencies due to translation errors. He would never admit to Dean that he'd spent most of the night with photos of the other graffiti sites in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling through a database of dirty limericks to finish the translations.

C'mon, man,”Dean said, his voice dropping to a more serious pitch. “This case, it just...Sam thinks we need to go into deep cover and we might be out of touch for a couple days. Maybe you should head home? Wait for us?”

“I'll be fine.” Despite his irritation, Castiel couldn't help but smile. Dean hated any of them taking a case alone, no matter how small it seemed. “Sheriff Kent just wanted to show me the latest site himself, it's probably more of the same.” More filthy poetry. Castiel had often admired humanity's achievements in the arts...but he was beginning to wish mankind had never invented the limerick. The Neanderthals would never have done something so crass.

“Be careful. You find something big you just get out of there, all right? We'll handle it together.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and looked out the window as the crunch of tires on gravel heralded the sheriff's arrival. “I have to go.”

“Promise me, Cas!”

With a huff of exasperation, he picked up his phone and stared down at Dean's name. “Good-bye, Dean.”

His friend's shout of protest was cut off when Castiel ended the call. Of course he would back off if this looked like more than he could handle. Despite what the Winchesters seemed to think, Castiel was well aware of his own limitations. Particularly with Heaven so low on power.

Shuffling the papers back into their folder, he climbed out of his truck to greet the man walking toward him from the sheriff's car. “Agent Anthony?” the man held out his hand in greeting and squinted at the badge Castiel was holding up for him. “I'm Sheriff Kent, I spoke to you on the phone? Thanks for coming all the way out here.”

Castiel grasped the sheriff's outstretched hand and tucked the wallet back into his jacket pocket. “Well, I was in the neighborhood.”

Kent snorted. “I doubt that. Not unless you're here for fishing and hunting permits.” The sheriff was a tall, rugged, sandy-haired man with the deep tan of someone who spent most of his time outdoors. “I told you, there's nothing much out here. You should've let me send you the reports instead of wasting your time,” he continued, turning to lead the way down the trail that lead to a little-used boat ramp.

“You know how it is,” Castiel replied, thinking of Sam's advice on pretending to be a law enforcement agent. “The boss wants me to be thorough.”

The sheriff glanced back at him, eyebrows raised, gaze traveling from Castiel's face down to his shoes. “Uh-huh. It's right over here.”

The area was little more than a single dock, a boat ramp, and a covered picnic pavilion with three picnic tables. The driveway that lead from the main road to the ramp itself had been barricaded due to the investigation, though the sheriff explained that most people parked along the road and took the trail down unless they were hauling a boat.

Yellow caution tape was wrapped around two of the picnic tables in the pavilion, marking out a rough square about six feet across. Castiel shuffled under the tape while Kent held it up, then knelt down next to the markings etched into the concrete slab that made up the floor of the pavilion.

“Just gibberish,” Kent said dismissively, leaning back on one of the tables. “Coupla kids getting into occult stuff, trying to summon Cthulhu or something. Happens all the time.”

“That wouldn't explain the missing persons' reports.”

Kent let out a harsh sigh. “It's a small town, Agent. Kid runs away, mom freaks out and files a report, we catch 'em two weeks later down in Reno turning tricks for bus fare back home. It happens.”

Castiel looked up at the sheriff, eyes narrowed at the man's callousness. “None of these have returned.”

The sandy-haired man spread his arms out with an unconcerned shrug. “Maybe they got lucky.”

He ignored the sheriff's biting tone and turned back to the symbols etched into the concrete. They hadn't been scratched in very deeply, and despite the shelter of the picnic structure some of the text had already crumbled away in the recent rains, but there was enough for him to realize this was something completely different from what had been found at the other sites.

“It's Sumerian,” he announced after a few moments. That was the oldest language he'd found so far, which could mean this site was more important than the others.

“You mean it's actual letters?” Kent's voice went up in astonishment.

“More like pictographs,” Castiel replied. “Symbols representing words and ideas.” He leaned in closer and rested his hand on the concrete, wishing he could have gotten here even a few days earlier. The entire engraving was unfamiliar to him, which meant this was either copied from a lost text he'd never seen before...or something new.

Whatever it was, it wasn't another limerick.

“Great...woman...of heaven,” he muttered, tracing over the symbols. “This might be the symbol for the underworld, but it's not quite correct, see?” he turned to gesture to the sheriff, forgetting for a moment that it wasn't one of his friends behind him, and Kent just shrugged.

“You can read that chicken scratching?”

Castiel ignored the comment and stared down at the symbols again. “It could mean...queen of heaven?”

“The hell you talking about?”

He stood up, brushing his hands off and scanning the empty marina around them. “Possibly a reference to Inanna, but that doesn't make sense.” At Kent's confused stare he continued. “Inanna was a goddess of fertility and war. You couldn't summon her with a ritual like this.”

Kent was staring at him, expression unreadable. “What kind of agent are you, anyway?”

“I have to make a call,” Castiel said and brushed past Kent to climb back up the trail to the road. This was more than simple demonic activity—this was someone trying to summon a goddess.

It was time to call for backup.

“You're wrong you know,” Kent called after him. “It's not 'queen of heaven'...it's 'daughter'.”

Castiel spun around, only to see that the sheriff had vanished. He held himself still, listening for any sign of movement, then turned to hurry up the trail back to the truck.

The hint of sulfur in the air was his only warning, and Castiel threw himself to the ground as something big launched itself at him out of the trees that lined the trail. His angel blade was already in his hand as he rolled to his feet, brought up to guard against the massive arm that was swinging down on him. Even guarding, the creature's attack sent him staggering and he took a couple of quick steps back to dodge out of the way of another blow.

The creature on the path gave a bellowing cry and charged at him. He had little more than an impression of a bull-like head, mouth open to reveal rows of jagged teeth, crowned with curling ram's horns. The thing was taller even than Sam, and at least three times as broad, but for all its size it was monstrously fast and was inside the angel's guard before he had time to react. Castiel made a desperate swipe at the creature's arm but his blade merely skidded across the thing's toughened hide before it was knocked out of his grip.

Castiel reacted instinctively and managed to turn away from a blow that would have caved his ribcage in, though it glanced off his side with enough force to drop him to his knees, breathless. He rolled as a huge, cloven-hoofed foot came down toward him and tried to use the momentum to kick both feet up into the creature's groin. The creature bellowed again, more in fury than pain, and Castiel was unable to dodge the clawed hand that seized him by the leg and flung him into a young maple tree at the edge of the path. The tree's core gave with an audible crack and he slumped to the ground, his breath a shuddering rasp in his chest and his vision graying at the edges from the pain.

The monster was charging again. Castiel tried to roll to his feet, but cried out as pain exploded across his back as the creature caught him and raked its claws from his shoulders to his hips. The wounds burned as though infected with hellfire, and he was unable to defend himself as another clawed hand caught at his shoulder and flipped him onto his back.

He could feel dirt and debris being ground into his open wounds as the creature leaned down over him, one massive hand planted against Castiel's chest. The stench from the beast's mouth was nearly unbearable—sulfur and rotten meat and decay—as it leaned closer, throat rumbling as though in laughter.

Castiel could see his angel blade, just barely out of reach. With his left hand he pulled and twisted at the creature's wrist and with his right he grasped for the sword, fingertips just brushing against the rounded pommel. The monster noticed his movements after a moment and grabbed his free arm, wrenching it around until his shoulder was nearly pulled out of the socket. The creature's nails dug into the flesh of his forearm as his arm was bent back at an awkward angle until his elbow was practically screaming in protest.

In a last, desperate move he summoned his Grace in his left hand, pulling it away from healing his wounds to deliver a smiting blow that would burn this abomination out of its own body. He felt his eyes flare with light as Heavenly power surged through his body...then the creature was letting out a cry of fury and ragged claws were carving lines of agony across Castiel's eyes.

He screamed, the tentative hold on his Grace breaking apart as the Heavenly power evaporated, his focus broken in the sudden, blinding pain. The monster was immediately back on him, alternating savage claws with hammer-like blows. His stomach, legs, battered chest...even his ruined eyes, nothing was safe from the fiend's wrath. The creature bellowed, as though in triumph, and hoisted Castiel off the ground and over its head. He was vaguely aware that he was spinning, flying, falling...then he was flung down and struck something solid and knew no more.

…

Awareness crept back in slowly. Castiel didn't know how much time had passed but his injuries had begun to heal, if only slightly. The wounds from the creature's claws were like burning lines that were drawing the heat away from the rest of his body, leaving him weakened and chilled. His back was a flare of agony, but his eyes had fared even worse. His left eye was swollen shut, and his right eye wasn't much better. He managed to pry it open just enough to catch a glimpse of the space around him, but his vision swum and he was forced to blink several times to clear the tears that welled up in his damaged eye.

He seemed to be in a small partition inside a larger space. An old horse stall, perhaps, in one of the old barns he'd seen on journey up from the bunker. The walls were wooden, but on three sides the slats were spaced far apart enough that he could see the larger room beyond. The air was thick with the smell of blood and straw and the sickly-sweet odor of mice, and light streamed in through gaps in the ceiling and between the boards that covered the windows.

Castiel could hear someone moving outside the stall—feet shuffling through the straw, hints of a tune being hummed, the unmistakable sound of a blade dragging through flesh. He tried to roll to his stomach to get his hands under him, intent on standing up to get a look at his captor, but flinched back with a hiss of pain when his hand came into contact with the dirty straw beneath him. It was mixed with broken glass so that any attempt at movement would cut his body even further.

It was then that he noticed his shoes were missing, and that his captor had stripped him down to just his shirt and slacks. The thin fabric did little good to protect him from the glass, and even trying to settle back down the same way he'd been lying when he woke up was causing the shards beneath him to bite at his clothing and exposed skin.

The air around him was suddenly far too still and quiet.

The humming had stopped.

“I'm a little surprised to see you alive,” Kent announced. He was at the door to the stall, arms looped through the vertical bars of the door and fingers laced together. His sleeves were rolled up, though that did nothing to disguise the splashes of dark blood on his shirt. “Ozzy's little friends don't usually last more than one playdate.”

Castiel gingerly swept the glass and straw away from in front of him, clearing enough of a patch so he could push himself up to his knees. He was in no shape for a fight, but he could at least maneuver to a more defensible position. “What do you want with me?” His voice was gravely with pain, but he'd managed to keep any tremor out of it.

“Just to answer a few questions,” the sheriff—fake sheriff—sounded a little too cheerful at the prospect. “Who are you, what are you, why are you here...that sort of thing.”

He stared up at the man wordlessly. “I told you over the phone,” he began, but Kent interrupted.

“Cheap suit,” the fake sheriff announced. “Fake FBI badge. Now that could make you a journalist or a blogger, you'd be surprised what crawls up out of the woodwork for a case like this. But you could read an actual Sumerian invocation, so I'm thinking hunter.”

Kent leaned in closer, dark eyes focusing on Castiel's face. “Then you survive Ozzy. You should have bled out there on the trail, but here you are. So I'll ask again.”

There was a pulse of power in the air and Kent's eyes flared purple. “What are you?”

Castiel met the witch's gaze, mouth set in a stern line. He let the silence stretch on, eyes never wavering. His head was clearing as his Grace worked to mend the damage to his body. It would likely still be hours, if not a full day, before he recovered enough to attempt an escape but at least the pain was more bearable.

Kent broke the silence first. He grimaced and pushed himself back from the bars to call over his shoulder. “Ozzy! Bring our guest out here for me, would you?”

There was a heavy thud of footsteps in the barn beyond Kent's shadowed form, and Castiel forced himself to scramble to his feet with his back to the wall. The glass cut into his bare skin but he ignored it, focusing on finding some way to defend himself as the stall's slatted door was thrust to one side and the hulking beast that had attacked him on the trail loomed before him.

“Have you ever seen a Gallu?” Kent asked, almost conversationally, as the creature pushed its way in through the door. “They used to drag souls down to the lower planes of Hell for their masters. Luckily Oswald here is loyal to me.”

The Gallu was at least seven feet tall and four feet across. As Castiel had seen before, its head was almost bull-like, with the exception of numerous sharp teeth bristling out of its mouth. Huge, curling, ram-like horns crowned its head on either side, connected by a heavy brow that overshadowed small, dark eyes. The arms were long and muscular, ending in hands tipped with cruel, jagged claws. It walked on cloven hooves the size of a buffalo's, its legs bent back against themselves like a satyr's and covered with coarse hair that feathered out in ragged strands over its hooves. It could almost have been mistaken for a Minotaur, except for the lack of any semblance of humanity in its form and presence.

Gallu were part of a lower order of demons, lacking true sentience but brutally efficient at chasing down any soul that dared escape the confines of Hell. Crowley had supposedly trapped them all in one of the lower planes, preferring to govern Hell through bureaucracy rather than cruelty, but somehow this one had escaped. Or been summoned.

Castiel braced his hands against the wall, eyes flickering from the Gallu to the open doorway behind it. In his current state he was no match for the creature's speed and power in a direct confrontation, but if he could get around it he had a chance to escape. Its movement would be limited in the building and the Gallu had been made to track humans, not angels.

It struck, its speed just as lethal as it had been on the trail. Castiel tried to dodge to one side but the Gallu wrapped one massive hand around his left arm and pulled him forward. His feet slipped out from under him and he collapsed to his knees, his other hand flying out to break his fall. Broken glass tore at his slacks to dig into the flesh beneath, scraped across his palm until his hand was slick with blood.

He was pulled forward before he had time to regain his feet, the Gallu dragging him across the broken glass to the door of the stall. Castiel gave up trying to stand and aimed blows with his free hand at the creature's wrist. The Gallu growled in annoyance and hauled at Castiel's arm, pulling the angel off his feet and swinging him into the open barn beyond the stall. Before he could get his bearings the creature backhanded him hard enough to make white sparks explode in his vision, the force of the blow wrenching at his shoulder and elbow as he was knocked to the floor.

“Just hold him here,” Kent was saying. The Gallu yanked Castiel up by the arm and dragged him inexorably toward a long table in the center of the barn's open space. A partially-dissected corpse took up one end of the table, with lumps of organic matter filling a half dozen wooden bowls and a basin below the table rippling with partially-congealed blood.

Castiel was spun around and slammed shoulder-first onto the surface of the table. The Gallu placed one massive hand on his chest to hold him in place, the other wrapped around his wrist to stretch his arm out for examination. He couldn't see much of the corpse past the creature's bulk, but he'd seen the colorful ribbons braided into the blond hair.

In the files he'd gathered, one of the missing persons had last been seen with her hair decorated with ribbons in her school's colors. They hadn't just been runaways...Kent had been taking them.

“Shall we?” Kent said brightly. He had a short knife in his hand, the blade flecked with rust. Without another word he dragged it across Castiel's arm, tearing sleeve and flesh as he went. The witch studied the wound for a moment with a frown before reaching for a different knife and cutting Castiel's arm with that one as well. This one was silver, and Kent carefully watched for a reaction before setting the knife down with a puzzled frown.

“Next should be holy water, but I never touch the stuff,” he commented. “I supposed we could start with a few discovery runes, but if you're not reacting to iron and silver...”

His voice trailed off as he looked over the long table, then he smirked at Castiel and reached for another item. His angel blade.

“Tell me you're not the kind of guy who goes around carrying the one weapon that can hurt you,” Kent said teasingly. When Castiel refused to answer he pressed the tip of the angel blade to the inside of Castiel's elbow and dragged it down toward his wrist.

Castiel screamed. The bulb in the battery-operated lantern that hung over the table exploded, and Kent took a step back in shock.

He twisted, trying to free himself, but the Gallu's hold was relentless. Kent staggered forward, dropping the angel blade to rest the tips of his fingers on Castiel's wound, which was glowing with the faint sheen of Grace.

“I don't believe it,” Kent whispered, bringing his fingers up to press Castiel's blood to his lips. “You're an angel.” For a few long minutes Kent stared at the glowing wound in Castiel's arm, almost in reverence, while the Gallu leaned more of his weight against the angel's chest.

Kent suddenly took a step back and brushed his hands off on his thighs. “I'd better get moving. We'll need more supplies to keep an angel here, and I should call the girls. Better keep our guest entertained, Ozzy.” The Gallu gave a satisfied rumble as Kent strode away, but paused when the witch called over his shoulder. “And keep him quiet!”

Castiel tried one last lunge for his angel blade but the Gallu was faster. It twisted its fist in the front of Castiel's shirt and whirled around to fling him out into the open floor of the barn. The angel rolled and tried to push himself up to his feet, only to be knocked back down under the creature's onslaught. Ruthless claws tore at the flesh of his back, tearing open the half-healed wounds from the earlier attack. He tried to fight but he was easily flipped over and then the Gallu's hand was on his neck, squeezing until the bones creaked and his throat closed.

The Gallu lifted him by the throat and slammed him back down so his head bounced off the floor of the barn. And again, the grip on his neck tightening with every gasp of pain Castiel managed to choke out. He flailed useless at the hand on his throat as his wounded body grew weaker, the new slashes across his back burning fever-bright as they leeched the heat from the rest of his body.

Clawed fingers caressed his face, almost gently, tracing the jagged cuts the Gallu had left earlier that day. His left eye was still swollen shut, and the vision in his right was beginning to swirl and fade as his injuries multiplied.

Castiel tried to scream as pain erupted across his face, but could barely get a breath past the monster's grip on his throat. The Gallu was dragging its claws along the wounds it had left early, reopening the ones that had begun heal and tearing them even deeper.

He coughed, tasted blood in his mouth, and let the pain send him spiraling back into darkness as the Gallu dug into his wounds a second time.

. . .

There we go! Chapter one of seven!

You know how it goes! Likes and comments feed the muse and the muse makes the whump.

Okay, love you, bye!

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brokenjardaantech · 3 years

Text

Blue-tinted Red Walls (Chapter 3: A piss-poor guide on how to be (and not to be) a Human)

my entry for the @dbhau-bigbang. also part of the groom lake aftermath series.

chapter summary:

In the past, Reyes and Scott met each other for the first time.

In the present, Connor resumes his investigation and has lunch with Hank.

In the past, Fadia schemes.

also on ao3

---

Before

Sara finished logging her observations and the changes in Reyes’ coding for the day and was unsurprised when she saw the man gone. A week into his activation and he already treated the mansion as his home, roaming freely around and touching and sometimes licking things he found interested in or needed to be tested for whatever reasons an android would find necessary, and every time she brought him for a walk or a trip to somewhere she randomly picked, no one actually noticed that he was different, that he was not human at all.

Which meant that her experiment was a success.

Today was Scott’s birthday, so by extension, it was hers, too, but it was always something more important to her brother than to herself: Scott’s birthdays meant that he lived for a year longer despite a body constantly failing him and therefore was a cause for celebration, but hers had always been an excuse for her to ‘take a break’ from her work and got dragged by her mother to dinners with Baba, dinners which always started with Mama awkwardly trying to get father and daughter to talk, them trying to hold adult conversations to shut her up, and finally always, always ended up with shouting matches on topics so old that she didn’t even feel the point of arguing and stormed out instead, ignoring the screaming match between her parents brewing behind her.

Mama’s cooking wasn’t that good anyway, and with her gone, Sara hadn’t talked to Baba for what? Three years? She wasn’t counting.

She went to the kitchen and there Reyes was, making -

‘I hope you don’t mind, Fadia,’ he explained. She ordered him to use her middle name only and so far he hadn’t gone against that yet, but wanting to ditch her past and responding to a name that she never used until recently was two different things. ‘I’m making Shepherd’s pie. Amanda told me that it’s your favourite, and I want to make it for your birthday.’

Sara - Fadia - leant against the corner of the fridge in order not to accidentally brush the interface and had to raise an eyebrow. Her mentor knew about her… masterpiece and that Fadia would give him to her brother, but -

‘I don’t know you have contact with Amanda,’ she said and instantly regretted it; she sounded like a control freak. ‘Wait, lemme reword it: What did Amanda call you for?’

‘She called you, technically,’ Reyes rasped, his accent more pronounced when speaking a word with more syllables, ‘but you weren’t there so I… took the liberty to answer it for you. Don’t worry,’ he reassured, ‘she only wanted to make sure you remember your own birthday this time.’

The eyebrow flew even higher. ‘Scott and I are twins, Reyes. If I remember his birthday, of course I remember mine.’

Reyes didn’t reply and merely twitched his head before putting the pie into the oven. The doorbell rang, and Fadia nudged herself off the fridge. ‘I’ll get it.’

The android nodded and took off his mittens to start cleaning the kitchen while the human resisted the urge to run towards the door to not keep her brother and mentor waiting outside in the cold, because this was a big day for all of them and she needed to be in control; needed to be objective and introduce Reyes to Scott as gently as possible.

When she opened the door, only Amanda was at eye level, and when Fadia looked downwards, her brother was indeed in a wheelchair and wrapped up like a dumpling. The smile on his face was brighter than the star of Bethlehem.

She got her wind knocked out of her by Scott shoving a wrapped box at her chest. ‘Scott was very insistent,’ Amanda explained. Fadia gave the box, which was wider than her shoulder so it was wide, a light shake. Plastic model, and judging from the dimensions of the box, a Perfect Grade Gunpla, 1/60 scale. ‘He’s aware that you don’t like celebrating Christmas so he decided to give it to you now instead.’

Fadia put a smile on her face. ‘Thank you, Scott,’ she said, then to Amanda, ‘Come in. Does he know?’ and shuffled backwards so that there was enough space for both Amanda and the wheelchair.

‘Enough,’ the professor replied as she hung her coat and chuckled at her student struggling to get the layers off her brother, the latter who was dead-set on wheeling himself into the living room. The gift had mysteriously teleported onto the coffee table. ‘You know how much he’s been looking forward to this.’

Fadia distracted Scott with a magic owl and successfully removed his sweater, not giving Amanda an answer as nervousness suddenly overtook her. What if her observations were incorrect and Scott was content to be alone? What if she programmed Reyes’ personality wrong such that he would only make Scott’s life even more difficult? What if -

‘Hello. You must be Scott.’

Fadia snapped herself out of the trance and padded softly towards the kitchen. Scott had stopped just outside of it, his eyes wide as saucers on his doll-like face and his gaze fixed on the unfamiliar man standing at the island smiling at him. The human gapes, turning his head towards his sister as if seeking her advice, and she wondered what he was looking for.

‘This is Reyes,’ she softened her voice and introduced. ‘Remember the friend I told you about? The one who will never be tired of you? That’s him.’

Scott turned back and slowly wheeled closer to the android, and Fadia flinched inwardly when she saw that Reyes’ smile had become strained. Perhaps she should not have programmed him to love Scott from the very beginning. Her finger itched for a keyboard to change his settings, but then a miracle happened.

Scott, who had never approached strangers on his own without being asked to, wrapped his arms around Reyes’ waist and hugged him. The tension on the android’s face disappeared, and he placed a hand on Scott’s shoulder, petting his hair with another.

Success, Fadia’s mind supplied before she realised that she had no devices with her. Amanda then beckoned for her from the windows, and logging data suddenly became the least of her concern.

‘I must say,’ the professor murmured at her reflection on the glass, ‘I didn’t expect him to be so advanced.’

Fadia thought she should be offended. ‘I only give Scott the best,’ she frowned. ‘Did you not expect me to this time?’

Amanda sighed. ‘You have always exceeded expectations, both your father’s and mine.’ She looked at her student in her eyes. ‘You do realise what you have done, don’t you?’

Fadia turned her gaze towards the two men who somehow had both moved onto the sofa and acquired two stuffed animals Scott must have hidden underneath his clothes. Reyes seemed to be every byte of the caretaker he was programmed to be and was talking to Scott softly through Duffy. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘but I don’t plan to tell anyone about it. Reyes ages just like any of us do externally; no one will suspect a thing.’

‘You created a new form of life, Sara!’ Amanda gritted through her teeth. Reyes spared a glance at them but returned to Scott without saying anything, and Fadia glared.

‘Not now, Amanda,’ she warned. ‘I made Reyes for Scott and that’s it. All knowledge will die with me and everything else will be up to Reyes.’

She ignored her mentor on purpose when she noticed the android standing up. ‘I believe Scott is hungry,’ he announced, and Fadia spared one final glare at Amanda before going to help set up the table, not knowing that things would spiral out of control not two years later.

oOoOo

Now

Comparing the time in his internal clock with his last memory log, Connor concludes that he was deactivated for more than 7 hours. The Zen Garden has reverted to its original stage, virtual birds chirping in virtual trees and virtual air smelling of virtual plants, but he cannot stop remembering the blizzard which swept through the place so unexpectedly and quickly that - that -

He decides against remembering.

Since Amanda can wait, he sets the task of familiarising himself with the garden’s layout. On his second time going around the outermost circle, he almost believes that there is nothing worth noting; the gravestone is certainly an… interesting addition, but it can be a reminder of him being deactivated - a reminder of the consequences of his actions if he chooses the wrong option.

Until he sees the monolith.

It sticks out of the soil like a sore thumb, twin, decorated white arches framing a glowing blue pyramid made out of triangles of different areas and shapes in a style completely inconsistent with its surroundings. A handprint nests at the centre of a circle on the pyramid, and when Connor deactivates the skin on his hand and reaches for it, the pyramid discharges a force field similar to that destroyed the deviant the previous night (albeit at a much smaller scale), causing him to take a step back and his LED circling red. Desperate to get the image of the corrupted face out of his processors, he hurries to the island at the centre and greets his handler.

‘Hello, Amanda,’ he smiles despite what happened last night as it is the polite thing to do.

‘Connor…’ Amanda clips a withering rose and turns. ‘It was unfortunate for you to have to witness what happened last night. I hope there will be no repeated incidents.’

Connor recalls the blast, the shield, the invisible figure, the blizzard. ‘You can count on me, Amanda.’

She returns to tending the roses. ‘What do you think of the deviant?’

And the interrogation begins.

o0o0o

‘There is blue blood on the fence,’ Connor explains to Hank as he knows that the human cannot see it. ‘I know another android was here.’

The human gives him a [sceptical] look and he understands why: exposed red bricks, glass missing from the windows and wooden planks used to board them up rotten and missing; the building in front of them is structurally unstable and incredibly run-down and is hardly a safe place for a deviant and a child model android to stay for the night. But all the evidence - footage from surrounding CCTV, the owner of the motel, the cashier at the supermarket - points at the house, and the thirium only serves to prove Connor’s theory and direction. He carefully goes through the gap on the fence and, through a gap between the planks, sees an android standing in the middle of the room. He rounds a corner and enters the house.

The first thing he notices is the android’s too-high stress level which fluctuates greatly depending on where Connor is standing. Reassuring that he isn’t there for it - yes, it is obviously a deviant, but since it is not his target, there is no need to waste time - does not seem to alleviate it, and asking it whether it saw the deviants returns with no results.

‘Is anyone upstairs?’

‘No - nobody.’

Stress level: 83% → 71%. And if no one is upstairs but the deviant is under the most stress when Connor is near the staircase…

‘Connor, what’re you doing in there?’

‘Coming, Lieutenant!’

He closes up on the space underneath the stairs and catches a peek of two figures before a force suddenly yanks him backwards, the damaged deviant telling a person called Kara - probably the AX400 - to run. Connor tries to peel the pair of hands on his shoulders as he watches the AX400 and a YK900 run away, but the WR600 successfully throws Connor onto the ground with a blast of static and blue energy pockets.

Hank strolls in. ‘Connor, what’s going on?’

‘It’s here!’ Connor replies as he scrambles to his feet. ‘Call it in!’

The human wastes no time and rushes away to presumably bring in reinforcements, but Connor knows that they don’t have the time. He goes out through the broken wire fence, obtains the deviant’s general direction from the officer -

And he runs. Rain splatters directly onto his face and sometimes directly into his eyes, the droplets of water making his vision blurry and unreliable, but he pushes on, shoes smacking against wet concrete and nearly slipping a few times and, somehow, catching up with the two androids just in time to watch them drop to the other side of the wire fence. He looks into the AX400’s eyes, and information suddenly floods into his processors: repeated unauthorised repairs, frequent reports of trauma, its owner’s history of theft, drug trafficking, violent misdemeanours and domestic violence.

The deviant is simply protecting the YK900 from all that.

When Connor comes to, they have already slid down the slope and are waiting for a window to cross the high-speed tracks. A beat cop catches up with him, and then Hank who, upon seeing the androids hurdling the barrier, curses and calls the entire situation insane. Connor attempts to pre-construct the deviants’ path and the flow of traffic as he watches them get farther away and forces himself to abandon the plan once they nearly reach the island between the two directions. He prepares to climb the fence and -

‘Hey!’ Hank clasps his hand on Connor’s shoulder. ‘Where you goin’?’

Can’t he see what’s happening? ‘I can’t let them get away!’

‘They won’t,’ the human says, still slightly out of breath. ‘They’ll never make it to the other side.’

If I have a high chance to get through… ‘I can’t take that chance!’

He hauls himself up again just to be pushed down. Again.

‘Dammit Connor!’ the Lieutenant’s hand stays heavy on his shoulder. ‘You’ll get yourself killed! Do not go after them!’

Conflicting orders. Selecting priority…

He releases the fence and gives up. If the deviancy crisis is as prominent as CyberLife claims to be, there must be other deviants that they can obtain much easier than risking deactivation through running across high-speed highways.

The strangest thing is that Hank seems to approve of his choice.

o0o0o

When Hank does work, he puts everything into it, and so it is with great difficulty that Connor finally manages to drag the human out for a late lunch break under the condition that Hank gets to choose where he will eat, which, since Connor is unfamiliar with the DPD’s surroundings and the man’s personal preference, makes sense. What Connor does not understand is the man choosing to park his car on the opposite side of the road and cross it without checking the traffic, and his thirium pump skips a beat when the car barely manages to skid to a stop before the Lieutenant. He exits the car to follow him.

‘Hey, listen, I got a shit-hot tip for you,’ he hears the man Hank hugged say. ‘Number five in the third, lickety-split! That frilly’s one hell of a chaser. You wanna flutter?’

Comparing terms… Results: gambling. ‘Last shit-hot tip you gave me set me back a week’s wages, Pedro,’ Hank replies with his hands in his coat pockets. There is no malice in his tone.

‘Come on,’ the man - [Name: Aabdar, Pedro. Date of birth: 01/25/2005 // Unemployed. Criminal record: illegal gambling.] - pushes himself up from where he draped himself on the counter, ‘this is different: a hundred per cent guaranteed, you can’t go wrong!’

‘Yeah, right,’ Hank does not sound convinced - [Detroit Food Hygiene License. Expired 05/20/2031. Renewal refused 07/24/2031.] [Name: Kayes, Gary. Date of birth: 12/03/1988 // Business owner. Criminal record: resisting arrest, breach of hygiene regulations.] - but when Pedro spreads his arms - ‘Alright, I’m in.’ - he slaps a thick stack of bills into waiting palms.

‘Damn straight!’ Pedro exclaims triumphantly, and he scurries away before turning backwards and points at the Lieutenant. ‘Hey, you won’t regret this.’

Hank gives him a middle finger and finally, finally turns his attention back onto Connor in the form of determinedly not looking at the android and rolling his eyes. ‘What’s your problem?’ he holds onto the bottom of the lapel of his jacket. ‘Don’t you ever do as you’re told? Look,’ he shrugs at Connor’s confused look, ‘you don’t have to follow me around like a poodle!’

But my instructions are to follow you, Lieutenant, Connor wants to say, but he knows that Hank is not going to understand him.

Opinions available: apologise for behaviour, partners, reconcile, review facts.

[Apologise for behaviour]

‘I’m sorry for my behaviour back at the police station,’ he makes sure to look at Hank to show that he is sincere. ‘I didn’t mean to be unpleasant.’

‘Oh wow,’ Hank deadpans. It is followed by a laugh. ‘You’ve even got a brown-nosing apology programme!’ A shake of his head. ‘Guys at CyberLife thought of everything, huh?’ and he does not look happy about it.

The cook - Gary - presents Hank with his food, and Connor runs a quick scan on it. XL soda with 710kCal and 184g of sugar; a hamburger with 1680kCal, 36g of lipids and an unhealthy amount of cholesterol. ‘There you go,’ Gary says, and Hank thanks him and moves to get a table.

The cook gestures at Connor. ‘Don’t leave that thing here!’

‘Huh, not a chance!’ Hank does not bother looking back. ‘Follows me everywhere…’ and to no one in particular and in a voice too low for Gary to hear when they stop at a sheltered table, ‘See?’

He takes a large bite of his burger and Connor feels… [repulsed]. ‘Your meal contains 1.4 times the recommended daily intake of calories,’ Hank takes a good look at the food in his hands, ‘and twice the cholesterol level,’ and if you do this every day… ‘You shouldn’t eat that.’

‘Everybody’s gotta die of something,’ is the human’s answer, and he promptly takes a bite while maintaining eye contact in an act of [challenge] and [defiance].

Connor has to duck his head to hide his smile because androids do not feel. Still, ‘I don’t want to alarm you, Lieutenant, but I think your friends are engaged in illegal activities.’

‘Well, everybody does what they have to to get by. As long as they’re not hurting anybody,’ a small shrug, ‘I don’t bother them.’

It is a strange logic, but it is not one that Connor cannot understand: with an unemployment rate as high as 35%, many people turn to doing illegal businesses, and the ones that do not do as much harm do sound better than those which do. He nods in understanding and is reminded that there is one thing he does not. ‘This morning, when we were chasing those deviants… Why didn’t you want me to cross the highway?’

‘’Cause you could’ve been killed!’ as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. ‘And -’ an excuse, from the way Hank is waving his arms (and the burger) around - ‘I don’t like filling out paperwork for damaged equipment.’ He glances away. Definitely an excuse.

Hank is… contradictory. He frequently shows anti-android sentiments and yet speaks of Connor as if he were a human. ‘Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?’ A blink. Connor takes it as a permission to continue. ‘Why do you hate androids so much?’

There is… [sadness] in Hank’s eyes. ‘I have my reasons,’ he replies, and he returns to his meal without any explanation. Not good.

‘Is there anything you’d like to know about me?’

‘Hell no,’ comes the quick answer. But then, ‘Well,’ a finger point, ‘yeah,’ his hand chops through the air and lands on the table, ‘um,’ a shift of his entire body, ‘why did they make you look so goofy and give you that weird voice?’

This one is easy. ‘CyberLife androids are designed to work harmoniously with humans. Both my appearance and voice were specifically designed to facilitate my integration.’

Hank nods but his expression is [sceptical]. ‘Well, they fucked up.’

Connor supposes that normal humans would feel [hurt], but from the [teasing] tone the Lieutenant employed, it was not his intention. His creator did well. As they still have time to spare, ‘Maybe I should tell you what we know about deviants?’

‘You read my mind.’ A wave. ‘Proceed.’

‘We believe that a mutation occurs in the software of some androids which can lead to them emulating a human emotion -’

Hank holds up a hand. ‘In English, please,’ he interrupts, and Connor quickly reorganised his vocabulary.

‘They don’t really feel emotions. They just get overwhelmed by irrational instructions which can lead to unpredictable behaviour.’

Hank nods. ‘Emotions always screw everything up,’ he says. ‘Maybe androids aren’t as different from us as we thought.’ A thoughtful hum. Are you not anti-android? ‘You ever dealt with deviants before?’

Daniel. Emma. Gunshot piercing his chassis and the greystyle countdown timer. ‘A few months back… A deviant was threatening to jump off the roof with a little girl. I managed to save her,’ at the expense of my temporary deactivation and slight memory corruption, he does not add as Hank does not need to know.

‘So I guess you’ve done all your homework, right?’ A sip of his soda. ‘Know everything there is to know about me?’

Lying will not benefit either of them. ‘I know you graduated top of your class.’ Silence. ‘You made a name for yourself in several cases and became the youngest Lieutenant in Detroit.’ Hank’s eyebrows flick hummingbird-fast. He seems… [embarrassed]. ‘I also know you’ve received multiple disciplinary warnings in recent years and…’ Hank is no longer looking at him out of [shame], ‘you spend a lot of time in bars.’

The human manages to rein his expression back to something neutral. ‘So what’s your conclusion?’

‘I think working with an officer with personal issues is an added challenge,’ Connor answers sincerely,’ but adapting to human unpredictability is one of my features.’ He winks and enjoys the blush spreading on Hank’s cheeks. ‘I would also like to earn your trust,’ he adds in all seriousness. ‘I am certain we can solve this case if we manage to work together.’

His HUD flashes with a police report demanding their attention. ‘I just got a report of a suspected deviant,’ he explains as Hank no doubt saw his LED turn yellow. ‘It’s a few blocks away. We should go have a look,’ and when Hank does not respond, ‘I’ll be in the car if you need me.’

Given the large amount of information he was provided, it is best for Hank to have some time alone to digest it.

oOoOo

Before

Sara - Fadia, we suppose, since she looked a bit older than when Reyes was first introduced to Scott - hid in the shadows of the trees outside the gates of a lavish mansion. Although it was snowing heavily and she was wearing only a pair of black dress trousers, a long-sleeved dress shirt and a long but thin black coat, she did not seem to feel the cold, her hands in her pockets, neither shivering nor hugging herself. Despite the temperature, she placed a bare hand on the metal gates and slowly pushed it inward just enough for her to get past before closing it again. The telltale click of a lock engaging suggested that she had deactivated it at some point.

Going slowly up a surprisingly snow-free and dry path, dress shoes making no sound as they made contact with heated tiles, Fadia’s gaze stayed fixed on the ground as if not wanting to look at what was happening within the house which, due to the rooms being well-lit, could be clearly seen through curtains of white lace, stopping once she was under the shelter of the arch decorating the front door. Slowly, she reached out for the doorbell.

The double wooden door swung open on its own with a slight creak.

Placing her hand back in her coat pocket, she thumped her boots on the ground to get rid of the snow before stepping in. She blinked rapidly as if to adjust to the brightness within the mansion as the doors swung shut behind her, and it was only after the lock clicked into place that she, instead of wandering into the living room, took the stairs directly upstairs, walked past the library, and knocked on the only door available.

‘What’s that?’ a voice similar to Scott’s asked from behind the door.

The sound of feet against carpeted floor. The door slid open to reveal Reyes, whose smile fell off his face and was replaced by pure anger before he pushed his creator backwards with a blast of blue energy directly in front of her chest. The door slid shut once more, and Fadia took her time adjusting the lapels of her coat as if she did not take several thousands of newtons of force in her ribs and not only survived but also managed to slide backwards by inches instead of being blasted out through the roof. She leant against the wooden railing and waited.

Reyes emerged alone a few minutes later. ‘Scott’s asleep,’ he snaps, his voice low. Standing so close to each other, it was evident that he barely reached Fadia’s chin. ‘What the hell are you doing here? Aren’t you in space?’

‘I was,’ the human replied. ‘I have business on earth that I need to attend to in person and think I can drop by and say hello. Evidently, you are not going to let me.’

Reyes scoffed and twitched his head to indicate that they should go downstairs. While the android disappeared into the kitchen to presumably get refreshments, Fadia seated herself in a chair by the window, her height making it look comically small and unfit, and Reyes returned with a large bottle of thirium and two glasses and settled down opposite to his creator.

‘Be quick,’ he poured himself half a glass and took a sip as if he was drinking whiskey, ‘why are you here?’

Fadia placed a hand on the table, her fingers spread wide. ‘Reyes, there is really no need -’

‘I’ll be pissed whenever and however I want to,’ the android interrupted. ‘You shouldn’t even be here. Now get to the fucking point.’

The human sighed. ‘Alec is trying to develop a deviant-hunting prototype.’

Reyes drained the glass and poured himself another glass. ‘Shit.’

‘Luckily or unluckily - that depends on your perspective - he can’t do it himself.’

‘So he contacted you.’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘An advertisement.’

‘Elaborate.’

‘An open post in CyberLife. A project lead requiring an experience level no one can obtain unless they are one of the very first to be involved in android development. Most of those people are either dead thanks for the Blast or are still working for CyberLife, and the rest of them work for me and haven't had contact with people on earth for years. Short of Alec Ryder himself…’

Realisation dawned in Reyes’ amber eyes. ‘You are the only candidate.’

‘Precisely.’

‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘It will.’

Fadia produced a small tablet from a hidden pocket on her coat and dropped it in front of Reyes, who peeled off the skin on his hand and interfaced with it. Whatever he received made his eyes widen even further. ‘Shit. They know?’

‘They have their suspicions, yes, but without concrete proof, that is all they can do at the moment. But it is also for the best that I have maximum involvement in the project starting from this point.’

‘This -’ Reyes leant back and gave his creator a one-over. ‘You have joined them, haven’t you?’

A nod. ‘Time is the essence. The earlier I get involved, the more I can do before Alec notices my plan and kicks me out once more. I hope, by the time that happens, things will become too irreversible and he will have no choice but to either scrap the project entirely or to release it fully knowing that it will fail sooner or later.’

‘You sure he’ll ditch you?’

‘Totally,’ Fadia reached for her glass and stopped midway as if just remembering that it was empty and thirium was not for her consumption anyway. ‘Our views are too different for long-term cooperation. I know him, he knows me. He will try to root out everything he deems unnecessary or put something to keep them in check, and that will require either my compliance - which he will not get - or my absence.’

‘You’re talking like this android they’re developing is just a tool.’

‘We all are.’

‘You’re betting a lot on them.’

‘You assume that they are my entire plan?’

Reyes clicked his tongue. ‘Maybe not,’ he took a drink. ‘I won’t like it, will I?’

‘No, you won’t.’

A sigh. ‘Will I see you?’

‘No.’

‘So many things can go wrong.’

‘I know. But I have time.’

A glass clanked loudly against the tabletop. ‘And how many people are gonna die during this “time”,’ Reyes snapped, ‘creator dearest?’ The chair skidded without any sound under the force of the android standing up and hunching over the small, round table. ‘My people; your children.’

‘Watch your words, Reyes,’ the human warned. ‘You send those deviants to a rusting cargo freighter and call it a day.’ She stood up as well. Her eyes flared up in their entirety with wisps of blue escaping and dancing down her coat. ‘You are the one who rejected this. Who decided to hide this -’ blue tendrils curled around the empty glass and brought it into her open palm with a loud smack - ‘from them. We could have ended this long ago if we had not.’

‘There will be war, Fadia!’ Reyes did not seem intimidated by the human looming over him. ‘Millions will die. We’ll be seen as violent and unstable and it’ll ruin us!’

‘Not if we are the ones doing the ruling.’

‘And how long will it take for the humans to successfully revolt against us? What will happen then? What will happen if your plan fails?’

‘If - focus on if - there is a next revolution,’ Fadia took a step back and retracted the tendrils, but not before vaporising the empty glass in a loud flash of blue. ‘I will be at the helm. And this time,’ a crackle of static and the power went out, plunging the house into complete darkness save for the glow of her eyes, ‘we… will win.’

#dbh au big bang #hankcon #reyder #mreyder #female ryder #male ryder #reyes vidal #amanda stern #dbh connor #dbh hank anderson #dbh amanda #detroit: become human #mass effect andromeda #groom lake aftermath

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deans-mind-palace · 4 years

Text

Suspirium (Pt.11)

Pairing: Prof!Sam x Reader

Summary: You’re in your last year of your Classics and Mordern Languages studies and you’re majoring in Latin and English. Then you get assigned to a different Latin teacher. And damn, he loves his subject. Too bad that he’s also hot. What is just a childish crush soon develops into something way more complicated.

Word Count: 1,656

Warnings: Fluff

Author’s Note: Here we go. You get to know Adam and you finally get to sort things out with Sam.

Like always, my tag lists for Sam (thereby also for this story) are OPEN

Or you catch up here: Suspirium - Masterlist

Sam's behavior had discouraged you. Of course you hadn't been so naive and had expected leaps of joy, but that cold shoulder hurt more than it should have. You'd kissed a few times, so what? Why did your heart make such a drama out of it. Besides, you had given him a chance. Actually, it was up to you to give him the cold shoulder. After all, you hadn't gone to dinner with someone else just after you kissed your student! A doubting voice in your head tried to convince you that he had the right to do so, after all you were not a couple, but you ignored it, and banished it to the dark corner of your mind from which it had emerged. Of course you should have let him explain himself, but it was understandable that you had been overwhelmed in this situation. Bitterly you thought that you would have experience in dealing with this situation next time. After all, you had tried to make up for your mistake, but he had not accepted your offer. Now it was his decision how to proceed.

You couldn't remember what you had done in the last few days, because everything was blurred to an inconsistent mush of bright colors. It was as if the rest of the world was moving faster than you. Adam had texted you again and you could no longer ignore his messages.

You had just come from Sam's lecture and frustration and anger were rumbling in your stomach, and when Adam's message arrived, you couldn't take it anymore. You quickly dialed his number. He picked up after a few seconds. "Oh, hey Y/N, how are you, darl-" "Save it, Adam." You snapped. "What do you want?" "Straight forward like always, I miss that, you know? "Oh, don't get too emotional. That never suited you. It always seemed pretended." "Touché, sweetheart. You rolled your eyes at his old pet name for you "Don't sweetheart me, Adam. Spill it, what do you want?" "This is about the company and it's serious. You should come home to discuss this." "I am home." "I'm serious. You should come back home, your true home, England. You were stubborn long enough now. We got your message! Now it's time to grow up and come home! You can't run away forever, at some point your duties will catch up with you again. That time has arrived now." He said in a calm voice, almost as if he were talking to a stubborn child. It made you incredibly angry. "I'm about to get my PhD in English and Latin, you twat. I haven't got time for funny businesses in England!" You were so angry that your British accent, which you'd been hiding for so long, suddenly slipped back between your words. You hadn't spoken with an accent for almost five years. "Latin." Snorted Adam. "You've always hung on to your fantasies," he sighed. "If you had been a little more understanding of my fantasies, which, by the way, are also called dreams, in four years, our relationship might not have ended. But I always came after my father in your life." He laughed cheerlessly. "I don't enjoy this any more than you do, Y/N. But your father asked me to call you." You snorted. "Of course he did." I snorted. "And you don't want to disappoint the big man. You're still a good little lapdog, huh?" You were so angry you bit your lip too hard and tasted blood. You had angry tears in your eyes, but you didn't want to be exposed. "Do you really think I'm coming back to England? What makes you think I'm coming back home? I would give anything never to hear from you or my father again. Let alone set foot on the ground of this country." "It's an important meeting that concerns the future of the company. And you are the future of this company, so please be reasonable, even though I know how hard this is for you." You were about to explode.

Silently the hot tears ran down your cheeks. Just the thought of your messed up family, driven by money and the future made your stomach twist. "I won't attend that bloody meeting. I know I am the future of this bloody company but I don't want to be its future! Stop threatening me or I'll get you fired, Adam. Trust me, we both know I won't hesitate." He laughed bitterly. "I know. But it's your father's orders, and he knows his daughter. And I know him." "Oh yeah? Tell him the next time he wants something from me, he can fucking call me himself. Or better yet, tell him not to call me at all." "He's as stubborn as you are and he won't let up." "Well, then, come and drag me over the ocean! Good evening, Adam!" With those words you hung up.

Your legs were wobbly and you felt sick, so you had to brace yourself against the wall and finally sat down on the stairs. With your hands, you massaged your temples while conjuring up your tears. Angrily you wiped them aside. Suddenly you heard a voice next to you. "Is everything all right?" A pair of worried hazel eyes looked at you. The voice sent a shiver down your spine. What's he doing here now? For days he didn't even look at you, and now suddenly he came? It couldn't have been worse timing. "It's all right. Don't worry about it. Aren't you going to be late for some lecture?" you asked, hoping to get rid of him, but Sam saw right through you. "You're not well." It wasn't a question, so you kept quiet.

He reached out his hand to you. "Come on." You looked at him in surprise. He gave you a shy smile, almost like when you first met him. He had heard the whole conversation from the beginning. Actually, he hadn't wanted to listen, but your sudden British accent and the tension in your voice had made him stop dead in his tracks.

"I'll take you home," he explained, his eyes glistening softly. His hand was much bigger than yours, as soon as you obeyed his request. It was warm and firm. " Don't you have a lecture to give?" you asked. He shrugged his shoulders and snorted. "It's not as if the students would mind having one less lecture." A grin played around his lips and for a brief moment everything went back to normal. Then reality caught up with you. "No, Sam. You can't skip the lecture. You haven't talked to me in days, and now all of a sudden you want to skip a lecture for me? You can't skip the lecture." It was hard for you, but you forced yourself to be reasonable. Luckily, Sam wouldn't let you go, so you overturned your decision soon enough.

"Come on." he muttered. Together you walked out onto the parking lot where you let go of Sam's hand, almost as if you'd been burned. He gave you a look and you felt regret because that's the way it would always be. You couldn't be seen with each other.

Unnoticed, you made it to your house and you unlocked the door to your apartment. Sam came up behind you as if it was the most normal thing in the world. You did not ask any further questions when he closed the door behind him and took the shoes off his feet. Around him, your apartment seemed even smaller. He seemed like a foreign body that didn't fit into the picture. He was too tall. You hung up your stuff and brushed a strand of hair from your forehead.

"Would you like something to drink?" you asked while Sam sat down on your sofa and looked around. He looked out of place and had to fold up to fit on the couch. His gaze wandered across the room as if he were trying to find something. Pictures or something that connected you to this apartment. But you knew he wouldn't find anything. You put up pictures of people you loved or cared about and wanted to see every day. Not people you wanted to banish from your life and forget. The latter was true of your family. Brooks had once asked you about your family. The silence had been enough response. Sam frowned when he realized there were no pictures.

You placed a glass of water in front of Sam and sat across from him. Immediately you grabbed a pillow and pressed it against your stomach like a shield. Sam sipped his water while his eyes still glided across the room. "I think we should talk." he muttered after he put the glass down. You nodded. "That was Cassie on Monday. She is Dean's fiancee. Well, she was his girlfriend at the time. I had to cover for Dean so he could buy her a ring. I didn't tell you because I found out on short notice. I didn't know you worked at that restaurant or--" "Or you would have just gone to another one without telling me?" you asked bitterly. Sam looked at you firmly and shook his head. "No, otherwise I would have gone to another restaurant and told you everything afterwards, just as I had planned. Which I had also tried! But you didn't give me a chance to explain myself. I was angry because you really thought I was capable of doing something like that." "Well, I'm sorry if I'm not completely rational when I see the man I love with a strange woman!" you defended yourself. You weren't aware of what you were saying until you noticed Sam's silence. You slapped your hands over your mouth. "I - oh, God, Sam - I-I-" "Me too," he said quietly. "Huh? Me what?" He smiled softly. "I love you too."

Sam tags: @ashthefirefox @rintheemolion @fortheentries @vexhye @traceyaudette @zeppette @thewintersoldierswife @outofnowhere82 @mimzy1994 @myopiamystical @transparentfestivaltiger @weasleytwins-41

#sam x reader #sam winchester #sam x y/n #sam x you #professor!sam #professor!au #spn fanfic series #spn #supernatural #suspirium #spnfamily #spn fandom #spn fanfiction #supernatural fic #supernatural reader insert #supernatural fandom #supernatural cast #jared padalecki #jared x reader

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moonelf19 · 4 years

Text

tanely said: agreed with this matt deff tries to give narration by character! but i’m also super curious if its because Veth specifically said WHAT she was looking for. Fjord was looking for “anything he recognized” and in gold piles of stuff it wasnt a specific look. but Veth went “i’m searching for that specific item” which made her search a focused effort

rocketmouse said: I’m still confused over the fact that items like the flask and especially Caleb’s necklace didn’t come up on Cad’s Detect Magic. They’re both magic items, and so should have pinged.

rocketmouse said: As for Travis’ 21 vs Sam’s, I think Matt read into it as Travis asking if there were things from Vandren or his crew that he recognized, and a 21 getting a no lends credence to the theory that he’s not there.

I mean I’m definitely in the boat of “matt will change the dc for a lot of reasons” and simultaneously “matt is a human and can only handle so many requests at one time”

When Fjord made that investigation check he said “I’m looking for anything I recognize, anything I personally or someone else had”

Matt is kind of distracted as he says that nothing catches Fjords eye. If Matt thought he meant Vandren then he should have clarified. He normally would. As it is, Travis asked for anything Fjord would recognize- like gear. 21 is an excellent roll, I know Veth churns them out as a minimum for investigation but it’s still a great roll.

After more fire damage Veth asks if she can look for her gun and the periapt of wound closure. Rolls a 21. Matt describes with detail how she finds the gun down in the silt and muck along with the necklace, and Travis does a sort of, how would I describe it, salty/bitter/jaded/indignant/frustrated/disappointed head tilt. Like “oh cool when I do the thing it gets brushed aside but Veth does the same thing and gets rewarded”.

It’s a pretty quick reaction but this whole interaction starts here (https://youtu.be/PWMlvpyFm-E?t=1421) and at 24:53 ish Matt starts describing what she found, at about 25;03 Travis does the little head dip.

It seems kind of unfair to

Have a time constraint

Constantly skip players turns/ be inconsistent about who gets to have a turn

Inflict fire damage every minute or so of real time

Give different rewards for the same roll

They were forced to talk over each other, Travis stayed quiet for the most part in order to let everyone problem solve, and when he did try to take an action he made it quick and simple to minimize disruption. His reward was to be brushed off, which he seemed fine with until Sam made the same roll multiple times and was repeatedly rewarded with more loot.

Idk. That whole “escape/loot the caldera” scene rubbed me the wrong way because of how unfair it was, people had to butt in and talk across each other, they took fire damage inconstantly, some people got to do way more actions than others, some peoples actions were ignored...

It was messy. Personally I would have had a timer and initiative. At the top of each round they took fire damage and maybe use the timer to make sure nobody is having a super long turn. But everyone should have gotten the same amount of actions, and Matt was struggling to keep track of where everyone was and held them in the middle for 3 rounds instead of one or two after they got the buff from Jester.

If two players get the same roll, especially if one player is doing the same roll over and over, I certainly wouldn’t reward the player repeating their action over the one who did ONE THING the entire time they were escaping.

I guess I feel like Fjord got pushed into the background and didn’t get to do anything but shovel gold.

In the end? Not a big deal. Almost all the items were returned I think, they got a huge load of gold. Everyone made it out alive.

Sometimes Matt does stuff I don’t understand, and that’s not only ok but understandable. Sometimes I make a call that he would likely disagree with or do differently.

I’m just of the mind that Fjord should have gotten something, should have walked out of there with something for his 21. Travis is more reserved, doesn’t push Fjord into the spotlight. When he does step up and ask for something I wish it would get attention. He could have seen Cad’s wok, he could have seen the dagger of denial, there are lots of things he would have recognized as he was digging through the pile. There were two casts of detect magic while he and Beau unearthed loot. Maybe he would have made an offhand comment about giving the item back. Or maybe he would have used it as an opportunity to check in on someone.

Ah well. Such is the way!

#critical role #meta #its not a big deal #its the result of their group dynamic #its my own fault i am more attached to some characters over others #lets just not talk about why 20int Caleb would try to cast a 10min ritual spell in boiling water #dont worry about it

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curiosity-killed · 4 years

Text

a bow for the bad decisions

canon-divergent AU from ep. 24 (on ao3)

The office still looks the same. In the space between blinks or in looking up from the desk, he keeps expecting to see Uncle Jiang behind the desk instead of Jiang Cheng. The dissonance leaves him a little unsteady, like he has to blink away the afterimage to see the present. He doesn’t mention it. No sense troubling shijie and Jiang Cheng with it. It’s not the only ghost lingering in his periphery anyway. “Yu Bujue can take over the upper level cultivation lessons,” Jiang Cheng says, “and Cao Xingtao is strong enough to take over the sword lessons.” He hates this, this calm delineation of his own weaknesses. These have been his duties since he was fifteen, since he passed half their own teachers and stepped fully into his role as Head Disciple. He’s supposed to be the one training their disciples, running them through their paces and building them back up stronger. He hunches a little into his shoulders, fiddling with Chenqing’s tassel. He doesn’t have room to object, he knows. He’s the one who told them how useless he was. They’re only doing what’s right, taking care of Yunmeng Jiang.

“Rumors are going to start if your da-shixiong is passing off all his work,” he points out.

This is why it would be easier if he just left. If he passed out of Lotus Pier in the night, he could just disappear into the shadows, let the resentment dissolve him into ash. Everyone the world around knows how inconsistent and capricious he is now. Sure, there’d be plenty to say about his own character, but at least it wouldn’t come back on Lotus Pier. At least they wouldn’t have to deal with his own shortcomings. “You said you had some ideas about defensive arrays,” Jiang Cheng says. “Defense is a higher priority than teaching a couple lessons.” Wei Wuxian stills, studying his brother. He can’t seriously be suggesting Wei Wuxian use demonic cultivation here in his own home. It was one thing during the war; Jiang Cheng has always been pragmatic, strategic in his own way. They were fighting a war and Wei Wuxian was a weapon, no matter how unsightly or unorthodox. No one looked too hard at the blood on a blade as long as it was pointed in the right direction. “You’d have demonic cultivation in Lotus Pier?” he asks carefully. Jiang Cheng catches his eye and shrugs, uncomfortable, as he looks away. “The old defenses weren’t strong enough. I promised I’d never let anyone take Lotus Pier again. So,” he says. He clears his throat. “Anyway, if our Head Disciple is the grandmaster of a whole cultivation path, it’d be dumb not to use it.” Something warm and unfamiliar uncurls in Wei Wuxian’s chest, more comforting than any embrace. He swallows and gives a short nod instead of saying any of the ridiculous things that press against the back of his throat. “Don’t do any dumb shit, I mean,” Jiang Cheng adds brusquely, “and tell me what you’re doing so it doesn’t backfire and kick your ass.” He laughs, and shakes his head. He’s had his ass thoroughly kicked by resentful energy, and he knows it would flatten Jiang Cheng if it wanted to. Still, he’s — touched by the trust. “Alright,” he agrees. “You could also teach some of the classes that don’t require as much spiritual energy,” shijie says. “The early classes on meditation and the talisman courses. It might help with rumors, and it could help stabilize your qi as well.” She sits primly on the third side of the desk, hands folded neatly in her lap and expression solemn. He forgets, some times, that she was there for all the war too. It’s easy to do when the marks of violence are so much starker on Jiang Cheng and the rest of them. He’s grown used to seeing his brother steeped in blood, grown familiar with the cold flat look in his eyes when he kills someone. Shijie isn’t half so obvious. She still smiles for them, still mothers them with that soft love she’s wielded for nearly as long as he remembers. Her scars are subtler, tucked in the tight frown she wears now as she contemplates their next steps and the quiet tears he’s caught her shedding a few times when she doesn’t realize he’s passing by. He and Jiang Cheng were out killing men on the frontline, but she followed in their aftermath, trying to hold together the wounded and dying. He wrinkles his nose, releasing Chenqing. Across the desk, Jiang Cheng’s expression is equally doubtful. “Meditation?” he says. “Shijie, I got kicked out of our meditation classes more than anyone in the history of Yunmeng Jiang.” A smile quirks at the corners of her lips, but the look she turns to him isn’t the fond exasperation he expects. There’s something knowing, something tinged with sadness, instead. “You meditated during the war,” she points out gently. This time, he’s the one to look away. He’s been trying to keep everything tucked away since he came back. It’s one thing for them to know he doesn’t have a golden core anymore, but he will not tell them about the Burial Mounds, about the resentful energy still spooled in the marrow of his bones. It lies quiescent and idle as long as his own emotions aren’t drawing on it, and he can stop that either through white-knuckled control or through the hazy buffer of liquor. He couldn’t afford to loosen his grip during the war, so he’d meditated to fine tune and strengthen his grip. Now, though — now he doesn’t want to have control over it. He doesn’t want to have to spend his every hour painfully conscious of the resentment that moves through him, alive and vicious and waiting. “Alright,” he agrees reluctantly. “Fine.” There’s a small quiet after his concession before shijie reaches out and gives his wrist a squeeze. He glances up to see her offering him a softer smile, reassurance. Releasing his wrist, she turns back to the papers laid out on Jiang Cheng’s desk. “Outside of Lotus Pier, there are still challenges from the other sects,” she points out. “Jin Guangshan’s frothing at the mouth to get that amulet,” Jiang Cheng agrees. Immediately, Wei Wuxian’s hackles rise, hand tightening around Chenqing’s neck. “He can’t have it,” he says flatly. “I’ll destroy it before he can touch it.” He doesn’t know how to explain the amulet to them. It and Chenqing were made of the yin iron sword just the same, but they’re wholly different beasts. Chenqing is his. She hums under his skin, a needling purr, hungry and ready at his call. The amulet is…different. Other. It’s more the sword than anything else and it still retains that presence. He can wield it, use it, but it’s borrowed power. It remembers what it was like to unmake him, and its teeth trace lovingly against the tender skin of his neck. It remembers their promise, their bargain. It waits. “Of course,” Jiang Cheng says, waving off his answer like it was obvious from the start. “But the fact remains the Jin Sect came out of the war nearly unscathed. They’re strong enough to take us down with one hand behind their back. And it’s not like you made a lot of friends in the war who’ll stand up to stop them.” Wei Wuxian purses his lips, annoyed that Jiang Cheng isn’t wrong. “We need alliances,” shijie says. Jiang Cheng sighs, presses a thumb into the ridge of his eye socket like he’s warding off a headache. Wei Wuxian sympathizes. He’d rather fight another legion of cultivators than wade through the tangled net of politics. “Lanling Jin’s already wrapped everything so well around them with Gusu Lan and Qinghe Nie,” Jiang Cheng says. “We should’ve petitioned for Wei Wuxian to be granted sworn brotherhood, too, I guess.” “Me?” Wei Wuxian asks, startled. “But you’re the sect leader, it would’ve made more sense for you.” The look Jiang Cheng shoots him is scathing. “Who took Nightless City?” he snaps back. “We weren’t winning the war till you came. Three months of skirmishes didn’t give us much in the way of victory.” He subsides at that, feeling strangely chastised by the praise. Shijie frowns, her lips pressing together in thought. “It won’t hold the political strength of a sworn allegiance,” she says, “but you were both close with Nie Huaisang before the war. Chifeng-zun has always cared deeply for him. Perhaps you could rekindle that friendship. He could visit Lotus Pier for a time.” Sourness rolls unsteady deep in stomach at the mention of Huaisang. The three of them spent childhood summers together, towed back and forth between Qinghe and Yunmeng depending on the year. He remembers dunking Jiang Cheng under the lake water and Huaisang squealing when they teamed up to drag him into the water. He remembers laying on his belly, feet waving in the air, beside Huaisang as they painted mountains and clouds and each other. He can’t remember the last time he lifted a brush to paint anything but talismans, to create anything but ruin. The last time he saw Huaisang, he’d flinched away, shuddered up a fearful barrier between him and his old childhood friend. Guilt is an uneasy squeeze under his ribs. “And a-Xian,” shijie says, turning to him, “you should talk to Lan Wangji.” He balks, recoiling. “Lan Zhan?” he demands. “What— why?” He hasn’t spoken to Lan Zhan since the war, since the fall of Nightless City. There’s no point to it anymore, he thinks and stubbornly ignores the way his heart twists. Shijie looks at him with endless patience. “I thought you two were close friends and confidants,” she says and doesn’t give him a chance to protest. “He was dedicated in helping you during the war.” “To exorcise the evil out me,” he scoffs, looking away. “So I should tell him everything so that the great Hanguang-jun can come save this feeble man from my own wickedness?” Bitterness scrapes across his tongue, sour speckling his throat. He once thought Lan Zhan was his equal, his match. Now, he thinks of his scowl, his voice coming hard and reproachful and all the times he said that he was committing evil, practicing wicked tricks that would leave him burnt and ruined. Telling him he has no core, that he is broken in a way no song of healing or clarity can remedy— No. Wei Wuxian knows he wouldn’t be able to stop there. If he let Lan Zhan close enough to tell him that, it would all spill out of him, all this bad blood clotted up in his heart. He would drain himself dry, and there would be nothing left when Lan Zhan inevitably recoiled, horrified and disgusted, and turned his back. He won’t do it. He can’t. He’s too selfish. He can’t have Lan Zhan’s friendship the way he once did, but he’s not strong enough to end it for Lan Zhan, to provide him this easy justification for walking away. He can’t bear to see those dark eyes wide with pity, not for him. He’d rather be hated than pitied. Rather bite back than open up his tender underbelly.

#mdzs #the untamed #cql #untamed fic #yunmeng sibs #my writing #the MUTUAL PINING BEGINS #this was a motherfucker to write #and i'm not wholly satisfied but whatever #we are not worrying about perfection here!#i say while smacking my own hypercritical tendencies over the head with a folding chair

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randomfandomimagine · 4 years

Text

Broke Another Rule (Percy x Reader)

Character: Percy Weasley, Cho Chang (briefly)

Fandom: Harry Potter

Categories: Gender Neutral Reader, Rivalry, Enemies to Lovers, Ravenclaw!Reader, Prefect!Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.6k words

Requested by anon: Can I request a Percy Weasley x reader where the reader is the prefect of ravenclaw and the two kinda have a rivalry against each other (but have feelings for each other as well) for some reason until they get into a heated fight which ends in them apologising and admitting their feelings

Notes: I feel like I took some creative liberties with this one (maybe a Ravenclaw would behave differently from how I portrayed, etc) to ignore possible inconsistencies with the HP universe, but I like how this turned out. Enjoy reading!

REMEMBER THAT IMAGINES/ONESHOTS REQUESTS ARE CLOSED!

I gasped in outrage when someone bumped into me, stopping me from walking. I recognized the combed mop of red hair and rolled my eyes.

“Gryffindor” I muttered, glaring daggers at Weasley.

“Ravenclaw” He deadpanned, looking me up and down. “What where you’re going”

“Ha!” I exchanged a glance with my friend Cho. “Maybe you should, or is your snobbish nose pointing so high that you can’t?”

My fellow Ravenclaw giggled next to me, to which I smirked proudly. When he struggled to reply with a witty comment, he looked at me with contempt. My smirk only widened.

“Perhaps you won’t be as smug when we win the House Cup” Percival mockingly tilted his head. “Like we do every year”

“You wish, Weasley” I continued walking, deliberately bumping my shoulder into his, until I left him behind.

“This rivalry of yours never ends” Cho muttered, catching up with my furious strut. “Maybe there’s something behind it”

“What do you mean?” Intrigued by her words, I stared at my friend.

“There’s a fine line between love and hatred” She said with a causal shrug.

I rolled my eyes at her, but did look over my shoulder. Percival was watching me too, but quickly changed his demeanor when he saw me staring. He scowled at me, lifted his chin up with dignity and continued walking. He probably couldn’t even see where he was going, and I had to suppress laughter when I pictured him falling to the ground.

Cho was still talking, mumbling about us two. But she was wrong, I couldn’t think of Weasley as anything other than a nuisance. Maybe if he was friendly and kind instead of mean and competitive. We were both prefects, but I didn’t guide my house with such iron fist. Besides, one thing was making sure the rules were followed and another one was believing oneself to be above everyone else because of the power we had. We were prefects, not the Headmaster.

If he changed, maybe then I could start to consider seeing him with new eyes. And even then, I didn’t think it was possible after so many years of rivalry.

I was so close to making the perfect essay! All I needed was a few sources to back up my arguments, so I headed to the library.

I smiled when I was received by the familiar scent of books, parchment and wood. There was a constant low murmur as students quietly talked amongst themselves and turned pages.

After taking a few books from the shelves and scamming over them, I realized their contents weren’t what I was looking for. If I wanted to write an impressive paper for our Dark Against the Darks Arts class, I would have to look for something a bit more… grim.

Walking calmly, I took a look at Madame Pince. She was busying herself with reading a book, so immersed in it that her nose nearly touched the pages.

I took advantage of that moment and hurried to the forbidden section. I instantly saw the book I wanted and quickly snatched it from its place. A second after, I hid it under my robes and continued innocently walking along the library.

Guilt consumed me immediately, but I knew it was the best way to do it. Our professor could be quite mild and may not agree to sign a permit for me to access the forbidden section. In any case, I promised myself to return it as soon as I had consulted what I needed.

When I dedicated Madame Pince a smile and walked out of the library, I huffed in relief. However, I wasn’t quite safe yet.

Not truly watching where I was going, too preoccupied with being caught still, I walked into someone. We collided, sending all the books I carried to the ground.

“Y/L/N” A familiar snobbish voice called me. “Watch where you’re going!!”

“Same goes for you, Gryffindor” I angrily plopped down to the ground to gather my books.

Weasley rolled his eyes and crouched down to help me, heaving a sigh. I was surprised that he didn’t simply laugh at me and leave. As I watched him in astonishment, his eyes never met mine.

Our hands nearly brushed as we gathered my books, yet we quickly pulled away before that happened. I couldn’t help thinking about Cho and her adamancy about my feelings for Percy, which were allegedly reciprocated. As if I harbored feelings for him at all.

“Thanks” I mumbled as we both rose to our feet. “I suppose…”

Weasley’s eyes traveled from mine down to my books. His expression, mildly tame, immediately shifted to his usual vexed scowl.

“I knew I saw you doing something bad!” He suddenly exclaimed, leaning closer.

I was startled as he took one of the books from me by the force. I felt myself blushing when he showed me the cover, tapping it with his finger to reinforce his point.

“Did Madame Pince allow you to pull a book from the restricted section?”

I shushed him when people began glancing our way, taken aback by his loud voice. I reclaimed the book, which I held safe in my arms, and glared at him.

“It’s for class!” I excused myself, just then realizing I owed him no explanations.

“Is it now? It doesn’t matter… You stole it, didn’t you?”

“I did not!” I exclaimed, matching his loud tone. “I merely borrowed it!”

“You Slytherin!” Weasley spat out, looking me up and down.

I gawked at him, feeling insulted by the way he was treating me.

“At least I have some initiative, Weasley!” That said, I faced my back to him.

I heard him stomping his feet as he followed me to the staircase. There weren’t as much people there.

“You broke the rules! We are not allowed on the restricted section unless we have a permit from one of the professors”

I rolled my eyes and continued walking. Of course I knew that. But it was simply too much trouble for such a quick query.

However, I yelped when the books flew out of my hands all of a sudden. Moved by a hunch, I turned around to face Weasley. Indeed, he firmly wielded his wand.

“What about you, prefect?” I scolded him, forgetting about the books. “You broke another rule! We are not to use magic outside of class!”

Unfazed by my reaction, Weasley only held my glance, defiant.

“So you do know the rules after all” He sarcastically said.

I was so angry and exasperated, how could he be so bothersome? I felt tears of pure frustration gathering at the corner of my eyes.

“Why do you hate me so much, Weasley?” I shoved him, wishing he stopped watching me like a hawk. All I wanted to do was finish my essay. I never meant any harm.

I despised that my eyes were becoming watery. I pushed him a little more, trying to vent all that pent up aggression.

Suddenly, his expression drastically changed. His frown softened and his mouth opened in awe. Weasley then furrowed his brows again, this time in confusion.

“I… I never hated you…” His voice lowered as well, now nearly a whisper.

“Yes, you did” I averted my gaze, rattled without knowing why. “You keep pointing out every single thing I do wrong”

I… I wanted him to like me, I realized. Instead of seeing my flaws, I wanted him to congratulate my achievements instead of condemning my failures.

“I thought… Weren’t we doing this to bring out the best in each other? As students, as prefects, as… people” Percy blinked repeatedly, watching me carefully. There was utter astonishment reflected in his eyes. “I thought you enjoyed it like I did”

“No, stupid, I didn’t!” Once again, I leaned down to gather my books.

This time, he nearly threw himself to the ground to help me. He gestured with his hands, silently asking me to let him do it on his own. I let him, thinking it was the least he could do.

When we both stood to our feet, there was a newfound kindness in his expression while he handed me back my books. Our fingers touched, and this time we didn’t pull away.

“I… admired you” As he spoke up, breaking the tense silence, he begrudgingly looked away. “You are smart and determined and…”

“Stop” I asked him, feeling uncomfortable with his sincere words. “It feels weird when you compliment me”

He laughed. That sound was completely new to me, and I felt like the person before me wasn’t Percy Weasley anymore. At least not the one I used to know.

“Maybe you’re not so bad yourself” I muttered, needing to let him know how I felt.

“You’re right, it feels weird” Percy grimaced, shaking his head with disgust.

“That is” I completed to fix it. “When you’re not being a jerk”

His smile returned, and I found myself liking that sight. I hated to think what Cho would say when I’d tell her what happened.

“Are you saying you like me, Y/N?” It was the first time he used my actual name. At least the first time he uttered it without any traces of mockery.

“Ugh” I sighed, rolling my eyes at him like I always did. “You’re so annoying, Weasley”

For just a moment, Percy grinned to my comment. However, he soon scowled again, almost making me wonder if that smile was a product of my imagination.

“You are annoying, Ravenclaw” He walked away, deliberately bumping his shoulder against mine.

We both headed opposite ways, pretending nothing had happened. Nonetheless, when I looked over my shoulder I found with his glance. He was smiling again.

Tag list: @dancewaterdance02 / @raararasputin / @thisismysecrethappyplace / @bitchingpretty / @lookinsidemyhead / @c-taylor-wanna-be-a-glader / @welcome-here-in-my-world / @x-joie-x / @under-the-clouds // If you want to be added or taken off the tag list for these fandoms or characters, let me know!! // Reblogs and comments are appreciated!

#imagine #oneshot #hp #hp imagine #hp oneshot #harry potter imagine #harry potter oneshot #percy weasley #percy weasley x reader #percy weasley imagine #percy weasley oneshot #reader insert #requested #rfi writings

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mimiplaysgames · 5 years

Text

Transitions ~ In colors like paint

Terraqua Week Day 3: Seasons

Summary: Change hurts. There will be a lot of missteps before Aqua can figure out how to start anew. Where each season makes them realize how much they really need to forgive each other - and themselves. @terraquaweek

Read on AO3

***

Autumn ~ Taking stock of adulthood

Their first days back home are about rest: remembering what laughing feels like, how delicious Aqua’s baking is, how a snore sounds.

What they’ve reaped from months (years) of neglect is a castle full of dust and piles of dirt tucked into corners from the wind blowing in. It’s how autumn gathers a storm of red and yellow, leaving them stacked against windows that need to be aired out like dirty laundry.

The castle is far too big for them, so the west wing is particularly ignored, wood all needing a good wax and cushions that need to be washed. Right now, it’s about figuring out what they have in order to prepare for the new students coming in next year.

Ventus sneezes as he walks past the fifth couch in the third lounge they have seen today (they’ll have to convert a lot of them into bedrooms) when Terra opens the door.

“You won’t believe what I just found,” he says, though he’s directing it mainly towards Aqua.

It’s a short walk around two corners, heading towards the back of the castle, where he leads them through a maze of hallways just to stop at another hallway.

“Remember this?” He points and asks Aqua.

A small painting near the floor, faded from age, depict stick figures of a girl and a boy with a cartoonish mockery of a castle in gold, and a simple sun. Plus two tiny hand prints, one made in gray-blue paint and one in dull-orange.

It’s been at least a good twelve years since she’s ever thought of it.

Aqua sits on her knees and touches the figure - the paint is so dry and crusty that it chips off the shoulder of her character. She’ll have to be gentler next time.

“I still can’t believe the Master never removed it,” she says softly.

“Yeah, he was really mad at us,” Terra says, bending down with her and pressing his hand against the print his child-self left behind. He is so big now that the child’s memory in its entirety is smaller than his palm.

“How old were the two of you when you did this?” Ventus asks, leaning on his knees to inspect the masterpiece.

Aqua and Terra shoot looks at each other, seeking permission to speak first, pondering their minds to see if they have the same answer.

“Six and seven, I think,” Aqua answers, and Terra agrees. “We finger-painted it. That was the first time I was ever grounded.”

“Cute… what are you going to do with it now?”

Desaturated from its original colors, the painting looks like a stain against the towering white wall, which stretches down the hall.

“The responsible thing, I guess,” she says, though her voice hitches in the slightest - something about the thought makes her feel like she’s killing her child, like the Aqua of the past and the Aqua of now are two different people. In a way, she’s betraying someone close to her. “Paint over it, keep it clean for the new students.”

Terra shakes his head, running his palm against the wall surrounding the old paint like he’s measuring it.

“Is that what you actually want?” he asks.

“Not really.”

“I don’t feel right doing it either,” he says. “It’s like, the Terra who left this behind had no idea how his life was going to turn out. All he had were goals and dreams.”

She chuckles - as much as she enjoys watching him smile, she’d have to say he’s at his most beautiful when he’s introspective.

“I feel the same way, if I’m going to be honest.”

“Yeah.” He takes one hard look at the painting. “I want to make amends to my younger self, instead of burying him. Let him be happy. Is that strange?”

“Not at all.” What is strange is how near she is at tears - Terra always has a way of knowing what she needs, even if he doesn’t mean to. Less strange is her need to hold his hand; years of lacking any affection made her realize that what she truly wanted this entire time was for him to touch her.

So she takes his hand, grips it firmly, and so easily he weaves his fingers in hers, like it’s same old, same old.

Terra faces Ven, to include him in. “Why don’t we give it some attention? It looks really sad.”

“There’s paint in the storage unit,” Ventus replies excitedly.

The old paint smells bad but it’s not like they have anything else - it’s not every day these three indulge in a little arts and crafts session. Fingers too big to mimic the traces of children, they use pencil-thin brushes and careful strokes to make the recoat as close to the original: Terra and Aqua on their respective characters and handprints, Ventus on the cartoon sun and castle.

It’s only with Terra’s permission that Ven can add a stick figure of himself and Chirithy.

When they are done, Terra opens a sealed pot of green paint. “Ven, you’ll join in.”

He dips his own hand into orange paint, and plasters it on the wall, right next to his old hand print.

Aqua follows suit with the blue, and it feels like she’s making a new friend.

With the stick end of a paintbrush, Terra points to a place in between. “Yours will go here, Ven.”

Ventus gives him a look, almost like he was about to joke over how seriously Terra is taking this, but decides against it, following orders by dipping his hand into the green paint and adding it to the painting.

“Cheers’ will go right beside yours,” Terra says.

Chirithy chooses purple and on goes its tiny pawprint, like a period to a sentence. One little happy family with a cat-thing.

Honestly, it still looks like a mess in comparison to the stunning white wall, but at least it’s colorful, like a permanent bouquet of flowers in an otherwise cold season that only exists to make it colder.

Winter ~ There are two kinds of death: one of irreversible changes, and one of growth from rot

Winter is for snuggling, for warm hot chocolates, blankets, fireplaces, and stories to make everyone forget that it’s miserable outside.

If only Terra is here to enjoy that. His replies through the Gummiphone are inconsistent and short, like he doesn’t want to be bothered or is too busy to really check. He is most vague when he refers to his whereabouts.

Ventus is doing the favor of waiting for Terra to return, but he’s been planning his own trip for quite some time. It’s not fair to him - but at least he won’t be alone, since Chirithy will go with him.

Aqua supposes that she would like at least a day with her whole family together.

“You sure you have everything?” she asks him.

Ventus smirks but thinks better than giving her a sarcastic answer. “That’s the third time you’ve asked me, but yes.”

She sighs. Snow builds up in the skylights. Where is Terra?

“Excited?” she asks, thinking it best not to dread over things. It’s always how she ruins the moment.

“I am,” he starts, slowly realizing something else like there’s a voice in his head trying to convince him otherwise. “Maybe. Merlin is probably going to have me sitting all day reading books.”

Ventus doesn’t think he’d be a good teacher or has the capability of being a leader, so he wants to seek knowledge instead. And who better to start than by honing his finesse over magic than with the wizard himself?

“Lea and Kairi only had good things to say about his training.”

“That’s only because they’re polite when you’re around,” Ventus smirks.

She sighs. Again. “Terra should be here to say goodbye.”

He nods over to the direction past her. “Why don’t you tell him?”

Whipping over her shoulder, she sees who-else-but strolling up to them, his overcoat gone and without his shoes which means he has entered the castle and didn’t say hi to them first.

Chirithy, who most of the time sits quietly on Ven’s shoulders and is a bit too calculating with which conversations it joins, squeaks to itself. “Something is not right.”

She’ll pretend not to hear that. “Where were you?” Aqua asks Terra.

Ventus clears his throat - an indication that just maybe, the inflection in her voice may sound a tad accusatory. Not the best way to start anything with Terra.

“Around,” is his casual answer, gliding past her and reaching to ruffle Ven’s hair. “I’m glad I made it in time. Needed to say good luck.”

“And now it’s time for me to leave,” Ventus says, fixing his hairdo. “I want to beat the snowstorm at least.”

“You’d only be exposed for a few minutes before you leave the world,” Terra objects.

“Well, someone should have been here earlier.” Ignoring the way Chirithy is pulling at his hair, he takes his only suitcase. “The next time you’ll see me, I’ll wow you with my new skills, and you will all be jealous.”

He gives the two of them one final look before heading out the door. “Play nice, you two.”

Maybe she’s the only one thinking that something’s amiss, what with Terra rubbing his forearms together with a smile on his face as he faces her. “I want to show you something.”

That something is a pile of rags neatly laid out on the floor under the wall with the child’s painting, and brand new buckets of paint.

Terra is excited. “I thought we could make a mural out of this.” His fingers graze the wall, tracing it as he walks down. “We could have a night sky up above, with stars. Under it will be the mountains, and the castle at the very end.” He comes back to their childish project, cupping his hands around it. “We’ll keep this here, protected.”

It’s hard not to burst his bubble. It’s also really hard not to make it sound awful coming out of her mouth. “You left us to buy paint?”

He lays a fist against the white. “Not really. I just needed some time to myself.”

She folds her arms to hug herself. All she really wants is a straight answer, but Terra’s not the type to be pushed. “You were gone for a really long time.”

“I know.” He doesn’t look her in the eye; she will not get her answer tonight. “But we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he says, addressing the wall. “We’ll only do it with your permission.”

“My permission?” She scratches her ear. “You already bought the paint.”

“We may need it for other things.” He shrugs. “You’re still keeper of the castle.”

She sighs. It’s nice to see him look forward to something. She’s thought so much about what made him leave in the first place, reliving the days right before again and again in her mind - he was restless a little bit, didn’t sleep much, but none of that is new. Then he left to fight some straggling Heartless in another world, and never came back.

Maybe she’s taking him completely out of context.

“Tell me first why you’re so attached to this idea,” she says.

He taps the wall. “It’s weird, I know I’m back, but it feels like I’m not...

“I wanted a fresh start. Do something the Master would never approve of. A blank slate for us to go off on that has nothing to do with the lives we’ve lived or the hell we’ve been through. I want something just for the both of us. Like, something that tells us we have our lives back together. Does that make sense?”

It does. Getting on the right footing with him isn’t the easiest thing when he’s completely enveloped in giving her attention one day and then completely distant the next. She can’t blame him for that either, she behaves the same way sometimes.

Having trauma is like having some days all to herself; the rest no longer belong to her.

But a few weeks of him gone - when she’s spent years praying that he’d touch her again - is worse torture.

Aqua decides it’s time to let the past die. She wraps her arms around his waist, digs her face into his sweater.

“We’ll start by hugging you?” she replies.

He closes the embrace, holding her firmly like he’s forgotten that he needed the hug too.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice in her hair. “For making you worry.”

She nods. “Can I hug you whenever I want?”

He snorts, bringing her in tighter. “I’d like that.”

“Okay.” She brings herself to look up at him, his genuine smile in full display. “We can do the mural.”

Excitement on Terra’s face is special: it’s subtle, so much so that anyone who doesn’t know him well would probably never guess.

He gives her a gentle squeeze to let her know he’ll let her go, before opening a bucket of blue paint and dipping a wide brush into it. Starting a few inches from the child’s painting, he sweeps upward - the color of a winter sky.

Spring ~ Birth by sleep

Flowers make blossoming look easy. It gradually comes in a matter of days, berry sprouts and flecks of color casually making their acquaintance through the fields. Soon, the Master’s old gardens will have a variety of colors.

Soon, if she takes care of them.

The ease at which she finds gardening isn’t true for anything else in her life that needs growth. Birthing a new life with Terra is slow, arduous, exciting, and truth be told, painful at times - painful when old habits don’t die and he keeps stonewalling her when she presses him too hard.

Nighttime in the spring isn’t like the summer’s - it’s cold.

It was only supposed to be a simple mission, taking out Heartless that threatened a small town. That was it.

Terra storms through the entrance hall, throwing his helmet in a fury as she follows from behind.

“Listen to me,” she calls from behind him, “there’s nothing wrong with what-”

He stops dead in his tracks, whips to face her, holds a finger up like he’s going to jab it in her face, then thinks better of it and crosses his arms, head slung over.

Part of her wants to berate herself for pushing the subject when he’s uncomfortable; the other has lost her patience. How many times is this erratic mood going to continue?

“It wasn’t a big deal,” she says. Wasn’t it?

“How can you say that,” he snaps.

“You were only trying to help-”

“That doesn’t help at all-”

“You didn’t even hurt anybody-”

“I could have!”

It shuts her up, it surprises him. She can count the number of times Terra has ever yelled in his life in one hand, this being included. It’s just not like him. The sound of it throwing itself against the walls still vibrates, and he stares at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have really pressed the issue.”

All Terra does is shake his head, mumbling to himself with his eyes closed. He’s in a ton of pain, and in her desperate need to correct what’s been going on, she really failed at seeing it. She really should have been more sensitive, she really should have…

“This is the reason you disappeared a few months ago, right?” she asks.

It’s the purse in his lips and the sharp inhale that tells her she’s right. “I’m going to bed,” he says.

“Terra, I really am sorry.”

“I heard you, you’re forgiven.” Said like someone who wants to be as far away from her as possible.

“We-” she starts, her hand outstretched because she always, always hugs him goodnight.

He actually stops and turns to face her. Leave it to Terra to be the better person, to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Um…” She hides one hand in her sashes, to let herself fiddle with her fingers without making it obvious. “We can work on the mural tonight, if you want to.”

He licks his lips. “Not tonight.” Defeated and tired are just two words to describe it, turning away like they’ve never made a deal about hugs before.

The castle is still and sleepy when she’s by herself. Ventus is still in his sabbatical, Terra retiring to his room for the rest of… some part of her is scared that he’ll have to take a break too.

When she walks, the echoes of her shoes are heard by nothing, slightly bouncing off the walls before silence takes a bite.

It’s quieter in the western wing. The mural is tedious work, so humongous that Terra, who’s been doing the sky, has to shuffle in between steps of the ladder just to paint vertically, before having to scooch the entire thing over to get to the next surface area. She’s doing the grass, and she splits her time between standing up and being on her knees.

So far, the base colors are done, two flat sections of dark blue and green. What they’d have to do next is the shading, making grass blades and pepper it with stars...

Which would give them ample time to talk about things, if he was here. Painting is the best therapist, giving their hands and half their mind something pleasant to do while allowing them the comfort to talk.

But Terra isn’t here.

No, Terra is in his room, and she hears ruffling when she stands outside his door. She’s sure to knock softly.

He gives her a soft “Hey” when he opens the door, his face wearing regret over what happened earlier. Behind him is an opened suitcase with haphazardly folded clothes.

“You’re leaving again?” she asks and crosses her arms.

“Thinking about it.” He slips his hands into his pockets, clears his throat. He honestly looks like a child accepting that his parents have abandoned him. “I’m just not comfortable with… with knowing what I’m capable of.”

“You don’t think, for even a second that-” She breathes. “That maybe darkness won’t be so bad if you used it right?”

“Used it right?”

“I’ve had it.” She places her hand firmly against her chest, in conviction. So that he sees her, so that he understands. “And it was sad. That’s all I felt, that’s all it was. And I still feel sad sometimes, but I’m not dark.”

“But I don’t want it.” He swings his arm in dismissal. “If I could, I’d punch it in the face for what it did to you.”

Pause. To care this much, and she cares, too. Too much to let him think it’d be a good idea to leave. “It was effective at least.”

“It’s still darkness.”

“Riku wouldn’t even agree with you.” Her breath hitches. When is she going to learn to respect his boundaries? “You have a good heart, Terra. You have all the right intentions, you’re kind and generous and steadfast and the best person I know-”

It’s the way he’s staring at her that makes her stop. She hasn’t realized yet that she’s building tears behind her eyes.

“I won’t leave if you don’t want me to,” he says, a compassionate smile on his face, like he’s so tired of this but he chooses to sympathize with her anyway.

She wants to say Please don’t leave me, beg him to keep this castle alive while Ventus and Chirithy are gone, but that is unbecoming of her.

She could say Please stay, but then how could she be better person if she was still trying to nudge Terra around to her whim?

She could say It’s fine, please go, and it would betray what she really wants, allow Terra to cater to his own needs while she tolerates her pain. Again.

Taking that first step towards him is the hardest, like trying to breathe underwater and feeling the burn, her heart pounding like it’s beating holes into the earth with its bare hands. Starting over has its costs.

Her arms wrap around his neck, and she says, “I love you.”

She doesn’t know what else to say, this being the truest, as bare as the tears falling down her face.

Terra… gasps. Freezes in her touch like he’s unsure of what to do, before hugging her back, so tightly like she’ll just slip if he loosens his grip.

All she hears are trembling sighs like she’s cast a silence spell on him, but she still listens - to the way he rubs her arms, the way his eyes scatter her face, the way he cups her jaw and leans down to kiss her -

Not on her mouth, but on her eyelid, leading down the trail of tears like he’s drinking them, to her jaw before moving on to the other eyelid. It’s loony for sure, but it speaks with his truth: this new, mutable Terra has his heart where it’s always been all these years - with her.

The touch of his lips, it’s better than anything she’s ever daydreamed about in her youth, in the Realm of Darkness. Startling and soft enough to make her stop crying, that every tear coming out now is just a straggler who left too late.

When he’s done, he takes her lips in his, her waist into his arms, her hair into his hands. They both tremble in this embrace, shocked and nervous and excited about the exchange, anew, like this is the first time either of them have been born.

They only stop to take a breath. “Can I stay?” she asks.

He grins into her forehead. “I was going to ask you the same.”

It takes countless more kisses, more silent tears of joy, more back rubs and more breathy laughs in between before they go to his bed and make a new life in between their bodies, for themselves. They end the night with a whispered promise that they’ll continue the mural tomorrow.

Summer ~ To make room for joy

If summer is supposed to be for relaxing, it doesn’t exist inside the castle. It’s crunch time - setting up class schedules, moving new furniture in, making a dormitory out of the western wing.

Perhaps, most personally, it’s time to finally finish it. The tediousness gets easier with time.

Terra stands at the very top of the ladder at the far right side, finishing his last few stars, rounded out like curved Wayfinders, some larger, others like twinkles.

Aqua is below, proudly finished with shading grass and adding trees. She’s touching up the biggest stained-glass window of a depiction of the castle, using a photograph as a reference - it’s very two-dimensional but she’s not a professional.

“I think I’m done,” she announces.

“You’ll find a reason to come back and tweak it,” he says, his face mere inches from the wall as he adds the tiniest bit of stars over the tallest tower.

“But,” he adds, taking one last look over, “I’m definitely done.”

He waddles down the finicky ladder, squeaking with every step. The last stars he added look like dots, scattered and spread over the castle like a blessing.

“Stardust,” she says. “Protecting the castle, that’s so sweet.”

“Really?” He looks up, his grip never leaving the ladder rungs, and shrugs. “Kind of, yeah.”

“What is it supposed to be?”

“I mean, stardust, you’re right.” He lets go. “I think other people would interpret it the same way.”

“I’m serious.”

He chuckles, rubs the back of his neck. “The star is crying.”

She nearly drops her paintbrush. “Why are you thinking about crying?”

A pause first before he crosses his arms, wipes his mouth of nervousness. “There’s not much I remember from… being… Xehanort really.”

That name always makes them tense and they seldom say it. It’s usually you-know-who, or him, or that time.

“I don’t know where he was during that time,” Terra continues, “but it was one of the very few moments that I actually had some consciousness. I heard things, like voices. I don’t know why he was talking to a little girl, but I heard her, so clearly.”

He’s somewhere far away, completely forgetting that he has his hand suspended in the air as he reminisces.

“They were actually talking about hearts, him and this little girl, and she said to him that when a person cries, their tears are their hearts shedding, and they lose a part of themselves the more they do...

“And I always suspected that was what made me so weak, because being in that darkness felt like I was crying for twelve years. I wanted to paint that in to make it okay.”

The thought makes him cry, like he’s finally putting a secret to rest.

She takes his face in her hands, does the same nutty ritual he gave her months ago, starting with a kiss to his eyelid, tracing the tears running down his cheek, to his jaw, then to the other eyelid.

There’s sense in picking up his tears and making them her own.

“It will be our secret interpretation,” she says.

He takes her by the waist, smirking in his last attempt to let go of the baggage. Stares at her for a second too long, like he keeps arguing with himself to say something.

“I love you, too.”

The words leave her speechless - she always chose to feel loved when he held her close every night.

He laughs, his fingers interlacing with each other on her back, so he can’t let her go. “I’m sorry I never said them before.”

She cocks him a half-smile. “Why didn’t you?”

“I…” He shrugs. “I knew this was all real but when you told me that, I honestly started to question if I was in a dream. That I’d wake up and find myself in darkness, like I was experiencing a fantasy I wanted.”

“Terra,” she smacks him on the chest. “That’s depressing.”

“I just didn’t know why.”

“Why?”

“Yes, why you love me.”

She kisses him, long, hard, sweet. “That’s why.”

… It’s like someone has been watching a show and was just waiting for the prime opportunity to interrupt.

“Looks like no one’s been missing us,” Ventus says from behind her, Chirithy along for the ride, getting a front-seat view.

It makes her jump and whip around, nearly melting in Terra’s arms out of embarrassment.

“Ven,” she calls, half-relieved, half-shocked, mostly hot-faced as she picks up speed to give him a well-deserved Welcome Back hug. Terra follows with a rough rustle through the hair, like he’s been dying to do it for months.

“Please be sure,” Chirithy says, “to behave more appropriately in front of the students when they get here.”

Aqua brings her hand to her chest like she just heard something scandalous - Chirithy is way more responsibility than a house cat, almost like having a nagging teacher around that they have to feed and bathe and brush.

“I’m sorry, Cheers, I just didn’t know,” she says, to keep the peace, scratching under its chin like an olive branch.

Terra gives her a look, a smirk that says he’s quite proud of himself. Yes, let’s pretend they haven’t been kissing for months and that no one has seen anything.

“It looks so great!” Ventus says about their handiwork.

“We had a lot of fun,” Terra says, bringing his hands back into his pockets.

Ventus has a huge, ornate book that looks like it has been written 500 years ago in one arm, and he opens it. “I think it’s missing something.”

“You’re not ruining it.”

He waves his arm in dismissal. “I know what I’m doing.”

After reading to himself, he takes a look around, then back down to the page. Then back up. “We’ll need the lights off, please.”

He then prepares himself in front of the mural, re-checking his book and noticing that he can’t read it anymore because it’s too dark.

It would be nice to add Ven into such a precious project, but come on.

“Terra’s right,” Aqua says. “If you ruin it, you’re done for.”

“I get it,” Ventus says. He turns over his shoulder. “Just don’t make out behind me.”

“Get on with it,” Terra says, taking his place next to Aqua.

Ventus sighs, takes a moment.

“You can do it,” Chirithy squeaks, “teach him he is wrong.”

Teach who he is wrong?

Ven conjures a ball of light, grabs it, waves it, and throws, making it burst into a spray of sparks, each landing on one of Terra’s stars, adding bright shine to them and a glitter effect to the stardust.

“Ven, it’s wonderful,” Aqua says, nearly being moved to tears. She stops herself, bringing a finger to her face and looking over at Terra, who is wide-eyed at her and points a finger like he’s telling her to watch.

It’s been a long time since all of them smiled like this.

“HA!” Ventus exclaims, and it makes her jump. He slams the book closed. “This will show him.”

“What is this about?” she asks.

“I’ve been with him for months and he didn’t think I was capable of doing this.” He brings his gummiphone out, to take a picture. “I swore I’d make him eat his words.”

“You’ve shown all of us,” Terra says, nudging Aqua on the arm. “I’m completely jealous.”

“Yes,” Aqua says, shoving him back before accepting an arm around her. “I am, too.”

“It will now shine at night like this forever,” Ven says. He’s proud of himself, and he should be. “Something for the students to look at whenever they want.”

“We’ll have stars indoors when it’s storming out,” Aqua says, leaning her head onto Terra’s.

“The best gift ever.” Terra slips his fingers in between hers, in the dark, where Ven can’t see (but Ven can assume correctly that it’s happening).

In the mountains, summer nights are clear. The perfect shade of blue skies, a balance of cool breezes to scare away the heat, begging for noise and campfires.

Stardust will bless the castle, trees will dance in the wind. In the wish for a future, there’s a halo of white to protect a painting of childish dreams.

#terraqua #terqua #terraquaweek #kh fanfic #aqua #terra #kingdom hearts fanfiction #terraqua week #AHHHHHH this is the only long one #i swear!!!!#my fic

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dbhilluminate · 5 years

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DBHI: Redemption- "The Open Door", pt. 4

ARE YOU A FAN OF DETROIT? DO YOU LIKE GAY SHIPS AND COMPLICATED, LOVEABLE BOYS?? Then please keep up with our fic, you’ll love it, I promise!

(Chapter art by dark_dumb)

**Co-authored by grayorca15

Characters: Trevor Langley, Dennis Lenore, Vivienne Lenore-Anderson, Cassandra Carter, (mentions of Dylan Fleur, Spencer, Connor, Zach) Word Count: 8,335

• Archive link • Chapter Index • • Related Works • Characters •

Previous Chapter

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July 4th, 2041 - 10:56PM

The ride home was just as insufferable as the commute out, if not more so. Dennis hadn’t been able to contain the infectious grin for longer than ten minutes before he’d started prodding him with invasive questions and observations. Then it was one after another after another, like a conga-line of aggravation. You seem a lot more relaxed now than you did earlier. Looks like the two of you really hit it off. Did you have fun? What do you think? Are you gonna visit again? You should, it’d really do you both some good. On and on and on and on he went, so long-winded that after a certain point, Trev turned off his audio receptors just so he could hear himself think. The last thing he wanted while he was trying to decompress and process everything he had learned about Dylan Fleur, was to have another beyond-redundant, one-sided ‘I told you so’ conversation with Lenore, however good his intentions had been.

Thinking on how ‘successful’ the setup was just made him want to deny everything before he could even acknowledge it, but it was a little late for second thoughts now. Infantile as said appreciation was for Dylan’s tireless tenacity and ass-backward definition of tact, he couldn’t deny that his company still had more going for it than the lonely apartment awaiting him could offer. It had taken a new experience to really put into perspective how empty he felt without someone to talk to, just as being outed as an Android had irreversibly altered everything he thought he knew about himself, where he fit into the world, and his reason for being at all. It wasn’t all bad though. Dylan was a far better person for catalyzing the revelation the way he had (namely because no one needed to die to reveal it), even if it meant suffering a few inquisitional phases. Good-intentioned people or not, most went about asking the wrong way entirely, their fixated earnestness feeling more grating than gratifying in his twisted-up mind (with the exception of Dennis, whose brusque and authoritative approach Trev didn’t mind half as much). But not Fleur. Even though he’d had his moments where he’d crossed the line of what were and weren’t acceptable topics of conversation, Trev did have to give him credit for backing off at the first sign of severe discomfort. Most wouldn’t have taken the hint, most would have kept pushing for an answer to sate their own curiosities. Compared to the humiliation of admitting to someone ‘I believed I was human until about five months ago’ and being outright laughed at, shots from rubber bands and paint balloons were a small nuisance to endure for the sake of a little company; and it had eventually ended with Fleur making the effort to clean up the mess he’d made of him, inside and out. In that case specifically, he supposed some nuisances were better than none at all, if they made him feel important and not forgotten. Dylan had done well enough to make sure of that, compared to those at the academy who assumed he his status within Archangel to be higher than it was.

Truth was, RK800 or not, Trev was simply a nobody with a famous pedigree and a unique circumstance. Having virtually the same face as Connor or Zach or any other primaries he had met, had done him no favors to endear him to them. Contrary to popular belief, it hadn’t netted him any special perks- it hadn’t nabbed him the biggest dorm room in the building, a department-issued ride, or an all-access pass to Illuminate archives. Not even Spencer had made any qualms about the similarities in their appearance, just deflected it when others asked, saying he was simply ‘modeled after him’. The falsified story was that Spencer had been designed to resemble Trev, and not vice versa. What a crock that turned out to be.

Thinking of Spencer immediately sobered him, amidst musing over how quiet and empty his living space was. The shower he had intended to take didn’t feel so important, once he’d made it home. His desire to do so had gone by the wayside after he bid Dennis farewell, apologized again for leaving him with a blotchy suit to dry clean (as the detective insisted on doing, no less than three times), and closed the door. Trev’s mind was quickly turning into someplace he’d rather not be, and a shower would only open the floodgates for more stray thoughts to find their way in. He could still spare another hour before tending to end-of-day maintenance if it meant dodging that potential breakdown for a little longer. Langley paused at the door as it closed behind him and took a glance around the room. The dorms weren’t short on repurposed refuse, being the old disused apartment complex it once was. Most of the units hadn’t been cleared of what had been left behind by previous tenants, except to make room for new beds. City renovation crews had made sure the building was up to code before allowing anyone to live in it again. Holes in the walls and ceilings had been patched, water and electricity restored to working order, the dingy walls cleaned and repainted, the floors resurfaced where needed, and the building tented to get rid of unwanted pests. Archangel had done the rest to supply whatever their students needed- thirium or other necessary fluids, plus tools and parts required for maintenance could be found in the commissary on the first floor, free of charge. Had he been housed here without such a drastic revelation to expose his android heritage (and shatter the façade of being human), he may have bought into it, simply based on the facts that he had never starved or asked where the bathroom was. Short term memory pre-constructs had once filled the gaps were such inconsistencies would have stood out, but with his awakening had come the loss of the need for such subroutines to execute, leaving him with the fallout of constant reminders that he was not what he once thought. And because of that, it had and hadn’t been easy to adjust to life in Zion (Detroit’s newly established Android suburb). Being surrounded by so many other androids who had developed their own semblance of society, and a number of like-minded humans helping them find their feet, wasn’t what bothered him. What he had such a hard time dealing with was being faced with all that he didn’t do, but once believed he did.

Trevor paced across the tiny room and brushed his fingertips over the desk by the window, opened the single drawer and sifted through what few provisions his study desk contained that weren’t technical in design, seeking just what Dylan had suggested: an outlet, something to keep his hands busy while his mind churned away. As fate would have it, its previous owner had left behind a few pencils and some old sheets of blank, yellowing stationery that crackled loudly to the touch. He’d never used something as archaic as this, but seeing the drawings on the walls had him curious to see what it would feel like to drag the graphite across the page, and what it might yield. Trev reached for the items, set them out on the table, flipped on the desk lamp and sat down to find out, if only to get the whim to do so out of his system before it manifested into something that couldn’t be ignored. Idly, he scratched the dull point of the pencil back and forth over the scrap paper and thought again on Dylan’s offer about the door being ‘always open’. So far, he had nothing but reason to believe it was genuine- the boy had made it abundantly clear that he would have liked to see him come around again. So if by some miracle he’d just been leading him on, did he really have much to lose in taking him up on it, aside from maybe a little peace of mind? The subtle vibration from the toothy drag of graphite against paper was weirdly soothing. Even if it wasn’t exactly productive, it was still a nice break from doing digital coursework for a job he already knew how to perform back to front, with the exception of a few changes unique to Zion law. For the most part, Archangel had imported Detroit’s Law Enforcement standard and Municipal Law as it was; but due to the nature of its Android population, some laws had been added or amended appropriately. It would have been easy enough just to give him a list of the differences and significantly cut back on his time in the academy. But after nearly three months of no police work after a psychotic break, Sarah decided that a full course would serve him well as a refresher, in addition to helping him fit in with the other cadets. Some days Trev envied them, as one might through a pane of glass. What he wouldn’t give to be just another starry-eyed pupil of law enforcement, fresh and green and running only with a want to learn. All he knew -apart from what he wasn’t- was law enforcement, even if his blue-blooded heart just wasn’t in it the way it once was. He was supposed to want to help others (‘Protect and Serve’ and all that jazz), but considering the mental condition he was in these days, it would have been better for everyone if he’d just bothered to help himself first. At some point, he would have to become self-sufficient, take charge of whatever his life was outside the job, and learn how to become more personable. Everyone was saying as much, in their own way… but why did it have to be such a hurdle?

“That blasted-” Five minutes later he conceded exactly what he was drawing with a scathing glare, the android sighed, swept it off the desk and listened to it flutter to the floor. What began as two symmetrical circles had turned into a macro study of a pair of eyes. Even without any color attributed to them, the sly slant of them, the svelte lashes, and the freckles peppered around the sockets could only belong to one person. The worst of it was that he hadn’t even given much conscious thought to what his hand would draw; but as he detuned from the world for a few moments, it was the defining characteristic of his would-be associate he was invariably drawn toward. The magnetism was at work, even at a distance, and couldn’t let him forget even for a few minutes. Fighting it would be more of a headache than simply letting it be, and therein lay the problem. It was going along with what seemed like the easy route that had led to the status quo being shattered before. Logically, there was no possible way this could go so horribly wrong the same way twice, but he couldn’t be faulted for being leery.

Putting ideas in my head like that. Who does he think he is? And who am I kidding? This won’t benefit anybody. It’ll only be a- a waste of time. I don’t need distractions. I need to focus. I can’t - lose focus again.

But that had been the problem from the start- if he had focused more to begin with, questioned more, put the puzzle together faster, maybe he wouldn’t be here. Maybe he would have figured it out sooner. Maybe Spencer wouldn’t be dead. That was a lot of maybes to get so hung up on when Dennis had started the night off reminding him to try and take it easy and not implode. Without the constant cajoling that followed, however, that proved difficult to achieve, and the path of self-pity so much easier to follow.

Maybe if they had seen fit to lay off-

-they wouldn’t have burned that lead out so fast. Spencer cautioned him against tailing the witness for too long, and too obviously, thinking they were actually part of the gambling scam and not the victim they played at being. Instead, now they were looking at a whole lot of nothing for three days of combing the docks, trying to find the back door that led to this supposed racket. “I wouldn’t say you screwed the pooch, Officer. But you certainly gave her the wrong vibe.”

Trevor’s mind halted mid-memory as his hand (still scrawling across another piece of paper) came into focus. At some point, amidst his thoughts, he had subconsciously picked up the pencil and started drawing again. He brushed the next paper away angrily in an attempt to ignore the partially-complete side profile outlining a strong brow and proud nose, then reached for the coat pocket he thought he still had before remembering he was no longer in a suit- And froze as he realized the Massachusetts state quarter which typically never left his sight had gone with it. What most would have considered a simple quarter meant infinitely more to him- it was one of the only things he’d brought with him after the Rise and Fall of Purgatory, and the only remaining thing connecting him to his dead friend.

Once Boston had been reclaimed and returned to order, only so much evidence was saved. Once the National Guard had moved in as backup to Archangel, they’d made it a priority to search the living and the dead for any clues as to possible contingency plans laid down by the Horsemen. Nicodemus, War, Pestilence and Death were accounted for, while Famine remained at large, to this very day. Replaying recovered memories of the deceased to backtrack as many fatalities as possible (perpetrated by Nicodemus and his gang), only served as reason to fill out causes of death on certificates, and it took months to complete. Even with Archangel’s cooperation with the FBI, the National Guard, and remnants of the fledgling Boston branch of Zion and Boston’s Police force, the sheer volume of footage and number of bodies to identify was astronomical. Casualties had surpassed the triple digits once everything was said and done. Among the deceased found at BPD’s Central Station was his recently departed partner, Spencer, whose drives had corroborated Trevor’s story, even if he was no longer with them to speak for himself; and all that had been found on his body, aside from the clothes on his back, was a Massachusetts State quarter that had been assigned to him on the day of his activation as a calibration device. Every primary RK investigator had been given one, in accordance with their state of service.

In spite of knowing this, the last thing on Trevor’s mind as he fled for his life was to stop and rifle through Spencer’s pockets looking for a keepsake to remember him by. He had hardly been of half a mind to make the conscious decision to escape when he had the chance, but self-preservation insisted in spite of the wanton desire to self-destruct, as all androids usually leaned toward in such stressful situations. Instead, he ran, like if he moved fast enough he could outrun the reality of what had just happened. Like something out of a Warner Brothers skit, Dennis Lenore reached out from around the corner of a crumbling building on the outskirts of town to snag him mid-flight. Trev couldn’t recall much of what he might have said besides gibberish, incoherent shrieking, and whining like a maimed puppy on the run. What he did remember was Dennis’ insistence he not try and leave the city, because the Horsemen had been shooting anyone trying to get in or out. This had only panicked him more and reactivated his self-destruct protocol. Luckily, Lenore decked him cold in one shot before he could get his hands on his gun. It was not the most flattering introduction, from either party, but they’d made amends about a month later while Trev was still under protective custody in a cell at Archangel Detroit. With Boston under control and the Elysian Outbreak nullified, there was little to no time for them to really reconnect; but one night Dennis was able to make time for a quick stop to pass on the only material possession Spencer had owned. He spotted The Minuteman statue inscribed on the face of the coin the moment he pulled it from his pocket- Trev could barely contain his tears as he plucked it out of his hand, equal parts delighted and miserable at seeing it again, and it hasn’t left his side since. Until that night.

The trembling in his fingers started up, same as it had on the ride home. It wasn’t nervousness or any tangible fear. The technicians at Archangel who’d pieced together his file post-Purgatory —Nick included— had determined that severe PTSD was to blame for the shakes. After all, any living thing would be scared stiff by a low-flying bullet grazing their head, even more so if the same bullet killed the only ally they’d had. It was comforting to know that even with it stowed away in a borrowed jacket, it had still wound up in the hands of the same person who’d discovered it to begin with. There was still a chance it hadn’t been lost, but the absence was distressing all the same. He hadn’t been without his ‘safety blanket’ in months. Trev left the pencil on the desk, unable to trust that he could hold it with a steady hand, and gathered up the tossed drawings, rather than let dismay get the better of him. When the shakes would decide to mellow out on their own was the most maddening thought. He hadn’t been in a similar situation since, so why was it acting up now, of all times? “Planting seeds, my- as if.” Trev aborted the desire to curse at the last second and snatched the papers up to throw on the desk, anticlimactic as it was, and folded his legs to curl up in the chair. His fingers instinctively crawled up the back of his neck into his hair and dug angrily into his scalp, caught between the urge to rant or stand and pace. But, seeing as there was no one around to hear him unload, he went for the former.

“I don’t need that. I don’t- need any of it. I can’t need-... I shouldn’t have to-... I wouldn’t think to if I-...” The constant stuttering of one thought into the next before he could even finish it discouraged him and brought out a frustrated groan, and his old accent, British and feigned as it was. “Oh, yeah, sure. I’m just right as rain, aren’t I?” Asking this of himself was wrenching enough to twist a half sob out of him. “ Sure - can’t even finish a thought without half-stroking out. Oh, but remember now, androids can’t do that.” Even he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth, not when it felt so genuinely real. “No, sir, we don’t have any of those same carbon-based health problems our friendly neighborhood humans do. No arteries in the head prone to getting clogged up, or organs that deteriorate, or easily punctured bodies… because lucky us! We only exist thanks to their bloody-... ingenuity.” He alone was proof of Cyberlife’s curiosity of how convincingly a human could fake out an Android into thinking it was something it wasn’t, even if he never asked for it. “Yeah, and that’s all well and good for the rest of you, but the one thing they’ve got in common is not knowing when to just leave. It. ALONE.”

Shutting down all his external senses at once probably wouldn’t help —it would be like putting a small box inside of a larger one, trying to muffle the input but putting oneself at the mercy of enduring a spiraling slide— but he tried for it nonetheless. It wasn’t like he hadn’t before.

— He only meant to help those civilians caught in the conference room of the department headquarters. The lights had gone out. Spencer told him they needed to run, get to the nearest weapons locker, try and prepare a defense. Trevor knew the layout of this given floor. There was an exit closer to this room, out into the side parking lot where the vehicles would offer better cover than office chairs and tables to hide under. Both of them had heard the radio light up just as they heard and felt the shudders of bombs going off. Nicodemus’ forces emerged in one fell swoop, having blended in with the masses as seamlessly as ice in water. They carried an impressive array of weapons besides firearms, rolling through outlying districts to take down entire buildings in one shot- loosing noxious gases in some, hurling Molotov cocktails through the windows of others, shooting pedestrians on-sight as they tried to flee the carnage. The streets were a horror show unto themselves, a burgeoning war zone, but getting out of the station quickly meant a better chance of finding backup to coordinate. But as he reached for the doorknob the frosted-glass door swung open just inches from his nose, and the intruder grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and lifted him off his feet—

The replay ended with a jolting surge of electricity between the ears. His eyes blinked open on reflex, temporarily blinded by the disable command in place. “He shouldn’t have-... argued. He should have listened. Whatever his-... orders were, the ruse or- or anything to do with it, he had to know we needed to get- get out of…” He gradually slowed from the tangent he had lapsed into, biocomponents rebooted automatically after being disabled for so long. Trev didn’t notice that he had slumped down to sit on the floor until he was already there, and blinked slowly and how uncomfortable he was with the seat of the chair jabbing into the back of his neck. His hands still gripped fistfuls of hair while his breath whistled in and out in sharp, whinging gasps. He was scared stiff, again, and that hadn’t even been the worst he could recall about said day. So much for avoiding a breakdown.

No. I can’t do this. I can’t get close. Close is dangerous. It can’t happen again. Boston was bad enough. I can’t let anyone get hurt because I didn’t pay enough attention. No one else is going to die because of me. No one else. They won’t. I’ll stay right here, where it’s safe and quiet and… and just shut out everything else.

Eventually, the piqued breaths smoothed out, even if it was only a lull between this and the next fit. Trev uncurled his fingers, which felt more like rusty hinges, and gradually came back to his senses. Optics flickered twice as they rebooted to the sight of pale skin as it reformed over his palms and languidly spread upward to sheath over his bare digits. However many times he watched it happen didn’t dull the unease of what was disconcerting to see. Even for an upright-standing hunk of plasti-metal, wires, processors, fuel lines, and nanoparticle-based projections trying to pass itself off as human, it still just wasn’t natural. He couldn’t contain the shudder as he wrapped his arms around his knees and curled up into the fetal position as only a natural-born creature should. He should have walked away- not linger against his better judgment, not engaged, not said anything. Maybe if he hadn’t he wouldn’t be as much of a mental mess. He’d given that boy an inch, and now here he was back in his dorm (his supposed place of peace and solitude), wearing his clothes, barely through a breakdown brought on by how his fragmented mind couldn’t handle the thought of getting close to someone just to lose them again.

And yet was still trying to. Maybe he wanted to be close, to belong somewhere again, or maybe it was the worst possible thing he could do. He couldn’t have it both ways. Maybe that was what drew the tears out, unwanted as they were, but holding them back only intensified the burning feeling in his chest. As comfortable as his clothes were, clean and soft and smelling faintly of pigmented oil, huddling into them in the absence of a hug may as well have been an embrace as rough as burlap. The sleeves barely muffled his sobs as he buried his face in his arms, saline smeared the inner surface of his glasses into a blurry mess before he fitfully tore them off and tossed them aside. The frames clacked several times as they ragdolled across the floor, but he couldn’t care less if they wound up scratched. If that night had shown him anything, it was that he didn’t need glasses to see how lonely he really was. There were other things in his life he needed more than a pair of prop gunmetal gray frames still spotted with acrylic.

———

Eight hours of repose didn't make the next day any easier. When he woke up he was surprised he didn’t even remember falling asleep with the light on. That detail alone puzzled him to no end- most nights ended with just a few measly hours of rest after a sleepless night of rumination (if he didn’t give in to insomnia first and just say forget it), yet somehow he’d found enough relief from the hurricane of emotions that had left him a walking disaster the night before, to have fallen into a deep sleep. As perplexing as it was, he couldn’t really complain. If there was an upside to being without the one material reminder of his old life, it came in the form of keeping himself buried in the coursework. Studying more than just law sufficed to keep him busy at almost all times. When his hands were constantly on a tablet or angled down in the pages of a book, his classmates weren’t so inclined to pester him. The downside was the rapidly mounting stress of wonder and dread, with no outlet to contain it. Scribbling sketches here and there was like bailing out a slowly sinking rowboat with a teaspoon.

The first sign it wasn’t working was when he woke the morning after the breakdown to find himself sprawled in a bed he didn’t remember climbing into, wearing Dylan’s on-loan clothes like a comfort blanket. He’d bolted to the shower, amidst much-agitated muttering, fitfully scrubbed the last of the dried paint from his skin and hair, then raided his closet for a fresh set of cadet duds as he tried to be rational about how he could track the quarter down. He made a call to Dennis once he thought his nerves were sufficiently mellowed out, only to be further dismayed at learning the suit had, in fact, been left in the care of a local dry cleaning service. Trev tried to hide the panic in his voice as he shakily asked if there was any way to expedite the job, or have the clothes delivered to his dorm. Dennis saw through to his ulterior motive in a second. “You’re upset I didn’t check the pockets? Really. Kid, I thought you would’ve been of a mind to do that.” The frown in his voice was palpable. “I was- I meant to, only I… I…” He stammered to an embarrassed stop the second he realized how desperate he must have sounded over what was actually a very trivial matter to most. Trev slumped against the nearest wall and smothered a distressed whine. The old flip phone he held to his ear was dead as a doornail, but force of habit compelled him to speak out loud anyway. The physical weight of it in his hand was grounding, compared to thinking the conversation over the private line like Android telepathy. “Never mind. I just-... will you call me, please? As soon as you have it back?” “No promises. I can check with the cleaner, see if they found anything. But if they didn’t-” “I know. Sir. Thank you either way.”

The first day was rough. His mood took a hard nosedive that loomed over him like a shadow, and it only got progressively worse the longer he went without something to keep him occupied. Getting dressed was more of an emotional chore than he’d expected, and it took every last ounce of mental strength to force himself out of the apartment and trudge the few blocks to Archangel HQ. The best he could do in the meantime was to throw himself into his studies. Maybe he came across as sulky and short-tempered but at the same time, he didn’t care how he came across to anyone else, because no one even bothered to ask why. Not his classmates, or his instructors, or the other Lenores. The second the clock hit four, Trev was up and out the door before anyone could notice he was gone, and home with the door closed and locked without any further attempts at interruption. He’d been waiting all day for isolation, thinking it was just what he needed, but it only took an hour for the anxiety to settle in and the shaking in his arms to start back up. After about two hours of trying to tune it out but failing miserably, Trev stood, locked his fingers behind his head, pressed against the discomfort in his neck, and paced the room, hoping to burn off a little of the excess negative energy. It was only seven PM, but at this rate it may as well have been eleven, because there was no way he was going to get any sleep that night. Then again… he’d thought the same thing last night and somehow crashed so hard he didn’t notice it happen. But how when he had been so wound up to begin with…? Maybe he’d worn himself out emotionally with all the rapid cycling through anger, sorrow, anxiety, and depression once he finally sat down to think. Then again, it wasn’t the first time he’d been there... but it was the first time he’d managed to sleep after such a breakdown. The only uncommon denominator among the other instances was the devil he’d rather forget. Trev glanced sidelong at the folded up clothing still sitting out on top of the dresser, waiting to be taken home, taunting him with the knowledge that he would have to see him again. Like it or… The longer he stared at it, the more clearly he understood. He frowned at the dawning realization- even just thinking about it took the edge off his anxiety over the possibility that he’d lost Spencer’s quarter; it also quietly fed the fear of what that meant. Still, fear was more tolerable than anxiety. Fear could be conquered. Against (what he thought to be) his better judgment, he’d conducted an experiment to test his working theory and slept another night in those clothes, just as soundly as the night before. Perhaps in the same way that fidgeting with the quarter calmed his mind, sinking into the comfort of something that belonged to someone who truly understood his pain, made him feel less alone- made him feel like maybe he belonged.

But another good night’s sleep still wasn’t enough of a reprieve to ease his nerves during the following day. Even the one other person wearing cadet attire that he might call a friendly acquaintance, Cassandra Carter, wasn’t spared a sideways, narrowed glare one afternoon as she tried to pat his shoulder in passing. “Touch me again, and you’ll need to replace that hand.” Cassie snapped back her hand as if he’d burned her and looked as though she didn’t even recognize the person sitting there, though her concern cooled his temper before it could flash boil into another scalding burst of anger. Trev slumped over his book on the table and buried his face in his arms to hide the grimace he made at how bent out of shape he was over a tiny piece of metal. “Meaning… you’ll probably - have to wash it. I’ve worn these same clothes for two days,” he explained with a groan. CC’s former occupation as a therapist was a testament to how she handled confrontation with as much grace as she did. Instead of snapping back, like many would have, she just scoffed in amusement at his transparent excuse and ghosted a light, knowing touch over his head to lightly ruffle his hair. “Please, Langley. You’re a neat freak, but that’s no reason to think you accumulate dirt faster than the rest of us.”

The rest of the study period was a little more bearable for that forgiving attitude, but Trev was even less understanding toward the next person to contact him out of the blue. It was unfair of him to hold it against her for only checking in intermittently (after all, some ties were better than none at all), but at the risk of sounding too harsh, Vivienne Lenore —one of Zion’s founding cornerstones and mother figure to most of those in his immediate circle— would have been better off focusing on her own priorities. She’d only been married a year or so, and (if he wasn’t getting his gossip mixed up) was about to have a baby of her own; there was no way she’d just been sitting around the house wondering about his well-being. Someone must have prompted her to check in with him, and he didn’t need three guesses to peg who it was. “Did Dennis tell you to check in with me?” “I’m overdue for one either way, Trevor. I said I would and I dropped the ball, I’m not about to deny it. After what happened on the fourth, and the way you’ve been behaving the last couple of days, someone had to check in. Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?”

Trev scowled down at the sidewalk and shouldered past a small mob of cadets lingering at the bustling crosswalk, too caught up jabbering to not notice the light was green, and kept the legacy-model cell phone crammed to his ear (if only to stave off the irrational thought this wasn’t a voice in his head making him feel like the crazy human he wasn’t). As tempting as it was to throw up a stop-sign of his own, his answer came out more like a yield. “Without giving you the full story, ma’am, I am- much as I can be, anyway. You want to know anything more than that, I’d rather… talk face to face. If it isn’t too much trouble.” It hadn’t been at the time they’d met, but then again, that had been immediately following the Elysian Outbreak— a reset virus spread through touch between deviant androids, distributed by Cyberlife’s rogue AI, Amanda, that ravaged Zion and nearly destroyed Illuminate’s leadership just days after Boston had been reclaimed. She hadn’t exactly gone out of her way to check in on him after their return from Boston. When she did get around to it, it was only because they had already been making their rounds checking in on survivors. It just so happened he’d been a curiosity on display when she passed by his holding cell. Still, Vivienne did him the courtesy no one else yet had of simply asking about his well being, and offered her emotional support when he admitted to her how confused and terrified he was of everything and everyone. Trev took her beat of hesitance now as an attempt to withdraw from a passing interest in his affairs, something he anticipated from everyone but quietly hoped he’d be wrong about. “But, you know,” he added in the uncomfortable silence, “Trouble does tend to stalk me on a regular basis, no matter how many times I try and throw her off.” “Heh. I see your flair for exaggeration hasn’t changed. It’s no bother, Trevor, just name a time and place. We can plan around your schedule if not mine.” Had he known that reverse psychology would have no effect on Viv, he probably wouldn't have even tried. Instead, she’d thrown the ball right back in his court, and left him standing there feeling like a jackass. Trev’s lip curled in dismay. He really didn’t want to deal with this right now. “I’ll… call you back when I’ve figured it out. I’m a bit... preoccupied these days. Bye.”

The flip phone clamped shut with a sharp clap upon closing, and he huffed in aggravation at his decision to, once again, lie to get out of an uncomfortable situation. Dishonesty might not have been the most flattering trait for a policeman to possess, but there wasn’t any harm in telling half-truths as long as the whole truth came out when the time was right. And it wasn’t really a lie, he was preoccupied. Between studying, waiting, and thinking, Trev had a lot on his plate, and on his mind. Specifically, he couldn’t get Dylan’s words out of his head- about loneliness, and about letting people help; but what nagged at him most wasn’t advice or words of wisdom, it was how he’d related to the pain in his eyes and his unapproachable behavior. It was how he’d gently persisted in spite of all the warning signs and immediately forgave him when he snapped a little harder than appropriate. Fleur was right to equate his words to planting seeds. It was funny how only a few hours in each other's presence had already managed to root themselves so deep into his thoughts. Whether those seeds would sprout flowers or weeds was up for discussion, though. It couldn’t be both. Weeds tended to spread their roots faster, soak up all the water, and choke flowers out; and right now, he could hardly tell the difference. Explaining that to Cassie, Dennis, or Vivienne would only end in them telling him to stop worrying so much. Even though they meant well, they just couldn’t understand the stress that fostered.

He went to bed the second night without the quarter, only to lay there a few futile hours and listen to his thoughts thundering like contenders on a horse track as he fought back the impulse to swap clothes again. There was no way he was going to allow him to have this much influence over his state of mind. The more he relied on his memory, the more entwined he’d become, and the harder he would be to extirpate, and Trevor just couldn’t afford another hole to fill. But his will was weaker than his anxiety, and desperate exhaustion won out in the end. The motion of tugging the shirt down over his head hit like soft hands on his shoulders, and the just-barely-too-small fabric swathed him like the security blanket it was. Trev didn’t even bother to crawl under the covers as he got back into bed; instead, he just curled up against the headboard, pressed his face into the pillow, and listened to his anxious breathing as it smoothed itself out the longer he stayed still and didn’t reach out to catch any of his circling thoughts. As much as he wanted to continue to fret, he knew that rest was more important.

The third day saw a welcome reprieve when Dennis intercepted him at the end of his day just outside his apartment. Even though he was still on duty, he’d made a detour to return the missing token to its distraught owner, in the hope that he’d take a breath and stop acting like such a jerk toward every poor soul he came across. Trev wasn’t surprised to see Lenore leaned against the car cooling his heels when he spotted the ZPD cruiser idling on the corner until he pulled a familiar trinket from his pocket. Trevor lunged for the coin and nearly dropped everything in his arms in the process to retrieve it, but Dennis held firm to it to look his understudy square in the eye and make sure he really heard what he had to say. “Happens again, finding it is on you, understand?” The unspoken half of his comment didn’t need saying, his blue eyes screamed loud and clear. And stop taking your anger out on the rest of us. There’s no need for your hissy fits. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Langley dropped his gaze, feeling properly admonished. Launching into any long-winded explanation to justify his bad behavior wouldn’t end well, so he didn’t bother. There was no follow up affirmation, no nod or a pat on the arm. When he looked up Dennis’ stern gaze was still locked on him, but after a few more moments of silence, he wordlessly turned and walked around to the other side of the vehicle while reaching for the radio clipped to his chest. Trevor didn’t linger to listen to his conversation with dispatch. He pushed the door to the lobby open, rushed up the stairs to the second floor, darted into his apartment and slammed the door behind him. The cool metal of the quarter pressed tightly into the palm of his hand had already started to melt away the stress, the same way the false skin of his hand had deactivated on contact at the intense pressure. Two days ago this would have caused a breakdown, but now that he had Spencer’s quarter back, he could forgive the unease the sight caused him. Trev put his book bag on the bed to sit at his desk and study the Philadelphia-minted coin under lamplight. He didn’t detect any lingering soap residue or see new buffs on the finish. The mixed composition of copper and nickel was, as best he could tell, unaltered and the tarnish no more advanced than the last time he had seen it. It didn’t excuse how callously he had been reacting to everyone since he’d misplaced it. Even if most hadn’t bothered to take notice of his not-quite-tantrums, those who did were due an apology, as soon as he could manage. Before he could repay new debts though, there was one he needed to take care of first. It was already pretty late in the day on a Sunday, and he still had to wash them before he returned them. Luckily, he had accumulated enough dirty laundry of his own to mix Dylan’s in with, so he wouldn’t get any weird looks for washing one set of clothing. There was a small laundromat on the ground floor of the building, he could stop by and run a load before class… Which left him one more night with them as they were. Had it been two nights prior, he may have fought the urge to sleep in them again with more conviction, but after his experience the previous night, he opted for an easy sleep without even thinking twice about it.

July 8th, 2041 - 4:06 PM

Mondays were the bane of any workweek, with or without the looming eventuality of seeing the man he’d just spent the last three days trying to forget. It was the beginning, the end of the sacred weekend, the return to the daily grind. It didn’t matter what type of work, any kind of routine nine-to-five occupation boasting full-time hours with a baseline of eight-hour shifts per day, the sentiment was universal. From corporations to retailers to home-grown grocers running their small-time food carts on the sides of a Downtown street, everyone adhered to the hate-Monday mentality like a suburban ritual, one that extended to students returning to school after a couple of days without classes. For Trev, a long weekend of grousing at people who had nothing to do with causing him real distress had just left him feeling sheepish. It wasn’t that he liked being a grumpy misanthrope. His prior persona had been earnest and wide-eyed, only concerned with doing the right thing, but circumstances since had only served to channel him down this path of isolation, something he did and didn’t want. Dylan had shown him that, and continued to needle that want for the next three days, even if he hadn’t been around to do so in person. All of this back and forth, yes and no, hot and cold was starting to get exhausting, more so than usual. Trev had to get his things back where they belonged, then maybe he’d stop thinking about it so much. And he didn’t need his charity any more than he needed anyone telling him they knew what was best for him.

After a tepid round of classes, sparring, and some rudimentary range time, Trev collected the now-clean pants and shirt from his apartment and loitered in the doorway of the building, just out of sight of any curious eyes, as he flagged down the first taxi he found. One hand he kept in his pocket to thumb the quarter intermittently to dull the looming anxiety, a drawstring plastic bag with the borrowed clothing clutched in the other. The ride back to Fair Haven didn’t seem nearly as long and grueling without Dennis in the car to ask questions. He paid little attention to the buildings outside, how they turned smaller and more domestic the further out of the city it went. Community parks turned to patchy stretches of forest, and the less congested the traffic became, the more relaxed he felt. And with the token back in his possession to fight with, he couldn’t work himself into such a frenetic state of mind even if he tried. The automated vehicle took the long route around the property before finding itself barred at the gate. It was an unmanned checkpoint, overseen by a single camera and a microphone built into a small post. It looked more like a terminal to put in an order at a fast-food joint. “Uh... Tre- Trevor Langley, here to see Mr… Dylan Fleur?” The beady red LED above the speaker winked green after half a minute, almost as if the security guards listening from their remote office hadn’t expected anyone to be visiting the delinquent son. To tell the truth, he’d half expected to be denied at the gate, but it sounded like Dylan had left his name on the guest list in the hope that he’d return. So he hadn’t been lying about the open invite, after all.

The gate rolled open and the cab pulled through into the estate's two thousand acre property, fenced in on all sides, and followed the winding path up the cobblestone driveway lined with flowering magnolia trees. Trevor paid his surroundings no mind until he noticed a shabby-looking pickup truck parked off to one side about half a mile from the estate’s centralized mansion, facing the treeline. Two men stood outside leaning against the doors with a set of binoculars in hand, but turned away as the car approached. Clearly, they didn’t want to be recognized. Trev frowned. One glance at their ragged attire, scraggly hair, and unwashed faces, and he could tell they had no business being there. Unless they were groundskeepers, the guard should have known better than to let them in. So how had they managed? And what were they doing way out here, lingering like a couple of vultures? Curiosity got the better of whatever caution he felt. He waved a hand over the dashboard to apply the brake, and the car rolled to a stop as he leaned halfway out the window. “Hey! You boys lost or something?” It was highly unlikely.

Both men jumped up at the sound of his unfamiliar voice, and scrambled into the truck while throwing panicked looks over their shoulders. They clearly hadn’t been expecting to be found, much less called out, which only made his case for him. Trevor heard a bad engine cough four times before it turned over and sputtered black exhaust from under the frame as the tires spun to life in a panic. Rather than take the main exit, they sped for a gap in the trees and disappeared behind the layers of undergrowth, the torn-up grass and unsightly skid marks left over the only evidence they had ever been there. Trev frowned and blinked the short term memory away as he sat down to roll the window back up. Who they were wasn’t yet important, but what they might have been doing on the property at all was troubling. He didn’t need hypersensitive android ability to see they had been up to no good.

#detroit: become human #dbh fanfic #detroit become human fanfiction #dbh ocs #dbhilluminate #dbhiredemption

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ladylynse · 6 years

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Ectober 2018, Day 26: Sanity

Helpless, Part 4: Star isn’t sure what to think, doesn’t know whether she’s even making the right connections—but if she’s not, what’s the alternative?

Previously:

Part I, Help: When a ghost attacks while Star’s stuck in detention with Fenton, she’s sure they need help—but he’s not acting like the scared loser she’s used to.

Part 2, Explain: After what happened, Star wants some explanations, and she’s not going to let Danny get away with brushing her off.

Part 3, Mistakes: The more Star looks, the more cracks and inconsistencies she sees in Danny’s story—not that that makes it much easier to fill in the blanks.

Star staggered forward, trying to keep Phantom and Skulker in her sights—not an easy task when both of them could fly and she was stuck moving at a fast limp. Her only saving grace was the way Phantom was forced to weave and dodge and backtrack. If he’d had the freedom the fly straight, they’d be gone before she could blink. Tracking them across the football field wouldn’t be a problem, but once they got off the school grounds….

Star’s mind spun, trying to figure out what Skulker had meant. A halfa pelt?

First, ew. Second, gross. Third, halfa? Meaning Phantom was called halfa, too? Just like Danny?

Not likely a nickname, then, whatever Danny had told her. At least, not just a nickname. If people were sharing nicknames, it was going to be one more common than that. And if Phantom was the one to take Danny to the Far Frozen, this Frostbite wouldn’t have called him something Phantom was already called.

Unless Danny was called it first?

But then why would other ghosts transfer its use to Phantom? That just didn’t make sense.

Maybe it was a title. Some elite group of ghost hunters, maybe?

“That sounds ridiculous,” Star muttered to herself as she pushed forward. But if that was ridiculous, what was the truth?

By the time they reached the park, she was too far away to make out what Phantom and Skulker were saying, too far away to glean any more clues.

She wasn’t too far away to miss Phantom blast Skulker with an ice ray all too similar to the ones Icebreaker had used. She wasn’t too far away to see Skulker drop, all the controls on his suit frozen. She was nearly there by the time Phantom had twisted off the robot’s head and pulled out the little blob inside, holding it up to his eye level with two fingers like he didn’t want to touch it. Star crouched in the bushes and tried to catch her breath, not sure her feeble attempt at hiding would do her any good but more than willing to try to be sneaky.

“Just for that,” Phantom was saying, “I’m going to drop you on Valerie’s doorstep.”

Skulker shrilled something in response, but Star was too busy running Phantom’s words over in her mind again to work out what he was saying. Valerie? Not the Valerie she knew, surely. Between Amity Park and Elmerton, there’d be more than one Valerie, and Phantom could easily be talking about a ghost. Icebreaker wasn’t going to be the only ghost she’d never met before.

And as much as her Valerie hated ghosts, she couldn’t do anything about them. She didn’t have weapons. Even if she managed to get her hands on some, she didn’t have time to do anything with them. Star would swear she was even busier than she’d been while part of the A-listers, and then she’d been out with them nearly every night. Phantom had to be talking about a different Valerie.

“—throw you in the dumpster behind the Nasty Burger with the rest of the trash and let her find you there,” Phantom was saying. He’d adjusted his grip on Skulker’s tiny form, grasping him firmly around the middle. “You’ll still be in the range of her sensors by the time she’s off work at the rate you’re going to be moving.”

…There might be another Valerie at the Nasty Burger. Right?

Phantom took to the air while Skulker was still squeaking out indignant responses. She’d never catch him now, but at least she knew where he was going.

There was no sign of Phantom when she got there, but she hadn’t really expected there to be. By the time Star managed to drag herself through the doors of the Nasty Burger again, Paulina and the other A-listers had departed. Their spot, and every other one, had filled up in the meantime. Star groaned and walked up to the counter to order a small chocolate milkshake from Valerie, who raised an eyebrow—no doubt at both Star’s bedraggled appearance and her self-indulgent order—but was kind enough not to comment.

Drink in hand, Star swallowed and headed over to the table Danny Fenton now sat at with his friends. If he’d been helping Phantom, he didn’t look it. She felt sweaty and exhausted, and he looked exactly the same as he always did.

It was a little annoying, to be honest. How could he pull that off? How the heck was he gaining field experience helping Phantom if she could never see any signs that he’d actually been fighting?

“Hey,” she said when she arrived at the edge of their table. Their conversation had cut off the moment they’d noticed her approach. Sam was glaring at her (no surprise there), Tucker had arranged his features into something he probably thought looked suave, and Danny was smiling sheepishly. “Mind if I join? Everywhere else is full.”

Tucker waggled his eyebrows at her. “Well—”

“Yeah, sorry, you can’t,” Sam interrupted, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “We’re in the middle of something. Why don’t you go over to Paulina’s place? You probably have some party planning to do.”

Star gritted her teeth, but she couldn’t invite them to the party without Paulina’s permission, so it’s not like she could offer anything to Sam.

Danny was the one who saved her, dropping his backpack to the floor and scooting over so she could slide in next to him. “It’s okay. You can sit for a while.”

“No, it’s not,” Sam ground out. “We were discussing our project, remember?”

Project. Sure. Star was in all the classes the three of them had together. There were no group projects in those at the moment. She plastered a smile on her face and pretended to buy Sam’s excuse. She needed to talk to Danny, anyway. “Thanks,” she said, sitting next to him and tactfully ignoring Sam’s scowl. She took a careful sip of her drink and then asked Danny in a quiet voice, “They know, right?”

It wasn’t quiet enough, but then again, she hadn’t intended for it to be.

“You told her?” Sam burst out. Tucker looked equally shocked, the fry dropping from his fingers on its way to his mouth. “What were you thinking?”

Danny winced. “Um, maybe we should, uh, talk outside?”

Then again, maybe he hadn’t told them everything. Or maybe he just didn’t want them accidentally exposing whichever parts of what he had told her for the fabrications they surely were.

Danny took her hand and pulled her around back. Star wrinkled her nose at the smell of the dumpster—the greasy smell of fried food pumped out the back of the restaurant was not enough to overpower it—but all she could see around it right now were flies. If Phantom really had dropped Skulker here, he was long gone. That actually made Star feel a little better, because it meant the Valerie that Phantom had been referring to couldn’t be the Valerie she knew, since she was tied up out front.

“Sorry,” she murmured. She made a point of breathing through her mouth; it didn’t seem quite as bad that way. “I didn’t think you’d keep secrets from them.”

“It’s not that.” Danny rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s…. There are a lot of people in there, Star. Anyone could be listening.”

She raised her eyebrows. “They’d be less likely to overhear you somewhere crowded like that.”

“Maybe, but it’s better not to risk it. You should probably just not ask me about this again.”

Despite still holding her drink, she crossed her arms. “So you want me to drop this and pretend I never found out you work with Phantom? You’d rather I pretend to be some dumb, simpering blonde who can’t remember anything?”

“Uh, no, but that’s not the point.”

“You’re right,” she agreed. “That’s not the point. It’s not even my point. I want to talk to Phantom.”

Danny stared at her.

“You can arrange that, can’t you?”

“Um…you don’t just want to invite him to Paulina’s party, do you?”

Star rolled her eyes. “Please, Paulina’s already done that.”

“Wait, really? When?”

“It’s a standing invitation, Fenton. She doesn’t need to extend it every time. The ghost boy knows that.”

“Uh. Right. I’m sure he does.”

“So can you do it?”

“Do what?” Star just looked at him, and Danny relented. “I can’t make any promises, Star. Phantom only comes when he’s needed.”

“Well, I need to talk to him.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Maybe not, but don’t deny how much influence you have over this. You think I still don’t get it? You’re a halfa. So’s he. It’s not that hard to add up.”

The blood abruptly drained from Danny’s face, and he blindly reached out to grab the dumpster for support. “You…you really do know?” he whispered.

That…was an odd reaction if halfa was indeed a name given to anyone—or at least anyone of a certain rank—in a particular organization. Star mentally crossed that hypothesis off her list. But if that wasn’t the connection, what was? Danny’s reaction definitely confirmed that they were both halfas, whatever a halfa was, so she hadn’t been hearing things, and he wouldn’t be panicking so much if it really was just a nickname.

Sam and Tucker definitely knew, but they were obviously all protective of the secret, so it was unlikely anyone else did. Ghosts aside, apparently, but she was not about to try to capture a ghost to question it. Even if she got some weapons and asked for some training from someone (probably Danny’s parents) on the excuse of being able to defend herself, it would take too long for her to gain the skill she needed, and the risk wasn’t worth it.

The best way to get information right now would be to pretend she already knew the answer.

“Yeah,” she said shortly.

“Everything?” he squeaked.

She just gave him a look that said she wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer. Mostly because she couldn’t. If he asked for details, he’d figure out that she was only clutching at straws.

“Star, you…. You can’t tell anyone. You know that, right?”

“You’d be better off if I did.”

That had him looking terrified, and she wondered just how big this was. He straightened up and took a step towards her. “No, I really, really wouldn’t be. You know what my parents do, Star. Just think about it for a second.”

What his parents did? They were ghost hunters. Inventors. Scientists. Crazy, if they hadn’t been right about the whole ghost thing.

But if it wasn’t just hunting ghosts, what else was he involved in? What was he involved in that his parents definitely didn’t approve of? It probably wasn’t just associating with ghosts. She was pretty sure she remembered hearing something about his sister writing about ghost envy, and while she wasn’t entirely sure what that was, it probably involved Jazz talking to ghosts at some point. And Danny was definitely in the majority when it came to supporting Phantom, even if his parents came down on the other side.

This Far Frozen place must be in the Ghost Zone. Maybe that’s what this was about? The fact that he’d travelled there? Probably repeatedly, seeing as he’d gotten training? Maybe halfa was a term for people—or ghosts—who frequented both realms? Phantom was certainly in the human world often enough to warrant the name if that were the case.

Except…. Except that didn’t mesh with what she knew about Skulker as a ghost. The guy—blob, whatever—called himself the Ghost Zone’s Greatest Hunter. If a halfa pelt—that was still gross—was supposed to be the prize of his collection, it wouldn’t be common. It’d be rare, a hard-won trophy.

So if Phantom had decided to work with Fenton because he was convenient, strategic, an average guy who could blend in and get away with things and not have people realizing what he was really up to— How was he unique enough to be called a halfa?

Half a what?

“I’m serious. If this gets out, it’s bad.”

She played for time, deliberately sucking up mouthful after mouthful of her shake. He was definitely waiting for her to say something now. Finally, she decided to go with, “I think you’re overthinking things.” It wasn’t a bad guess. He was clearly panicking. She just had no idea why.

“I’m really not.” He sighed. Looked anywhere but her—the overflowing dumpster, the graffiti on the fence, the fume-belching vents, the broken bits of asphalt beneath his feet. Mumbled, “Even if ignoring everything else, my parents…. They might not see me as their son.”

“What?” The question was out of her mouth before she could bite it back. What was that supposed to mean? Why wouldn’t they see him as their son? Did he think they might disown him? Just because of what he was doing? They were obsessed with ghosts and dead set in their ways against them, but that was more than a little extreme. They weren’t going to suddenly decide he didn’t belong in their family because of what he did, right? Because of what he’d chosen to be? Because of whom he fought alongside? They wouldn’t.

Right?

Star swallowed.

She only knew the Fentons by reputation. They were crazy. It was downright dangerous to be anywhere in the vicinity of the Fentons’ RV when it was in motion; the sidewalks were definitely not safe. If they were pursuing a ghost, they would cut corners. They’d probably drive through a building if they thought they had to. They were obsessed, determined to catch and dissect ghosts to figure out what made them tick, what brought them back, how they could survive. They were brilliant, inventing all sorts of things that shouldn’t work but did. They were over-protective—if one of their kids went missing, or if they thought one of their kids went missing, the entire town knew about it—and pretty much blamed anything bad on ghosts. But as much as they hated ghosts, they loved their family. That’s the impression she’d always gotten.

But the truth was, she didn’t know what would take priority if they had to choose between the life they’d built as ghost hunters and a son who wanted to defy all that.

Maybe they actually would disown him.

Maybe they wouldn’t think him a true Fenton if he kept this up. Jazz at least wasn’t actively helping ghosts, for all that she’d defend them. Had Danny known that that was the line and stepped across it anyway? Did he seriously think he’d lose his family, lose everything, if they found out what he was doing?

Would they really kick him out and leave him to fend for himself?

Star didn’t realize she’d dropped her shake until Danny’s hand snaked out and caught it. She blinked, surprise at his quick reflexes briefly chasing away her unease, but when Danny met her eyes, she could see how much this was wearing on him, how much he was truly worried, and it made her stomach twist.

“See, now you’re thinking about it,” Danny said, no doubt reading her sickened expression. “And, honestly, it would probably be worse than that. You’ve heard my dad. He wants to—” Danny’s voice cracked, and he finished in a whisper, “—tear ghosts apart, molecule by molecule.”

Wait.

What?

“They don’t think ghosts feel pain,” he murmured. She just stared at him. What he was saying was so far from what she’d been thinking that it was hard to follow. “They’d just assume everything—screaming, writhing, begging, breathing—was a trick. Because they think ghosts are master manipulators who have no true emotions, who are consumed by whatever their obsession is, and….”

Wait.

Breathing?

She might not know much about ghosts, but they were ghosts. They were dead. They wouldn’t need to breathe. They might think they did, but they wouldn’t.

“I…. I can’t risk that.”

Okay, she was definitely past the point that she could fake this now. “But you’re not a ghost,” she said bluntly. If he thought he was, he had bigger problems than trying to keep his association with Phantom a secret from his parents. Seriously. His sister was basically a walking psychology textbook; even she knew that. How the heck could Jazz have missed something like this? She was the smartest kid in school. She had to know what he was thinking, but if she did, why not try to help him? Or get him some real help?

Danny barked out something that might’ve been a laugh, if she was feeling generous, but at this point she wasn’t. He was seriously starting to sound crazy. If he was pulling her leg, he was good at it. “You think they’d make a distinction between a halfa and a ghost?”

“Uh, yeah?” They obviously weren’t the same thing. Not if he was one of them, even if Phantom was, too. She didn’t really understand why he was asking. Just because some halfas could be ghosts, didn’t mean all of them were, right? It was like rectangles and squares.

“God, for my sake I hope you’re right.” He finally offered her her milkshake back, and she took it warily. She had a feeling that signalled the end of the conversation, but she had even less clue about what was going on than before, and she hadn’t thought that was possible. “But you get it now, right? Why you can’t tell anyone? I can’t risk them finding out.”

Well, she sort of understood why Danny wanted to keep it a secret, but she wasn’t convinced she should be helping him buy into whatever delusion he had. “I can definitely see where you’re coming from,” she said, hoping he’d be satisfied with that.

He wasn’t. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

He was taking this way too far. Star busied herself with drinking the last of her shake, tilting it at just the right angle—

—and cursed as chocolate dribbled on her shirt from the lid which was apparently no longer on tight. “This is not my day,” she muttered, tossing the rest of the drink into the dumpster so she could better examine the damage. It didn’t look good. It was already soaking in, and chocolate took forever to get out of white, especially when you couldn’t get at it right away.

“Here, let me,” Danny said, reaching for her arm. “I might as well now. I kinda owe you anyway.”

Her entire body went cold when he touched her, just for an instant.

When he pulled back, the splotches of chocolate milkshake that had marred her white shirt were gone, instead smeared on the pavement at her feet.

Star screamed.

Continued for Day 31: Breathe

(see more fics)

#danny phantom #ectober 2018 #ectober2018 #dp fanfiction #phanfiction #fanfiction #star #my writing #ladylynse #snippets #dp snippet

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pass-the-bechdel · 5 years

Text

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend season one full review

How many episodes pass the Bechdel test?

100% (eighteen of eighteen)

What is the average percentage per episode of female characters with names and lines?

44.4%

How many episodes have a cast that is at least 40% female?

Eleven, over half the season. Six of those are over 50%, and two of those are over 60%.

How many episodes have a cast that is less than 20% female?

Zero, unsurprisingly.

How many female characters (with names and lines) are there?

Thirty-seven. Ten who appeared in more than one episode, four who appeared in at least half the episodes, and two who appeared in every episode.

How many male characters (with names and lines) are there?

Forty-four. Twenty who appeared in more than one episode, four who appeared in at least half the episodes, and two who appeared in every episode.

Positive Content Status:

Mostly good, if a bit wonky; there were a lot of acknowledgments of real issues (particularly women’s issues), but sometimes it felt more like they were just shout-outs for the brownie points rather than genuine efforts to explore something meaningful. There were also a few problems with characters/relationships that the show never called out as wrong and therefore seemingly endorsed as normal, which makes it feel less self-aware than it appears to be at times (more on that under the cut). Altogether though, it’s never egregiously upsetting, and there is one subplot (ironically, one which has nothing to do with women) which was a true unexpected joy to behold (average rating of 3.05).

General Season Quality:

Fluctuates. It has a tone problem which can be confusing as it is unclear how information is intended to be interpreted, and the discomfort can seriously damage the comedy. When it is good though, it’s very fun, sometimes touching, and weirdly addictive.

MORE INFO (and potential spoilers) under the cut:

I noted when I reviewed the very first episode that this is Not My Usual Flavour in terms of plot conceit, and if it weren’t for all the recommendations/requests I got to include the show on this blog, there’s about a 1% chance I would ever have watched this for my own amusement (that 1% comes from a very charming gifset of a scene which I presume is from the latest season; I’ll tell you what it was when we get there). One season in, I can say this much: I’m not mad y’all got me on to this. It’s weird and different, but it’s not painful (except, often, when Greg is around - we started on such good terms in the premiere but at this point I honestly loathe him). Against my better judgment and typical inclination, I am interested to see where it all ends up, working with the idea that as much as the driving force of the series from the outside appears to be romance, internally it’s really about these messy characters figuring themselves out and and changing their strange little mundane lives for the better. The first step on the road to improvement is self-awareness, on which subject...

...the main barrier I encountered in really getting into this show and relaxing to enjoy it is the issue of narrative trust, which is all about believing that the story is going to unravel and analyse its own content in a thorough, intelligent, and valuable way. Narrative trust is essential regardless of context; the same as you need it in order to sell the viewer on extravagant bizarro world-building for an intergalactic sci-fi story, you also need it in order to convince them that it’s worth exploring the comparatively small-fry and banal character motivations in a prescription rom-com. As a part of its initial conceit, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend promises to deconstruct its own deliberately-inflammatory title (it makes this promise at the beginning of every episode, in its annoying opening title sequence); Rebecca’s mental state and the journey it takes her on is the core of the narrative, and we are being asked to trust that the show will follow through on the unraveling and analysing of that content. For the most part, it does follow through, but it also intermittently falls short in two key arenas which lead to the damaged narrative trust: tonal consistency, and secondary character reinforcement.

When I was five episodes in, I discussed this show with a friend who had watched for a while (he wasn’t sure how far in he got, in the end) before eventually giving up; at that point, I wasn’t sure what to say about the show or even if I considered myself to be enjoying it, and my friend agreed that the problem I was having was the same problem that made him quit the show: tonal confusion. Part of that is about being unsure at times whether you’re being invited to laugh at Rebecca, or just at the situation; at times the show seems to make light of extremely serious emotional issues, and at others it is very sympathetic to Rebecca’s struggles; sometimes disturbing behaviour is not framed by the narrative as being worth calling out, and then sometimes, the chastisement Rebecca receives feels undeserved, over-the-top, or unfair to the wider context of her mental state. The inclusion of musical numbers can occasionally contribute to the tonal inconsistency in a big way, as some of the more shoe-horned in pieces come out of nowhere, do not revolve around topics of vital importance to the episode, or the style of the music itself can be un-ironically incongruous with the mood of the scene (and sometimes it’s just...a bad time to interrupt with a song). Basically, tonal inconsistency can nullify standard narrative conventions and the expectations we are trained to associate with them, because we can’t predict intention; is this cliche meaningful, or incidental? Are they going to acknowledge it at all, and if they don’t, is it deliberate, or an oversight? Are they going to subvert it, or play it straight? A consistent tone means that we can trust the narrative to handle content in a specific way, and in turn we can decide if that’s something we want to return for episode after episode, or not. This is also something that can significantly impact the perception of the show’s approach to social issues, as the spotty follow-up on acknowledged challenges for women can give the impression of paying lip service rather than actually delving in to the problem; you just don’t know if this is gonna be an episode that could be bothered to analyse its own content, or if it’s gonna brush it off; and if it does brush it off, is it because the creators don’t believe that issue is really important, or is exploring it just inconvenient to the story they’re telling right now? You just can’t trust the answer to be the same twice in a row, and consequently, the reaction to a new plot thread or subject is more likely to be apprehension at not knowing where this is headed, instead of engaged interest in going along for the ride to find out.

A big contributor to tonal inconsistency (and a victim of the same, in a feedback-loop kind of way) is secondary character reinforcement, by which I mean, the reinforcement of themes or behavioural standards for the protagonist as reflected by secondary characters. Paula is the character who most fully exemplifies this, as she encourages Rebecca’s worst impulses (including getting angry with her or ignoring her wishes when Rebecca tries to exercise self-restraint or break unhealthy patterns), she commits various criminal acts (some with Rebecca, but also some without Rebecca’s knowledge), and she invades the privacy of almost every character involved in the situation and even takes steps to manufacture their behaviour without their knowledge. Paula’s obsession with Rebecca’s love-life is often more terrifying and troublesome than Rebecca’s obsession with Josh, and while the show at times acknowledges that Paula is being outrageous, it pretty consistently fails to actually call out that behaviour or brand it as Bad News on the same level as anything Rebecca does - Paula’s behaviour is mostly put forward as overzealous but, eh, normal enough. The show holds Rebecca to a completely different standard of behaviour, and narratively punishes her for overstepping those bounds even as the character next to her leaps straight past the same barrier without a word. And Paula isn’t the only one - Greg is the other big sinner in terms of unchallenged poor behaviour, and his smug self-righteousness and tendency to be packaged as some kind of down-on-his-luck ‘complicated intellectual’ (as if that earns him special allowances for being a total prat) is what makes me so much more infuriated by his character (also, it’s a sexist double-standard to allow Greg more moral leeway for his ‘issues’, most of which are just self-generated prideful whinings). And then there are issues like Rebecca’s mother being let off the hook for intense life-long emotional abuse because she said she was just doing it to toughen Rebecca up, as if that makes severe psychological damage acceptable, or Valencia’s abusively controlling attitude with Josh, which I spent the entire season waiting to have explicitly denounced only to end up with her dumping him for not delivering the marriage proposal she had decided she deserved (something which the show kinda approached as reasonable, as if Josh ‘owed’ Valencia marriage after they’d been together for so long). When the show calls out some behaviour but is curiously mute on others, and when some characters are held to different standards to the rest, consistency takes a hit, and narrative trust runs a little short. If you’re left frustrated by hypocritical or contradictory attitudes and you can’t tell if some things are going uncontested for a reason or just out of ignorance, that’s not a good state to be in when you’re trying to also enjoy something. And in the context of this blog, the lack of narrative trust often led me to dismiss progressive-sounding lines or moments because I had no faith in the idea that the show meant what it said or was gonna follow through with relevant action.

As is often the case with complaints, the above probably sounds like a more dire flaw than it is in practice (I say probably; depends if they fix the issue or not, because if it persists across the series it could be crippling). The good news is, there was still plenty to like in season one, some good character development and emotional exploration that I hope is bolstered in the long-term as the show continues, and there was that one thing which really genuinely surprised and impressed me, which was Darryl’s bisexual coming-out. I figured the show would give us a token gay (and I’d picked White Josh as the one long before he was revealed to be so), but I did not expect that to be paired with the revelations of a second queer character, let alone that the journey of that character’s sexuality would be so low-key and wonderful. Darryl wades through some ugly internalised homophobia in order to make peace with himself, but that conflict doesn’t create drama; it creates hesitance. White Josh accepts no shit and protects himself from being hurt by Darryl’s discovery process, but he is also unfailingly understanding, highlighting the issues with Darryl’s thinking without getting personally offended or losing his temper, giving Darryl the tools to mend his problems on his own terms without ever revoking his support in the meantime. Because the subplot is so undramatic, it’s easy to overlook just how healthy it is, and it is able to dig in to a variety of real troubles that people may often encounter in actual life, but without painting those troubles as all-encompassing soul-destroying growing pains inevitably associated with coming out and/or living as a queer person in our society. We really need more of that in the world, more acknowledgment of the nuance that goes beyond garden-variety open bigotry, and especially more queer stories that are complicated without being depressing. The tact and attention to detail in Darryl and White Josh’s story is the single thing, above all others, which gives me hope for the future of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. It may yet earn my trust.

#Bechdel Test #full season review #female representation #Crazy Ex-Girlfriend #Crazy Ex-Girlfriend season one #Crazy Exgirlfriend

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