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[diamonddiv245]

finché morte non ci separi

Chapter 3: Visiting the lions den

February 17th

1943

New York/Long Island

Aurora had barely gotten a wink of sleep that evening, her mind just wouldn’t settle. Thoughts about Santino, Corleone’s and their appearance in her life and what it meant kept invading her thoughts.

By the time she was finally able to drop off she would only be able to squeeze in a few hours before her Nona woke her up in the early morning by pulling back the curtains and letting in the morning light.

“Up! It’s time to wake up. We’ve got to get you ready!”

Desperate for even a moment longer to rest Rory pulled the covers over her head.

“None of that this morning, you need to get in the bath and prepare for your introduction to the Corleone’s, now Ive already picked out your outfit.”

Don’t let her smaller frame fool you, her nona was quite a tough cookie.

After siting In the floral scented bath until she was practically a shrivelled prune on her grandmother’s orders, Rory was then moved to her vanity, which is where she currently sat watching as her Nona fussed with her hair.

“You don’t want anything too outlandish although at the same time you want to make an impression.”

Aurora was trying to pay attention to what Nona was telling her, but the the fumes from the hairspray that Nona was spraying into her already rolled up hair was burning her nose.

While her hair was setting gran moved onto Rory’s makeup.

Thankfully her Nona actually let Rory do this by herself, White her standing by of course.

First was the foundation, grabbing the brush Aurora dabbed the foundation over her face and then started to blend it into her skin. She then picked up the brow pencil and brush making sure to keep it a well manicured arch followed by eyeshadow, just a light pastel noting extravagant just to bring out my eye’s. The rouge on the cheeks gave a little more colour, and then finally Rory picked out her red lipstick.

After it was done Rory looked back at herself , not too bad.

Finally nona took the curlers out of Rory’s hair and then started ruining her fingers through her curled locked to get the combed-through curls perfect.

“Beautiful, now I’ve laid your dress out on your bed, I’ll be waiting outside for you.” Nona swiftly left the room.

Looking at the chosen dress Rory had to hand it to her nona, she certainly picked out a stunning dress.

A beautiful below the knee Dress with Pussy Bow Tie Neck, the traditional shirtwaist seemed to compliment her figure, the Crepe de Chine fabric was soft to the touch and felt smooth on Rory’s skin and the long sleeves which were very full at the cuff were light.the dress also had pretty smock stitching detail and little covered buttons to the front adding to its appeal, however Rory was a little unsure on the colour, cream was very daring.

After putting on pantyhose and her dress Rory then put on a pair of beige slingbacks that cushioned her feet.

Walking out into the hallway She gave a little Twirl for Nona, who’s eyes well up.

“Magnifico.”

Bashfully Rory looked down and fingered the soft fabric of her dress, it wasn’t often that Aurora was able to get all dolled up like this so it was a nice change.

The rest of the morning Aurora was trying to keep herself occupied, trying to keep her mind off the clock.

Her Grandmother was assisting in that, she kept giving Aurora chores one after the other. Just doing them kept Aurora entertained even if it was just helping straighten out the living room.

Finally around 9ish her Grandfather walked into the kitchen dressed up in his suit and with his hand made a coke here motion.

“Let’s go Aroura, it’s time.”

The three of us walked through the hallway with my grandmother fretting over me just one last time. Straightening out any creases, putting that last steam of hair into place and giving me tips.

“Remember smile, only spoke when addressed, let him make the first conversation, remember be demure.”

Suddenly everything was beginning to click for Rory. The primping and priming, the beautiful dress and her Nona’s words, the last time she had seen something familiar was when her dear friend Brava, during her courtship to her now husband Buono. For the month of her courtship Brava had practically be surrounded by her female family member’s.

Somehow Rory doubted she was being taken to meet Don Corleone for simple pleasantries. Oh dear.

Perhaps it wasn’t too late to make a break for it. Perhaps Aurora would of if her Nona’s words didn’t ring loudly in her ear.

“Una brava ragazza siciliana confida nelle conoscenze del suo anziano e confida che sappiano cosa è meglio per lei.” A good Sicilian girl trust in her elder’s knowledge and trust that they know what’s best for her.

Surly her Nonno was wise enough to know what was best for her. Her entire life has been dictated, he had made every decision for her and never led her astray or at-least Rory didn’t think so. Then again her Nonno had always kept her in a tight leash.

It what was best for her, that’s what her Nonno always told her.

Grasping her hand in his tight grip Enzo gestured for his nipotina to get in the car.

Doing as she was told, Aurora slid into the cool leather seat’s and began buckling herself up.

Her grandmother got into the drivers seat and it wasn’t long before they were on the road.

It's quiet in the car.

No words, no music. Silence seemed right. Rory rolled down her windows and leaned her head against the door frame, listening to the wind rush by and smelling the pine trees.

Some time passes of just silent driving, the Corleone’s lived in Long Island whereas Aurora and her family lived in New York.

Still Aurora let her eyes close and enjoy the warm breeze that seems to caress her skin.

You didn’t always have beautiful days like these, so when you did it was best to make them last.

Just as Aurora was about to drop of to sleep the car stopped. Opening her eyes Rory was greeted with big cement walls and a multitude of car’s and gentlemen standing around.

They had arrived.

Leaning back into the car Rory allows her self a moment to gather her thoughts.

Hearing her Nonno’s door opening Aurora took that as her cue.

Rory tried not to notice the multitude of eyes that seems to stare her down curtsy of the multiple gentlemen milling around.

Taking his granddaughter’s hand Nonno lead Rory through the entrance to the property, and finally Rory was as able to see the infamous Corleone residence.

The English Tudor mansion did not disappoint.

As both walked towards the front doors waiting to greet them was the Dons own consigliere Tom Hagen.

“benvenuto”

Trying to remain an inconspicuous as possible Aurora let her Nonno greet the consigliere with good cheer.

"Buongiorno!” The men clasped had with smiles towards each-other.

Aurora was happy to stay of out sight but apparently that wouldn’t happen, as if he had heard her thought’s both eyes turned to her.

Grasping her Nonno’s outstretched hand Rory allowed herself to be pulled to her Grandfather’s side.

“May I present my beautiful nipotina Aurora Mancini, Aurora this is Tom Hagen.”

Remembering her manner's Rory held eye contact and gently shook consigliere Tom’s hand.

“Buongiorno signora Aurora”

“Buongiorno signore.” She didn’t have the Sicilian accent that the rest of her family possessed but she was still knowledgeable in her family’s mother tongue.

Once Tom released her hand he gestured towards the house.

“Follow me and I shall inform the Don of your arrival.”

Obediently Aurora follower her Nonno and Tom into the house trying not to offend anyone by looking at someone or something for too long everything here was so ostentatious and dazzling, it was the type of home Rory could only ever dream of owning. In the distance she would hear chatter coming from down the hall. Obviously women, most likely the dons family member’s though she would have the chance to think further on it considering they were being led in another direction.

Finally they stopped at a closed door.

Holding a hand out Tom stopped the duo.

“Please wait here, I shall alert the dom and then when he’s ready I shall come and get you.”

With those last words Tom swiftly opened the door leaving Aurora and Enzo alone.

Rory used the time to straighten out her dress, fix the few last strands of hair that fell out and simply just prepare herself for meeting one of New York’s most infamous men.

Enzo on the other hand had trying to take deep breath’s and looking at his granddaughter. Today had it be perfect, this meeting had to go well. The future of his business depended on it and not just his future but Aurora’s too. His wife had chosen a wonderful dress and dolled his Granddaughter up very nicely, she was a beauty.

Finally after what felt like an eternity but couldn’t of been longer than a few minutes the door once again opened but this time Tom was holding the door open inviting the pair to walk into the office.

This was it.

With small and dainty steps Rory walked into the office.

First thing she noticed and the amount of people that were currently in the office. Rory had expected perhaps the Dom and Tom but accompanying them were another two gentlemen.

One she recognised immediately.

Santino.

The other man was his brother Fredo, she had seen him around town several times.

Still Rory only looked at them for a Moment after which her eyes went to Don Vito.

Just looking at his made Rory feel intimidated, the way he held himself with such confidence and ease, despite his ageing fine Vito was still an attractive man. It’s clear to see where ti so called Corleone looks came from.

“Signor Mancini how wonderful to see you this fine morning and I take this to be your beautiful nipotina.” Don Vito’s voice had a husky whisper to it.

Enzo desperate for the is meeting to go well eagerly brought his nipotina forward.

“This is Aurora Mancini.”

A small smile crossed Don Vito’s face and with his hand he beckoned Rory forward.

“Come closer my child.”

Gathering her nerve and trying to look more confident than she felt, Rory hesitantly stepped forward.

Reaching a out to grow the outstretched hand, Rory placed a gentle kiss in the Corleone encrusted family ring.

“Don Vito.”

“A gracious greeting my child, look up and let my see your face cara.”

Following instructions Rory gently moved up to make eye contact with Vito.

Rory didn’t move or even blink, she only held still as the Don observed her from head to toe. His hand gently held her chin.

Bated breath could be heard throughout the office, everyone was waiting for the dom’s opinion.

Enzo prayed that Vito liked what he saw.

After a very long moment willed with suspense, finally Don Vito brought his hand back down and walked back to his chair while Aurora went back to her Nonno who instantly gripped her arm.

“Just as beautiful as you boasted Signor Mancini, you should be proud to have such a beautiful nipotina, and a fine woman to became a member of our family.”

And just like that all of Aurora’s suspicions had been confirmed, however she was wise enough to know not to say anything.

But that just blasted the question, who?

Which Corleone son would she call to be her husband.

Well there were three to choose from.

Perhaps it would be the youngest Michael, she had never met him but apparently rumours said he was a nice man, currently he was away.

It might be fredo, fredo wasn’t exactly someone to be remembered in the family, sure he was the second eldest, however rumour has it he was just too soft and gentle to really be of any threat.

Last of all there was Santio, he was the eldest son of Don Vito and the one of is apparently going to become Don once Don Vito head into retirement, although he was a good leader and a charismatic gentleman his violent temper and quick to anger personality was very concerning.

Finally Don Vito again.

“With the union of your nipotina to my eldest Santino we shall unite our families, naturally we shall have a period of courtship to allow our young one’s to be properly acquainted with eachother, under supervision.”

So it was Santino Corleone who she was chosen to marry, Rory knew she would be more out of by this whole situation but she would be outing if she didn’t admit that there as a certain charm she experienced at the thought of being the wife to the handsome and charming Santino Corleone.

Unable to help herself Rory’s eyes sort out her future husband, he was sat on a chair nursing a glass of whiskey with a cheeky smile and a mischievous glint in his eye’s.

His enthusiasm seems to be contagious and Rory couldn’t help but give him a small smile.

It was once again Vito that broke there concentration.

“Sonny, why don’t you take carissima Aurora for a leisurely walk, I’ll have some bodyguards accompany you two, then you will accompany us for lunch, Enzo I shall have one of my men carpool her back to yours later this afternoon.”

With a beaming smile Enzo gave a single nod.

“Grazie Don Corleone I am deeply honoured by your care.”

The meeting was officially over and everyone was leaving the office Aurora watched as her grandfather was taken back towards the entrance, Rory on the other hand was left unsure on what to do with herself.

That was until a warm hand was placed on her back and a familiar intense voice spoke form her left.

“Follow me, Aurora. I know a wonderful walking trail that we could go down.” Wordlessly Rory followed her soon to be husband.

Thankfully the it was a warm day, otherwise this would of been a very uncomfortable walk.

Not that Rory wasn’t uncomfortable, she was.

So many questions were running around in her head, and it was impossible to focus on just one.

She and santonio walked in silence for a good while until Santino finally spoke.

“I’m sure you have many questions.”

“A few.” Aurora let out a tiny laugh.

Santino let out a laugh.

“Well I’ll answer what I can.” The gesture sonny made to Rory to go ahead.

“Well I guess my first question would have to be why me? Don’t mistake I’m flattered but surly there are other women that would be better suited, good full-blooded Sicilian’s, you do know of my heritage right?”

Oh goodness what of her grandfather had left the circumstances of her parents out of the equation.

Before she could fret herself into a panic santinos warm hand was once again on her lower back, this heat radiating from his touch seemed to burn through her dress making tingles run up her spine.

“Yes we know of your heritage, my father had been awear of it since the moment you were born.”

Confusion was pasted across Rory’s face, her head suddenly filled with even more questions.

Just how long had the Corleone’s known about her.

Santino continued on.

“My father helped him out back in the day and he’s always been interested in you.”

Desperate to find out more Aurora pushed on.

“What do you mean? How do my grandfather and your father know eachother?” She needed to know.

However the stern look Santino shot Rory was enough to once again settle her down.

“I won’t Discuss business with you Aurora, so please refrain from asking any further questions on the business between our family’s.”

“I’m sorry.” Aurora was knowledgable enough to know her position.

If surprised of her quick willingness to let the topic slide santino didn’t let it show.

“But to answer your earlier question yes I know that your father was an American, however I don’t see that as an issue. You’ve been raised in a Sicilian household, you know our values and traditions, besides Tom isn’t Italian and he’s family.”

Happy to get conversation back on a lighter note Rory continued to find out more about her future husband.

“So santino-“

Santino quickly cut in.

“Call me Sonny.”

Warmth flooded Aurora, it was a foreign feeling, yet it felt nice.

“Very well, If you call me Rory.”

“Rory?” Sonny mused while trading amused glances with this future wife.

UnAble to help herself Rory let out a little laugh.

“Yes, I know it sounds like a Boy’s name but it’s easier and quicker than saying my full name, plus I think it’s unique.”

The laugh the Sonny let out was one from the stomach.

“Whatever you say doll face.”

Whatever tension was between them earlier had seemed to evaporate. Both were now relaxed and simply happy to be in each other’s company.

Feeling more confident Rory eagerly moved forward so she was a few paces in front of Sonny before turning so she could face him head while walking backwards.

“So Sonny since you’ve already mocked my name, tell me something about yourself.”

The mischievous grin on his face was that of pure amusement and mirth, the usual frown line’s on his face had evaporated, one would find it hard to believe that he was only 28 years of age.

“May I enquire to what you want to know, I’m an open book, more of less.”

Rory pursed her lips in a comical way while placing a finger on her chin and playfully acting like she was in deep thought, her actions got her a laugh.

“What’s your favourite dish and why?”

“Sfogliatelle hands down, my Madre would always have a dozen or so waiting for me and my siblings when we got home from school.” Despite his good physique Sonny enjoyed the delicate pastry.

Aurora had been so entrapped with the conversation she hadn’t even noticed the shadows that were following her and Sonny.

Just as Vito had promised they were being chaperoned by several bodyguards, still Rory paid them no mind, round the clock security was something she was going to have to get used to.

“What about you Rory? What’s your favourite dish?”

Sonny moved around Rory Till it was him in front staring back at her while walking backwards.

“Arancini.”

As a child she was always eating those breaded and deep-fried ball’s of creamy risotto rice.

Both had been so deep in conversation that neither had noticed they had done a full 360 and were almost back at the house.

Just in time too.

The inviting smell of lunch reached the noses of both Sonny and Rory.

“Looks like it’s lunch time, we best take our seats.”

In a surprise move Sonny grabbed Rory’s hand and pulled her towards the dining room.

Blushing to her roots Aurora tried not to trip over herself.

Still both made it to the dining room in time and were greeted by Vito.

“At least we were wondering if you would make it back in time for lunch, family may I present Aurora Mancini.”

Rory offers everyone a polite smile and was greeted to enthusiastic welcomes from everyone.

To her relief she was approached by Carmella.

“Benvenuta Aurora! Please take a seat between myself and my daughter Connie.”

Guided by Carmella’s gentle hands, Rory was sat down next to a beautiful young woman who couldn’t of been much older than her, probably the same age.

Connie gave her future sister in-law a megawatt smile.

“It’s so great to meet you! I hope your hungry.”

“I’m starving.”

“Perfetta!” Carmella voiced before she and began scooping out the Caponata and Farsu magru onto plates and passing them around.

Eager to help her future mother in law, Rory offered up her services.

“Would you like any help signora Carmella?”

Carmella merely brushed the woman off and continued to plate up the dishes herself.

Okay looks like winning over Carmella is going to be harder than I thought.

Connie leaned over to Rory.

“Don’t worry about it, mama’s always been picky about when it come’s so the food and who serves it, I wouldn’t try to come between her and her kitchen.”

Rory understood that, Italian mothers weren’t easy to impress and didn’t share their secret’s easily.

Still after saying grace, Rory eagerly dug into her lunch.

Mmmm, it was delicious.

The rest of lunch would be spent making conversation with both Connie and Theresa who were interested in learning about her and her hobbies, while also making plans to go shopping together, Carmella simply watched over them chiming in occasionally.

In Rory’s opinion it was a great first impression. If she was going to marry at least she knew she would be part of a family that for all intense and purposes seemed to value each-other greatly.

After lunch Rory said her goodbyes and Just as was promised, got into the waiting car.

The drive back home was quite, her driver didn’t speak and she didn’t try to make conversation, her mind was just too clouded.

Still she thanked the nameless driver when she got out of the car before walking up the steps of her building and knocking on the door.

The door opened and her Nonno ushered her inside.

#sonny corleone #sonny corleone x reader #the godfather #finché morte non ci separi

[ticket-for-four]

Ticket For Four: Chapter 5 ▽ From Conductor to Passenger

Summary: Emmet wakes up after a verrrrry long day at work... Or does he?

Read on AO3 here.

Garlic... Potato... Carrots? Oh. Ingo's turn to cook dinner. Ingo likes making stew.

The homely, savory scent carried its way to Emmet, barely roused from rest as his heavy eyes remained shut. A small weight rested on his lap over the thin blanket covering him, (Ah. Ingo must have done that.) gently breathing and chirping quietly. Between his napping companion (Galvantula worked verrrrry hard today, too.) and the hazy comfort of his mind, he saw little reason to shift gears at the moment. Especially not with the dull ache of his muscles and joints making themselves known.

I didn't realize I was so tired. I don't remember the last time I stalled my engine like this after a shift. It was a verrrrry long day.

Not too distantly, Emmet could hear the slight clinking of thin metal on metal. Continuous and rhythmic, a dance of liquid whirling softly in a pot. Such a pleasant lullaby could easily ease Emmet back to rest, but instead he remained in a cozy limbo between sleep and waking.

Ingo must be tired too. It's not good to run on fumes. Takeout would have been a good idea.

A pleased humming drifted into the soundscape. It drawled low and notably hushed, (Ingo knows I am a light sleeper.) laced with a hint of idle drowsiness, but beaming with content, sound as a whistle.

That's right. Ingo likes cooking more than I do, yup. He says it's relaxing. It is time consuming. Time better spent laying the tracks for new battle strategies. Or refueling. But if Ingo is happy, that is okay.

To his right came the quiet creak of a door (The bathroom?) and heavy cloth shuffling to his other side, then towards the melody of the meal being prepared. A high, airy voice (Elesa must have left the gym early tonight if she's visiting now.) buzzed with an inquisitive mutter. The bassier voice's humming ebbed away to reply, still remaining low. Like a friendly tennis match at the sports dome, light conversation between the two swayed back and forth. Of course, Emmet, ever inquisitive, strained to give meaning to words that seemed too foreign to understand. After some time, Emmet gave up trying to comprehend the conversation. He was much more tempted to sink deeper into the cushion below than to get up and join them. Just five more minutes, he promised. The soreness laying claim to his body seemed to gradually spread out (Today was verrrrry long.) with his awareness.

There was a pause in the quiet banter. Then a sigh, edging on exasperated, with something bubbling just underneath. The girl's voice raised, though still not loud enough to hear her hissing clearly, the annoyance in her tone was impossible to miss. Her companion responded in an almost... carefree way? The contrast was jarring. Uncomfortably so.

Is Elesa okay? Something has happened. Ingo doesn't seem worried. Verrrrry strange.

Anger pierced her voice, sharp and pointed at the other like a knife. That wasn't right. Neither was the pitch of her voice or the more obvious inflections of an accent that Emmet noted. Something cold and curdling settled in Emmet's stomach as the whispers became more audible.

Elesa does not know Kantonian.

That is not Elesa.

Forcing his eyes to open was like pushing against a slumbering Snorlax with his bare hands, but he somehow managed to do so. Dormant pain ripped to the forefront, Emmet's head especially didn't take kindly to it as a pitiful croak escaped him. Wood ceiling. Their apartment did not have a wood ceiling.

"Oh? Well, good morning! How're you feeling?"

Speaking fluent Kantonian. Somewhat deep, but very lax and boyish voice. Wrong rhythm. Not Ingo.

He would have sighed if he had the strength to do so.

Almost unwillingly, Emmet dragged his sight down, leveling to meet with his unfamiliar guests. A boy. Paint marks on his face, hair, and smock. Looked quite satisfied with a wide smile. A girl. Tightly bandaged arms, crossed. Some type of kimono, orange and with an ornate pattern. Looked verrrrry mad, glaring squarely at Emmet now. Both, absolute strangers.

Emmet would have liked to ask them a mountain of questions about their identities and the medical ward they resided in. Unfortunately, the ceaseless ache all over his body and the familiar tightness in his throat made it clear to him that it would be a struggle. Something wiggled on his lap. At least some comfort set in at the sight of the roused Trapinch, nudging at his thickly bandaged arm. Aside from the mostly healed scratch over its head, the passenger appeared safe and secure. That was good. Still a bit stunned, Emmet looked between the two strangers. They seemed somewhat unsure themselves. After a few beats, the boy took the initiative. "Ah, sorry!", a brief moment of contemplation, then he cleared his throat, "You Galararian speak, yes? Your notebook write Galarian."

While his conjugation and structure could certainly use some work, Emmet was no stranger to rocky communication barriers. Running one of Unova's epicenters of tourism would be quite difficult without a few conversational-level languages or dialects tucked under his (currently displaced) hat. With a tired tug at a smile, Emmet nodded slowly at the boy. The boy's eyes brightened with glee as he clapped his hands together. The girl still stayed silent, having only broken her staredown for a moment with an inquisitive grunt when her companion had spoken up. The boy was either unaware of her meticulously picking Emmet apart with her eyes, or simply ignored it in favor of communication,  "Your name E-mme-t? Same inside notebook?"

Another nod. Another clap. Another stare. This was certainly a form of communication, but not one favorable to Emmet's own burning questions. Maybe... Emmet sat up in the bed, dragging a few sores out with him. Though the numb tingling in his right arm made it difficult to lift at all for the moment. Emmet attempted to comprehensively sign with his left arm alone, as best he could manage.

[Give me my notebook. Please.]

The girl squinted, bewilderment somewhat taking over her wariness, "What the... Samba, what is he doing?" The boy, apparently Samba, continued to not acknowledge the girl, following Emmet's gestures intently. Samba tilted his head, holding a hand up in a similar fashion to Emmet,"Repeat, ah... slow?" Still shaking off his sluggishness, Emmet repeated the motions again, taking care to punctuate the mock scribbling of the air with his fingers for 'notebook'.

Realization bloomed on Samba's face, then came two claps. "I see, I see!," finally, Samba turned to the girl, "Fau? Could you get Emmet's things? They should be in my lab." Her narrowed eyes flitted between the two as they'd been 'speaking', her irritated scowl stretching into a more clueless glare as they went on. "What? You- How do-," she stammered for a moment, then simply huffed and trudged behind one of the medical screens, "Okay, yeah, whatever." "Much thanks!", Samba giggled, loosely waving a hand towards a door that slammed shut. It was then that Emmet's barren stomach decided to make itself quite vocal, in contrast to the owner. Samba's eyebrows raised, then he giggled once more, "Ah! I got distracted again. Hm... Ah, food! One moment!" Emmet watched the boy skip over to a simple trolley near another empty bed, home to a medium-sized pot and a steaming, aromatic bowl of liquid gold. He cushioned the bowl with a towel before returning to Emmet's bedside. He held the bowl out gingerly, "Need eat help?"

Emmet tested the fingers resting against Trapinch's head with some repetitive flexing. Better, still numb, but with at least enough strength to keep a small bowl in place. Trapinch gave a disappointing click but relented to being shuffled just enough to free up Emmet's lap. He accepted the offered bowl, making a conscious effort to attempt a genuine, grateful smile to Samba before digging in.

Samba pulled a chair up to the bedside, sitting with his legs tied up in a pretzel, hands perched on his knees and elbows jutting out. He grinned, watching Emmet drain the bowl within a minute, "Enjoy the meal?" Nod. He set the bowl on the nearby side table, returning Trapinch to his seat as well. With his ravenous hunger much more satiated, Emmet raised both his hands to converse, his movements swifter than before.

[I have questions.]

Just as attentive as he'd been this whole time, Samba assessed his signals and picked up their meaning quickly. "I see, I see. I will, hm, what's that word again...? I tell what best possible!" Emmet couldn't help at both grinning softly at the boy's enthusiasm, and straining a bit to piece together words broken up and slurring somewhat with his Hoenn accent.

[Kantonian is OK.]

Samba's lips raked into a straight line, embarrassment tomato red and clear on his eartips. "Oh! Ah, is that so?" Nod. "Well, then, that does make this easier. Apologies if it was difficult to follow; I've stayed in Galar and Orre for studies before, but not nearly long enough to properly learn the language. Luckily I fared better with GSL, I have my mentor to thank for that at least." Emmet easily shruged and waved a hand at the boy lightly. There was no need to apologize for anything. Gladly, the message was well received, with Samba's brief hesitation shaken off quickly, "But yes, you have questions, feel free to ask! I'll answer best I can, though I admit, your situation as I've read is very odd indeed."

He read my journal. That is good, that saves some time. Now... [How did you find me? Where are we? How long have I been sleeping? Who are you? Have you seen my brother, Ingo? We are twins. He looks like me-]

"One at a time now, it wouldn't be good to push yourself," Samba chuckled, raising a hand to pause Emmet's rapid-fire gestures, "I haven't properly greeted you, so I guess I should do that first.

"I'm Professor Asterid, though, ah, please feel free to just call me Samba. Still not quite used to the new title, especially hearing it from all the older scouts, heh. I'm here working with the Aether Expedition Team to document some studies of pokemon here in the Alola region and help with conservatory efforts regarding some species."

Huh. Alola then. While not Emmet's first guess, he did suppose it was possible he'd ended up near the tropical region during the weeks following his displacement. The environment seemed right, however, the lack of towns or ports on the deserted island struggled to let the theory hold water. Emmet turned his attention to Samba's appearance; he did seem quite young, given his stature and rounded face, likely no older than twenty. Certainly an impressive feat to be recognized as an authority at such an age, Emmet could sympathize with the anxious edge in his voice. And what about collaborating with the Aether... Expedition Team? A subsect of Alola's Aether Foundation, maybe? Though that name seemed a bit odd. "How about yourself?", Samba looked to Emmet expectantly.

[I am Emmet. I am a Subway Boss. I am from Unova. I run the Battle Subway in Nimbasa City with my brother Ingo. Ingo and I have become derailed, I would like to recouple with him and return home as soon as possible.]

Samba's head tilted, a bubbling inquiry clear in his eyes. "I don't recognize a few of those phrases. You said that you were from...?", the professor took to slowly mimic the threaded fingers and circular motion Emmet had performed. Something uncomfortable trickled down Emmet's spine. And it wasn't the Joltik shuffling about his robes or shoulders. Slowly and punctuated, he flexed his fingers to spell out U-N-O-V-A.

"Uu... Noh... Vah? Unova? Where would that be?"

That tickle turned into a knife through his back, scorched with confusion and distress. Despite the tension wringing his joints, Emmet signed again, the motions now a hesitant staccato. [West of Galar. It is west of Galar. That is where Unova is.] Again with the dreadful, perplexed look, "West of Galar? But that's just-"

WHAM!

Deep in conversation, the two jumped at the heavy coat and cap tossed on the bedsheets by Fau, looking no less irritated than before she left. "I still don't know how you got the office in such a state," she grumbled towards the professor, "It's only been two months, you need to take better care of your space. Also, why are there flower pots everywhere?"

"Oh, right! Remember Ribombee? And how they create nectar and cloudy puffs with pollen? Well, I wanted to test if the various effects they can provide have anything to do with the type of plants they receive pollen from. I'm wondering if different nectar also results in different pigments, that would certainly make getting paint a lot less of a hassle! I'm still in the middle of compiling my results, so I'll try and clean up after that's done. Promise! Really, this time, eh heh..."

"Oh, interesting, I guess. Also, I don't believe you. Also, why didn't you just do your test outside? That's where the flowers belong in the first place, you know."

"Well, it was more convenient having them all in one place. Most of them were also a gift from Muta, so I wanted to keep them close to appreciate!"

"I would appreciate you cleaning up after yourself. I'm not doing it again; I'm your guard, not your maid."

"I know you're not my maid Fau, though you did clean up last time without me even asking..."

"Because you're bound to slip on your own empty paint tubes if you leave them there!"

Amidst the children going back and forth, Emmet took to digging through the inner pockets of his coat, clammy hands choking the spine of his journal. He ripped through to an empty page, bookmarked with the Garbodor patterned pen he'd left there. Cap off. Nib down. Kantonian characters were strung together quickly, flecks of undried ink stuck to Emmet's palm, though any apparent smudging didn't take from the legibility of his neat script. The sudden *thwap* of the notebook being flipped to face the professor stopped the background bickering in its tracks. Samba read the page. He frowned, his gaze fixed on the paper, "Um..." A confused Fau rounded the bed to lean over his shoulder as he contemplated an answer. She read the page. Her gaze flicked up to Emmet's with a hint of surprise overlaying her general skepticism, then back to the paper, "'Haa? If Unova is not west of Galar, what is?'"

Sounding almost amused, she casually shrugged at the notebook wavering ever so slightly in Emmet's hand, "Wait, you mean that Galar settlement? Last I heard, it didn't have a name yet, though I guess news across the world takes a while to get here, even during a good season. Anyway, what's that got to do with you, stowaway?" "I really don't think he's a stowaway, Fau. He said in his notebook-" "He didn't just appear from nowhere. There haven't been any reports of a missing passenger on the last few arrivals. I trust quartermaster logs more than this book of his, no way he was out there by himself for almost a month." Emmet stared down at the journal, laid over his knee and held tight in one hand, while the other rhythmically tapped the button end of the pen on a corner.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

They do not know Unova. They should. They don't. 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

There is no Unova. It is not here.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Galar settlement. Where Unova should be. And is not.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap-

"Ah, Mr. Emmet? Are you alright?" The tapping ceased. Emmet flipped the pen nib down once more, his strokes on the paper sharp, stiff, and precise. His gaze remained fixed to his lap, barely registering Trapinch's concerned chittering as the notebook was presented to Samba once more. There was a hum, low and muted, but deafening with unease. "Um... The current year is 1895. I'm... guessing there's something wrong with that, isn't there?" Nod.

"Haa? What do you-? Are you-?", Fau balked, then scoffed, "Oh please, you aren't going to say something stupid like-" "You're in the wrong time." Emmet looked up. One face deep in thought. The other darting between burning him and glaring at the back of Samba's head with disbelief. "That's insane, that doesn't just happen to people! Surely not!" Samba shook his head, "Not according to some records and accounts I've heard. While it's not a common occurrence, there are a few records of people and pokemon claiming to have been transported between times and locations.

"Hm... I might be able to write to my mentor about this, he would know more on the subject than I would. Mr. Emmet, do you think you could go into more detail about your displacement? As much as you're able to at the moment, you're still recovering after all."

Emmet lowered the notebook back to his knee, staring down at his own words. So much was uncertain. About him, about his brother, about their own time. Family, friends, coworkers, did they even understand what happened to them? Or were they searching for the twins, without realizing they no longer traveled the same lines? Could they... could they even get back on those tracks through their own will? So much was uncertain.

Emmet huffed at himself. Worrying will not solve this. My destination has not changed; Ingo and I will return home. I will do whatever I must to see that through.

Confidence aflame once more, Emmet's pen tore its way through pages over the next few hours or so. Emmet recalled every detail of that day, right down to the model of car they drove and all the trainers they'd encountered. At some point, moving to sit beside Emmet, Samba read over his shoulder, making little hums of interest or asking about certain parts of the text, typically about the "underground Galarian locomotives" or the various pokemon he'd fought against. Fau, blatantly not sharing in her ward's enthusiasm, left the room at various intervals, returning with food for herself and Samba, or begrudgingly acquiring documents from his office when asked. Emmet took periodic breaks as to not strain his wrist too badly, though soreness was still present in his body, and any actual pain luckily ebbed away the longer he'd been awake. Once Emmet had exhausted his recollections, he was left with a pencil-thick stack of pages, each carefully separated from the journal along the perforated edges. Satisfied with his work, he handed the stack off to Samba.

"Oh! Thank you, Mr. Emmet," the professor carefully leafed over a few of the pages in his hands, "This should be more than enough for my mentor to work with, I have no doubts he'll have at least a few theories on the situation." Samba produced a simple clip from his smock pocket to bind the pages before passing them to a half asleep Fau. "Fau? Could you take this down to the communications office? I'd like this mailed to Professor Laventon in Postwick as soon as possible." With a neutral hum, and another of many judging looks towards Emmet, she was off.

Emmet gave Samba a nudge on the shoulder to grab his attention. [How long should it take to get there?] "Well, if we're lucky, a long-distance Carrier Pidgey should only take about two months, though we only have about three trained ones stationed here," Samba said, clapping, "And if not, it will be about 5 months by boat. It's a shame we don't have one of those subway locomotives from your time, I'm sure it would make a trip across the world like that a cinch." Emmet barely flinched that timeframe; one couldn't expect to find modern-day conveniences here, could they? He gave a small, woeful huff, but kept smiling nonetheless. [It would be nice. I don't like it, but I will be patient.] 

The boy nodded, "Good, good. I can't say much on how long it will take my mentor to respond back, but I have it in good faith that he'll put his all into helping us out! Well, now that that's settled, I think you should catch up on some rest, yeah?" Trapinch, as well as the rest of the Joltik that had taken to gathering at Emmet's lap, all squeaked and chirped in clear agreement. Emmet gave each of them a grateful head scratch before sinking back into the mattress. "Heh heh, it's really nice to see how friendly your pokemon are. Oh, wait! "I completely forgot to mention! ", a sudden flash of awareness flashed across Samba's face, quickly replaced by a sheepish grin, and his hands were gently pressed together. "Once you're well enough for it, you'll be assisting me with fieldwork studies for the Aether Expedition Team. I apologize for doing this without your input on the matter, but it was the only way to get you admitted for medical assistance."

Samba's gaze turned to the pile of buzzing pokemon, the penitence written on his face softening, "When we first came across you, your partners were there keeping you safe from a small pack of Rattata, even while they were already quite injured. Though we've started adopting stronger bonds with pokemon in the last few years, it was still quite a surprise to see someone with that many trusting partners. Someone like you must have quite an understanding of pokemon and would be a great asset in crafting the Alolan pokedex with me, I thought. That was the basis of my argument to have you join the survey corps with me, at least until you're able to return home. I hope this isn't asking for too much from you." Emmet could clearly hear the professor's sincerity and admiration in his plea. He couldn't help letting out a chuckle, more akin to a few quick and tender puffs of air through his nose. [You have saved me from dying on a deserted island. You are helping me find a way to return home and find my brother. I am happy to help you with your research. You are working hard to help me, so I will do the same.] Any guilt that remained on the boy's face was overtaken by relief settling into his posture. He gave a simple grin and a joyous clap, "That's good then. That should be everything, really. Fau and I will check in on you again later. For now, rest well."

With arms gathered around empty bowls and dirty utensils, Samba departed, leaving Emmet and his partners, who were already half drowsy and half conked out. It didn't take long for their trainer to join them, the weariness of the last few hours finally fully nestling into his bones. Breathing easy and light, respite came quick. Emmet rested, full of dulling aches and more hope than he'd had in weeks.

#pokemon legends arceus #pokemon #pla #emmet #oc: samba #oc: fau #submas #au #fan fiction #fanart #gladhand art #ao3

[doctor-loboto]

Not Sick, Chapter 2

Chapter two of the Milla/Loboto/Sasha sickfic is up here on AO3, or you can read it in the following post. the same warnings that were in the last post apply to this one; an unrealistically romanticized therapist/patient relationship and references to past abuse, along with some ableism and drug references thrown in. also Loboto is Very Neurodivergent, as written by a Very Neurodivergent person.

Chapter Two: In Which Loboto Makes A New Friend Under Suspicious Circumstances

  When Caligosto woke up, his head was full of pressure and his throat felt dry and scratchy. He was frustrated, but not concerned. He had been sick like this in the past and he was always able to hide it until he got better. Being sick was a personal failing. His father, a respected doctor, had taught him as much. Getting sick meant you had been careless, especially if it was in your brain. If you had a cold, it was because you didn’t wash your hands enough. If you had a problem with your brain, it was because you were a bad person or took drugs or thought too many bad things. And because sick people made bad decisions, doctors were allowed to do whatever they wanted to them. It was humiliating. He knew it was true because it had happened to him so many times as a child. Beyond the practical implications, being a Sick Person was inherently a position of powerlessness and shame. He would sooner die of his illness than allow himself to become a patient.

  Well. Never mind that he would have to pretend he was feeling right as rain when someone came to check in on him. And for however long he would have to interact with people. He may as well explore his new digs; he was so exhausted the night before that he barely took note of where he was.

  He decided not to put his smock back on for the time being and left it hanging on the back of the door. He didn’t have work to do just now, so what Morry had once called his “civilian clothes” would be fine. He always wore a thermal shirt and a pair of stirrup pants under his labcoat because it could get chilly in abandoned buildings. He didn’t bother putting on his boots because the floor was covered in soft carpeting, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  The dorm was much better than a cell in a mental hospital! It had a wooden chair with padded cushions and a little fridge and a radio and a table where he could write papers and draw blueprints. There was a small bathroom with a toilet, sink and shower attached. He would have preferred a bathtub, but a shower was better than nothing and it still made for an acceptable safe place. His bed was a real bed and it was soft.

  A vague content feeling began welling up inside him and didn’t really understand why. He was trapped in the psychonauts headquarters and they probably wanted to do experiments on him. He had no mechanical projects to work on, no favorite teeth to roll around in his palm for comfort. He didn’t even have a teddy bear or a pet fish. But… he felt like he was finally safe. When was the last time he had been in a real bedroom that was so close to being his own?

  “Good morning, Caligosto!” There was a knock on the door, and after a few moments it opened. The woman he recognized as Milla entered, holding a paper coffee cup and a tupperware that seemed to be full of oatmeal and fruit. She was wearing a crochet top with little multicolored flowers woven into it, which Loboto thought looked very stylish. He had always loved floral patterns since he was a child and desperately wanted to try on his mother’s dresses. He trusted Milla somewhat, more than Sasha and even Morceau. She had been nothing but nice to him, always coming to his defense when one of her colleagues made an unfavorable remark about his morality or mental stability. She had given him a water bottle and a package of dried fruit after they’d discovered him on the jet and taken him captive again, and kept asking if he was comfortable in his restraints or if he was feeling okay (he had started feeling unwell a little before that boy wormed his way into his mind, most likely due to that mean little girl who kept getting her particulate spray on him [ugh! children, nothing but walking germ factories!]).

  “Good morning!” He responded, stifling a cough. He couldn’t help sounding cheerful. It was just how he said ‘good morning’, or ‘hello there’, or ‘this won’t hurt at all’.

  “How are you feeling today?” A loaded question.

  “Fine! Dandy. No complaints.”

  “I’m so glad you decided to stay for a while. I brought you some things!” She set the items in her arms down on the table.

  He scoffed. “Decided? You forced me!”

  She shrugged. “Morry told me a few things about you. You could have tried to hurt Sasha, but you didn’t. You let him talk to you.”

  He pouted, sullen. And maybe that was a mistake! “I knew I couldn’t try anything! He would have made minced dental meat out of me!”

 Changing the subject, she handed him the coffee cup. “Here! I ordered a sugar-free mocha latte for you at the coffee shop.”

  Caligosto looked at the cup skeptically. “Did the coach tell you the kind of coffee I like too? Or did you do some more snooping around in my mind?”

  “I may have asked Morry a few too many questions. Sasha as well; he told me you may want this.” She reached into the plastic bag and pulled out what Loboto immediately recognized as a plush coelacanth, like they would sell at the gift shop in a natural history museum. It had richly embroidered details and eyes that were both soulful and authentically fishy. He mostly suppressed an excited squeal. He accepted it, being sure not to seem overly needy, and casually shifted to holding it in the crook of his neck. It was the perfect size for him. A lot of stuffed animals weren’t big enough for him to comfortably hold them in his arms and use them as a cushion.

  He had many secrets that he had learned to keep hidden because they could be used against him. One of them was that he formed deep bonds with toys, usually plushies, although it wasn’t unheard of him for him to befriend bath toys. He named them and loved them almost as much as real pets. They were more useful in many ways than actual animals, too. You couldn’t cuddle with an eel at night unless you turned it into a reptile or a proto-mammal, and while a crow might enjoy scratches and singing, they generally don't like sleeping in bed with their owners. He had learned not to share this information unless he really trusted someone ever since he could overhear his parents arguing about the fact that he still slept with all his stuffed animals. His father believes that he was too old for such childish things and needed to grow up into a young man, whereas his mother insisted that he would always be her little boy because of his brain problems and that he should be able to keep his toys until he got married. “Then his wife will sleep with him at night, and she can handle the screaming.”

  He would have to think of a good name for the coelacanth. He felt that a scientific or botanical term may fit nicely, or maybe both. But as much as he felt a little tug to make Milla happy, the same tug that he sometimes felt back when handsome, friendly Fred (who was even taller than Caligosto and thus could absolutely hug his entire body if he tried) would take care of him and give him his pills, he couldn’t let the gifts completely knock down his barriers. After all, doctors used these kinds of tactics to lull you into a false sense of security and the psychonauts were known for playing mind games. They literally got inside your head! He had heard stories of them convincing successful crime lords and mercenaries that they were just crazy and needed to go to the ever-recommended therapy and live normal, boring lives.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” He demanded. “I don’t believe for a single minute that you and Sasha are doing all these things for me when you feel like I’ve been so awful! Shouldn’t you be mad at me? Shouldn’t you be punishing me? You want to do something horrible to me and you’re trying to make me all complacent!”

  Milla sighed and looked a little disappointed, but resigned to the fact, as if she had been expecting his reaction. “We’re just worried about you. We all want you to get better. All of us have seen into your mind, even little Raz, and I know you didn’t like that we did that without asking you. I apologize for that. We’ve both done some boundary crossing, you could say. But I forgive you for when you violated my bodily autonomy, and I hope you can forgive me for violating your mental autonomy. Because we saw some things that really concerned us and made us think that you might be having a hard time.”

  He hugged the coelacanth tight. He didn’t say anything. He was having a hard time. All the time, but especially now, after his head had been rummaged through and things had been knocked loose. Which these people had done to him, but maybe they could fix him again, even… upgrade him to a better version of himself? He was cautious with the idea. He let it sit in a jar with holes in the lid under a bright light in his brain so he could observe it.

  She finished emptying the bag, removing a paper takeout box and a plastic container of beige and purple mush. They were opened to reveal a breakfast with bacon and eggs and a serving of oatmeal with fruit. “I also brought you some things from the cafeteria, since we don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to eat in public yet.” Sasha had been communicating urgently with her the whole time he showed Loboto to the dining area last night. She managed to convince him that they didn’t know if he was sick just yet, that it would be good for him to have a normal meal with people he knew. Now that he sounded wheezy and congested she was beginning to think she should have listened to Sasha. At least there hadn’t been any coughing or sneezing during dinner.

  “I know everyone is saying I have a cold or whatever they’re calling it, but the fact of the matter is that I’m very sensitive to air conditioning and various types of dust, and I’ll be fine when I can get out of this artificial hellpit!” He said with confidence. “Then I hope you get your HVAC system checked for mold. I’m saving you a lawsuit!”

  “Of course, Darling. We just need to keep you isolated for a while to be safe.” She sat down on the bed next to him as he opened up the containers of food and started eating, after sniffing them with suspicion. To be honest, he couldn’t smell very much, but it was good to show that he was on his toes. “I was hoping we could try out a therapy session today.”

  He groaned and stabbed his compostable fork into an egg yolk. “Why is it always therapy with you and your little Tyrolean boy-toy?”

  She’d certainly have to tell Sasha that nickname as soon as possible. It was entirely possible that it would show up on a customized mug on the next April Fool’s Day. “It’s not going to be like other therapy you may have had. I promise. It might be fun!”

  “And what happens to me if I don’t go? You pop out my brain and stick it in some koi pond in a lobby somewhere?”

  “Well…” She didn’t enjoy using threats, but he did ask. “We would have to enter your mindscape again. It may be-”

  “I’ll do it!” He interrupted. “I’ll do your pointless therapy if it gets you off my back and out of my head!” He took a sip of coffee. All this yelling was hard on his throat, and he didn’t want to get hoarse. He needed to be able to yell more, not to mention that it would give away his weakness.

  “That’s wonderful! I can show you to my counseling room after you wake up a little more and finish your breakfast.” Milla felt optimistic. He was resistant, yes, but she had worked with child arsonists who only wanted to curse at her, patients who were so traumatized that they were nonverbal, even people who had gone through cerebral torture. It would take time, but she was sure she could get Caligosto to open up. Once she learned the patterns of his mind and what had set them there, she could begin giving him tools to heal himself.

#caligosto loboto #millaxloboto #sickfic #psychonauts fanfiction

[cannibalcreeps]

1, 7 and 29 from the list, asking about the Wetlens.

1. Do they sleep with a stuffed animal? If they have multiple, who’s the favorite?

Those who don’t have any stuff animals: 

Hog, Cherri, Dulg and Lurfi. 

Lurfi has cushions and pillows shaped as flowers, hearts or clouds not really stuffed animals.  Those that do:

Mibbi: Has one stuffed rabbit from her childhood, it’s missing one foot, half a ear, both its eyes and has a cracked button nose. She does not really sleep with it anymore, instead only puts it on her bed after making it and when it’s bedtime she puts it on the rocking chair close to her bedside table. She will go feral on anyone who touches it, she loves that damn thing and all the siblings know it. 

Smock: Has two dinosaur stuff toys, one a t-rex and the other a triceratops. He stole them from a little boy (that ended up getting killed by his twin) and just really likes the way they look. Dulg knows better than to do anything to them. 

Slough: So many, he has sooooooo many stuffed toys, normal toys, dolls, pillows, just everything. Though he does have a favourite and it was his first ever stuffed toy: an Elephant called Tooty,  that is so faded and damaged, it has turned more into a patchwork and only has 20% of its original material left. He got it as his first ever proper birthday when he was 3 (the year after the parents died) Cherri found it floating in the swamp water, swelled with water and grime, covered in bugs. Took Lurfi and Hog days to clean it, they didn’t need to patch it up other than sown in one rip during that time but as years went by and it being stolen by the twins (who got their asses beat by Lurfi when she found out) had victims steal it or him just losing it in general outside. But it has survived hell and back and sits proudly on his bed pillow. 

7. Describe them in three words. Now let them describe themselves in three words.

Cherri: Cocky, Sook, Obsessive How he describes himself: Womanizer, Leader, Charming Slough: Adorable, Sweet, Baby How he describes himself: Large, Gross, Bad Hog: Kind-Hearted, Gentle, Loving How he describes himself: Ugly, Sad, Lonely Lurfi: Loving, Motherly, Protective How she describes herself: Determined, Boring, Lonely Mibbi: Understanding, Strong-willed, protective How she describes herself: Strong, Deadly, smart Dulg: Dumbass 1, Bully, Naughty How he describes himself: Useful, Funny, Strong Smock: Dumbass 2, Bully, Naughty How he describes himself: Funny, Amazing, Smart

29. What recurring dreams do they have? Dulg: Nothing, the boy doesn’t dream at all Smock: He has some dreams, not a lot. One that happens a lot is he needs to go to the bathroom a lot but can never find a place to go (luckily this has never caused bedwetting ever) Mibbi: Dreams only sometimes, but one that is recurring is one that involves her sitting in a field of flowers and watching the sky change colours. Cherri: Recurring sexy dreams of different people but always ends up with him never getting any. Cockblocked by his own dreams. Slough: Doesn’t get much recurring, but gets both dreams and nightmares. Usually all cute, even the nightmares have cute things in them. Hog: Has this dream where he’s lost in the swamp and just wants to go home, but can never find his way out. Lurfi: Rarely remembers her dreams to know if she gets any recurring ones.

#those three love their stuffed toys and blood will be spilt if anyone does anything to them #Mibbi's rabbit is called 'Springle' and Smock's dino are literally called Rawr and Grr who is who no one knows #Slough and Hog are hard on themselves a lot while Lurfi and Mibbi are more confident in their looks and such with Lurfi just being very #lonely and wanting a husband to love and cherish #Cherri is a dick lol #anon ask #anon answer

[shalebridge-cradle]

When You Smile and it Tears Your Face (It’s Time for the Inhuman Race)

Warnings: Blood. Implied Violence.

“Anna?”

Anna von Kleve, former minor noble of the Holy Roman Empire, pries open her eyes. It’s well into the night – the heavy curtains are drawn, as usual, the grandfather clock is ticking away, and the electric light flickers ominously above her.

She herself is sprawled on the sofa, with her date’s head in her lap. Ah, yes. A night on the town, a few drinks (well, more than a few on her part)… she hopes he’d had a good time.

“In the drawing room,” she calls, lazily.

“Have you seen my book?”

Anna has seen lots of her housemate’s beloved books. So very many volumes she’s collected over the years – in her day, the emperor himself would be hard-pressed to afford such a selection. Still, she’s proud it was a German who invented the printing press and started the whole thing off.

“Which one?”

“Pride and Prejudice, volume three. It’s got a red-brown cover.”

von Kleve frowns, looks around herself, lifts up her date to check under him.

She grimaces.

If the book didn’t have a red cover to begin with, it certainly did now. She never intends for the whole biting-people-and-drinking-their-blood business to be messy, but it always ends up that way. Strange how that happens.

She quickly drops the man’s unconscious body back on top of the book, just as her housemate materialises in the doorway.

Catherine Parr sighs. “Seriously? What have I told you about putting down plastic when you bring your food home?”

“I know, but we get kind of… into it, you know? You know me, I live in the moment – well, not live, but… you get what I’m saying.”

“That’s the problem, hence, the need for plastic.”

A pause.

Anna knows what she’s about to say, and preempts her. “No, not your type. Not terrible, but he couldn’t talk about anything that wasn’t his football team.”

“Oh. A pity.” Another pause. “Have you seen my book, though?”

“No books here. Did you leave it at Seymour’s?”

Parr hums. “Possibly. I’ll visit later. It’s your job to get rid of the poor soul, though.”

“Yes, yes, personal responsibility and all that.”

Before Anna leaves, she tucks the first edition under the sofa cushions, and hopes her housemate doesn’t look that hard for her precious book.

~~~

The shovel plunges deep into the black, wet soil, and out again. In, out, in, out, methodical and practiced. The hole needs to be deep enough, and wide enough. She’s underestimated the size before, and that simply causes problems. There are bits that need to stay underground.

Once she is satisfied, and with great care, Jane Seymour places the rose bush into its new home.

Gardening might be considered an odd hobby for someone like her to have. Even if she rarely gets to see the fruits of her labour (which is most certainly a metaphor for something), it keeps her busy and helps her feel productive. It’s terribly easy to fall into a rut if you don’t have something to do, and caring for plants gives her plenty of that.

Just so long as they survive everything.

There is a loud bang from inside the house. Jane turns briefly, listening for something further, before she goes back to patting down the soil.

Another bang, followed by a crash.

Jane squeezes her eyes shut, and growls under her breath. That had better not be anything important.

Really, she should go in and stop them from doing any more damage, but they’d probably just ignore her like they usually do. Maybe you shouldn’t have your thrice-bedamned battle in the house, where there are things that you both like and are easily breakable all over the place. Is that such an unreasonable concept?

A third bang.

“For heaven’s sake,” she grumbles, and makes to get up, turning to her gardening tools. Initially, she shies away from some of them out of instinct, but… then again… this may the only way they’ll listen…

-

The fearsome duel is still going on when Jane reaches the hall.

One combatant has a name she knows well, mostly because she insists on using the whole thing whenever she is introduced. Catalina Trastámara de Aragón, former Spanish infanta. The other has gone by many different but similar names – Anna de Boullan, Anna Bolina, Nan Bullen, but she generally responds to ‘Anne’, so that’s what they go with.

Catalina has her hand around Anne’s neck, hoisting her up in the air, whilst Anne has a hold on Catalina’s arm, hissing up a storm. Another bang – Catalina slamming Anne against the wall – sends a cloud of dust trickling down on top of them.

Jane enters, in her gardening smock, boots too big for her, a straw hat (you must always wear a hat while gardening, though Jane isn’t sure why), and with a wooden gardening stake in each hand.

“Down! Both of you!”

Anne turns her head slightly, and her eyes widen when she sees what Jane’s holding. “Shit.”

This gets Catalina’s attention, too, but she manages to keep the quiet part quiet. She releases her grip, and Anne sinks to the floor.

“What are you doing?” Catalina recovers her regal demeanour, or at least part of it. “Have you gone quite mad?”

“Have you? Look at what you’re doing! What on earth is noble and queenly about repeatedly smacking your housemate into a wall?!” Jane stops to compose herself. “What is it this time? Territorial dispute? Long-standing grudge you refuse to talk about? Monopoly?”

“Anne? How many glasses would you say are in the sink?”

...No.

Anne rubs her neck. “Well, maybe less if you weren’t such a toff and drank like the rest of us.”

That can’t be right. Was that it?

“Unlike you, I like to keep some of my dignity about me.”

“Oh, don’t you fucking talk to me about dignity -”

Jane is between them in a blink. “Anne, do the bloody dishes.” Anne groans, probably at the unintended pun, but is interrupted. “We have the chore wheel for a reason. We have standards.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I know. Dishes now, fight later.”

Anne huffs, and stomps into the kitchen. Jane’s attention turns to Catalina, who is trying very hard to suppress the smug smile on her face.

“How many languages to you know, Catalina?” She already knows the answer to this question, but Catalina will happily tell her anyway.

“Five. Spanish, Latin, French, Greek, English.”

“Five languages, and you still don’t know how to use your words?”

Catalina simply stares at her.

“You would have been very upset if you knocked any of your paintings down, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, but we couldn’t take it outside. You would have been upset if we crushed your plants.”

“Well, that simply reinforces my point. Violence is very rarely the answer when it comes to who you live with.”

“You’re threatening me with a lethal weapon right now.”

Oh, right, she forgot about them. Jane looks down at the stakes, flinches again, and throws them unceremoniously to one side. “Fine. We all need to work on discussing things, and remember we all have our part to play. Anne’s doing the dishes now -” There’s a clatter from the kitchen – “I’ve been taking out the rubbish; can you tell me your royal responsibility, or do I have to check?”

Catalina’s eyes are everywhere but on Jane. She brushes a bit of powder off of her sleeve, and mumbles “Dusting.”

~~~

“Look what I found.”

Parr looks up. It is a whole entire person Anna has come to show off, which usually isn’t something Catherine needs to see – it does not pay to get attached. This girl has her long hair tied up, dyed an almost neon pink at the ends, and is clad in one of Anna’s oversized fur coats. She seems to be faltering under Parr’s gaze, trying to make herself look as small and insignificant as possible.

“I see no plastic in the drawing room,” Catherine says to von Kleve, as a warning.

“What? No! No, no, no. Not that. Big smile, Katie.”

The girl’s lips curl into a rictus grin, revealing a set of fangs not unlike Parr’s own.

“Oh!” Immediately, Catherine’s attitude shifts, and speaks with a soft, comforting voice (she hopes), “Okay, hello. I’m Catherine Parr, of the Westmorland Parrs, and this is Anna von Jülich-Kleve-Berg of the Holy Roman Empire. Neither of us are going to hurt you. Please, take a seat.”

She gestures to a nearby chair. The girl walks over to it, unsteady on her feet, and sits down.

“It’s been a bad week,” she mumbles.

“Tell us about it.”

“Well, it started with a night I couldn’t remember, which always freaks me out, and then I was really sick, and then I’m pretty sure I died – no, I did die… I died…” She goes quiet once more, aghast at the revelation.

“Found her ripping some dude’s throat out behind a nightclub,” Anna explains, then shrugs. “It happens.”

The girl shuts her eyes tightly, as if she is trying to block out the memory. Parr takes her hand, and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Katie, is it?”

“Or Kate. Or Kat, or Katherine – but, that’s you as well. I’m rambling.”

“That’s alright. The transition can be stressful. May I call you Kat?”

Kat nods.

“Good. Now, from what you’ve told us, it sounds like nobody explained to you how this works. What is it that you think is going on?”

“’M a vampire. Right?” Parr hums an affirmation, and Kat laughs, without humour. “And, because I’m a vampire, and I was going insane with how thirsty I was and because he wouldn’t stop talking and he kept touching me after I told him not to…” She looks to Anna. “That man. He was my boyfriend. I killed my boyfriend.”

It’s usually cold in the house, but it seems to get even colder after that statement.

While Catherine intimately knows the feeling of wanting to murder your former significant others (Thomas – Foul rake! Blackguard! She shall curse his name after death and beyond!), she is aware that this may not be the case for Kat. Most couples these days actually quite like each other – one need not rely on a husband to vote for them anymore, after all. She’s been looking out for someone like that, but she hasn’t found them yet. Maybe someday.

There have been so very many days…

Thankfully, Anna is there with a kind word, so she need not answer nor dwell on her failure to find love. It is just one word, however, and it is not spoken with great compassion.

“Condolences?”

Kat waves a hand, shakes her head. “The only good thing about dating Francis is – was – that he gave me a place to stay. Everything else… I don’t think anyone will be that upset he’s dead, put it that way.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “It was so easy. Too easy.”

Well, it’s good to know that nothing of value was lost, at least.

“Subtlety and control are the results of practice,” Catherine tells the girl, “and that will come, in time. Until then, since the one who turned you is not around to help, I humbly request that you allow us to assist you.”

“We have a spare room. Um. Not that you have to take it, or anything, but the option’s there -”

Kat cuts Anna off. Nobody’s had the gall to do that for centuries.

“Why are you doing this? Any of this?! You want something from me, don’t you? Otherwise, I’d still be out there, dealing with my boyfriend’s corpse! Be honest with me, please. What is it you want me to do?!”

She is looking into both of their eyes, searching for an ulterior motive like she knows it’s there – Parr gets that, unfortunately, and she’s disgusted that something has happened to the poor girl to prompt such suspicion and mistrust.

Catherine does not raise her voice, speaks calmly and carefully, just like she was taught. “We are not doing this in the hopes of a favour, or any material gain. We – or, at least, I – am behaving in this way because I want to see you turn out well. Perhaps there is a vain hope of a new friendship out of this, but that is the loftiest of my wishes, and you should not feel obligated to fulfil it if you don’t want to.”

“You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened in at least a decade,” says Anna.

“But you’re vampires. Why are you helping a competitor?”

“Why not? Just because we’re bloodsucking monsters doesn’t mean we can’t be nice about it. Plenty of fish in the sea.”

“Okay. Okay. In that case… might I ‘humbly request’… a hug, please?”

~~~

“How do you feel about it?”

Catalina does not turn away from her painting; yet another Spanish vista. She has been told that the Inquisition is over, that she can return for a holiday, but there is no doubt in her mind that what is there now must be wildly different from what she remembers. The latter is what she puts to canvas, to show off what she knows, what mortal eyes can no longer see.

“You shall have to be more specific,” she says to Anne, her voice clipped.

“You know.” She refuses to give Anne the satisfaction of looking at her, but she can feel the fluttering eyelashes, the lazy grin, just from her cadence. “Us. What we have.”

“What on earth are you implying?”

“That thing we do. The one where I press all your buttons, and you beat the shit out of me. Great way to work out that tension, yeah? But then there’s Jane – Plain Insane Jane – putting stakes in our faces and telling us to end it.”

“Would you have listened to her if she hadn’t?”

“Nah.” No hesitation whatsoever. No hint of shame. “But it’s fun. Don’t you think so?”

…Frankly, Catalina does not know. She knows it is not a healthy way of relieving stress. She knows Jane is justified in her motivations to stop it, if not her methods (though both of them make it difficult for her to use a softer touch).

But, if she is truly honest with herself, she likes to feel powerful sometimes. Yes, she is powerful when compared to a regular human – but that was true when she was alive, too. Now, she is no longer in the line of succession, she is no longer a princess. She is ‘just’ a vampire, and that fact irks her more than it should.

But she doesn’t tell Anne any of that. She puts her brush down, and turns to the source of her self-reflection. She’s hanging in the air, as if she were watching Catalina from an invisible sofa.

“You’ve been out drinking, haven’t you?”

Their kind can, in fact, get drunk. It’s more of a roundabout process than it is for mortals – one must find someone that’s absolutely cup-shotten, take them somewhere quiet, and… share their blood alcohol content. Catalina knows this because Anne is a master of the process.

“Of course I have!” Anne replies, with a funny sort of smile. “That’s why you go out, why Jane goes out. To have a drink!”

Oh, she definitely has been. She’s wearing the silly spectacles again, the ones where you can’t see her eyes properly.

“I’m not having this conversation with you while you’re out of your wits,” Catalina carefully enunciates.

“I always have my wits. Do you even listen to my jokes, princess?”

“You’re drunk.”

“And? You don’t talk when I’m sober, you won’t talk when I’m toxed – what is it that you need me to be for you to be honest?”

There is a knock at the door, and Jane’s voice comes through loud and clear. “Catalina? We have a guest.”

That’s interesting. They don’t often have guests – well, not ones that aren’t ‘invited for dinner’, and Jane likes to keep that private, if it’s her. It can’t be Parr or von Kleve; Jane would have said as much.

Perhaps it is someone important, she thinks, and immediately her mood sours.

“Who do you think it is?” Anne asks.

“I don’t know. All I ask is that you don’t make a complete fool of yourself.”

“And what if I do?”

“Then I take no responsibility for your actions.”

-

“She’s very new, apparently,” Jane tells them, and she is doing only a slightly better job than Anne at holding in her excitement. “She doesn’t remember who turned her. Cathy thinks it’s Thomas, but you know how she is.”

Yes, Catalina does. Thomas may be responsible for a lot of things, but if he showed his face in this part of town, he’d probably find himself dismembered by his very angry ex-wife.

They reach the top of the staircase. Below them, on the ground level, Cathy is speaking quietly to – good Lord! That woman’s hair is pink! How is it that vibrant a shade?!

Anne gasps in delight. “A baby! You’ve found a little baby, Cathy!”

“I’m not a baby. I’m nineteen.”

“Exactly. Two-digit age. Baby.”

“I apologise for her conduct,” Catalina sighs. “Someone had a bit too much to drink, and she had too much of them. I am Catalina Trastámara de Aragón.”

“And I’m Anne. Sometimes.”

The girl blinks. Probably thrown off by that introduction. “Oh-kay. Uh, well, I’m Kat Howard. Katherine, actually, but you see how that will cause problems. I’m moving in with Cathy and Anna, and Anna thought it might be good to introduce myself.”

There is an image of vampires being solitary creatures, living in ruined castles and moping about in their every waking hour. It’s not untrue, but Catalina hated it when she had a go. Eternity? With no-one around her? What torture!

No. Ever since she found Jane sobbing in front of her own grave, since Anne had her chance encounter with a Spanish princess, she’s resolved never to be alone again. She shall, of course, extend that invitation to this new girl.

It’s practically her duty.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Kat.”

~~~

Vampires own nightclubs.

That makes sense, right? They only operate at night, they attract a crowd, many people there aren’t expecting to remember what happened there, only that they had a good time and feel terrible in the morning, if they make it that far.

Well, Anna doesn’t own a nightclub. She owns a chain of 24-hour off-licences. But, she can hypnotise the bouncer into letting them in, so that’s alright.

The music thrums in place of Kat’s heart as she watches the mass of bodies swaying and jumping with absolutely no sense of rhythm. Coloured lights flash, the DJ plies his trade, glasses clink and sweat permeates the air.

Anna is watching only her.

“See anyone?”

Kat scans the crowds, a grim expression on her face. “No-one looks particularly appetising.”

“Well, of course they don’t. We’re not looking for the cream of the crop here, we’re looking for someone who deserves it.”

Kat leans her head on her hand. Anna told her she could come to her for anything – so, Kat had, when she started to feel hungry again, and so Anna planned this little night out.

“There are two choices,” she’d said. “Either you pick someone out yourself, or you go mad with hunger and some other poor sod ends up like your boyfriend.”

“You’re sure of that?” Kat questioned.

“Oh, yeah. I speak from experience – I’ve always regretted what happened to the Duke of Lorraine…”

Anna had refused to say anything more about that.

Kat has… mixed feelings about what happened with Dereham. Okay, she’s horrified that she murdered him, but she doesn’t feel bad that she wiped that arrogant look from his eyes for a few seconds (before he, you know, died). He didn’t care that she was sick, didn’t answer her texts when she told him her reflection had vanished, or that she was bleeding from her eyes – and as soon as he got back from his work trip, he dragged her to a nightclub to ‘show her off’ and pretended nothing was wrong…!

…Okay, she’s getting a bit heated. The man’s funeral was three days ago. No point in holding a grudge, now.

“What about that one?”

Kat follows Anna’s gaze. A man is swaggering over to the bar with a confidence that nothing about him implies he’s earned. She gets the feeling this man used to be handsome, or liked, and no-one has told him otherwise just yet.

“Dunno. Maybe.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

Kat automatically bites her lip, before remembering that’s probably a bad idea now. She doesn’t want to be alone, exactly, but at the same time…

“Is it alright if you hang out slightly further away?” She asks. “If I need your help, I’ll laugh really loudly.”

Anna smiles in acknowledgement, nods, and wanders off. Kat might be wrong, but she seems almost gleeful.

Thankfully (or not), the once-handsome man notices her staring, and saunters over. Kat’s skin crawls.

“Hey.”

Kat gives a small, brief smile in return.

“You here alone?”

She risks a quick glance over to Anna – she still has an eye on her. Kat isn’t alone. “Yeah. Just… needed to get out, you know?”

“I do.” He smirks, points to himself. “Henry. You know Tudor Real Estate?” She does, and the man grins at the recognition she must be showing. “I’m the co-owner.”

Kat doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, but this guy has only a passing resemblance to the man on the ‘for sale’ signs.

“Must be an important job,” she tries.

“Very. My brother relies on me for a lot.” Oh, okay, he’s the brother. Wait, the brother she’d read articles about? The one who got acquitted last year? “Sometimes I just need to blow off some steam, you know? Have some fun. Speaking of, can I buy you a drink or two?”

Wow. That look in his eyes. He clearly hasn’t changed as much as the judge thought he had.

“I don’t drink… alcohol.”

He scoffs. “Listen. You heard how important I am, right? Nothing will happen to you without my say-so. We can have fun if you just let me help you.”

This man is made of red flags, isn’t he? A blind woman could see the warning signs. He’s a creep with overly-inflated self-esteem, seems to have spent his whole life getting everything he’s ever wanted…

And that means he’s perfect.

“I guess you’re right,” she says, quietly. She doesn’t have to fear his kind any more. “I am here for a good time. If you’re offering…”

Henry grins. “Anything you want, babe! Name it, and it’s yours!”

“Anything?” Money and connections won’t protect you from me.

“Anything at all, princess.”

“Hmm…” Kat makes a show of looking him up and down. Yes, this is the one. “Maybe we can take this somewhere private?”

Henry is clearly thrilled at the prospect. He grabs her hand, roughly (though Kat is sure she could break his arm if the need arose), and leans in close.

“I know just the place.”

He leads her away, to a location where there are no witnesses, no-one to save him. From across the club, Anna gives her a thumbs up.

Kat returns the gesture.

-

She comes in the front door with her phone in her hand. Henry has a Wikipedia page. Not very long, pretty much goes on about his brief stint in custody and that he’s Arthur Tudor’s brother.

Or, was. They might have to change the tense, soon.

Cath is on the sofa, chatting quietly with… Kat wants to say… Jane…? Yeah, Jane sounds right. She’s friendly enough, but always seems like she’s on her second-last nerve.

“How did it go?” Cath asks.

Anna grins. She’s been like this all night, and Kat feels conflicted about all the praise she’s received.“Oh, fantastic! Kat was a natural; that idiot fell for it hook, line, and sinker.”

“Turns out I have a vendetta against people who can’t take ‘no’ for an answer,” Kat adds.

Parr’s smile grows sharp, but her eyes still sparkle. “Well, there won’t be any shortage of those. Come, sit with us.”

So, Kat does. The things they speak of are so normal, Kat is initially confused. Jane’s gardening is a topic of discussion, as is Cath’s ever-expanding collection of stuff she finds interesting. When Jane asks about Kat’s “little slate-thing”, they both listen with rapt attention at her explanation of modern technology.

Kat had forgotten what it’s like to have people listen. It’s a shame she had to die to experience it.

~~~

“Yes, I’ve received a notice recently about outstanding bills owed – no, no, don’t shut off the – listen to me. The account has been paid in full. Enter that into the system. Okay, great. Thanks for that – no, no, everyone makes mistakes. Alright, bye.”

Anne hangs up. Great, power bills are sorted.

Contrary to popular opinion, she actually does do her share of work around the house. Yeah, the dishes are her least favourite task. Vampires shouldn’t have to do the dishes. But, that doesn’t stop her from helping in other ways.

She’s just about to start dialling the telephone company, when there is a knock at the door. Few are brave enough to do that at this place. As she stalks over, she wonders if it might a debt collector – if it is, that means she can have a snack, too.

The heavy oaken door swings open with an agonising creak, and the eyes of the figure on the other side glow in the evening gloom.

Oh, it’s that pink-haired girl. Katie, maybe? Anne can’t actually remember her name, and at this point she’s too afraid to ask.

“Hi.” The girl waves slightly. “Can I come in?”

Do you really want to? Anne thinks, but she says, “Uh, sure.”

With a sigh of relief, Kiara steps over the threshold.

“Apparently I called you a baby last time you were here,” Anne says. “Sorry about that. That’s not fair to you, and you don’t scare the shit out of me like an actual vampire infant would. But, I’m guessing you’re not here for an apology.”

Kitty smiles awkwardly. “Uh, no. I’m here to try and fix your computer. Um, the little television-box-thing you never use?”

“Oh! That! Yeah, I never knew how to get that thing working.”

“Yeah, no promises,” Kelly says, “but Jane thought it might help you… connect.”

That really gets Anne’s attention. She’s not surprised it was Jane who told her, because of the way Kim described the computer, but that part about connecting.

Anne wants honesty, for once. If Kat (that sounds right) is offering, she will take it.

-

To Anne’s surprise (and shame), Kat is able to get la machine infernale up and running in just a few minutes. She explains the mouse, the monitor, and the programs built into the operating system. The computer is not to get wet, nor is it to be fed. Do not sacrifice anything to it in an attempt to make it work properly.

Why Kat felt the need to include that instruction is a mystery, but it was probably necessary.

“Now, I had this whole speech with my step-grandma – back when I talked with my family – and I’ll give the same to you. Don’t believe everything you read on the internet. A lot of it’s lies, or personal opinion. On that note, not everyone you talk to is who they say they are. Don’t do things like send money or give out personal details if someone asks, and don’t meet with someone without people around.”

“Okay, I’m absolutely going to do that last one – but for the rest of them? Sure!”

Kat genuinely smiles. Wow, when was the last time Anne did that, and didn’t eat the person afterwards? Must have been ages, because it feels like she’s come across an oasis after months in a desert.

“So,” she goes on, “what exactly is the internet? I know I pay the bill for it -” ‘pay’ is a strong word - “but I don’t actually know what it entails.”

“Okay, well, you know… books?”

“Yes.”

“You know the television?”

“Yeeesss.”

“You know those coffee shops where people yelled at each other about philosophy, in the eighteenth century?”

“Yep, yep, yep.” Even though she was never invited, the sexist pricks.

“The internet is all of those things together,” Kat explains, “but worse.”

Anne gasps. “I love it already.”

-

The room is dark. No lights, curtains shut. The only source of light is the faint white glow of the monitor.

The internet is, as Kat had warned, a shitshow. Anne thinks it’s just the best thing. University professors and the lowest common denominator share the same spaces, and send vile, scathing messages to one another over fictional characters. Maybe she should do some research, just so she can play along. It’d be just like her days at court, getting one person at another’s throat, playing them off each other… ah, she misses that, if nothing else. It’s just not the same, now.

Oh, but then there are the videos. Little mortal Anne would never have thought it possible. What an idea! What awful and wonderful things humans create when they’re not being killed!

Anne’s exploration is interrupted when the light from the hallway fills the room.

“Ah. So you haven’t left.”

Catalina? Come to check on her? Anne turns – yes, it is her, likely wondering why her evening hasn’t been ruined yet. Or, maybe not. Anne has a terrible habit of putting words in other people’s mouths.

“You haven’t been downstairs this evening,” Her housemate continues. “Jane was worried about you.”

Anne doubts that’s true. Not that Jane doesn’t worry, she worries about almost everything (who cares if her teeth show when she smiles?), but she would be thrilled to know Anne is being quiet.

“Just looking at things,” Anne mumbles.

“Hm. Ominous. What ‘things’?”

Well, the best way to explain would be to show, right?

Anne plays the video. Normal night sky, a deep navy. Then, violet, then orange, and the fiery sun rises over the horizon, accented by the crimson heavens.

There’s a thump from behind her. Catalina has flattened herself against the opposite wall, eyes wide, fangs bared.

“I will not die so easily, Boleyn!” she snarls. “I’ve survived assassination attempts before, and I’ll do it again!”

“I’m not trying to kill you, girl! It’s a video! Do you almost die every time you put the sun in one of your paintings? Because that would be a much bigger problem than me showing you this.”

She presses the button to make the video play once more, and makes a show of standing in front of the screen, conspicuously not combusting.

Catalina stares at her. Then, at the monitor. She approaches, slowly.

“Can you make it go again?”

Anne does. The sun is reflected in Catalina’s eyes for the first time in over five hundred years.

“…I miss it, sometimes.”

Oh God, it’s happening, Anne thinks. Out loud, she says, “Miss what?”

“The sunrise.” From the sound of her voice, calm and quiet, Anne gets the impression Catalina’s not really here. “My home. My family. It doesn’t matter how far away I am, in years or in miles. They’re gone, and the name Trastámara means nothing.”

Oh, that’s it. Of course it is.

Anne did not what it was like to be a princess in the early 1400s, partially because she wasn’t born yet. She knows from her own experiences with Whatever the Fuck the Sun King Was Playing At that the nobility was constantly having to be perfect at all times; not even a twitch of emotion could play upon your face, even as you drain all your resources to support the near-impossible standards of fashion, or it could easily be all for naught.

She’s just been thinking, maybe, something like that might be why Catalina has the sort of aversion to talking about her emotions that would normally be reserved for holy symbols.

“Catalina. You’re not a princess anymore.”

Catalina sneers, all traces of vulnerability gone. “Yes, you have taunted me about that many times before.”

“Not a taunt.” Sometimes. “A reminder you no longer have to try and be perfect. I’m not gonna tell any peers of the realm if you feel sad sometimes.”

“So you feel the need to drive me to madness in the hopes I accept your view?”

Okay, so maybe Anne’s been a little coarse. In fairness, she tried passive-aggressive behaviour and it didn’t work. There’s a reason she goes after Catalina, and it’s not just because it’s easy.

Anne points to herself. “Unstoppable force.” To Catalina. “Immovable object. You move, I stop.”

“…Right. Okay.” A pause. “I know, logically, that you are right – about that particular thing. But, it makes me feel like I’m ignoring part of myself.”

“Just have the good without the bad. If the King of Spain has anything to say about it, kill him and rule the country as their immortal god-queen.”

“I would never be so rash,” Catalina huffs. “I’ll try. Just… don’t mock me for it. If I’m keeping at least one good thing about my life, it will be threatening anyone who insults me with imprisonment.”

“Yessssss…”

Both Anne and Catalina jump at the voice from outside the room. Anne acts first – she opens the door a crack, and sees Jane’s eye on the other side.

“You’ve been at it for two hundred years,” Jane says. “Two. Hundred. Years. I don’t care if you don’t get along straight away, let me have this.”

And, fearing her ire, they do.

~~~

Anna’s on the roof again.

There are two main reasons for this. One, her room is in the attic and it’s the easiest way out of the house. Two, it’s a good place to sit, look up at the stars (at least the ones you can still see, anyway) and think about things.

Kat is on her right, arms around her knees, looking up at the moon. Anna does not think she’s paying much attention to it, however.

“Whatcha thinking about?”

Kat doesn’t answer straight away. “Just how things are better.”

“…They are?”

“I’m living… uh, residing in a house with people I actually like. This is the first time that’s happened since I was about eight, I think.”

Wow. Anna hadn’t had a terribly good time when she was alive – no rights, no fun allowed, go marry some dude you’ve never even met, and no you can’t have fun then either – but Kat’s life might beat out Cathy’s hopeless search for love, in terms of tragedy.

“I cannot truly speak for you, but I have found this…” Anna waves her hands, trying to find the right way to put it, “whole thing to be very affirming. There is no-one to hold you down. No-one to stop you from doing what you like. Well, except priests, but they can be ignored, mostly.”

“You don’t brood about it too much?”

“Why would I? It’s the only reason I’ve been able to see the things I’ve seen. To be here, now, talking to you.” All because she told the wrong (or right) person about how bored she was. Of course she would accept the offer to have fun, even if the whole process wasn’t. “Do you?”

Kat stops to think again, so that’s a ‘yes’. “I’m still getting used to it. But, I don’t mind it. I’m not scared of the things I used to be afraid of. That’s good, right?”

“Sounds good to me. But, if you falter, that’s okay, too. We have supported Cathy, who was the youngest before you, we can do the same here – so long as you support us in turn.”

“Oh, yeah. She’s got that thing about finding the one.” How does Kat manage to fit so much bitterness in only two words? “Don’t get it. She’s got people who love her already. You, and those three around the corner. She doesn’t need them.”

“That’s a very good way of putting it, actually.” Anna’s argument against serious dating has been that three of the people Parr’s courted have tried to murder her, and her ex-husband technically succeeded. It hasn’t worked, but maybe a more positive viewpoint might win out against two centuries of stubbornness.

“Anna von Kleve.”

von Kleve looks down. Ah, speak of the devil. She’s on the balcony below them.

“Cathy! Kat has had some good thoughts about love!”

“Oh? How wonderful.”

She doesn’t seem like she thinks it is, though. She almost looks angry, with the hard eyes and pursed lips and the red-brown mottled book in her hand -

Oh no.

“I think, Anna,” Cathy intones, her voice sharper than any stake, “that we should talk about personal responsibility first.”

#the cradle will write #six the musical #not the historical figures #but that won't stop me making references to them

[make-it-mavis]

Homesick (Entry #13)

(cw: graphic descriptions of wounds) <-Previous | Next-> ----------

01/01/88   10:54 PM

Hey.

It’s not really an everyday thing to begin with, finding an Easter Egg, so it’s gotta be a shock finding one half-dead on your doorstep.

A Nicelander’s scream startled me awake. By the time I saw her, she was already hopping out of view and calling Fix-it for help. The Nicelanders’ patented annoying catchphrase even slipped out, that grating “Fix it, Felix!!” Which, to these little squares, could be the equivalent of wetting their tiny pants. She called up to his apartment around the corner, and I heard the fire escape rattling as he hurried down, but Wreck-it actually got to me first.

That is to say, he saw me first. He lumbered to the bottom of his bricks a good distance away, and just stopped dead in his tracks. I wasn’t in love with the idea of him seeing me like that, used and abused and all, but I couldn’t really do anything about it. His face turned white as I stared back at him, and he was clearly at a loss, anxiously waiting for Fix-it to come down and deal with me. If I were to give him the benefit of the doubt, I would say that he kept his distance because he knew his hulking fists were the last things I needed. If not, I’d say it was because he’s a big squeamish baby who’s scared of a little blood. 

Could be both, I guess.

Gasps and screams spilled around the corners of the building as more Nicelanders flocked in, but I didn’t bother looking until I heard the very effeminate shriek of my cousin. He rushed up and overflowed with whispers of “Mavy,” and “Oh my land,” and “Good gracious,” you know, the works. At first, it was like he was trying to decipher the situation just by looking at me, which I think could be some kind of party game -- Mangled Mavis: Guess with your eyes, win a cool prize.

But then he wanted to guess with his hands. He reached out, and I jabbed him in the gut with my walking stick. The Nicelanders gasped, and he coughed, but he didn’t seem shocked. He took that as a scolding for not fixing me first, so he pulled out his hammer. I just jabbed him again. He wheezed out, “Why, Mavy?”

It almost made me smile.

I just didn’t want him to patch me up while everyone watched. I hated being reduced to some object of their morbid curiosities -- the Nicelanders don’t actually care what happens to me, and they never have. They only ever want something juicy to talk about in their boring-ass lives. A broken brush and your name cut into my body made a juicier morsel than they’ll ever deserve. Hell if I was gonna give it to them.

I still couldn’t quite speak, but Fix-it got the hint after a good deal of obvious gestures. He let me into the back of Niceland once I’d gotten to my feet (having insisted on doing it myself), and made me wait inside for a moment while he addressed the crowd. I heard him tell everyone not to worry, that everything was alright, that I just needed some space right now, and that they should all just go back to their apartments for the night. Maybe the Nicelanders couldn’t tell, but he was freaking out hardcore. I could hear it in his voice. I was not looking forward to that getting worse as the evening went on. 

He’s so impossible to deal with when he’s worried. Things panned out even worse than I anticipated. 

After a sufficiently awkward elevator ride, we arrived in his apartment, which was just as freakishly pristine and tidy as the last time I saw it. I sat on his couch, he sat on the coffee table in front of me, and he asked what in the world happened. He wasn’t satisfied when I just shook my head, but he healed my cheeks for me, anyway.

As he asked more questions, like if I’d gotten in a fight, and how long I’d been waiting by the door, I just sat there stewing in how much I didn’t want to talk to him. Whatever had just happened to me, I didn’t want to say a word about it to anyone. All sorts of pitiful labels were already being slapped on me left and right: “Delusional,” “hysterical,” “heartbroken,” “junkie,” and so on. The last thing I wanted to do was add “victim” to that list. 

So I didn’t tell him. Big deal. He could heal me without knowing I was almost murdered. 

But he couldn’t heal my injuries without seeing them. That was the catch -- I didn’t want to show him, either, but I had to suck it up. The wounds were just too… intimate, you know. Aimed to hit me in a very personal way. I wish I could say that they didn’t succeed. 

Nonetheless, I opened the little smock-sack on the cushion next to me. Therein sat what was left of my tools -- the bundle of splinters and the split golden can still flashing with binary. Fix-it made a sound like someone poured cold water on him. I even heard him breathe “Sweet Nana Litwak,” which is a pretty harsh curse coming from him. Then, of course, came the grave stares, whispered questions, and more futile attempts to put the metaphorical pieces together. His hands kept hovering around my tools like they were some dead animal that he was too mortified to decide what to do with. Watching it just brought my headache back.

Just when I started reaching for my walking stick, he came to his senses and repaired it all. Brush, paint can, and smock. Then, I think I made a sound like someone poured hot water on me. My tools erupted with intense pins and needles and I broke into a sudden sweat. It was like my code was spinning and grinding itself back into place, and the friction could have sent smoke out my ears. It did not feel nearly as good as I would have liked.

Finally having my tools back, though, was relieving in ways I can’t even describe. After seeing them in pieces, it felt like I was holding them for the first time all over again. You know how important they are to me. But until then, I don’t think I ever appreciated just how beautiful they are. I just wanted to hold onto them and never let go.  

With my tools whole and near, my right leg finally stabilized and took solid form again. All the pain from those bite wounds really woke back up. I wasn’t ready for it -- I didn’t even think about it, honestly -- and I yelped. Fix-it was on it instantly. For a minute, he was even blessedly free of questions.

Except the dumbass couldn’t get to the wounds, because he fixed my pants by accident. So I had to take them off.

That bothered him way more than it bothered me. His face was red as a beet. You know I’m not shy about my body. I’ve never understood the big deal -- it’s just a freakin’ body. But what was admittedly terrible about it was that, since my knees were still basically locked, he had to help me get my pants off. That image, that concept, still haunts me. But I take some comfort in the idea of my shredded legs haunting him. Once they were fully bare, all that beet red was sucked right out of his cheeks. He blanched so hard I thought his hair would turn white.

I’ll give him this much: They certainly were not for the faint of heart. I had grossly underestimated how bad they were through the tears in my pant legs. 

Two bites were so deep that I could actually see a little ridge of deep pink meat jutting out. My skin had been flayed off in several thumbprint-sized patches. There were dozens of puncture wounds in curved lines, gouges nearly an inch long, claw marks like long, dirty blisters, and weaving through it all was a tangle of blackening purple welts that bled into feverish reds and nauseous yellows. And of course, they were absolutely covered in dried blood and dirt and Devs know what else.

I definitely deserve a medal for walking anywhere with those.

After making sure he was not going to hurl all over me, Fix-it quickly set to work on my right leg. Each hit felt like a killer muscle cramp at first, but Devs, the fading of that pain was dizzyingly sweet. Then he had to sully it by speaking again. He asked an impressively stupid question: “Are these bite marks?” 

I didn’t really mean to answer. I think the pain relief had loosened me up enough for the door in my throat to open just a crack. As if the word had been loaded and ready from before, I just said, “Dogs.”

Fix-it jumped. I immediately regretted speaking when I saw the way he was looking at me, as if I’d been suddenly and miraculously cured of my lifelong muteness. He took it to mean that I was open to questions. They came flooding out again, way more insistent this time. To my dismay, he even stopped healing me in favor of interrogating me, and, amazingly, that didn’t earn him any answers. But for every second that I stayed quiet, he just escalated. He leaned towards me and really got into the hand gestures and kept trying to coax a reply out of me in this annoyingly urgent tone, “Mavy!” pause, “Mavy!” pause, “Mavy!!”

I’d had enough. I snatched up my walking stick, ready to give him a ‘back to work’ jab, but my blow didn’t land. Instead, the exchange (and, consequently, the evening) took a completely unexpected turn -- Fix-it caught the stick in his hand, yanked it away from me, and raised his voice.

“NO, Mavis! ENOUGH of this!”

He even dropped the nickname. 

I was too stunned to react. He tossed the stick out of my reach, and we were both quiet for a short-lived moment.

There are a lot of words coming up. I remember it all surprisingly clearly -- I mean, how often is it that Fix-it loses his temper -- but I’ll still be paraphrasing here.

Words sort of burst from his mouth, and it visibly shook him. He said, “This is just too much, Mavis! This is too much for you to give me the silent treatment right now! You can’t just keep me in the dark like this! I’m not your paramedic, I’m your cousin! I’m your family, Mavis!”

Yeah. Dramatic. Just like that, he lost me. I didn’t know when Fix-it would grasp these simple concepts: I am not touchy-feely, I absolutely detested the ‘F’ word, and I so genuinely, sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, did not care. 

He kept going, but I didn’t catch a word of it. I figured I’d let him get it out of his system while I mentally checked out. I just stared at the ceiling, fruitlessly trying to process the last 24 hours. They didn’t feel real. They felt like a nightmare. But I’d been down that road already; I knew it was all real. It just wasn’t sinking in -- it was looming above me and sucking up my emotions like a sponge. There was a feeling, almost physical, telling me that it could all rain down at any second. It would weigh down the already crushing load on my shoulders, and just like that, it would be too heavy to bear anymore. I’d crumple beneath it. I’d break into a million pieces. 

I just… didn’t know what to think, what to do, what to feel. I was floundering.

I came back into Fix-it’s rant just as he was saying, “...even listening to me right now? Hey, young lady. Did you listen to a single word I just said?”

To say that I wasn’t in the mood would be a massive understatement. I tried to massage the ache out of my forehead and gave a “Mmhmm.”

He clicked his tongue impatiently. “Well, what have I been talking about, Mavis?”

“Something about…” I felt too sick to be witty. “...pies n’ hammers n’... blue shirts…”

“Do you think this is a joke?!”

I deadpanned, “It’s pretty funny.”

Fix-it is well-known for his long quarter queue, but by the look in his eyes, I could tell he was on his last coins. That famous patience was worn razor-thin. Kind of an accomplishment on my part, really, but I was too tired, sick, and an all around mess to enjoy it. He stood up and started pacing around the room, leaving me couch-bound with one useless leg. His voice wavered from an effort to keep his volume down. “I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to help everyone. I’m trying to be here for you and run this building-- this GAME, even-- and I feel like I’m not asking much, here! Why, oh why, are you deliberately making it so hard for me?”

“That’s,” I interjected, “what she sai--”

“MAVIS!!”

“Well, get to the point!”

He paused, sighed, and lowered his voice just a tad. “Look, I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through right now. I know this has taken its toll on you, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But Mavis, you’re not the only one affected by all this, you know!”

Now he had my attention.

The absolute nerve of him to say that, after what I’d just dealt with! As if any of his minor inconveniences and uncomfy feelings could even slightly compare! I had both of those points ready to throw in his face, but in my rage, I kind of forgot that I was, you know, wounded. I tried to jump to my feet and tell him off, but I didn’t get past “NOT THE--!!” before the pain dropped me back into my seat. Fix-it stepped forward, looking concerned, but I waved him off. 

Wincing through the pain, I said, “Is that a point you really wanna make right now?”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, Mavy, but please, let me finish. This is a really terrifying time for the whole arcade. Everyone’s been affected in one way or another, but, mostly, everyone’s just… scared. The Nicelanders have all been losing sleep over the thought of getting unplugged, and they look to me for reassurance and security, and I just… don’t always have it! How can I convince them that there’s nothing to worry about when, every night, you come home looking sicker than the night before, covered in cuts and bruises, with Devs know how many buffs in your system? I don’t even know what you’re really doing out there, and you won’t say a word to me about it! How can I tell them not to worry when I’m worried, too?”

“They’re worried I’ll go nuts.” I did not ask, but stated.

He tried to disagree, but he’s a terrible liar.

I continued, “They’re afraid that I’ll get their game unplugged. I know. Let ‘em join the freakin’ club forming out there. Think I don’t know what everyone’s saying about me? That it’s just a matter of time ‘til I lose it, too, and, as they’re so eloquently putting it --” I gave very heavy quotation marks, “-- go Turbo?”

I’m gonna be honest, here. Seeing your name in my handwriting feels… weird. I’ve actually been avoiding it until now, because… well, saying it out loud to Fix-it felt like a punch to the chest. Even he winced, but I’m not sure why.

It was a struggle not to shout as I went on.

“Oh, must be terrifying, being stuck in a box with a tickin’ time bomb. Every rough day I have just pushes me one step closer to the edge, is that it? It ain’t exactly sunshine and rainbows out there, y’know. I won’t act like I’m having the time of my life just so your little babies don’t have bad dreams -- get ‘em freakin’ nightlights, for cuss’ sake! I could not give less of a crit about your NPCs’ emotional stability! Just do your job and fix it!”

Fix-it looked exhausted. “I’m trying to do my job right now! That’s all I’ve been doing since-- since--... you know! There are so many jobs to do, so many problems to fix, coming at me higgledy-piggledy from everywhere, and here I have my cousin digging her claws in the dirt!”

I was way more exhausted. “Well, gee, if I’m such a problem, why not fix two birds with one hammer and throw me to the curb!? I’m gone, Nicelanders are happy, your life’s freakin’ perfect again.”

“No, Mavy, that’s not…” He sighed and sat on the coffee table again. “No one wants that. I’m not here to just make you go away. Yes, my job is to fix things, but I don’t want to fix you. Right now, my job is to help you. That’s all I want to do. But, by golly, I need you to work with me on this. You’re not a problem. You just… have a problem.”

I’m not sure how he thought saying that would go. I’m not sure why he thought that would be an appropriate time to say it. But damn if he didn’t say it. I just glared daggers, daring him to elaborate. 

He suddenly looked anxious, and mumbled, barely loud enough to hear, “A… lot… of them…”

I wanted to fight him on that. I wanted him to point out everything that he thought was a problem, so that I could fight him on each and every one of them. Who gave him the authority to determine my problems? Who told him it was any of his Dev-damned business? How many times did I have to beat it into his head that I knew how to look after myself, even if it was not in his way? Too many freakin’ times -- so many, in fact, that just the thought of doing it again doubled my headache. As pissed as I was, I didn’t have the energy for that particular fight. I just wanted him to heal me so I could leave.

After a few tense minutes, he continued cautiously, “I’m so sorry, Mavy. All this… grief… hasn’t been kind to you. We can-- I can help you find ways to cope that aren’t so harmful. You don’t have to handle all this on your own.”

What a load of crap, I thought.

“Yes, I do.”

“Why, Mavy?”

The truthful answer to that would have been a whole other can of worms. “I just do. You couldn’t understand.”

He said insistently, “I could if you would give me a chance.”

I was more than ready for this conversation to end. He was giving me the heart-to-heart eyes, and I’d be in for a world of gross if I let that go unchecked. 

“Why would I let someone help me when the only reason they’re doing it is so their annoying-ass NPCs will shut up?”

He looked appalled. “How could you think--”

“Look, Fix-it. I can tell there’s a lot on your plate, so let me help you. Firstly, apart from stuff like this,” I pointed to my chomped up leg, “I don’t need your help, I don’t want your help, and will not accept your help, because I know, with full certainty, that you can’t help me. So you can cross me off your list and forget about it -- problem solved. As for the Nicelanders? You’re practically a Dev to them, dumbass, they’ll trust anything you say! You know I’m not dangerous, not… that way. You know I’m no threat to the arcade. Just keep telling ‘em that, and they’ll smarten up!”

Silence.

“I mean… you do know that, right?”

I have a bad relationship with silence. I’ve found, in my life, that the worst answers are the ones I don’t receive. The ones that make me fill in the blanks. It’s like the Devs don’t have the guts to give bad news to me straight. 

Or, in this case, Fix-it didn’t.

He tried to backpedal and reassure me, but I told him to save it. The pregnant pause already said it all. My heart sank into my gut at this revelation and everything it meant. Fix-it believed nothing but the best of me since day one. In all likelihood, I could have set him on fire and he would still say that I meant no harm by it. He trusted me, definitely more than anyone ever should. I guess I thought that would never change. But the loss of his faith in itself wasn’t really the issue; I didn’t really want his moral support. It’s just that he’s always thought more highly of me than anybody. If these rumors about me were so rampant and convincing that even Fix-it bought into them, then everyone did. If he didn’t believe in me anymore, then no one did. 

I was alone. I was really, truly alone. 

My understanding of reality turned over itself. In an instant, the arcade became nothing but a bunch of boxes jam-packed with sprites who wanted to kill me, peppered with ones who would actually try. Somehow, I felt like they were all watching me already, hundreds of burning eyes trying to smother me with the sheer volume of their hatred -- and it was working. The room around me started to swim. I could inhale and exhale, but I couldn’t breathe. If I had been standing, I would have collapsed. 

And then, in the midst of it all, I noticed Fix-it getting closer. Whatever willpower I had to deal with him was all but crushed. I had so, so much sickness in my head, churning and whirling like a tornado of black smoke. Next to all that, Fix-it was dwarfed. Insignificant. His presence just felt like a fly buzzing around my ears, which would have been annoying on a good day. In this case, it made me want to scream.

So I did.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!!” 

He jumped backwards, clear over the coffee table, with a ‘boing’. I obviously scared the cuss out of him, but still, the fright in his eyes faded into an expression that may or may not have been one of pity. I sure read it that way at the time.

“STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!!” I tried to get up again, to no avail. My leg was still wrapped in a vice of pain, and that squeezed my screaming back down to shouting. “When were you planning on telling me you’d turned your back on me?!”

Fix-it almost matched my volume, but it was obviously forced. He’s not known for his yelling. “I haven’t!! I believe in you, Mavis! But this isn’t you! You haven’t been you since-- since that day! That-- that spark in your eyes is just gone! I never see you eat, I know you’ve barely been sleeping, you don’t even frequent Tapper’s anymore -- all I hear about you is that you’re fighting, or-- or attacking sprites--”

“I never ATTACKED anybody!!”

“--taking buffs all the time, and snooping around other games! Mavis, a lot of sprites think you’re looking for a game to-- to-- you know!”

“And you believe that crap?!”

“No!” He paused. “I don’t want to believe it! But it’s the only side of the story I’m getting!”

I seethed. “You shouldn’t NEED me to tell you that I’m not a murderer!! Do you really think I’d do something like that?!”

“No, Mavis, I don’t! I just don’t know if I can rely solely on my own judge of character to keep my game safe now! I mean, we didn’t think--” he paused, avoiding your name like a curse word, “--didn’t think he was capable of that, either, but he still--”

“BUT THAT’S--!! HE WASN’T--!!” my stomach was twisting over itself. I felt just about ready to breathe fire. “Nevermind what HE did! We’re not talking about him, we’re talking about me! I’m still me! I can’t believe I have to spell that out for you! It’s like the whole arcade just got together and agreed that me being-- I don’t know, me being around him all the time just made us carbon copies of each other! Like I’m coded to be his-- his sequel or something! And you REALLY buy into that?!”

“No!”

“THEN WHY ARE YOU LISTENING TO THE SPRITES THAT DO?!”

“I’m TRYING not to!” I half expected him to start pulling his hair out. “It’s hard when they’re the only ones actually speaking to me! I want to listen to you, but you won’t-- you won’t talk to me! I’m on your side, I really am, and I’m trying to stay there! But, darn it all, it’s like you’re trying to push me out! Let me be on your side! Let me help you through this! Trust me, so I can trust you! All I am asking is for you to just-- just--” he clenched his teeth and grasped at the air, “--TALK TO ME!!”

He was exhausting me of coherent thought. I was just running on a fun cocktail of mindless frustration and hopelessness. If I had a filter at any point, it had dissolved. Words fell straight from my head and into my mouth.

I shouted, “WHY?! What’s so SPECIAL about you?! You’re just a dime-a-dozen privileged GOOD GUY!! Living that cushy life of luxury, making more credits in a day than I do in a month, deluding yourself into thinking you’d still want to help a dirty wretch like me if it weren’t in your job description -- gimme a freakin’ break!! You wanna tell me I’m NOT ALONE, while you’re out there siding with them!? You don’t get to jump on the Mavis-hating bandwagon and then come back here, SPEWING THAT SAME TIRED CRAP ABOUT US BEING FAMILY!!”

I didn’t even realize what I’d said until the silence that followed it.

It was like his sprite froze. He just stared at me, with a look in his eyes like he’d been struck hard enough to leave a crack. The tell-tale face of emotional overkill.

As soon as I saw that look, I realized my mouth had gotten away from me. I’m so used to arguing with you, and your skin is way, way thicker than my cousin’s. He’s too decent for language like that. I can honestly say that cutting him that deep was an accident. But I can’t say that I didn’t mean it, and I didn’t say I was sorry.

After a pause that lasted far too long, wherein we both just tried to breathe evenly, he took up his hammer and finally set to fixing my left leg. He finished quickly and silently, and as I tried not to pass out from the onslaught of pain relief, he backed away and gestured to the door.

“I think it’s time for you to go,” he said in a tone that sounded profoundly disappointed, yet somehow still polite. “If you need healing again, I’ll be here. But please come to me ready to talk. Take care of yourself, and be safe out there, Mavis.”

‘Out there.’ Those words made my blood run cold.

Something had shifted since I realized how alone I was. Up until that point, all I’d wanted to do was be healed and leave. But once he finally expected me to go, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I froze up. My guts twisted around inside me. I even caught myself gripping the couch, lest he try to force me out. Behind that door was nothing but a regular hallway, more doors, and an elevator, but it felt as if he wanted me to walk the plank into shark-infested waters. After being caught completely by surprise in Dragon’s Lair, I’d been hit with the chilling realization that I couldn’t trust my own senses. I couldn’t trust my own perception of safety. Someone could ambush me again, anytime, anywhere, and they could have a mind even sicker than the first offender. I needed a second pair of eyes to literally watch my back. Even if they were eyes I wasn’t sure I could trust anymore.

We weren’t exactly done yet, either.

I said, “Wait.” Fix-it looked at me, confused and a bit apprehensive.

The wound on my chest was the most personal of all. It stayed well hidden behind my weird cowl, and Fix-it didn’t bother asking why I wasn’t properly wearing a shirt -- I guess that wasn’t too out of the ordinary. I’d been dreading taking it off and showing him. If I bared those cuts, I’d be baring all the shame, the weakness, the worthlessness, degradation, humiliation... I’d be digging back up all the psychological terrors I’d just been forced through. I wasn’t even ready to face those again on my own, let alone open them up to someone else. But I had no choice. I had to lay it all bare in front of Fix-it and risk him painting me as a victim at best, or taking me for a maniac at worst.  

“Just…” I started, but had no idea what to say. I’m not one to really… you know, open up verbally. In the end, I’m always better at showing than telling, even in situations where I’d rather do neither. So there seemed little point in wasting time. If Fix-it was so bloody desperate for answers, he could find them written in my skin.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled the cowl off over my head.

I heard no reaction from him. I heard nothing at all, save for the thumping in my ears and that thick hum of an awkward silence. I put off opening my eyes for as long as I could stand to. Even just feeling his gaze on me was enough to drive me mad. But after another long, steadying breath, I opened my eyes. 

There was a ghost standing where Fix-it had been a second ago. He had gone white as a sheet, stiff with shock, one hand clasped over his mouth. His eyes were wide and glassy, and I just hoped to the Devs that he wouldn’t start crying. But I couldn’t get a good read on what he was taking away from the sight of me, and he just wouldn’t move. With every passing second, I became more and more anxious that all I’d done was prove myself a lunatic. If he didn’t do something, I was going to throw up.

When I tried to speak, to snap him out of it, I found my throat door locked once more. But I couldn’t sit in silence a moment longer. It took an unreasonable amount of effort to force words out, and even when I did, they were clipped and staggered. 

But I said to him, as clearly as I could, “I--... didn’t--... do this.”

Finally, his hand slowly fell from his face, and he took in a short breath that I almost thought he would hold forever, before exhaling, “Who… did this to you?”

I shook my head, wishing I had a real answer, and said, “I-- don’t know…”

I waited for another question, a response, anything, but he just fell silent again. There were gears turning in his head, and I couldn’t stand not knowing where they were going. Everything inside me screamed that they were going the wrong way. 

“I didn’t-- do this,” I restated, but when no response came, a heat rose in my belly and words boiled over. “I didn’t do this. This wasn’t me. I couldn’t have-- I didn’t want this. I didn’t do this to myself.”

There was a pause, and Fix-it might have spoken if I’d let that pause go any longer. Those few seconds of silence were enough to give the impression that he wasn’t listening to me, and that drove me right over the edge.

“You don’t--... This--...” I couldn’t breathe, again. “This wasn’t me! It wasn’t me! It wasn’t my fault! Stop-- Stop LOOKING at me like it was my fault! IT WASN’T! I DIDN’T DO THIS! IT WASN’T MY FAULT I DIDN’T DO IT THIS WASN’T ME IT WASN’T MY FAULT--!!”

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey,” Fix-it finally spoke up, albeit softly and cautiously. He slid closer, palms open, voice low, as if he were soothing some spooked animal -- kind of demeaning, but at least he was doing something. He sat in front of me again, his eyes wide in that painfully honest way, and took off his hat. “Mavis--”

I choked, “It wasn’t my fault.”

His hand moved to touch my shoulder, but he caught himself and drew it back.

“I believe you, Mavy.”

Part of me didn’t believe him. The rest of me wanted to take that sentence, curl over it in a hole somewhere, and sleep off this entire nightmare.

Fix-it didn’t ask me to leave again after that, and I didn’t try to go. We both silently agreed that I’d be staying the night, something I’d not done willingly in about four and a half years. He fixed my chest wounds, the bruises over my ribs, and the bump on my head. His hammer doesn’t exactly clean things, though, so he gave me a fresh towel and an extra pair of pajamas so I could shower while he threw my clothes in the wash. I wasn’t keen on wearing his fancy-pants rich boy pajamas, mostly because they belonged to him and that’s gross, but I welcomed the shower. I hadn’t bathed at all in a couple weeks.

I had no interest in seeing myself in the bathroom mirror, but it happened regardless. I still looked like a sick parody of myself, like some sullen, exhausted girl with greasy hair, caked almost head to toe in blood, dirt and sweat. Most of your name was still visible on my chest, but inverted, like clean lines scrubbed into a wall of dried blood. But there were lines on my face that were far more alarming -- streaks through the smeared blood on my cheeks, running down from my red, puffy eyes.

Apparently, I’d been crying.

I just hoped to the Devs that it hadn’t been for long.

#fanfiction #fanfic #wreck it ralph #fix it felix #make it mavis #turbo #original character #homesick

[katedrakeohd]

This is for you @sirbeepsalot 🌹🥀🌺🌻🌼🌷⚘

I've had a bunch of asks in my inbox forever and need to finally get around to them. I was inspired by @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria and her one shot about Drake meeting Camille at her flower shop. I went in a totally different direction, but hopefully this little story is just as fluffy. 💗

....

Paint me a Picture 🎨🌷🌼

Drake hummed happily to himself as he stepped out of his office. He had just finished a conference call with his fellow council members finalizing the plans for Kate's upcoming baby shower. They had put off the party for the past two months amid fears of the Coronavirus spreading into Cordonia. Kate's due date of March 12th was fast approaching and they had reached the decision to reduce the guest list to under ten people. This suited Drake just fine because he wasn't much of a party person, plus Kate found too much attention and fussing around more tiring than exciting at this point.

Checking his watch, Drake realizes that his call had taken him well into the lunch hour and he was quite hungry. The plush carpet of the stairs muted his footsteps as he descended toward the main hall. He could feel the empty space blanket him in its silence, and he wondered where Kate, Hana and the corgis were.

When he had last seen Kate that morning she had been reorganizing the supplies in the nursery for the fourth time. He had chuckled at her restless nesting and kissed her on the cheek before leaving to make his phone call.

"Go get some fresh air and sunshine, it'll do you good."

Kate sighed, rubbing her aching back. "I guess so. I wonder what Hana's up to this morning."

Drake shrugged, "Send her a text to come get you and take your mind off baby stuff."

"Thanks, I will."

..

As he turned the corner toward the kitchen, Drake could smell toasting bread, and the delicious aroma of chicken soup. His mouth waters and he swallows, breathing deeply as his stomach rumbles. The sound of laughter, clink of plates and drawers opening and closing made him smile. Over the past 8 1/2 months the kitchen staff had become familiar with Kate's unusual cravings at all hours of the day. Early on she had wanted salty snacks, and then halfway through her second trimester her cravings had her wanting sweets, during the last month she had started combining the two in odd ways. It made Drake shake his head in wonder, but he obliged her desires. And if Kate was happy, Drake was happy.

Walking into the kitchen unnoticed, he sees the staff loading up a tray with a platter of sandwiches, and a pitcher of iced tea.

"Good afternoon Ladies," he says, and the laughing chatter amongst the women stops.

"Lovely day indeed, Your Grace." Marie the head cook replies with a smile.

Drake eyes the sandwiches on the platter hungrily. He could imagine sinking his teeth into the golden toasted bread, and hearing the crunch. "Are these for Kate and Hana by any chance?"

"Why yes they are. They're taking lunch in the sunroom. I can add another drinking glass and another plate if you'd like to join them."

Drake nods, "That would be wonderful. How about if I take lunch to them then?"

Claire, the young kitchen helper, protests as she sees Drake reach for the tray. "Oh my goodness, Your Grace, let us do that. You go on ahead and we'll bring lunch to you. "

Drake grabs half of a sandwich, "Well, if you insist. I'll just take this to go then, thanks."

Turning around to leave the kitchen Drake raises the sandwich to his mouth and checks the contents before taking a bite. Lettuce, tomato and a slice of swiss cheese. Not bad, but could use some bacon.

..

In the sunroom the atmosphere is that of a bright summer's day despite the dull late winter landscape outside. Lush greenery, tropical flowers and golden sunshine fill the space and give it a pleasant warmth. Off to one side, chair cushions are clustered together on the tiled floor. At the moment they're serving as lounges for sunbathing, sleeping, corgis; but earlier the cushions had served as a comfy surface for a gentle yoga session for Kate and Hana. Now the two friends were standing at easels and painting, chatting back and forth about what to hang in the nursery.

"So you and Drake still don't know if you're having a boy or a girl right?"

Kate nods, "As much as I want to know now, it's still a mystery. Our doctor knows though."

Hana purses her lips in thought as she dabs some blue on her canvas, "So do you mind if I paint a gender neutral landscape instead of flowers?"

"Not at all. I'm still sticking with flowers though. The ones in here are just too beautiful not to paint. If it doesn't suit the theme of the nursery I'll just hang it somewhere else."

Hana rinses out her brush, setting it aside and selects a different one to line in some happy little trees in a dark brown. "I suppose Drake is hoping that you have a little boy."

"He won't admit it, but of course he does. He's itching to go camping and fishing, to kick a football around, toss a baseball with a son."

With a shrug Kate draws in some green stems on her yellow daffodils, "Of course these are all activities he could do with a daughter as well. I remember tossing around a baseball with my Dad in the backyard."

Opening the door and stepping into the sunroom Drake is met by the wall of heat and fragrant scent of flowers. He immediately feels overdressed as a trickle of sweat runs down his neck. "How do you ladies stand it in here?"

Kate turns away from her painting to look at Drake, "Oh Hi Honey, welcome to summer in March."

Under the shade of her Sun hat, Kate is wearing one of Drake's old denim shirts as a painter's smock, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. There's a green smudge of paint on her cheek. Drake notices that it appears that she's wearing little else other than flip flops.

"Uh, Kate? Are you naked under my shirt?"

Kate giggles, covering her mouth, putting another smudge of green on her face. "No silly. I'm wearing a bikini top and shorts." She glances down at herself, "I can see it looking that way though."

Hana is wearing a short summer dress, and her own Sun hat. "You look a little warm there Drake. I wouldn't mind if you decided to take off your shirt."

Kate snickers as she goes back to her painting, "Yeah Honey, don't be shy."

Drake clears his throat, loosening his top two buttons and rolling up his sleeves. "I think I'll just open a couple of windows instead."

Kate watches Drake crank open a window, appreciating the flex of the muscles in his forearms. The fresh air blows the fabric of his shirt against his chest, making it stick to the sweat on his skin. She realizes that he isn't wearing a tee underneath. Probably why he was reluctant to remove his shirt in Hana's company. Drake notices her watching him and gives her a wink as he walks across to open another window. "So what are you ladies painting today?"

Kate feels the cool breeze brush the hair off the back of her neck and she shivers with delight. "Thanks honey, I didn't realize just how warm it was getting in here."

Drake does a quick bow with flourish of his hand, "Always pleased to be of service, Your Grace."

Hana giggles, "We're painting flowers and landscapes, to answer your previous question."

Drake settles down on the floor with the corgis, resting his elbow on a cushion and rubbing a belly as one dog happily rolls over. "I have the pleasure of informing you ladies that iced tea and sandwiches are also on the way, for our lunch."

Hana wipes her brow, "Anything with Ice in it would be welcome right now. I first experienced cold tea when we were in Texas for Savannah's wedding. I wasn't sure if I'd like it."

Kate sighs, "Mmm, I love lemony iced tea in the summertime. I miss it from being back home."

Drake's stomach growls again, causing one of the corgis to give him a look and then retreat to a spot in the shade, "Sorry Fluffers, didn't mean to disturb you. Don't worry I'm not hungry enough to eat you, close but no."

"I could go for a big bowl of spaghetti and meatballs right now," Kate says wistfully as she paints a tomato red poppy onto her canvas bouquet.

Drake groans, folding his arms behind his head as he leans back on the cushions and closes his eyes, "Oh stop, you're just making me more hungry."

Kate bites her lip, "Ooh, or pizza. A nice big slice of ole New York thin crust with extra cheese."

"STOP IT!" Drake barks out a laugh, chuckling as he wipes the sweat off his brow. "I ate half a sandwich on my way here, and it's really tasting like another half right about now."

Kate wipes her hands on a rag, "Ooh, what type of sandwich?"

Drake shrugs, "I dunno, there was cheese and some lettuce in there, maybe tomato?"

Kate kicks off her flip flops and walks across the warm floor tiles to stand over Drake, casting a shadow across him, hands on her hips. "And you didn't think to bring the rest of the sandwiches with you?"

Drake cracks an eye open to look up at his wife, his face scrunching up in amusement at her paint smudged face and raised eyebrows. "Hey, I tried to take the tray with me. But I don't think the girls in the kitchen trusted me to get the sandwiches this far without eating a few."

Kate nudges his leg playfully with her foot. "So true. We've all seen how much you like to eat."

Drake growls playfully, reaching out to grab for her ankle but she steps back out of his reach, "Can't help it if I'm a hungry man, c'mere you. I bet you taste like chicken."

"Nah ah, if I get down on those cushions with you I might never get back up. I'm going to wash up my hands and then take a seat over there at the table. Besides I think cannibalism is frowned upon in Cordonia."

Drake smirks at her and rolls over on his stomach, watching her walk away. "Mmm, golden fried chicken. You know how much I'm a breast and leg man."

Hana bursts out laughing, "Geez guys get a room."

Continue on to the next part

[kyberphilosopher]

Chapter Fourteen

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

His hair is a deep chestnut shade of brown. It looks fluffy, soft. His light skin looks smooth, even from my distance. His jaw is sharp, his cheeks strong. A playful smile lies on his pink lips. Everything about his features- no, about him- is soft. That’s the best word I can think of to describe him.

But I can feel the strength falling off of him. It peels off of his robes. They’re like a normal Jedi’s, but tighter at the sleeves, covered by a poncho, and darker in color. He feels different from all the Jedi I previously killed. He’s strong. Soft, but strong.

Tiredly, I shift my feet to show where my attention lies, eyes narrowing to begin my assessment of this visitor. Male, stocky build. Taller than me by a lot, but average for a man. My age. Slightly older? Slightly relaxed form. He watches me just as closely as I watch him. So he’s observant.

His eyes scan over the lightsabers at my sides, eyes lingering longer on the one with the red blade.

“Nowhere,” I say, almost hoarsely. My right hand is starting to go numb again, and I can feel a big, thick drop of blood fall from my half a finger. “Don’t worry, I won’t go too far,” I tell the stranger, even though I’m really not in the mood for a sarcasm contest right now.

“Oh, that’s good,” the stranger bends his knees and angles his violet light defensively. “I would so hate it if you missed this dance.”

Oh, man. He’s kind of quip-y. Killing him won’t be as satisfying as it would’ve been if he was all serious. “We can be honest with each other, right?” He shrugs. “Can we please reschedule this for tomorrow?”

  He smiles. It makes his eyes squint and twinkle. It looks nice on him. “Tired from killing the other two, are we?”

Has someone been watching me? Following me, even? No, I would’ve known. I would’ve sensed it. Perhaps he witnessed the fight between Aegus and Yutaro- it was possible I didn’t notice because my focus was elsewhere. Who is this guy?

“What would your mother say?”

I don’t know what it was about his statement that set me off. I just know that it did.  

I throw my hand out, letting my hate and exhaustion fuel the lightning that falls out. It wipes the smile right off his face as it cages him, throwing him backwards and out of my vision for an instant.

Then, I remove the red saber off my belt. I twist it between my palm to get a feel of it again, and run forward. It’s not as fast as it could be, but I am tired. My finger needs medical attention.  

I thrust the red lightsaber into the boy’s shoulder. It nicks him, but he offers little more than a wince in response. He blocks my next strike. I put more pressure on it, forcing our lightsabers closer to his face. He doesn’t back down, however. He is determined to show me that my rageful exhaustion is no match for his physical strength. We’ll see about that.

Right as I’m about to kill him, something grabs my attention to the left. Not the sun-but a light! No, two of them! Two bright, beautiful balls of crystal clear light.

A shot blows me back. My lightsaber comes to a close as I tumble in the dirt for about the third time today. The cold mud and twigs make the cuts on my hands and temple sting even more- not a good sign. My right ear hears a long, drawn out scratching noise like a saw. Then it fades off like a hum and is replaced with a high-pitched ringing, followed by complete silence. My left ear continues to throb lowly with the beat of my heart, which changes between too fast and too slow. When my body finally stops rolling and stills itself, I can feel a droplet of either sweat or blood run down the right side of my neck. My eyes burn from the dirt that’s undoubtedly in them.

I lie still for a moment, wiped out and exhausted. I’m not dying, the galaxy would never be so kind. What happens next is just like falling asleep. Slowly becoming darker and darker, my vision goes black, and I feel warm.

When I was thirteen, I made an attempt to draw my father from memory. I had only drawn a few times prior to this, mostly out of sheer boredom. I want to say that they came out well, but I don’t have anything to compare my works to. Being on the run your whole life doesn’t lend much time for art museums.

I had no memories of my father whatsoever. I looked into a glass shard from a mirror and attempted to make my own features look more masculine. I don’t know how long it took me to sketch him, but finally I was finished.

In my version of my father, he has dark hair. He looks young, with eyes slanted upwards. I imagine they have hazel flecks, lined with gold and just the slightest hint of deep green. His eyes are framed by thick, dark eyebrows- straight and clean. Under his orbs are dark circles like smudged makeup, similar to my own. His nose is narrower than mine, but splashed with tope freckles all the same. We have the same olive skin and similar chins. His jaw is sharper than mine. His lips are chapped, but curled up at the ends like a smirk. Still, he frowns. I can not make him smile.

My father was very handsome. His name is Kaito Vagor, which in another galaxy translates to “the flight over the sea” and “I wander”, which I think is beautiful. In my mind, he is quiet. He thinks things through, just like me. He knows how to take initiative, believes in facts over feelings but never ignores his gut. Although I’d never met him, I loved the picture of my father, which ended up being completely accurate. I loved him so much, I begged him to be dead. I begged him to be dead so I’d feel like there was a reason I’d grown up without him. But cruelly, no matter how much I prayed and wished, Kaito was alive. I wouldn’t know it in my lifetime, but he was alive.

I couldn’t bring myself to draw my mother. I was too busy trying not to wail at the loss of my father, who I loved dearly despite the rage I’d obtained over the years. After that day, I had no idea where the drawing went. I might’ve destroyed it in my sleep, or lost it on purpose without even realizing.

Now, as I sleep, I think of the image of my father again. I think of nothing else. I see him smiling down at me calmly- on birthdays, cooking me meals in a small hut, training me how to better use a spear. In that life, I am happy. I am content with just Kaito, and I know how to trust people. There is no Clone with the yellow stripe. No Haxion Brood. No Imperial Inquisitors. And, most importantly, there are ten fingers.

I bolt upright at this realization.

I’m alive. My breathing feels thin, but not impossible. My chest is not nearly as sore as I expected, so I decide to count it as a good thing. Still, it rises and falls rapidly as I struggle not to cough on my own breath. My head thrums will a slow, dull pain that makes me wish I had just stayed still. Once I regain my sense of thought, I look around, eyes wide as my heart hammers.  

The floor below me is the same stark white color, matching the bed and the walls. It looks like the inside of a ship, I think. I don’t sense danger, but I wouldn’t be surprised if my entire sense of survival were thrown off. I’m atop a cushioned bench, with a firm, small pillow where my head was. The only pop of color in the room is a slim bunch of yellow flowers, sitting in a pale gray vase.

Breathe, Keres. Softly.

My boots are missing from my feet. Instead, light colored gauze wraps around my ankles and stops before it reaches my toes. I wiggle them playfully, watching each duck and weave up and down on my command. It makes me feel childish, but secure that I at least have one part of my body still working for me. Unlike my fingers, there are ten of them. My hands and forearms are wrapped in a matching gauze, contrasting the normal gray gauze that works as my undergarments for my dark, sleek, armor. Replacing said armor is a beige kind of altered Jedi’s robes like the one with the purple lightsaber wore. The normal weight from a lightsaber doesn’t hang on my hips, and when I move my hand to the area I find nothing but air. I’m too tired and groggy to feel frustrated about it.

Brushing hair out of my face, I notice my hair is still in it’s braid, however messy it may be. The palm of my hands are flecked with pink scars, and a few bright red cuts from all my forest fumbles. Some are better healed than others, but none of them sting like they did. My right hand is just as I’d left it, confirming my worst fear. The fear that it was all real.

My right ring finger is gone. There is nothing from my knuckle up, and instead it is only a stump with more gauze wrapped tight around it. I stare at it. My eyes water quickly. I bite my lip to keep it from trembling, but this it to no avail.

I deserved it. I deserved to lose my finger.

I push myself off the bed angrily. My feet feel cold on the floor, but I don’t register it. When I stand up completely, something in my rib pops. This makes me stop for a second before carrying on in haste.

Clothes. I need my clothes. Where the kriff are my clothes?

Somewhere to the right of me, the familiar hiss of a door opening rings out. I snap my head up.  

 A Togruta with wet looking red skin appears in front of me. White diamonds surround her eyes, and smaller diamond markings appears across her cheekbones. Her lips are full but not too full, and her pale green eyes are framed by long, soft eyelashes. Her horns aren’t stubby, but neither tall nor sky high. It gives away her age- teens, possibly nearing twenties. She is dressed in a loose brown tunic, covered by a white, stained medical smock. Everything about her appearance is regal, elegant, and objectively beautiful.

“Oh!” she squeaks, one hand covering her chest as she gathers her breath. “You’re up!”

I remain quiet as I meet her eyes. The Togruta shifts a clipboard in her arms and puts it on a shelf behind her. “I’ll be right back with some medicine. Stay right here!” She hurries off and out the door again.

I immediately disobey what she’s asked of me. Fuck her. I take a single step forward and stumble for a moment. My feet adjust to the freezing floor after a second, and in short, quick steps I make my way out of the room. The next area I stumble into is circular, and bustling with at least ten people- I can’t count them all. My eyes squint to adjust to the new light, but my right ear remains unadapting and silent. A few feet ahead of me, I can see the back of what I believe to be the Jedi.

He overlooks a round holo-table displaying a blue hologram I can’t completely make out. Two other people in helmets observe the table with him, nodding and occasionally opening their mouths. After a simultaneous nod from them, they head off to their right, down a hallway. The Jedi meets my eyes from across the way. Then he stands still.  

I hate him. This is his fault. It’s always the Jedi’s fault.

A few people in the room pause to glance at me, creating a look of disgust on my face I don’t even try to hide. I am angry at them. I want them to know how angry I am. No one dares to  chuckle before conversations start again. The Jedi crosses his arms and looks at me as if he’s bested me at something, or proved himself. Jokes on him though, because he’s vastly overestimated how much I care or am willing to care. 

“Oh, you’re… up again!” The Togruta appears with her arms full of cloth. Is that my boot? On top of them are several small bottles and a single syringe. “I just went to bring you your clothes and some medicine. I didn’t think you would be ready to walk so soon.”

I eye the scene suspiciously. I’m definitely on a ship of some sort, most likely no longer on Endor. There are a lot of people on this ship, but for what purpose? And why is a Jedi involved? Don’t speak, Keres. The way he’s looking at me, he’ll just pull a ‘Keres’ and ironically evade whatever you ask him.

I hold out my hands for my clothes, to which the Togruta pours them into my arms while trying to maintain a polite smile.  

There is silence between the two of us as I pretend to be very interested in my black and gray outfit and boots. “So,” the Togruta sighs with another smile. “What should we call you?”

I quickly bend over slightly to slip one of my boots on. These people don’t get to know my name.

  “I’m Aheka. Aheka Shyn. And you’ve already met Adamus…”

I crane my head up to look at the Jedi. His hair is just as brown and soft looking as before, though his jaw is flexing and tightening as he peers at me from across the room. I can feel eyes continue to watch me as I stuff my other foot into the other shoe. He sure knows how to spark my annoyance, I’ll give him that. He’s sparked it so much, I can feel myself tensing up in a new and intense way.  

“He’s not so bad,” Aheka continues. “I know you guys didn’t really get off on the right foot, but-”

“Adamus is responsible for the kriffing ringing in my ear then,” I snap. “So he is that bad.”

Aheka swallows, eyes widening. “I-I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to offend…”

“Aheka. That’s enough,” another voice commands. I drop my gaze back to my boots, chewing on my bottom lip as I hear footsteps come closer. “I’ll take care of this,” the male voice says.

I watch Aheka’s shoes step away briskly and disappear behind another door and hallway. The ship must be awfully large to have so many of them. The only thing I have to think about then is which of those hallways will take me to escape pods. 

“A bit rude, wouldn’t you say?” he starts. “Exploding over such a valid question?”

I dare not speak for fear the poison that comes from it will make a hole in the floor.

“Did you hear what she asked?”

“I heard it,” I hiss, attempting to keep my cool. “I just choose not to answer it.”

Adamus looks me up and down. Not in a flirtatious way, but a way that gives him a good observation. Is he analyzing me? He must be, somewhat. I don’t like it. He might find some flaw in my stance or my balance. I stand up straight, forcing myself to meet his eyes in a way that signifies a challenge.

“So, why Endor?”

Well, that’s a funny story. See, you know the Haxion Brood criminal syndicate? Oh, you don’t? Don’t worry- they’re just some of the most hardened and cutthroat criminals in the galaxy! Well, they captured me outside of Kijime. After straight up murdering people of your kind, they were so frightened of me they just chose a distant planet to drop me off at! Funny story, right?      

“The will of the Force,” I quip. A satisfying snap runs through my stomach as I watch his left eye twitch. It’s perfect. I want to shatter his expression like that again.

I watch a yellow Twi’lek shake hands with one of the soldiers in a helmet. I’m reminded of Talik for a moment, and I miss her- but I push her from my mind. Mur, Kip, Talik- they’re a part of my past now. Talik can’t chase me anymore.

“Somewhere you need to go?” Adamus continues.  

“Nowhere you can take me,” I promise him quickly.

Adamus curls his pink lips into a sly smile. His eyes twinkle immediately with a spark of charisma. “Listen, no offense, but you don’t look like someone who has somewhere they need to be.”

“Makes sense to me, because you don’t seem like the type of person who would know what that looks like.”

Adamus narrows his pale eyes. I wait for his smile to twitch again, but it doesn’t happen. He almost looks like he wants to laugh. Like I’ve just told him something clever. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest and begins sauntering backwards. “It was nice talking to you, stranger.”

I take that as him dismissing me. “Fuck you,” I whisper at him as I watch him turn around. The I start back to the room I was unconscious in. With minimal pain on my part, I begin to swap out my clothes with my dark colored outfit that highlights my agility. A small mirror on one of the walls allows me to look at my face.

My eyes are a little red, and there’s a scarlet gash on my forehead, above my right eyebrow. I still look like myself, at least. Same hazel-green eyes, same chapped lips, same brown hair. I’m me. Just roughed up, I guess.

I see and hear Aheka wisp around being me, on the left side. I don’t turn to see her, but I can imagine her pretty face, clear as day. There’s a certain layer of guilt that sweeps around the pit of my stomach. I shouldn’t have been so rude to her earlier. She hasn’t do anything to me. In fact, she’s probably the one who healed me up best she could. She saved my worthless life.

“Hey, Aheka,” I mumble so quietly I expect her not to hear.

“Hm?” She hums sweetly in response.

My mouth suddenly feels dry. I can’t bring myself to turn around and look at her as I say the words, and I realize I’m just as big of a coward as Aegus. “Thank you,” I whisper hoarsely.

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and I start to wonder if she even heard me. “I said-”

“I heard you,” Aheka replies. I can hear her soft smile through her tone. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Are you the medic?”

“It’s just me and another so far. We’re trying to train more, but it’s difficult with our numbers.”

I swallow. “Did you patch me up?”

“Yes.” Aheka says bashfully, as if embarrassed by her work.

“I’m not going to kill you,” I tell her as I turn around to finally face her. I had meant to put her at ease, but I only feel her tense up further at my phrasing. “Can you tell me about my injuries?”

The beautiful Togruta walks to the other side of the room to grab the clipboard she placed there earlier. “A broken rib on your left side, two on your right. Several cuts on your back, calves, and hands. A single cut to your forehead. Your right ankle was dislocated. The right finger on your right hand was already like that when we found you. I’m sorry, but we couldn’t find it.”

“What about my ear?”

“Your ear?” she sets down the clipboard again and begins to walk over to me with a concerned expression. “Is something the matter with it?”

“Yes, my right one.” Her red hand reaches out to touch me, and I flinch away before stilling myself enough for her to hold my jaw gently. “I can’t hear anything out of it.”

“Since when?”

“Since back on Endor. A ship- this one, I think- fired at me and Adamus.”

"They fired at you?!” Aheka furrows her eyebrows in anger. “So that’s why Adamus looked so peeved at Circe. I’m sorry they did that. We’re not usually like that, I promise.”

The tips of her fingers are cold, then warm as they edge closer to my ear. “I knew I noticed you bleeding when I took you in. I should’ve examined you more closely.” Then she snuffs out some hot air. “Perhaps you should start hurting yourself on your left side too, to balance yourself out.”

A weak attempt at humor. I have heard better. Still, I try not to look like I’m so uncomfortable and grimacing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

I clear my throat. “So, who exactly is ‘we’?”

“Oh… Adamus didn’t tell you?” I shake my head no. “I’d tell you we’re nobodies, but that’s not really true,” she whispers, as if we were speaking in a forbidden language. “We’re part of the Rebellion. New, and not really valid, but we’re a part of it. Too small to be the whole thing but well… all rebellions have to start somewhere.”

Oh man. The Rebellion? This is exactly the type of thing I was trying to stay away from. I might’ve well have just ended up in the hands of some Sith activist group. I don’t want to be allied with anyone’s side but my own. I don’t want the Light path or the Dark path- I want my own path.

“And what’s the deal with Adamus?” I venture to ask.

Aheka removes her fingers from my skin gently. She crosses to the other side of the room, and pulls out a long, thick stick with a little puff at the end. “That’s a story I would just butcher telling you. Here, tilt your head this way…”

I tilt my head to the side as she places the stick in my ear. With minimal discomfort, she pulls it out after a moment. The puffy side is stained red and slightly gold. She lifts her hand to my ear and snaps, but I hear nothing. “You didn’t hear that? I see…Well, the good news is I know what to do. I don’t have the materials for it right now, but I’m sure I can find something somewhere.” Aheka gives me a soft smile. “But until then, maybe you should get some rest. I-I know you’ve had nothing but that for the past day and a half, but…”

Is she… looking out for me? No, nobody is that good. She’s being nice for a reason. She wants something from me. I watch her for a minute before walking past her silently. “Wait- ah, where are you going?”

I don’t answer her. It’s not like telling her would make a difference anyway. I pass the room with the holo-table, not seeing my target anywhere. Adamus.

I let my instincts lead the way. I walk through one of the hallways on the right side, then take a left. A few soldiers walking past give me weird looks, but I pay no mind. They’re lucky I didn’t just kill them right then and there.

The Force leads me to another door. Yes- this is where I’ll find him. I can practically smell Adamus’s disgusting stench from here. It opens without me pressing a button.

“Our first assault should’ve been on Endor. We could’ve taken it if it weren’t for Oden’s ridiculous vote.”

“No, don’t be foolish! We should focus on a defense more than anything. We…”

Adamus notices me and turns to face me. His arms unfold themselves as he starts over to me silently, careful not to disturb the others with the movement of his stocky body. The other men in the room, all sharing a similar uniform, continue discussing what I assume to be their rebellious little plans that I intend to be no part of. Adamus reaches out to hold my left arm as if I were a child that needed to be held still.

“Lovely to see you,” he begins. I see that he has to crane his neck to meet my eyeline, and I imagine punching him square in the jaw. “What can I do for you?”

He’s closer than he’s been before. He doesn’t smell as bad as I previously said, actually. It’s not nearly as… stench-y. It reminds me of something I can’t really place. Some type of wood, maybe? I can see a scar across his lips that pauses before his jaw, then resumes on his neck and under his robes. There’s another one right under his right eye. His eyelashes look so soft and dark brown. Something in my stomach pulls me to look in his eyes. 

“Am I interrupting your sausage party?” I say, watching his lips twitch in annoyance for the third time today.

“That’s disgusting,” he counters calmly, struggling to keep his cool.

“But… accurate.”

Adamus squints his eyes in a brief wave of annoyance. “What did you come here for?”

My eyes flicker around the room with paranoia, making sure no one is watching our conversation. Luckily, all the men in uniform seem be clenching their fists as one of them makes some big, dramatic speech while waving his arms around. “Where can you take me?”

Adamus stiffens his body, and I watch the charismatic twinkle return to his irises as my stomach drops. “Ilum, perhaps?”

Ilum would be perfect. It would be… it would be home. “Why would I want to go there?”

“You were talking about it in your sleep.”

Fuck. Adamus.

His grip on my arm intensifies slightly. “I can take you there if you tell me your name.”

I stare up into his piercing orbs. A small shrug graces my shoulders. “Why am I so important to you?” I hiss. “First you stalk me, then you shoot at me, and now you’re demanding my identity. How do I know you’re no better than the Empire?”

Adamus narrows his pale eyes at me. “We’re the rebellion,” he says as if it were obvious.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I counter sharply. “Because you’re not part of the oppressive government, you can’t be oppressive yourselves? Fuck off.”

I hold his stare then. I am not one to back down from challenging authority, or messing with anyone who thinks they’re in control of something. That always tends to include men.

Adamus keeps squaring his jaw in frustration, much to my delight. Then he returns to the table, and a hush falls over the uniformed men. “I have a proposal,” he speaks.

“Does it include her?” One of the men with gray hair and frown stapled to his lips jabs a finger at me.

“It does,” Adamus replies. “I propose we set a course to Ilum. The planet is sacred to the Jedi and could prove useful to me and the uh… new associate here.”

“Didn’t she attack you on sight?” one of the men counters- a Chiss with blue skin and deep red eyes.

“She had every reason to attack. But now she’s going to help us. Right, my new associate?”

Oh no. No, Adamus! Please don’t put the spotlight on me. Before I can respond, Adamus answers for me, probably sensing my discomfort. “Right. Everyone in favor of heading to Ilum, raise your hands.”

Adamus raises both his hands as if surrendering. Nervously, five men follow suit. Adamus turns to me, eyebrows raised. Immediately, I throw up my left hand as a vote.

“Oh, yay! A unanimous vote. That sure makes things easy. Well, off to Ilum then!”

“Ah- General Adamus!”

“Can’t hear you Rass I’m already out the door!” He grabs my arm again as he leaves the room and shuts the door behind us. Separating me from the pit of political vipers he calls his council.

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars fandom #star wars story #jedi #purplelightsaber #greenlightsaber #therebellion #grayjedi #gray jedi #red lightsaber #Endor

[sweetwhumpandhellacomf]

Jane. Jane. Jane.

It focuses on that name. It does not know why. It had a name, once, a very long time ago, before it was a weapon. Before it was honed to razor sharp skill, before it met Master.

It had a name, once. But it is a weapon, and a weapon does not have a name.

Jane.

Reggie prepares dinner when the sun begins to set. It was told to wait, to sit on the couch in the living room and to stay out of the way. The couch has lumps in the cushions. It focuses on those instead of on Jane.

Dinner is a meal of pasta, ground beef, and cheese sauce, with salad and water. It eats what it is given, and drinks the glass of water, and does not ask for more. It does not need more.

“You want some more?” Reggie asks, pointing his fork at its empty plate. “You haven’t eaten in two days, dude, I wouldn’t care if you had seconds.”

“It does not require additional food at this time,” it answers. The pain of hunger has faded. It will eat again when it is the proper time and if food is offered.

“Right...” Reggie watches it briefly, then stands up and collects both of their dishes to load into the dishwasher. “I’ll go make up the futon in the guest room. Sit tight, Jane.”

Jane.

It nods and sits, focusing on the feel of the hard uncushioned chair instead of on Jane.

Reggie retrieves it after several minutes and takes it to the guest room. A futon bed is folded out, stacks of magazines and blank canvases piled up on the other side of the room. There is a purple blanket with a white paisley pattern on it. A stack of folded button-up shirts is on the blanket. “So, I don’t really have pajamas that’ll fit you,” Reggie says, hands in his pockets. “But I have some big shirts I use for smocks, put ‘em on the bed for you. They’re kinda paint-stained, but still pretty comfy.”

It nods. It should not sleep in these clothes.

“You can take a shower or bath if you want, before bed. It’s right across the hall.”

It nods. It should clean itself.

Reggie stares at it. “Uh... I’ll be in the living room if you need anything,” he says, walking out of the room.

It waits for a moment. It has not been ordered to do anything. But it is unwashed from the two days on the bench, and its clothes are unsuited for sleeping. It does not think Reggie will order it to look after itself, but it considers his suggestions as orders. It should not act on its own otherwise.

It takes the top shirt from the stack on the bed and walks into the bathroom. The shower curtain has a pattern of cacti and succulent plants, and there are potted cacti on the high windowsill. It shuts the door and removes its clothes, folding them and leaving them on the sink counter. It pulls back the shower curtain, steps inside, pulls it closed again, and turns on the water.

The water is cold. It cleans itself as it usually does. When it is dry, it puts on its undergarments and the shirt from the bed.

It stares at itself in the mirror. Its hair is messy, dripping onto its shoulders and the soft rug on the floor. There are heavy bags under its eyes, and it feels its two sleepless nights. It should sleep.

It steps back out into the hall, holding its clothes. Reggie appears, looking at them as they walk back into the guest room. “Goodnight, Jane!” he calls.

Jane.

It nods to him, enters the guest room, and shuts the door. It puts its clothes on the floor next to the futon, and moves the stack of shirts onto the floor as well.

It pulls back the blanket and sits on the bed. The cushion is softer than the couch, and it is not lumpy. The blanket is smooth and cool. The pillow is lumpy. It focuses on the pillow as it lays down and covers itself.

Jane. It is a weapon. Jane. A weapon does not have a name. Jane. It should not have a name.

It attempts to sleep. But it can only think of Jane. Jane. Jane.

When Reggie knocks on the door and opens, it is lying in the same position it began the night in.

“You awake? Yeah, you are,” Reggie says. It turns to look at him. “I’m gonna make waffles for... Did you sleep?”

“It failed to sleep,” it says, sitting up. Its head hurts, and its eyes hurt.

“Jane, c’mon...”

Jane. “Do not call it that. It is--”

“It’s a weapon, whatever, that’s something fucked up that you’ve been made to think,” Reggie says. “You’re a person! You’re allowed to have a name and do things, you know.”

It is allowed. It is allowed to have a name. It is allowed to do things. This is what Reggie thinks. But this is wrong. It shakes its head. Its chest feels heavy. Its throat feels heavy. “It is not,” it insists. There is something wrong with its voice. “You are wrong.” Its eyes sting.

Reggie’s expression changes. He sits next to it on the futon. “Hey, Jane, it’s okay... I’m sorry if I--”

“Do not--” It interrupts itself with a high-pitched noise like a gasp. Its eyes feel wet. Its face is contorted. “Do not call me--it--”

It is crying. Reggie pulls it close in his arms, and it cries more. It presses its face into his shoulder. Why is it crying? It's a weapon. Weapons don’t cry. Weapons are quiet and do what they’re told.

“Is it... Am I... broken...?” it asks, its voice shaking, wavering and unsteady.

“No, Jane, no...” Reggie hugs them. “You’re human. You’re scared. And you’re not broken.”

They stay like that until they fall asleep, calmed by Reggie’s hold.

#my writing #whump #only a weapon

[sanchi-home]

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[intubatedangel]

Dead Drop - part 1

I started writing this part when there was only a few votes, so it was B at the time. Since then it seems A has taken the lead, so that will be the next story after this one. In the meantime, hope you enjoy.

Linh

Linh laid beneath the obese man as he grunted and panted. She tried to remember to make all the appropriate moans, but her mind was on other things. Like how the craving was starting to twist her stomach. How the crook of her arm burned. How her jaw still ached even though the bruises had faded. And if she would have another seizure.

 She was dimly aware the ‘John’ had gone tense, his eyes rolling and his face twisting as he reached his climax. She faked her own orgasm for his benefit. At least he didn’t hit her or strangle her. And he wasn’t the type to cuddle and chat. He rolled off her with a satisfied sigh and was asleep almost instantly.

 She squirmed out from under his flabby arm as soon as his snores shook the bedframe. She could feel the craving building in force, staggering through the pain in her hips as she left the room, heading for what passed as a sanctuary in this hell hole. She was still naked, but so were most of the other girls in the dim smoky room that she entered. Thankfully, there was a needle ready and waiting, filled with the thick liquid that would bring her some relief.

 She injected it into her arm, the one that wasn’t red and burning. Within a few moments she began to feel the craving ease, along with the pain. She grabbed one of the loose silky smocks and pulled it over her head before she flopped onto the scattered cushions. She hoped that was it for the night. She could already feel the tension building behind her eyes, the slight tingling in her extremities that she had come to realise were warning signs of a seizure.

 Her mind wandered as she lay there, breathing slowly and deeply. A part of her hoped that it would just stop. But they were always being watched. The man was unobtrusive, but Linh knew he was there, beside the door. Gun strapped under one shoulder, brass knuckles in one pocket, Narcan in the other. Everything he needed to protect the ‘merchandise’, even from the drugs that were used to control them. Memories plagued her, filled with shame and rage at her own naivety.

 ***

Linh had grown up in rural Vietnam. It was a quiet life. Hard at times, but nothing like the poverty her mother and grandmother had endured. The country had come a long way since even the 1980’s. Born as the millennium turned, Linh was the youngest of 4. Her sister had already married by the time Linh turned 10. Her two brothers had become capable young men, running the farm themselves after their father passed away.

 But Linh had always felt like an outsider on the farm, even in the town. She wanted more. Sadly, opportunity was rare in the fields. Her education had been rudimentary, and despite her best efforts, she had never excelled enough to get the attention needed to push for a higher level of education. Her mother had tried to instil in her a goal of finding a good husband, who had his own farm or even a business in the nearby town.

 Linh never wanted to be a housewife though. She wanted to earn a name for herself. Her options were few in number, but she was determined to make the best of them. Following her mother’s instructions to go into town and find a husband, Linh had instead gone to the library. It was basic, and new books only arrived once a month, but Linh had spent most of her time there after her daily chores were done. It was there that she met him. A young man she briefly loved. Now, every night she dreamed of vengeance. Of what she would do to him if she saw him again.

 Quan had seemed so genuine to a rural girl. He told her that his family had lived nearby once. That they had gotten lucky, managed to move to the West. He had come back to get in touch with his roots. Linh was instantly besotted. He started to teach her English, showed her the wonderful places he had been on his smartphone. Fashion shows and catwalks. He told her she was beautiful enough to be a model. After a month, he had offered to take her away from the small town. He was leaving soon, heading back to the wonderful west. And he wanted her to come with him.

 She had argued with her mother for hours, trying to explain that she loved him. That her mother had wanted her to find a husband. That in the west she could earn enough money to buy her mother’s farm three times over. Her mother had countered, warning Linh that she would regret this. That there were plenty of young men close by, that western money means nothing here. Her mother had eventually forbidden her from going. Linh had snuck out at night, running for hours to get to the town before her disappearance was noticed.

 She had made it just in time. Quan took her away in his truck with nothing but the clothes on her back. It was a long journey to the port. On the way he told her that he would have to sneak her to the west on a boat. He had friends, who had done this many times. That he would be waiting for her at the other side.

 The boat had turned out to be a large cargo ship. And she wasn’t the only passenger. A dozen girls, just like Linh, where hoping to get to the west to meet with their future husbands. It triggered alarm bells for Linh, that their stories were all so similar, but she was in too far now. The voyage was long, and the girls spent most of it hidden away in an empty shipping container. It had light, and a small electric heater to keep them warm. They would talk for hours about their young men, about their hopes and dreams for their new brighter future.

 They received two meals a day, simple food, but plenty of it. They were also given ‘vitamins’. Quick injections that made them feel strange. The man overseeing them told them that was normal. That living in the country they had a poor diet, that the strange feeling would fade in time. The girls, all trusting and naïve, believed him. Within days the girls were able to judge when their next meal would come, along with the ‘vitamins’. They would all feel an empty yearning. A craving. They didn’t understand until later that the ‘vitamins’ were opioids.

 The journey had taken two weeks. The ship had docked at the port late at night. The girl’s left the ship under cover of darkness, shepherded to a pair of waiting vans. They were told they would be taken to a place where they would meet their men.

 But they never did meet them. Instead they were taken to the ‘pleasure palace’ as Linh had come to call it. They had been deprived of their ‘vitamins’ until they were all begging to be given some. That was when the deal had been struck. The girls would do whatever their masters wanted, and they would get their ‘vitamins’.

 Just like that, they had become ensnared in the trap.

 ***

 Linh was broken out of the memories by the door slamming open. The guard jumped, his gun appearing out of nowhere as the door rebounded off the wall. But he instantly lowered it. A figure filled the door frame. A figure all the girls had come to associate with fear. The son of an important figure in the crime family that now owned Linh and the other girls.

 He openly broke rules about utilising the ‘merchandise’. And he wasn’t gentle about it. Linh felt her jaw throb in memory of the last time he had chosen her. She felt her headache intensify, the tingling in her extremities growing. She didn’t want to be chosen.

 “UP!” he commanded with a stomp on the creaking floorboards. The girls all hurried to obey, while still attempting to be as un-notable as possible. All except Linh. She wanted to, but her body wouldn’t respond. Her tingling limbs refused to move, and she knew she was moments away from another seizure. The violent gangster glared at her, a spike of fear sinking straight to her core. She was going to be chosen.

 His face twisted into a snarl as he walked forward, reaching down to grab her tightly and wrench her to her feet. As soon as he let go of her arm, her numb legs folded beneath her. He barked something at her, but all she could hear was a high-pitched ringing as all sound faded away into the distance. She couldn’t focus, her mind unravelling as her brain started to fire off electrical impulses at random. Colours burst in front of her eyes, a spectacular firework display that impeded her sense so much that she didn’t see the fist coming.

 It sent her sprawling, but pain no longer existed, her brain stuck in a chaotic state. She was dimly aware that her limbs had started thrashing, that the gangster was approaching her. Then, thankfully, her consciousness winked out.

***

Anna

 Anna awoke to the sound of an alarm. It dragged her from a dream in which she was on the trauma table, Carl straddling her with his hands on her sternum.  Keeping her eyes tightly closed, she desperately tried to recapture that image, but like most dreams, it slipped through her grasp, swirling away like fog. The alarm rang loudly from across the room. She heard a grunt and the slight protest of the mattress as her partner rolled himself out of the bed. The alarm stopped a few seconds later.

 She didn’t want to move. She felt content, like she never had before. But then, she felt the mattress flex as Carl leaned over it. He planted a kiss on the side of her neck, then sighed. “Come on.” He whispered. “I know you’re awake. Your heart doesn’t lie.”

 With a groan of protest, Anna forced her eyes open, taking in the view of the monitor. Her heart bounced merrily across the screen, settled in her normal waking rate of the mid 70’s. Apparently her sleeping rate was slower. “Do we have to?” She murmured, still looking at the screen.

 Carl reached over, pulling on her arm. She resisted for a moment, then let him roll her onto her back. Her head lolled, half resting against her shoulder as she looked up at him. He was smiling, and she couldn’t help but return it. “We do.” He pecked her gently on the lips. “Lives to save. And we can’t do that on empty stomachs.”

 Anna rolled her eyes and tried to pull the covers up, but he wouldn’t let her. He reached over to turn off the monitor, then took her hands and reared up on his knees, pulling her gently upright. She remained limp, her head falling back, fighting without effort to return to the soft embrace of the bed. He released her hands, quickly slipping his arms underneath her armpits before she could flop back to the pillows. On hand braced her shoulders, as the other titled her head forward enough to look at him.

 “If we don’t get up we won’t be able to play tonight.” He laid down the ultimatum in a soft voice, like a parent trying to bribe a petulant child. Anna pouted, filling her role in the little tableau, then sighed.

 “Alright fine. I’m getting up.” He released her from his arms, and she slid her legs out of the bed, before she felt something pulling on her chest. The ecg leads were still connected, and in her sleep they had become tangled. “I may need a hand.” She said over her shoulder.

 Carl chuckled, flicking on the main light as he rounded the bed. Anna leaned back, resting on her elbows, legs dangling from the bed, as he approached. She grinned, staring at his abs appreciatively. He leaned down over her, squeezing her knees between his own. She could see the excited bulge in his boxer shorts and glanced up at his face with a cocked eyebrow. He shook his head gently.

 He tapped a finger to his temple. “This is in charge. Not that. And this knows that if we don’t up now we’ll miss breakfast. And we both know hangry Anna is mean.”

 She sighed. ”Fine. But tread carefully. You woke up Kinky Anna.” She nodded at the monitor. “I control her now, but if she isn’t satisfied, she might mutiny.”

 Carl chuckled again, leaning in close and kissing her on the lips. “Oh, she’ll be satisfied tonight.” He whispered the promise in the ear. “She’ll get anything she wants.” They gazed into each other’s eyes for a moment, then Carl glanced down at her chest and the tangle of ECG leads. He reached out, popping each wire off, the foam electrodes still sticking firmly to her skin. It only took a few seconds to sort out the trailing wires. “Do you want to take them off or should I?” He asked looking at the electrodes. And her breasts.

 “I though we didn’t have time for that.” She prodded, covering his chest with one arm.

 “I can still look.” He replied, sticking his tongue out. Then he released her knees, leaned in for another kiss. “I’ll sort breakfast, you put Kinky Anna back in her cage.” He started to move away, but Anna grabbed his hand.

 He looked down at her, his expression expecting something sexy or romantic. “Remember,” she said, “Milk and two sugars.” He rolled his eyes with another chuckle, then left her alone in the room.

 She sat up fully on the side of the bed, resting her chin on her chest and looking down at the electrodes dotted on her skin. A smile crept across her face. She was tempted to leave them on, but knew if anyone caught sight of them, uncomfortable questions would be asked. So, with a sigh, she started to remove them. The foam backed electrodes were quite gentle on her skin, coming away without too much pain. She could see the circles they left, where the wet-gel sponge had bridged the gap between sensor and skin, surrounded by the slight red from removing the adhesive part. She wiped away the lingering traces of gel with a tissue. Then grabbed the dressing gown and gathered her things for a quick morning shower.

***

Linh

Linh stirred back to consciousness feeling little more than pain. It wasn’t just the usual post-seizure aching of strained muscles though. There was intense, localised pain as well. She knew what had caused it. She’d been beaten. Badly. She could taste blood in her mouth, but a quick investigation with her tongue didn’t find any missing teeth. She couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes, but a brief flexing of her limbs suggested that nothing was broken. Her right arm still burned painfully and deeply, but that wasn’t new.

 She tried to sit up, but a searing pain across her abdomen forced to fall limply to the floor. She took deep gasping breaths as she tried to master the pain. Slowly she forced her eyes open and assessed her surroundings. She was still in the den. She was alone. Dawn light was spilling around the thick window covering. On the table above her, she could see two syringes.

 Careful not to move her abdomen, she gingerly reached out, managing to grab the syringed between shaking fingers. They were both still full. A gift from the other girls perhaps. Linh had no idea if a double dose would be dangerous, the street trash varied in potency so much that it could be a wild stab in the dark. Suddenly she realised she didn’t care if it was a lethal dose. If it took away the pain, that would be good. If it killed her… She wouldn’t be able to get her revenge on Quan, but at least it would be an escape from existing as a sex slave.

 She injected both syringes into her non-burning arm. Relief flooded her and she fell still on the cushions. She felt the drugs dragging her down, when loud voices approached, and the door burst open. She felt hands on her, turning her on her back. A pair of fingers pressed against her neck, then her eyelid was pulled open. She stared, unfocused, into the middle distance, hoping to be left alone.

 There was more talking, in a language she couldn’t make out. It was angry. Accusing. The tension seemed to build. Then a decision seemed to be made. She’d hoped it would be to leave her alone. Instead more hands grabbed her, lifting her into the air. The pain in her belly tried to return, but between the drugs and the after effects of the seizure, Linh instead let herself fall into unconsciousness once more.

****

Barista’s Bad Heart: https://intubatedangel.tumblr.com/post/183863814312/baristas-bad-heart-collected-links

Intermission 1: https://intubatedangel.tumblr.com/post/183900250412/the-doctor-and-his-patient-nurse-intermission-1

#resus #resus writing #medical drama #dark cardiophilia #cpr

[meladorascreations]

This is a PDF pattern only and not the actual pillow. The Pattern comes with 38 high quality pictures to help you learn step by step how to do this stitch as well as how to smock it. Smocking creates a thicker, softer more cushion like fabric. This is a pillow cover and can be removed and washed when needed.This pattern is recommended by advanced crocheters who can recognize stitches.Find this pattern on my Raverly or Etsy shop called MeladorasCreationPDF⁣ ⁣ ⁣ #crochet #crocheting #freecrochetpattern #crochetpattern #crochettutorial #DIY #yarn #meladorascreations #smockedcrochet⁣ #smockedpillowcase #smockedpillow #angelstitch https://www.instagram.com/p/BvBR3Swloml/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1qu5v4eoxm84g

#crochet #crocheting #freecrochetpattern #crochetpattern #crochettutorial #diy #yarn #meladorascreations #smockedcrochet #smockedpillowcase #smockedpillow #angelstitch

[drottniing]

monster— Monster— MONSTER—!!!

The sting of wind sheer and glacial air wracks the descending body, small hands reaching upwards and grasping at the fleeting crevice within the earth above her which begins to splinter shut as if a recording played in reverse from when her frail form had smashed through the earth’s crust only moments before.

Clawing, desperately at first as the distance had JUST begun to increase and the hope that anyone, ANYTHING would reach back down to save her was still present— Only for that yearning reach to become something akin to the weak flailing of a fatigued babe.

monster, Monster, MONSTER—

The gushing sounds rang within her ears as the stinging takes to her wettening eyes. She watches as her own tears float up passed her head and away, shortly turning to ice above her. How long had she been falling now? That ice encrusted ceiling was gone. . Covered by an overhead mist, clouds probably. How long would she continue to fall? It seemed to be taking forever. . This eternity, was this what they’d meant to promise her—? She was scared. . What lie at the bottom of her fall? When would it come? Would it hurt? Would it be over quickly? Would she finally be allowed to die like her mentor—?

Her thoughts were whisked away just as quickly as the rocky, snow laden tips of protruding mountains rushed passed her— Missing her cloaked body just barely, and leaving her to fall even farther. She found herself thankful that, at least, she had not been skewered upon one of those peaks.

monster, Monster, MONSTER—

It ended. Just as abruptly as it had begun, it ended. A heavy, ‘THUNK’ would sound as the mangled body meteored into the snow covered ground. It would seem the white blanket had cushioned her fall ever so slightly. . Yet, she did not move. It took only a couple seconds for the continually flowing blizzard of Niflheim to cover her broken yet numb form.

She felt nothing. . Nothing, for a while. Though that numbness began to burn away. Beginning at her toes, burning— Burning like the very flames of the sun were upon her soles. Burning up her ankles, to her calves, consuming her knee-caps, and making its way to her hips before consuming the rest of her in an excruciating blaze.

Choking on the sudden gasp she’d sucked into her charring lungs, the child sputters and turns her claws upon her own chest— Shredding the tattered cloak until it freed away from her bosom. . Nails digging into her own flesh and spewing the liquid life from beneath it out onto the white platform around her while she writhed and scraped out staggered screams.

monster, Monster, MONSTER—

She would stare down at the fuzzy and trembling image of her own palms coated in scarlet, feeling the blaze ever present in her chest, and the stinging heat flowing from her eyes. Begging the blizzard around her, begging to be frozen solid, end the heat, end the pain. . Reaching about her and grabbing clumps of them crystalline flakes, she pours them over her legs and body even more, hoping this would quench the fire.

At last, though the pain had not gone entirely, she felt she could at least breathe without inhaling flame— Limbs trembling like the stalky legs of a newborn fawn, she lifts herself to her elbows, catching glimpses of the charred, blackened skin that began at her thighs. . Leading down to a pair of blackened, smocking stocks. . Her legs. . Or what was left of them. .

A staggered sob leaves her quivering lips as she falls back against the pure backdrop. . Pain. So much pain. . This was the fury of Mjolnr. . The Allfathers will. . They really wished to see her perish? Why? Why were they so cruel. .?

Oh. . Oh, father. . Why? Where were you? Why would you leave her like this. .? Father, father. . If there had ever been a time to come forwards, father. . If there had ever been a time to save her. . To acknowledge your daughter. . It would have been then. It would have been then before they’d struck her from Midgard. . Why, even then, would you not come for her? She would have forgiven you. . Had you at least stood up for her, salvation regardless. . She would have forgiven your absence, all those years. . Oh, father. .

monster, Monster, MONSTER—

Alas there was no death for immortals. . Despite the weights attached to her hips, she could not lay in her own misery forever, no matter how much she wished to. Flipping herself onto her stomach, she dragged, and dragged herself across the tundras. .

Elbows burning, nose a frozen cherry, tear stains now dyed upon her cheeks, the frost nipping at her barely warm cheeks. . At last, she would find refuge beneath the towering countenance of a singular glacial stack.

A tremored sigh of relief and oncoming sob escapes her as she manages to coerce her body against the ice pillar. Her face dropping into her now caked, brown palms. . The wound on her chest had long since healed itself over. . Though a large scar remained. .

monster, Monster, MONSTER—

Why. .? Why had they said those things? Why in what were to be a child’s damning moments, would they call such cruel nicknames? Distant as they’d been, were they not to be her family? Why, why WHY?

What had she ever done to them to deserve this? She’d always listened, never caused trouble, she’d been a good girl. . What was there to punish her over? Why did they call her such a thing?

monster, Monster, MONSTER—

Her palms now coated in tears and rehydrated blood, the child catches a glimpse of something. . Turning about as quickly as her crippled self would allow. She stares at the fogged reflection within the ice. . It was covered just slightly with snow. . Yet she could see the gleam of the gold locks that belonged to herself. . Her right cheek. . It was pink, ever soft looking, even in the makeshift mirror.

Sniffling as she wipes her palm across her eyes once more— The young god reaches with her free extremity and begins to wipe the fogging snow from the ice. . Polishing it until the reflection is clear.

monster, Monster, MONSTER—

At once, she recoils. Her chest filling with a scream that it could not yet take on— The gasp being coughed out into her palm along with. A fresh coating of sanguine ruby fluid.

Dainty digits quivered as they made to drag her back towards the ice. . No, no this oculdn’t be. That wasn’t her. . She— She didn’t want to see it again. That thing, that thing was not. . It wasn’t her. . Right?

monster, Monster, MONSTER—

Her tiny hands latch onto the ice as if it were the key to her survival. . One ruby orb staring into the mirror, widening as it took in the sight. . The area where soft, rosy flesh, met the peeling, gray, hanging slabs off of the protruding skull. . The line where they met almost completely linear down her body. .

Pulling her cloak from her form, she sits bare before the ice. . Allowing the winds and snow to caress her body while her fingers remove themselves from the pillar and trail down her skin. . As if split, right down the middle. . Her right that which she had always known. . Her left. . Something of nightmares. Bone sticking from its muscle and hanging flesh, a rotting skeletons corpse. .

monster, Monster, MONSTER—

At last the trembling digits raise back up to grasp her face. . Cupping her one cheek and the bone of the other side— Tears overflowing the singular orb and beginning to drip from the empty socket of her left countenance. .

Now— Now she understood. . If this. . This THING was her— Then, she understood. At last, she realized. . Why father gave her away. . Why he had hid her from the world. . Why he allowed her to suffer those years alone. . Why he had allowed that final cruelty. . Why he refused to hold her, even as she was flung into the very pits of the earth. The words they’d screeched as the blame for this punishment, they were true. . So, so true. .

”A monster.”

#;;IC #;;Drabble #well— thats done #s o uh #tell me #what you think?? #I tried to get it all out right?? #oof #Its pretty long #and theres some gorey type stuff? #but Im not that good at describing those things so #just a warning there may be triggering content—

[crazy4tank]

Super Simple Snickerdoodle Recipe + New Home Faves

New Post has been published on https://fashiondesigne.com/super-simple-snickerdoodle-recipe-new-home-faves/

Super Simple Snickerdoodle Recipe + New Home Faves

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#casual look #jeans #Lifestyle #outfit

[woodelf68]

Waiting

Follows after Spinning. For @a-monthly-rumbelling, non smut prompt ‘Forbidden room, Dark Castle’. Rated G, 1690 words. 

It had been in use for storage, the last time that Belle had looked into the room next to Rumpelstiltskin’s bedchamber -- the room that was now theirs. She had gone in and had been trying to create some order out of the chaotic mish-mash of things when Rumpelstiltskin had happened by and told her she needn’t bother cleaning anything in there. So when she heard a noise coming from within the room, it was completely unexpected. She stopped in the corridor, listening for a moment. It was, in fact, quite a lot of noise, including what might have been the sound of a hammer and a few muffled curses. She tried to turn the door handle and was surprised when it didn’t yield to her grip.

“Rumpelstiltskin?”

The room abruptly fell silent.

“Rumpelstiltskin, are you in there?” She reflected that was probably a silly question as she knocked sharply on the wood; who else could it be?

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“What are you doing in there?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, then, why won’t the doorknob turn?” she asked reasonably.

There was a brief silence.

“Maybe because whatever it is I’m not doing is none of your business?” he suggested in the sing-song tone of voice that he rarely used around her anymore.

Belle pressed her lips together, tapping her foot. “Well, fine then. Tea will be ready in a half hour; will you be joining me?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll be there. Now go along, shoo!”

It was his manner more than anything which made her rebelliously try the door again several times over the course of the next week or two, but it remained stubbornly locked. Sometimes she could hear Rumpelstiltskin in there, doing something, but when she asked again outright, he merely looked secretive.

“Curiousity killed the cat, m’dear.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “But satisfaction brought it back.”

He came up close to her, his lips brushing her ear. “Patience is a virtue.”

She huffed, but accepted this as a promise that he would tell her eventually, and let the matter drop. It was several days later when they were in their bedchamber that he asked if she’d thought about a nursery yet. “Oh!” she exclaimed, thinking that she finally understood. “Is that what you’ve been doing? Clearing out the room next door, cleaning it up?”

“Mmm...why don’t you go and see?” Looking pleased with himself, he gestured dramatically, and an arched doorway appeared in the wall of their bedchamber, the one that it shared with the room next door. “No need to go back out into the drafty hallway.”

“Oh, Rumpel, that’s perfect!” She flung her arms around him in excitement before going to the door and opening it, expecting to see a mostly bare, freshly cleaned room ready to be furnished and decorated as a nursery. But she stopped so suddenly one step in that Rumpelstiltskin bumped into her from behind.

The room had already been transformed. Everything that wasn’t polished wood was decorated in hues of cream and sage green, creating a calm, soothing atmosphere. The walls had been painted a rich, warm cream colour; the lush velvet drapes at the window were green. The large, thick rug that covered the floor (it would be soft under a crawling baby’s knees and hands, she thought) was a mix of the two.  The colours were echoed in the cushions of the window seat and the two chairs -- one rocking, one regular -- that flanked the small fireplace which had previously been hidden behind stacks of boxes. There were low shelves, perfect for holding a toddler’s books and toys, and a chest of drawers upon which sat a glass oil lamp. But the centerpiece of the room was the cradle, which was carved all over its outer sides and polished until it shone.

“Oh.” Enchanted, Belle finally moved into the room, crouching down beside it to examine it more closely. Upon the headboard were two rabbits ensconced beneath some curving berry branches, one crouched down, the other on its haunches reaching up for a fat fruit. On the footboard a dragon soared through the sky. On the long side facing her, a unicorn and a deer shared a woodland glade. She ran her hand over the smooth carvings, marveling, then finally stood up to go around and see the fourth side. Here a sheepdog stood, watching over its herd of wooly charges. Inside the cradle lay the blanket she had woven, folded and waiting. She stroked the glossy edge of the cradle and tried to decide something.

“Rumpelstiltskin, did you make this?” She didn’t know what she’d thought at first, hadn’t really had time to think anything, really. Probably that he’d commissioned it from some master craftsman. But she remembered the hammering, and the cursing. And now that she looked more closely, while the whole thing was stunning, she could see imperfections in the carving as well, places where a chisel had slipped, had gouged too deeply or veered out of line.

“Yes...do you like it?” he asked anxiously.

“It’s beautiful!  I didn’t know that you could carve like this!”

“I didn’t, either,” he admitted. “I’d made things for Bae to play with when he was a child -- there was a horse on wheels that he loved -- but they were just simple things. But after I’d cut out the pieces for the cradle, before I started assembling them, I thought that maybe I would try to carve something on the headboard. Rabbits seemed simple, and I knew the shape of them inside and out -- I’d snared and jointed enough for the stew pot in the old days when they were the only frequent source of meat we ever had. And -- they came out better than I expected. So I kept going. Sheep and the sheepdog next -- again, something familiar. The other sides were harder, the deer and the unicorn and the dragon. But by then I’d had some practice and I was determined to do all four sides. It’s not the like the baby was going to judge my skills, after all.”

Rumpelstiltskin realised he was babbling, and took a deep breath. “I don’t even know why I did it,” he said deprecatingly. “It’s not something they’ll appreciate, like a warm blanket or a soft toy they can cuddle.”

“No, but I’ll appreciate it, though,” Belle countered. “It’s amazing, and I’ll love looking at it when I’m in here. And I know why you did it. It’s because you’re so full of love that you feel it’ll burst from your chest unless you find some way to let it out.”

He looked at her in wonder. “Yes. That’s it, that’s exactly it.” She reached out to him and he curled his hand around hers in gratitude, gesturing with the other. “I left things for you to do, too. You can pick out something for the walls, pictures or tapestries, whatever you like. I have some in storage, or we can move some in here from another room. Or buy new ones. Other decorations -- a mobile perhaps? Something to hang over the cradle? Crystals to catch the sunlight and turn it into rainbows?”

“Yes, yes to everything!” He looked so endearing, so hopeful for her approval that Belle was forced to hug him again. “Tomorrow, you can show me what you have. And I guess I need to start filling those drawers with baby clothes.” She had already knit a little hat and was struggling to master booties under Rumpelstiltskin’s tutelage, more attracted to working with the colourful yarns than the fine needlework that would be needed to produce the little gowns that they would need. She had no delusions about being making everything herself, and the money would be welcomed by some seamstress in town, but she too was filled with love, and needed to express it in some fashion.

“Ah well, babies don’t need much more than nappies and a smock, and something warm to wrap them in. The rabbit pelts were good for that,” Rumpelstiltskin reminisced. “Bae was always warm in his cradle, at least. And speaking of nappies -- “ Purple magic flared out as he gestured with a smirk.

“Look in the top drawer of the dresser.”

A sea of thick, soft, folded white squares met Belle’s gaze when she opened it. “Um...how many do they go through in a day?” she asked, having really no idea.

“Enough,” said Rumpelstiltskin darkly, and gestured again. A tightly lidded pail appeared on top of the chest of drawers. “To put the dirty ones in,” he explained.

“I don’t suppose it’s a magically-cleaning pail?” she asked hopefully.

Rumpelstiltskin laughed. “Not worth the price, not day in and day out for two to three years.  I’ll do my share, and the wash water will always be warm for your asking. That was the worst, having to rinse out diapers in a cold river when we weren’t at home with a pot of water kept hot over the fire.” Old memories rushed in, of fingers cracked and bleeding from the cold, the bite of icy water, Milah scorning to do it as long as he was around. Chubby legs kicking, a protest at the cold water needed to clean him up, but then a happy gurgle as he rewrapped Bae swiftly in a clean, dry cloth that made it all worthwhile.

“The price of being a parent, eh?” she smiled wryly and went back to him, going into his arms and gazing down in admiration once again at the cradle. “I’m glad one of us will know what they’re doing.”

“You’ll learn,” he promised. “You’re going to be a wonderful mother; I know it.” He stroked his hand gently over her swelling belly.

Belle covered his hand with hers. “I hope so; I’m scared a little but I also can’t wait for the baby to get here. It feels like I’m going on an awfully big adventure without ever leaving home.”

“The biggest,” he assured her, remembering a tiny fist, a toddler’s smile, a boy’s love. I’m still coming for you, Bae, he promised silently. “And the best.”

#a-monthly-rumbelling #ficwoodelf #waiting #rumbelle fic #rumbelle