#that his unwillingness to follow the same path could much too naturally still have meant he could have supported Mikazuki in other ways

[ccmagma]

I think about my story and think about one word: Disbelief. Not because what has happened to me is something shocking, or worrying, no, nothing like that at all. But upon learning my heritage, what has happened over years… It sounds like something from a tale. I’ve heard the story enough times from my parents, more so my father who came from someplace far away much like other refugees. Perhaps, that’s where this story should start… I can’t say for certain how they felt exactly, experiences are, after all, unique to us. However, putting myself in their shoes… I can’t even begin to imagine what it had been like. To have no information, not knowing what was coming and the inability to prepare for it.

My father came from a planet called Earth, a funny name I thought considering the translation of it had meant literal dirt. It wasn’t the most unique of names when I realized the other planets surrounding Earth and its history with Gods and Goddesses.

Earth. It was a planet already doomed thanks to its human inhabitants. The world was crumbling around them, war was a regular term in their households, little did they know something greater was coming. It’s safe to say things did not end well for them, the residents of my home did what they could and saved what humans they could. There were a lot of casualties… Many families were separated and I am certain not many took a liking to their new life.

Emptying Earth and leaving it to ash happened over the course of years. It wasn’t until recently where portals to that planet were closed off as far as two-way travel went. It would be another dumping ground for the creatures that plagued our lands of Izavyn. That was the root of all problems and the cause for most quarrels throughout our countries and city-states. A plague, a virus, an abomination, there were many words to describe what caused the woe of so many but the term we used for those creatures was a simple one, Demons. Their creation was one out of malice but perhaps when an organization sees too much peace, it craves to shift the balance. War might not have been as common here but it wasn’t unknown.

Demons were once people, our people. Changing them back was impossible, at least it seemed that way. When one combines the magic of the land with dark practices given to them by one of The Arms, the one no one mentions for there is power in a name or prayer.

The Arms were created by The Eternal. Those lucky enough to hear her voice or perhaps catch a glimpse learned she had a name, Divi. The Eternal Divi created what we know, her power flows through all of us, and upon passing we re-join her. All life is connected to her and therefore we are all connected, to every fabric of being. The Eternal also created four to help her, to watch and guide us, The Arms. Any paintings or statues of Divi and constructed so that she appears to have four arms, though now at days older art either scratched out or have removed the fourth arm. The fourth betrayed The Eternal and have been gathering followers and temples of his own, promising a new age and have become a powerful deity in his own right. Whispers of The Ascent Mol is rare, but not unheard of.

The Arms were prayed to just as The Eternal was. Though references to them have changed over time. Sometimes I hear elders sigh out, “By the five!” and anyone within earshot is horrified. We no longer reference them as five but as four. After all, if one divine figure goes rogue and attempts to take all, for the most part, you should be against it. Naturally, that isn’t always the cause.

Izavyn had felt responsible for the havoc that came over the years. There are parts of our world that had been destroyed and rebuilt, taken over, some still fight a resistance or civil war. When those who decided to follow Mol and his trek for power over all, things changed. They gave their lives, prayers, their devotion, and in turn, it made him strong. Everything is connected, choosing to give yourself to something so powerful isn’t wise but not all men are wise. Creatures were created, the dangerous sort that can infect you with a wound and have you turned. Death by a Demon though frightening was merciful compared to the other option. They spread throughout the land, diminished populations, and where they roamed, darkness followed. The neverending night was their home, it’s where they flourished and thrived. No one dared made their way to a patch of dark land when the sun was out, the cold and dead land meant creatures that would kill. At night, everyone would stay in their homes, traveling would be banned for cargo ships and merchants. Those who wished to risk it on their own was another story… Not even our armies would venture to the darkened lands. The dark clouds in the distance were an omen, a promise of destruction to those who sought safety. The only way to destroy the patches of darkness would be to kill the hoard that inhabited it, that was not an easy feat. Upon nightfall, they roamed free, and hope at that point was lost.

There was a point the people of Izavyn thought things could turn around. The numbers of Demons were dwindling, causalities were becoming less and less. However, just as we had access to magic, as did they. There was a practice that had been used for the most heinous of prisoners. Those who did wrong beyond fixing and required justice were banished from the world. A portal would open and they would be sent somewhere desolate and free of intelligent life. What happened after would be up to them and no longer the business of our world. However, it turns out that a portal can work two ways with the right studies behind it. That’s how the numbers jumped up again and other worlds began to get involved in the strife that should have belonged to Izavyn alone.

Since then, most Kingdoms and City-States have decided to get involved, working to have the same ability the opposing side did. Wars were fought on all fronts and refugees were taken in of all races, most sent to camps to fight. We needed armies and they needed an escape… it was a dreadful exchange but I could understand the military aspect of it, it didn’t mean I agreed to it. Those who sought asylum were brought over, checked over by doctors and ailments would be removed. The world here was free of sickness that could kill, our healers and their abilities were both inspiring and wanted. Everyone who came through would be treated, and while the masses were grateful… I knew it was because our world could do more with healthy people than sickly ones. It was a double-edged sword of sorts but perhaps everything that had beauty also had an ugliness to it.

To make joining the military enticing, promises were made and kept. Majikas were crafty and their practices were difficult, so much so that only one of the many elements would be taught to them. They could summon fire at will, hold lightning in their hands, or even practice in potions and the arcana which would allow for many things, endurance, a day without needed sleep, even a change of appearance of them or others. Hallows were the most pampered of the bunch, clothes in white and ethereal looking, elegance was their calling and people were in awe of them and their ability to heal the sick or create barriers of protection without needed enchantments. We then had those in the front lines, impressive warriors who gained respect just by their sheer look alone, there were many kinds. Some with bulky armor and a grand sword, an enchanted shield that could but up a barrier. They were front-line men, giving commands to their squadron and leading the way. Others were dressed more lightly, more agile. Some with slimmer long swords, long twin daggers, bows with arrows that would appear on a whim, all enchanted weapons with their own special ability. It all looked glamourous really and those who were not from this world were given promises of a better life if they joined one of the ranks. A promise of enhanced beauty, so you would look like the most prominent version of you courtesy of a Majika, and those who joined the front-line men were given the option of a complete change and land, an enticing idea for those who liked the material things. The person would no longer have to live in the safe house and would instead be given a cozy room to call their own, a private bath included, and the promise to be able to own land or home depending on their choice of rank to follow as well as being given the status of a citizen instead of being labeled a refugee.

The refugees were put to work but they worked alongside everyone else, everyone had to pitch in one form or another. Those with a specialized trade were willing to take on apprentices and that option was one people sought after because it promised a place of their own in the home of the master tradesman. There was also an option to help in re-building, supplies run, guard duty, and many other things. That didn’t mean that there was no downtime, not at all. People were still able to enjoy time with their families or seek out help and therapy due to the drastic changes. Not all took it well and when death rates began rising within the safety of the barriers, those in higher power took action. It was a hard change, but those who remained were able to make it through and over the years the world has prospered the best it can given the circumstances. However, it seems the Demons have run out of souls to take on for their army and the focus now remains on us, the last standing in their path and our unwillingness to bow makes us targets.

Some know that time might not be kind with what looms. Some choose to just make it by, others wise to live as if tomorrow might be the end and that’s what my parents did. My mother is was born in this world, she comes from across the sea and studied as a tailor. Her studies eventually brought her to the City-State of Verrin where she ended up being the private seamstress to the council. She never did talk much of home but I understood. It was painful… Back in her home of Qisyo things were difficult. It was one of the countries where the royal family had been forced out and armies with the banners for Mol were raised. Some refugees from her country could be seen throughout Verrin but I knew of a settlement by the ocean on a cliff where her people were trying to wait out the war across the sea so they can return home. Qisyo’ko was the name of the settlement and I had only been there once…  

My father had arrived when my mother was working in a dress shop, he did not join the ranks and instead chose to live his life in the business of delivery within the city. My mother was someone he came across quite often since he would deliver goods to the shop she worked in and their relationship eventually grew and then they were married. My mother was aware of his status as a refugee and knew marriage wouldn’t secure a future for him but her eventual career opened doors and my father was able to eventually work in the library, much like he had back on Earth. It was a quiet enough life for them, and my appearance made things better for them, something they always reminded me of. I remember spending a lot of time with my father in the library, reading never-ending books, and in the evening bothering my mother beyond words since I had not seen her all day whenever work called for her.

Eventually, I did make friends of my own but there was one I ended up being the closest to. It was around the time the last of the humans from Earth made their way over. There had been a group of orphans but there was one who did not seem as sad as the others. It turned out she had already been an orphan and had been placed in home after home. The events of her world and the drastic change stressed her eyes, but she did not cry over the loss of family like the others and seemed more optimistic, hopeful almost. Her name was Morgan and she and I had a bond that could rival the closest of sisters.

[askaceattorney]

Dear askrikkaiandhyotei,

Thanks for waiting, first of all.  I’m finally finished with all the essay requests that came before yours.  As Nahyuta might say...

So, an essay about the Last Rites Prosecutor?  Let us begin our journey down the path of enlightenment.

In order to properly talk about this prosecutor monk, I first have to talk briefly about the concept of religion -- not any specific one, but religion as a whole.  Throughout history, religion has been described a thousand different ways -- something necessary for life and society, something needless or even harmful for life and society, and just about everything in between.  The reason I bring this up is that Nahyuta does a great job of portraying both the positive and negative sides of religion through the use of a fictitious one called Khura’inism -- a pretty bold move on Capcom’s part, but if you ask me, it paid off pretty well.

We first meet him in his natural habitat, as peaceful as anyone could be.

His peace is interrupted when the police drag a captured member of the Defiant Dragons into the temple.  As a prosecutor of high reputation, this rebel could be described as Nahyuta’s mortal enemy, but his attitude toward him, while disdainful, is far from unpleasant; he in fact offers him mercy on behalf of the Holy Mother if he’s willing to submit himself to the court’s judgment.  Even knowing how empty of a gesture this is, considering the unfairness of every trial in Khura’in since the enactment of the DC Act, it’s still somewhat refreshing to see him speak so calmly to someone considered to be the lowest of the low in Khura’in.  His patience stems from his calm nature, but also from his loyalty to the deity he serves, as evidenced in his words:

“O Holy Mother, as your humble servant, you would have me act to save this wretch’s soul?  I suppose this, too, is part of my fate.”  This demonstrates one of the nobler sides of religion -- a willingness to leave one’s fate in the hands of a higher power.

The next time we see him, he attempts to stop a potentially brutal fight between the police and a fugitive, who happens to be holding a knife to Maya’s neck.  His desire for a peace is admirable, especially in such an intense situation, but what he says next is of questionable virtue:

It’s here that Nahyuta displays one of the less noble parts of religion -- looking down on those who don’t share one’s beliefs.  Sure, a guy who’s willing to use an innocent bystander as a shield obviously needs some form of help, but what exactly are those condescending words supposed to do for him (or Maya, for that matter)?  Not surprisingly, he refuses to listen, but luckily, Nahyuta has reflexes like Little Mac.

Interestingly enough, immediately after this, we see his compassionate side again.  He not only rescues a foreign visitor, but wishes the Holy Mother’s divine favor on her.

As uppity as he’s shown himself to be, it’s hard to dislike someone who treats a stranger so well -- especially one who, as we know, has been through some serious rough spots in her life.  This introduction of Nahyuta -- a disdainful yet compassionate man of faith -- leads us to wonder if he’s meant to be a protagonist, antagonist, antihero, or something else.

And we haven’t even gotten into the game proper yet.  There’s still a lot to unpack about this guy.

Our next bit of info comes from his unlikely detec- sorry, forensic investigator, Ema Skye:

Like a lot of new characters, he’s shrouded in mystery from the very beginning.  We at least learn what his reason is for choosing the prosecutor’s path, and where his courtroom nickname came from:

We’ve seen all manner of bizarre prosecutors up until now, but so far, Nahyuta is the only prosecutor who wears his beliefs on his sleeve, especially in the courtroom.  For him, prosecuting is about more than seeking justice for the guilty -- it’s about seeking salvation for their victims.  In other words, it’s not only his professional duty, but a religious one.  Interestingly enough, his professionalism is no less strong than his religion -- according to Ema, he’s known for solving difficult cases around the world.

But religious, professional, or otherwise, Nahyuta proves to be the same as every other prosecutor, as well as every human being -- capable of making mistakes, both big and small.  Before we get to that, though...

Well, what do you know?  Looks like we have yet another connection between a new character and a current one.  Apollo, just how many people do you know that you never talk about?

The importance of their relationship is put to the side as we learn how Nahyuta operates as a prosecutor.  At first, he seems like a “gentle-mannered soul,” as Athena puts it, but that visage disappears in the next moment.  Like pretty much every prosecutor we’ve seen, he’s proud, demeaning, and flat-out brutal when he wants to be.  He even has a favorite adjective for describing his opponents.

Then there’s the sutra he often chants as a fancy way of telling them to “get real.”  And as if that wasn’t enough, he uses his “duty as a monk to punish sinners” as a way of claiming the moral high ground, even going so far as to threaten to cast the defense and defendant “into the pit of hell.”  It’s hard to blame anyone for getting upset after hearing that, is it?

But hey, at least there’s no physical abuse this time around, right?

...Oh.

And as fate would have it (or perhaps some divine being who decided to have some fun), his favored forensic detective is a lover of science.  Talk about a perfect match, am I right?

At least the clash is more on the hilarious side in this case.

But anyway, on to Nahyuta’s mistakes.  Aside from his sickening hypocrisy (which is par the course for most Ace Attorney prosecutors, anyway) and the oversights he makes in court, there’s one blatant sin of his that sticks out: ascribing to a principle that anyone, religious or not, should be able to see problems with -- namely, the DC Act and the persecution of those who defy it.  To be fair, his motive for doing so is a humanitarian one -- protecting his family’s honor and safety -- but his willingness to look the other way as his own countrymen are wrongfully imprisoned and executed (not to mention his father having to stay in hiding because of it) is quite the opposite.

This brings us to his signature catchphrase, which could also be called his motto:

There are a lot of situations where this would be good advice, but in Nahyuta’s case, it’s a convenient excuse for him to give up on dealing with the problems of his past and remain loyal to the whims of Ga’ran.  More specifically, it’s a mask he uses to hide what he feels inside, which we don’t discover until it’s forced out of him: a lack of faith.

Even as someone as who has no trouble believing in the Holy Mother, Lady Kee’ra, and the Twilight Realm, Nahyuta struggles to believe in change, no matter how much his family, his friends, and his nation need it.  And it’s here that we see one of the most beautiful twists in his story -- when it comes to change, his father and surrogate brother have more faith than he does.  It takes some persuasion from Apollo to make him realize it, but it turns out he hasn’t quite given up on righting the wrongs of the past.

Nahyuta’s unwillingness to confiscate his father’s badge is all the proof Apollo needs that his faith in Dhurke’s fight for freedom hasn’t disappeared completely.  After proving this and Dhurke’s innocence, he finally forces Nahyuta to do something few people have the courage to do -- look at his own sins.

Unlike Claude Frollo, Nahyuta managed to turn his focus inward and realize his own imperfection.  It took some push from a close friend for it to happen, but better late than never.  And as it turns out, his faith in Dhurke’s creed was as close to him as his right hand all along -- in fact, it was on it.

Much like with Rayfa’s moment of transformation, Capcom was nice enough to give us a voiceover for this pivotal moment.

Nahyuta’s story in SoJ ends with him beginning a journey down his own path of redemption as he attempts to undo the damage caused by Ga’ran and his obedience to her.  He’s even bold enough to ask for Apollo’s help in continuing Dhurke’s mission of restoring Khura’in’s legal system.

I love character redemption as much as anyone, but one thing I love even more is when a character takes it a step further by joining the same cause they were once fighting against.  Whether it was brought on by the Holy Mother’s will, a love for his family and country, a mixture of the two, or something else, Nahyuta ultimately becomes a changed man.  Transformations like this are a sight to behold, especially knowing how much struggle it takes to get there.

So, religion -- is it good overall, evil overall, or somewhere in between?  That’s a mystery we probably won’t solve here, but Nahyuta and his religious devotion provide an excellent example of both the good and the evil that can come from it.  As both a cliche religious bigot and someone who’s willing to make sacrifices for others, he illustrates the crucial fact that no one is perfect, and that religion doesn’t do much (if anything) to change this, but faith certainly does.

And finally, I have to agree with your analogy of Nahyuta as Apollo’s Edgeworth -- the two of them knew each other from a young age, grew up together, were separated by unfortunate circumstances, and followed very different paths, one being less noble than the other, but eventually undergoing a dramatic change in direction.  It makes me wonder what a spin-off game with Nahyuta as the protagonist would look like.  It might just be interesting...as long as we don’t have to chant that sutra into a microphone.

-The Co-Mod

#askrikkaiandhyotei #Nahyuta Sahdmadhi #Mod Post #Co Mod #Character Essay

[sorrelchestnut]

from the discard pile: Geralt, Emhyr, Yennefer

This was from what was supposed to be a long plotty story called “Strange Bedfellows,” which I finally admitted I’m not ever actually going to do anything with.  So instead here’s the emotional core I actually cared enough to write, which is essentially the follow-up to Geralt and Emhyr’s conversation at Stygga, which the game kinda... skimmed over.  The context, as much as it needs any, is that they’re in Nilfgaard for Ciri’s wedding, and in the previous scene Geralt and Yennefer saved Emhyr from an assassin at a banquet.

"Can I ask you something?"

"I'm sure I won't be able to stop you," Emhyr said, very dry.

Geralt briefly considered whether or bringing this up while Emhyr was trapped in bed was entirely fair.  Then he decided he didn't give a shit, and asked anyway.  "Why did you change your mind, back at Stygga?"

Emhyr was silent for a long time.  So long, that Geralt gave up on looking politely out of the window and twisted around to face him, curious what emotion had caught hold of his tongue.  Whatever it was, it wasn't visible, not even to Geralt's heightened vision.  His face was pale, but that was just as likely to be the blood loss; his jaw was set, but that could be anything from lingering pain to irritation at Geralt's effrontery.  Geralt was pretty good at reading people, after all these years, but he'd never been able to read Emhyr worth a damn.

"I suppose you'd like me to say that it was your blandishments that swayed me," Emhyr said, after a time.

Geralt snorted.  Figures he'd try a run-around.  "What I'd like is for you to tell me the truth."

"The truth is complicated, witcher.  Surely you've learned that much, if nothing else."

"I learned it years before the crown first touched your father's head," Geralt said evenly.  "That doesn't mean I don't have a right to ask for it."

"No, I suppose not," Emhyr said, glancing wryly at his leg.  "Very well then, if truth you would have of me, then truth you shall receive.  Your speech was not without impact; I won't deny you that.  'If the world is to be saved like that, it would be better for it to perish.'  Yes, I remember the words exactly," he added, to Geralt's no-doubt-surprised expression.  "There is very little I have forgotten about that day, our conversation least of all.  But that wasn't what changed my mind."

"Yennefer," Geralt said softly.  He'd suspected as much for years, but it was Emhyr's very unwillingness to say it aloud that confirmed his pet theory.  "It was Yennefer."

Emhyr's jaw worked, in temper or self-loathing Geralt couldn't tell, but one thing he'd never been was a coward, and after a moment he nodded.  "Yes."

Emhyr wasn't the only one who remembered that day.  Geralt could still hear Yennefer's words as if she spoke right into his ear.  Please, as far as possible, don't harm my daughter.  I wouldn't want to die with the thought that she's crying.

"You couldn't bring yourself to hurt Ciri," Geralt said.  "Could you?  Not even for the fate of the world.  No matter what you said."

"No," Emhyr said.  His voice was harsh.  "I knew it when I saw her, I think, but your lady's words were nonetheless… impactful, on that front.  Perhaps I would have understood sooner, had I thought there was a limit to my barbarity.  For I am of course a monster, far worse than any you were raised to slay, but even I…  I note you show no signs of leaping to convince me otherwise," he added, with something not unlike amusement.

"What, you want me to lie to you now?  You know what you are.  What you've done."

Emhyr nodded far more readily.  "Oh, yes.  And whatever you think me capable of, witcher, I can assure you I've done far worse.  And yet in that moment I knew that this one thing, this final monstrosity in a long line of them, was the one I couldn't bring myself to accomplish."  He shrugged, as if the memory didn't pain him, but Geralt saw faint lines of strain at the corner of his mouth.  "So I didn't."

"Just like that."  Geralt knew he sounded skeptical, but he couldn't quite help himself.  "Fifteen years you spent, working towards this exact end, and then just- never mind?"

"What do you want me to say?"  Emhyr spread his hands.  "I couldn't bring myself to do it; therefore, it couldn't be done.  And if it couldn't be done, then the prophecy that demanded it must have been false."

"Vilgefortz," Geralt said, still bitter all these years later.  "You trusted a prophecy given to you by Vilgefortz."

Emhyr shrugged again.  "He had, until then, been a very useful ally."

"Because he wanted to kill Ciri," Geralt said.  "After impregnating her, aborting the fetus, and taking the blood, as many times as it took to drain her power.  He wanted to make himself into a living god.  That was who you trusted?"

"I don't trust anyone," Emhyr said.  "And he was not the only one to espouse that particular interpretation of Ithlinne's Prophecy.  It was only after Cirilla's disappearance that I was able to lay hands on an older version of the text, one uncorrupted by imperfect translations.  Had I located it earlier, things might have been different."

"Yeah," Geralt said tiredly.  He knew that feeling, all too well.  "Gotta admit: really fucking wish you had."

"On that point, witcher, you and I can readily agree."

Geralt sighed and looked out the window again.  Why is it always towers, he wondered.  Thanedd, Stygga, Tor Gvalch'ca - even Tesham Mutna was a tower, once upon a time.  Just once, it'd be nice to have my world turned upside down in a nice sunny meadow or maybe an orchard.  Just for a change of pace.

Then again, Ciri had left him by the side of the road, and that had been the worst day of his life.  Maybe he should be careful what he wished for.

"May I ask you a question in return?"

Geralt turned back with a quirk of his eyebrow.  "It's not like you to ask permission."

Emhyr gestured wryly to his leg.  "The alternative seems discourteous, considering."

"Not like you to care about that, either."  But it turned out his curiosity was stronger than his desire to get the last word, so he flicked his fingers in absent permission.  "Sure.  Hit me."

And because Emhyr had never held back in his life, he didn't hesitate but immediately said, "Do you ever regret saving me, when Calanthe bid you to strike?"

"No."

Emhyr's pause was fractional, but it was long enough to know that Geralt had actually surprised him.  "That was definite."

"What's the point of regretting something when neither of us really had a choice?  All the shit you did, everything that happened because of that - it happened because it needed to happen.  Don't fool yourself, Duny.  It was all destiny.  Not just the parts that made it into the ballads."

A muscle in Emhyr's jaw flexed - yeah, didn't like that, did he, the thought he wasn't the supreme agent in his own life.  Good.  Let him get a taste of what the rest of the mortals felt.

"And is that the only reason?"

This time Geralt was the one holding silent, struggling with his response.  Not because he didn't know the answer, but because he did, and it might not be the one Emhyr wanted to hear.  And while he liked to tweak the tiger's tail as much as the next guy - okay, way more than the next guy - he had a feeling that if he got this one wrong, he was losing a lot more than just the emperor's forbearance of his usual disrespect.

Well, no other way but through, as Vesemir liked to say.  It wasn't like Emhyr wouldn't be able to tell if he was lying even if he did want to try it.  Might as well be honest and hope for the best.

"Ciri," he said.  "Without you, there never would've been her."

"Not, strictly speaking, true," Emhyr countered swiftly.  Not an unexpected answer, then.  Which wasn't the same as welcome.  "Pavetta was already pregnant.  That was, after all, the nature of your claim."

Geralt made a gesture, wiping away that argument.  "She would have existed, true.  Who knows, maybe she still would have ended up on your throne.  But she wouldn't have been Ciri.  She wouldn't have been the Witcher Girl."

"Are you so certain?" Emhyr inquired.  "As you say, destiny is a powerful thing.  And a river, denied its intended course, will jump its banks and carve a new one through unweathered ground.  How can you be so sure she would not have been promised to you regardless?"

Geralt snorted.  "You think Calanthe would have opened herself up to the Law of Surprise?  After watching you make a claim on her daughter?  No.  And I wouldn't have thought to ask, either - only did because you kept insisting, and that only happens for one reason."

Emhyr made a thoughtful little mhm noise.  "And so, for your intervention, destiny bound us together in that moment in time, so that it might create a savior of a very particular shape.  A witcher girl, a learned sorceress, a killer with a will of steel.  The child of the Elder Blood that would face the White Frost and save us all from extinction."

"Well, that's what the prophecy said, anyway," Geralt said.  "I never gave a shit about any of that.  All I cared about is that for a little while, she was mine."

After a long moment, Emhyr said, "You must hate me very  much."

Geralt didn't pretend to misunderstand.  It would have been easy: he had a lot of reasons to hate the Emperor of Nilfgaard, and every single one of them was earned.  But Geralt had never been one to take the easy path, so instead he said, "You know, back then - before Thanedd, I mean - everyone from Triss to fucking Djikstra was always so eager to tell me that I couldn't hold onto her, that she didn't belong with me.  Even Vesemir.  Even Yen.  But you know what's funny?  I never thought otherwise.  Crossed half the world to find her, but it wasn't because I thought I could keep her.  Only ever wanted to keep her safe."

"Interesting," Emhyr murmured.  His gaze lingered on Geralt's face, missing nothing.  "I was certain you blamed me for taking her away."

"Guess you had to be wrong about something," Geralt muttered, and rubbed a hand over his face.  "No, I always knew she was meant for bigger things.  Okay, so I didn't guess this," and he waved a hand toward the window, meaning the city, the realm, the bloody continent now held in the palm of Ciri's sword-calloused hand.  "But something more than slaughtering drowners at ten crowns a head.  And even if I did - what'd be the point blaming you, anyway?  It was Ciri's choice.  Think I'm going to be mad at her for trying to make the world better?"

"Interesting," Emhyr said again.  It was impossible to read his expression, but that didn't stop Geralt from trying.  "I underestimated you, it seems.  Again.  Not a condition I suffer often, and yet it's become very nearly a habit where you are concerned."

Geralt snorted.  "I wouldn't worry about it.  Doubt you'll have much opportunity in the future."

"Do you think?"  The effort of the conversation seemed to be tiring Emhyr out; even his hawkish gaze was beginning to blur.  "And yet here you sit, witcher.  And here I lie, when by all rights I should be dead.  I'm not so certain that we are done, you and I.  Destiny might have something in store for us yet."

                                         * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Emhyr fell asleep soon after, which Geralt figured was just as well; he needed a little silence in his head.  He didn't want to think about what Emhyr had said.  What was the point?  If he was right, fate would reveal her fickle hand sooner or later; nothing mere mortals could do to hurry it along.  You could go mad, trying to live your life like that.  And in the end it didn't matter - you'd do the right thing, or you wouldn't, and you could never know which was which, not really.  The best you could do was make the choices in front of you, and try not to let yourself regret.

It was about two hours later when he heard someone approaching down the hall.  Geralt roused himself from his light meditation and tracked the footsteps - one set of heels clicking against the marble and one set of soft leather slippers, designed to be nearly inaudible to human ears - until they reached the door.  It opened silently on oiled hinges, followed by the whisper of fabric and displaced air from a bow.

"Thank you, Mererid.  That will be all."

"Of course, my lady."

The door closed once more.  Footsteps tapped closer - quieter now, making an effort.  A gloved hand rested on his shoulder, delicate yet firm.  Geralt inhaled the familiar smell of lilac and gooseberries and relaxed for the first time since he saw light flash on the assassin's blade.

"How is he?" Yennefer asked, keeping her voice low.

"Better.  Sleeping.  He was up for a while earlier, though.  Didn't seem addled-"  Massive understatement.  "Just tired.  Probably good as new in a day or two."  He picked up her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, right where her cuff and glove left a gap.  The steady throb of her pulse under his lips leeched away a little more of the day's poison.  "What about Ciri?"

"Cloistered with Rousarde, Vattier, and about a dozen imperial accountants.  One of Vattier's men managed to track down the account used to make the payment, and they're currently following the thread through a series of shell companies at Central Banking.  Rousarde assures me it's only a matter of time until they find the source of the money."

"Must have a lot of it, whoever they are," Geralt said.  "Killing an emperor can't be cheap."

"If you combined all of the contracts you've ever completed in the entirety of your years on the Path, you might approach the payment that young man would have enjoyed had you not intervened."  Yen laid her palm against his cheek, stroking the hinge of his jaw with her fingers. Her gaze was very warm, though her glove was as cool as ever.  "You did very well, you know.  I didn't get a chance to say as much earlier."

"Wasn't the only one.  Potions wouldn't have done shit if you hadn't held him steady long enough for them to work."

Yen inclined her head in acknowledgement.  "Consider the practice I've had in that arena.  I could almost thank Avall'ach for getting himself cursed."

"Wouldn't if I were you."

"No, probably not the done thing."

They shared an exhausted smile, and then Geralt decided she was still entirely too far away and tugged at her wrist.  She gave him an unamused look, but acceded to his silent plea and stepped over the footstool to climb gracefully into his lap.  He held still, allowing her to arrange their limbs to her satisfaction, and then buried his nose into the silken fall of her hair and inhaled gratefully.

"You should get some sleep," she said, after a few minutes had passed.

Geralt didn't bother responding.

 "I know you must be very tired."

"Ciri said guard," Geralt said, and left the remainder unspoken, too obvious to need words: so I guard.

Yen's shoulders rose and fell in a sigh.  "You're going to sit here until Ciri comes to tell you otherwise, aren't you?"

Geralt didn't bother responding to that either.

Her head shifted on his shoulder, and he knew she'd turned to regard the bed, or more precisely its occupant.  "He looks quite peaceful like that, doesn't he?"

Geralt only barely held back a snort, which was sure to wake Emhyr as their quiet voices hadn't.  Not a lot of people laughing around the emperor.  "It's a trick."

"Yes, of course, but it's quite a good one."  She was playing with laces of his doublet, winding the string about her fingers and then unwinding it the opposite direction.  It made a tiny shushing noise, a fractional rasp of fabric against skin, that was oddly soothing. "He was awake earlier, you said?"

"Yeah."

"Did he say anything?"

"Oh, yeah."

He felt her frown against the side of his throat.  "It went that poorly, then?"

"Yeah- well, no.  I guess.  Hard to tell, with him."

"Of that, I am entirely too aware."  Shh, shh, went the laces.  Yen rubbed her thumb thoughtfully against the little v of skin below his collarbone.  Nilfgaardian fashion favored closed collars, but he'd had a rough day.  "What does he want from us, Geralt?  Really."

"You mean, besides saving his life?"

She let out an impatient huff of air.  "Yes, aside from that."

"I think... I think he wants absolution," Geralt said slowly, puzzling it out even as he spoke.  "Or- he wants to want absolution, and he's hoping like hell that's close enough to count."

"But why us?" Yen said, with a plaintive cast Geralt heard only very rarely.  "Surely Ciri-"

Geralt sighed.  "He loves Ciri more than any other person alive," he told her, too tired to be anything but honest.  "And I'm pretty sure he knows he doesn't deserve her."  He tucked her head a little more firmly under his chin.  "Would you be honest, if you were in his shoes?"

There was a brief, sullen silence.  "No," Yen said, finally.  "I don't even like it with you."

That was at least halfway a lie, and anyway, Yen didn't think she deserved him, either.  (She didn't think he knew that, but he wasn't an idiot.  He totally knew.)  Before, he hadn't been in any kind of hurry to disillusion her in case she noticed it went the other way around; these days, he was finally starting to figure out that they just about deserved each other.  Yen wasn't there yet, but that was okay.  They had time.

#fic #discard pile #the witcher #the witcher 3

[darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts]

Devil’s Temptation pt20

Warnings: Mob Styling warlords, Strong Language

Masterlist

---

Chapter 20 – Void

The calming breeze outside combined with the soft babbling sounds of the large koi pond. He had been told it was unusual to place such a thing on the roof of a building. But then again, he was also told when he worked with the architect and landscaper to design the whole garden and living space that it was an impossible ask. Nobunaga smiled to himself as he was once again reminded of someone telling him something was impossible and proving them wrong. 

He had been called many things behind his back as he worked to get to where he was today. He had been called a Devil by his enemies, a Demon, a Fool. Not once had any of those names meant a single thing to him. Was it arrogance? He didn’t think so, he had always been sure of his idea and his plan. Always managed to make it all happen against the odds. The Devil King of the upper East side… the man with the impossible dream.

Nobunaga watched the colourful bodies of the fish shimmer below the surface of the clear water and then turned his attention back to the document he had brought outside with him. Nominee Application. He had been sent the papers to consider as it was hoped by his campaign staff that he would choose to return to politics once things regained control. He looked at the papers that he once felt he desired. That other platform he wanted to climb, the larger stage he wished to perform on.

If he had learnt anything after joining the governing ranks it was that everything was boring. The same daily routine, the same daily tasks, nothing changed, nothing to divert his attention and hold his imagination. He was aware of the number of people around him that had guilty little secrets. Even the innocent ones had a few skeletons in their closet. It was easy to exploit them had he wished too. There was little by way of a challenge and that was something that bored him above everything else. 

Now back in his old position reigning over his hard-won dominion he felt that rush he had dreamed of. He had never noticed how much of a buzz he got from his old life until it was gone. Now though he was back, that spark lit the dry tinder that was in him bringing that fire back to life and he felt alive again. Stay or go?

“I was never one to ignore temptation.”

---

It had been easy to trace the location. Seriously this man was little more than a kid playing at being a gangster. He talked the talk and looked the part but he really was so far out of his depth it’s a wonder no one had called him on it before.

Takahiro had always been an ambitious little upstart. His natural charisma packed a punch and saved his neck a few times. If it had not been for him teaming up with a partner who was just that bit more capable then he would have failed in everything after his family had cast him out. You can do a lot of things but confronting your brother at a dinner table that was surrounded by the heads of house was not a smart plan, pulling that gun on him had been even worse. There were some things you just didn't do even the underworld had their own form of etiquette. 

Then there was [Name]. Sweet girl, smart and had a bright future marked out before her. But after the tragedy struck her house and rocked its foundations to the core, that future was snuffed out before her eyes and a new one was planned out for her in its place. 

She had fought back, she had run and been caught. After that, she had almost looked as if she had given up… almost. The old gentleman smiled as they recalled the day, she was successful in running, how they had felt witnessing such a scheme be pulled off by one so young. Faking obedience, playing the part of the good daughter before bolting out of there never to be seen again from right under her own father’s nose. Yes, it had been a pleasure to witness such an event. Now there was a kid with promising talent.

To think that everything that had happened should lead them all here to this point. Life was certainly interesting. Now all the ghost had to do was wait for the opportune moment. Sitting in their vantage point, patiently overlooking the venue with rifle poised.

---

It was a small but beautiful church. There was no organ music playing, instead, Takahiro had requested string instruments to perform. The fresh flowers on display and the decorative hanging flowers at the end of each row of seating were breathtaking. This should all have been a dream, it felt like one. But when [Name] looked at the man standing at the end of the centre aisle she felt like the world around her was crumbling. It wasn’t so much a dream as a nightmare. 

That cold, hard tangle of emotion that had started the moment she had seen her father in the hospital had grown into a much larger web. Spreading through her, connecting parts of the past to the future and she felt like she was suddenly back to being a little girl again. No say and no power, she hated that. Did I seriously come all this way just to have my history go full circle and put me right back at the start again?

There were only a handful of guests, the only reason for having such a lavish display in the venue was Takahiro’s unwillingness to do even a rushed plan without showing off. Ever the showman. It reminded her of the room he had prepared for her. Everything was just as if it had been dreamt up out of a children’s picture book. Childish dreams and images of the ideal life created in reality with almost obsessive attention to detail. [Name] made it to the end, the eyes and murmurs of the audience followed her every movement. This isn’t what I want. I am not what they are seeing, this “man” is not my future.

“Takahiro… I … I’m not sure about this.” Her voice came out as small and fragile as she felt. Takahiro leaned down closer to her ear, his fake smile unmoving.

“What you thought you had to be in love to marry? You don’t. Just as you don’t have to be in love to have a child.” His words were even more chilling. He intended to bring a child into this as well? [Name] tensed at the idea, the air in her lungs disappeared as she looked into Takahiro’s cold eyes.

“I still don’t…”

Takahiro continued disregarding the woman next to him completely. “Consider it a contractual obligation.” His voice was louder than intended. He was frustrated and angry, everything he had done to make this day as close to perfect as he could. Fitting it into the ideal wedding that a lot of little girls had said they desired, including [Name] at one point. 

It was the end of the line, he was about to get everything promised to him. The ability to take over a new family. He could rival the old ideals, take on his brother and he would be free to make more choices. He would change the future and carve his own path forward. She would be his. 

“I could recommend a good lawyer.” A calm voice called out from the main church doors. Takahiro and [Name] turned at the same time as the guests to see someone slowly approaching the altar. The bright light from behind them had turned their image into a dark silhouette but the closer they came the clearer that image became. [Name] didn’t need to wait to see who this was, the unbridled rush of relief rolled over her as she looked at the one that should have been here to start with. He really knows how to make an entrance, doesn’t he?

“Traditionally you wait to interrupt a wedding until the Priest calls out.” Takahiro was still smiling but it was in no way comforting. His eyes were searching past the lone figure approaching him. Shin?

“It is also a tradition for the bride to look happy on her wedding day. I see you decided against that.” Mitsuhide taunted as he stood close enough for [Name] to see him clearly as he gave her a wink. The guests in the church had all been sitting quietly now began to murmur and gossip.

“What would you know of it? Can’t you see we are deeply in love.” Takahiro raised his voice enough to be sure to let the words travel to the observers. Whatever had happened to his partner he was not wishing to be told right now. They say ignorance is bliss and something told Takahiro that he would not enjoy the information he would be given if he asked right now. He had to focus on the task at hand whatever had happened he would deal with it later after he had secured their futures. He told himself this, he tried to be as convincing as possible in his own mind and ignore the weight he felt in his chest. But as the old saying goes you can lie to everyone but yourself. 

“You are indeed deeply in something.” Mitsuhide sneered. I cannot let someone who acts like such an idiot have her. You have no intention of trying to make her happy. She was never more than a pretty little object to you. “You cannot take what is already taken Takahiro.”

“What is that supposed to mean you pathetic little pack animal?” Takahiro was turning a violent shade of red as he began to boil over. His concern for his absent lover was the last incident to put pressure on his troubled mind. This was supposed to be the day everything worked in his favour. It was supposed to be the first day of a new future. I was not meant to be a display in the centre circle of a circus.

– Thump –

“How dare you!”

“…[Name]?” Takahiro was holding his jaw, lip broken and his eyes were locked on the woman standing in that crystal gown as if he had never seen her before in his life.

“Mitsuhide is not some spineless moron like you!” Her seething anger in her voice just dripped disdain. Takahiro didn’t like it. He liked a bit of fight but this, this was too much. He hated when things didn’t go his way, he always had. Why did no one ever just do as they were told?

“Hold your tongue wench or I’ll make sure you never say anything again. AH!” Takahiro cried out in pain as the arm he had raised to slap [Name] was twisted violently up his back and his knees were kicked in order to get him to drop. Crouched on the plush church carpet Takahiro hissed in pain, his torso bending in an attempt to keep his bones from breaking.

“You did not seriously expect to be allowed to make such a declaration and not have it come with consequences, did you?” Mitsuhide hissed in the groom’s ear.

“Mitsu-” It was all so fast [Name] marvelled at the sight. And you say you are not a good man?

“That was a nice punch, my dear. Remind me to show you later how you can improve it, then next time you might just manage to knock the bastard out.” Mitsuhide recovered from the sight before him quickly. He had been on the receiving end of one of [Name]’s passionate slaps. He had no idea she would strike as she had done, certainly no idea that she would do so in his honour. You keep on surprising me, little mouse.

“This is not happening!” Takahiro roared.

---

Curiosity. It was something that meant you were always promised the discovery of new things, what those new things were was part of the adventure. He could see the spectacle clearly through the scope of his rifle, he had not expected the girl to throw a punch in what looked like someone else’s defence. What was said? And who is that outsider?

There was no room for error here. Clicking the sight into thermal mode a small red light appeared travelling through the air and landing on the floor between the target and the others near him. Whatever the circumstance he had a job to do and he had no issue at all in carrying it out. Whoever the stranger was he didn’t seem to be a threat to the girl. This might require further investigation, but for now...

“Agreement revoked.”

---

Mitsuhide saw it before anyone else did. The laser sight marker casting its deadly red target on the ground briefly before disappearing again. Someone was here. It seemed very crude to bring a gun to a wedding. It was clean and efficient sure, but there was always something about such a display in a place like this that made him feel a little uneasy.

The irony of him feeling like that always made him smile. To have such a view on a subject as appropriate locations for violence and displays of marksmanship, and here he was twisting a man’s arm up his back like he was a pretzel.

His heart began pounding like a jackhammer in his chest as he looked up at the would-be bride. She looked like an angel, the light catching that obscenely ornate dress she was in, making her glow even more in his eyes. It was clearly not in her tastes he had been familiar with her style and this was obviously not it. The idea that another man had chosen a dress for her and she was wearing that made his blood boil more. But now was not the time for displays of jealousy to rear their heads. Just because you are an angel my dear does not mean I have any intention of seeing you go back to heaven yet.

Mitsuhide released Takahiro’s arm shoving the man forward and grabbed [Name] around her waist pulling her with him in his arms as he shouldered most of the pain of tumbling over a hardwood bench to some sort of safety on the floor behind it. He had no idea who was the target but he did not wish for her to be anywhere near the danger. Honestly, it’s like you attract bullets little mouse. He could feel her, her warmth and weight as she was pressed against him. The scent of her jasmine infused hair tickling his nose, not exactly the best time for his mind to start wandering but that didn’t seem to stop it from wishing to.

“Mitsuhide what the hell is…?”

– Smash –

---

[winterverses]

Walking Wounded - Chapter Seventy-Five

Content Warning: Discussion of violence.

The aircar zoomed toward Justice, bobbing and weaving through traffic in a way that reminded Kirk of games back at the Academy. Starships were so much slower, even shuttles-- sure, maybe it was just that they felt that way, but between the shields and the navigation systems there was almost never a situation where you needed the kind of reaction time that you had to have to pilot an aircar. The closest situation he’d come to needing those kinds of reflexes was when they’d first encountered the drones, and still, that had been nothing like the split second timing that this driver had. Come to think of it, it was the same driver from that first day back on Yorktown.

“Ugh. Remind me why I ever thought giving an interview was a good idea,” Anne said, scrolling through the article.

“What? They get something wrong?” Kirk asked, looking away from the window and trying to skim what he saw on the screen. “Slow down, you’re going too fast for me.”

She slowed enough that he could read as well. “Nothing wrong, just… ugh. I hate feeling like my life is being dissected all over the place. Look how many times it’s been read already.”

Kirk began to read at random, in the middle of a passage.

‘It’s easy to tell just how much their experiences have affected their relationship. Captain Kirk’s rakish grin and confident air fade a little the moment Ms. Hardesty begins to look troubled, turning fiercely protective, no matter how casually he plays it off. She, in turn, makes no secret of how much his presence comforts her, and her voice hardly wavers so long as his arm is around her, even when giving what details she can of her quite frankly horrific experiences.

That’s not to say that their relationship has been only beneficial for them; though they couldn’t comment on the exact circumstances, they’ve dealt with some serious injuries, the causes rooted in Ms. Hardesty’s devotion and Captain Kirk’s protective impulses. The worst of these injuries were ones they weren’t even free to talk about, citing their unreliability as witnesses where the other is concerned and their unwillingness to jeopardize their upcoming court case. Only the circumstances surrounding the event itself could be detailed, and there is no better or more succinct way to put it than in the Captain’s own words:

“Anne gets dragged away from the side of one of my senior officers, I rush to get the ship there in time and go haring off after her… and when we come out of that room, my guts are hanging out, and she’s almost lost an eye, her mind, and still doesn’t even remember who I am.”

One can hardly help but question the circumstances; would this have turned out the same had their feelings not been a factor?’

“It’s bullshit, gorgeous. Don’t bother yourself over it.” Kirk went to blank the screen.

“Don’t,” Anne said, batting at his hand in irritation.

Fine, okay. He settled back into his seat, looking out the window again, until the next time she muttered something under her breath. “If it’s going to bother you that much, just shut it off,” he said, a little irritated himself.

She registered that irritation, because she stilled, then leaned on him. “I’m sorry. I just can’t look away. And it’s not like not reading it will be any better.”

Immediately, he felt like an ass. Of course she wouldn’t be able to help wanting to read it. She’d never seen herself through the lens of someone else’s writing before. Her writing, sure, but she’d always been careful to stay out of the public eye. He hadn’t been able to put down the first article he’d ever been interviewed for back when he’d first taken command of the Enterprise, even though it had eviscerated him for not getting to Vulcan in time as much as lauded him for saving Earth. And she was right-- if she wasn’t getting upset by the article, she’d just be getting upset over something far closer, and with a lot better and more concrete reasons. “No, it’s my fault. It’s weird seeing yourself like that, I know. Go on ahead and read it, and if you find anything really awful about it, let me know.”

“The worst thing so far is the craftsmanship,” Anne grumbled. “Really, trying to maintain a neutral voice by using ‘one’ as a substitute for ‘I’ is shoddy. I see why she’s done it, but for heaven’s sake, there are better ways of skinning that particular cat. Learn to use your words to better effect.”

Okay, he couldn’t help a laugh at Anne’s sneering. He kept it quiet, though. “What’s more irritating, the subject matter, or the way it’s written?”

Anne turned to look at him incredulously. “The way it’s written, of course,” she said, then looked thoughtful. “Maybe I should give the girl some advice.”

“I can’t think of a better way to guarantee we get a much less flattering article next time,” Kirk said, throwing his arm over Anne’s shoulders. He was glad of that in a moment, when the aircar started to plummet, not that they felt it. It just meant they were at Justice, and Anne knew that. She inched up even closer to him and blanked the screen, her body tensing. “It’ll be all right,” he said, pressing a kiss on the top of her head. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I’d better be, or Claudia will have someone’s head for all that wasted work,” Anne said dryly.

“I’ll let her take point on that one. Mainly because I think she’d do a better job of beheading someone than I would. She’s probably had more practice,” he deadpanned.

He couldn’t tell whether Anne was just playing along or whether she actually thought that was plausible when she replied. Hell, come to think of it, it was pretty plausible. “I’ll have to ask her about her time in med school. That seems like the most likely setting for a beheading, and I’ve always wanted to know the specific physical sensations involved. For verisimilitude, of course.”

The aircar came to a stop before the Justice building, and Kirk said, “1600 in front of the lower deck entrances, right?”

“1500, sir,” the driver said.

Kirk gave the guy a half grin. “Just checking.” The driver lifted a hand in response.

The crowd outside was, if anything, bigger than the one before. He suspected that article hadn’t helped things any, not with those women still feeding information to the press. Anne had been right about what she’d said, though-- if they left by a route they hadn’t previously been seen to use, they probably wouldn’t have to deal with the crowd on their way out. And then they could just wait out the press until the last trial was over. “All right, gorgeous. Stick close to me and don’t let go,” Kirk said.

Anne’s face was even paler than usual, but her mouth was set in a determined line, and she nodded. Kirk opened the door and stepped out, reaching back for Anne’s hand and tucking it in the crook of his arm as she exited the car behind him. The door slid shut, but by that time they were already walking, dodging reporters, Kirk breaking a path and Anne following behind. About three quarters of the way to the door, he felt a sudden jerk on his arm and heard Anne yelp. He immediately saw red, whirling to find Anne grabbing for his arm, looking behind her. He caught her seeking hand instead, yanking her toward him in a way that could have made someone with worse balance stumble; even in stiletto heels, she was barely fazed by it, her shoulder lightly smacking against his side as she skidded to a halt. Kirk immediately wrapped his arm around her waist, picking up his pace. “Did you see who did that?” he asked over the rising tumult of sound around them.

“No, but he won’t be walking very easily,” Anne said, rubbing at her bare arm. Red marks from the guy’s fingers were slowly fading. “I wore these heels for a reason.”

Kirk pulled out his communicator just as he saw a few members of his senior staff directing officers in the Starbase uniform to come and meet them. Immediately, he holstered it, beckoning two of the officers to him as he and Anne were surrounded by the rest. “You, and you, search the crowd. Whoever did that will be limping. Find him, and hold him on my authority. Notify me immediately.” The officers acknowledged and hurried past. “If they don’t find him, I want the surveillance clip from that timestamp examined until a positive ID can be made,” Kirk said, directing his order to the ranking officer.

“Are you planning to press charges, sir? I mean, ma’am?”

Kirk looked down at Anne. She looked shaken and sick, but not so upset that she was about to call this thing off. He almost wished that she was. “Yes,” she said. She tried to grin, but it was just a shadow of its normal brilliance. “Provided that someone who specializes in law can be found somewhere around here.”

“Federation Justice has several dozen representatives on hand at any given moment, ma’am,” the Lieutenant said earnestly. Kirk and Anne just looked at each other and then kept walking. To his credit, when the Lieutenant received no reply he seemed to catch on, looking a bit embarrassed. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said as they reached Uhura, Spock, McCoy, and Hayes.

“It’s all right. I’m afraid my wit isn’t at its best when I’m nervous,” Anne said, flashing a more natural looking grin at the Lieutenant, who gave her a tentative smile back.

“I’ll make sure that footage gets reviewed, Captain, ma’am,” the Lieutenant said.

“While you’re at it, you can tell Commodore Paris that we want a dedicated escort any time those women know where you are,” Hayes said. “This is really ridiculous. It was ridiculous last time and it’s even more ridiculous now.”

“While Medical gets a certain amount of leeway, the rest of us have to follow the established chain of command, Lieutenant Commander Hayes,” Kirk said pointedly. “I’ll take it up with Commodore Paris while I wait.”

“You’d better--”

“I’ll hold him to it, Dr. Hayes,” Uhura said.

“Good,” Hayes said. Then they were past the doors, and the din seemed to press closer in. The crowd was more orderly, however, with officers clearing a path and keeping the press well back. Kirk kept his arm around Anne’s waist, though, deciding that he didn’t particularly care about looking unprofessional at the moment. As soon as they were in the elevator, however, Hayes practically shoved him aside, looking Anne over, checking the arm the man had grabbed. “What happened? Did he hurt you?”

“No, he just grabbed me,” Anne said, holding out her wrist so that Hayes could take her pulse. “It frightened me, that’s all.”

“I’ll have to run it by our judges, but I’ll try to get you a dose of anxiolytic before we start. Don’t you even open your mouth,” she said, cutting Anne off before she could say anything. “This cannot be called normal anxiety considering your recent experiences, and it could mean the difference between being able to go through with this and just suffering all the collateral damage while not actually being far enough under to get anything done.”

“If it means only going through with this once, I’m all for it,” Kirk said. “Any chance you can triple that dosage?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Hayes said. “Truth serums don’t exist, or at least, not in the sense of being unable to lie. The drugs we have depend on both lowering inhibition, and creating fear. It’s a balancing act, and if she has too much of the anxiolytic, it could inhibit the effects of one or both of the other drugs.”

No wonder Anne had avoided the topic so thoroughly in conversation with him. She had to have known he’d hate that. “Can’t we just get a brain scan done and--”

“No,” Anne broke in, her voice as thin and sharp as a blade. As Kirk opened his mouth to question, she interrupted him again. “I don’t want my brain on file, not even with Starfleet. It’s not an option.”

Between the set of her mouth and her serious eyes, Kirk knew better than to question further-- at least not right now, anyway. “What happens if they don’t think you’re telling the truth?”

Claudia answered him instead. “The normal process is that they’ll go through it a few times, at incrementally increasing dosages. I’ve been lobbying to try to get them to settle for one or two passes. It averages four, though. Never more than six. After six, you run the risk of self-harm even in restraints, unrecoverable mental damage, and cardiac events.”

Now he understood. She’d tortured the other women. It probably seemed only fair. Before Kirk could decide whether to call her on it, Spock broke in. “May I remind you, Captain, that I will be immediately available throughout and if Anne is too strongly affected, I will do whatever is in my power to mitigate her distress.”

Kirk almost spoke, then did a double-take. Spock had used her first name. He glanced over at Uhura, who just shrugged. “Thank you, Mr. Spock,” Kirk said. It was almost enough to take the edge off what Hayes had said.

“I’ll be fine, mon étoile,” Anne said softly, shaking off Hayes’ hand and stepping back up against his side. “Whatever they do, it can’t possibly be as bad as what has already been done, and I’ve recovered well enough from that.”

McCoy snorted, but didn’t speak. The turbolift doors slid open and they filed out, following Hayes, who seemed to know where she was going. As they did, Kirk looked down at Anne. “Your accent says you aren’t as calm about it as you’d like to be,” Kirk said, pulling her close. Damn, it was weird having her so tall. Well, relatively speaking. Her eyes were about level with his chin.

“And the polite thing would have been to ignore that,” Anne said, regarding him with a small frown. Regardless, she pressed into him, her body taut against his.

Kirk slid his arm back around her waist. With those shoes on, she was just a bit too tall for his arm to rest easily across her shoulders. “Maybe we should just give Sulu our apologies now,” Kirk said, studying her face.

“No. At the very least, we can go and say hello while we pick up dinner. Ben promised he was going to make me chòudòufu.” At his questioning look, Anne grinned. “Well, it was really more of a threat. Stinky tofu.”

Kirk sighed. “This is restaurant humor, isn’t it? Like telling Scotty you ejected a warp core while running maintenance on the cylinders or something.”

“Yes, mon étoile. I would never surprise you with something that… particular. No natto, no durian, no chòudòufu… Well, maybe natto. If you can eat gagh, texture certainly isn’t an issue.”

“Should you ever decide to make chòudòufu, I would be interested to try it,” Spock said, and Kirk couldn’t tell whether he was serious or not. “I find many human dishes to be lacking in flavor, perhaps due to my biology.”

“There’s nothing markedly different about your sense of taste,” Hayes said. “You’re better at handling capsaicin because of your higher pain tolerance.”

“He’s just a closet gourmand,” McCoy grumbled. “Tries to explain away his daredevil tastes by blaming it on being Vulcan.”

“I apologize, Spock,” Anne said, looking genuinely sorry. “It takes several months to make properly. Ben doesn’t have any either-- I would know, because I would have smelled it in their apartment by now. Even air scrubbers can’t get rid of that smell. I very much doubt you can get it on Yorktown at all, and it’s an absolute certainty that it isn’t on the synth logs.” She paused, thinking.

“Oh no you don’t,” Kirk said. “If it’s that bad, the last thing I want is for people to be able to synthesize it on extremely lengthy deep space missions. That would be like weaponizing the synthesizer.”

“It occurs to me that it could be to our advantage to be able to synthesize a potentially objectionable form of human food, Captain. Most specifically in diplomatic capacities.”

Kirk was tempted for a moment, but eventually shook his head. “In this case, I think the cost would outweigh the benefits, Mr. Spock.”

“Here we are,” Hayes said, stopping at one of the nondescript doors lining the hallway. “Now, Captain, you’ll be allowed to sit nearby, but not within arm’s reach. Leonard and I will be right there, so you don’t need to worry. If anything starts to look odd to me, I’ll call a halt.”

“Have you ever sat in on something like this before?” Kirk asked.

Hayes nodded. “And worked with people who have been through it. That’s where I developed the technique I used with Anne, among others.”

That, at least, was comforting. Hayes had been a stroke of luck in so many different ways. Kirk knew he should have at least tried to appear professional, but letting Anne go before he had to was just not going to happen. They walked into the lab, the others following behind.

Padded restraints. Barbaric. The examination table looked like a relic from another century. Vice-Admiral Landau glanced up from his padd as they stepped into the room, his lips thinning in a humorless smile. Councilor V’nula and Councilor Andrews looked on impassively as he spoke. “Good. I was notified that there was some trouble at the entry, but you seem sound enough.”

Claudia immediately sailed into her request for something to calm Anne, pulling up research and specific chemical interactions to justify the use of an anxiolytic. As Landau listened, a skeptical look on his face, one of the nurses approached Anne. “This way, please,” she said, smiling reassuringly. When Kirk started to follow, however, she held up her hand. “Just Ms. Hardesty, I’m afraid. No one is to have physical access to Ms. Hardesty apart from medical personnel from our initial scans onward, otherwise our results could be deemed invalid.”

She meant the possibility that he might slip Anne something, a contact drug of some sort, that might alter her ability to deal with the drugs. That didn’t make it any less insulting. Still, he didn’t intend to sit through this more than once, so he didn’t put up a fuss. Anne hesitated, then turned back to him and hesitated again, glancing at Vice-Admiral Landau.

He couldn’t help a little pang of affection. She wanted a bit of comfort, but she wouldn’t make him look unprofessional in front of someone who technically outranked him. It was good that he didn’t give a fuck what Landau thought. Kirk pulled her into an embrace, kissing her forehead and murmuring softly, “You’ll be okay, tiger. We’ll make sure of it.” Even if he wasn’t entirely sure, he wasn’t about to undermine her confidence by saying so.

She held onto him for a few moments, then pulled away, immediately walking toward that barbaric examination table.

A lot of nothing interesting happened in the beginning. Most of it was just scans and calculations. Hayes seemed to find something odd, but she shrugged it off after talking to Bones. Kirk contacted Commodore Paris and formally requested a security detail for Loche’s trial, and she agreed. She also complimented him on his handling of the media; apparently the article had been well-received.

So much talk about that stupid article. Kirk borrowed Spock’s padd and read it through while waiting for something to happen. That reporter had gotten everything right, and the writing wasn’t half as bad as Anne had claimed. He didn’t remember talking much about how they’d become involved, though-- Anne must have said something about it to Felden. Again, they’d gotten everything right. That didn’t improve his opinion of that reporter though.

He was wondering what to do next when he saw Anne arranging herself into those restraints, and Hayes shooting her up with multiple drugs. Seemed like the circus was about to get started. Kirk gave back the borrowed padd and kept his attention on Anne. She looked miserable, of course. Who wouldn’t be miserable? The restraints automatically adjusted to her limbs, trapping her. Hayes must have won the argument about the anxiolytic, because Anne didn’t immediately try to get out of them. There was a bit of shuffling and rearranging of where people were standing, and then Vice-Admiral Landau spoke quietly. “For the record, we need you to state that you’re here of your own free will and that you have not been coerced or compelled to be subjected to this procedure.”

Anne frowned, but complied. “I’ve agreed to this procedure of my own free will. I have not been coerced or compelled.”

“Thank you,” Landau said. He nodded to the doctor. Hayes and McCoy were both scowling so hard at that doctor that Kirk wondered why he didn’t burst into flames. Instead, he tinkered with a few of the displays before pressing another hypospray against Anne’s neck. Immediately, he loaded it up with something else and dosed her again.

It was evident when the drugs kicked in. Anne’s breathing quickened, her hands clamping into fists. Councilor V’nula began the questioning with simple things like Anne’s name, date of birth, and place of residence to get a base reading from her. Anne answered quickly, as if she wanted all this to be over with, and Kirk agreed completely.

Councillor Andrews stepped in with the harder questions. Despite her stern look, Kirk knew that she was a bit sympathetic at heart. She was the best choice for some of the things that were asked. Anne answered with as much detachment as she could muster, but by this point she was almost panting with fear.

“When you threatened Meredith, did you have any idea that you were pushing her toward suicide?”

“Yes. That was what I was told to do. He made me memorize how to push her buttons. He told me to make her feel worthless.”

“And why did you comply?”

“Because he had just cut me up and I was afraid he would do it again. More than once he told me he wanted to cut my back and legs or my face the same way.”

“So you played the role of enforcer with his other captives.”

“Yes.”

“Did you enjoy hurting them?”

“I don’t know. I hated them for being weak. I wanted to be away from them. I wanted to be one of them. It looked easier.”

“Did you ever attack them on your own initiative?”

“Only Brynna.”

“Did you enjoy killing her?”

“No. No. I never want to think about it again. I wish I could forget it.”

How could this not be enough? Anne was clearly unwilling. Even if she had mixed feelings about the other captives, she was consistently horrified by the things she’d had to do. Kirk had heard some of them; others he’d guessed at, and still others were a surprise. Uhura looked sick hearing some of the things Anne had done. Spock betrayed no emotion whatsoever; he’d been in her head for some of these memories. Bones was just watching Anne thoughtfully, and Hayes was unmoved by the things Anne said. Of course, Anne must have discussed some or most of them with her.

As Andrews finished up, the doctor began fiddling with his displays again, then shot Anne up again. This time, the results were far more visible. Anne was actively struggling against the restraints, her breathing shallow and quick, her movements jerky with all the adrenaline that had just been dumped into her system.

And they asked her the questions over again, digging for more details this time. Kirk could see why it was done that way, but still, these memories had been part of why Anne was so traumatized. This basically amounted to a form of torture.

“When you cut off Heather’s fingers, what were you feeling?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t remember doing it. I don’t want to remember it… she was screaming.”

“Why did you cut them off one by one?”

“Loche. He made me. He told me.”

“Why did you obey him?”

Anne broke down crying, and Kirk felt sick watching it. He’d almost stood up, but a warning glance from Bones reminded him of the consequences. He gripped the arms of his seat and waited.

“I had to. I couldn’t-- I-- He made me. He hurt me if I didn’t obey.”

“Did you ever try to disobey?”

“Yes. Five times.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I tried to escape. I failed. He punished me.”

“How did he punish you?”

Instead of answering, Anne started to retch. Kirk heard a crack, and realized he’d gripped the arm of his chair hard enough to break the plastic. The doctor rushed up and shot her up with something, and the retching stopped.

“How did he punish you?”

“He-- He-- I-- Lauren. She died, he killed her. He killed her with my hands. He made me hold the knife. He cut, he made me cut her face, she was still alive. He held my hand and made me. After that… After that I couldn’t. He wanted to make me sick like him.”

By that point, Andrews and Landau both looked unsettled. Uhura looked as if she was about to cry. Spock was Spock, of course, and Bones still looked more thoughtful than anything else. Hayes was scowling again.

Landau, Andrews, and V’nula huddled for a conference, and a disagreement appeared to happen. Kirk couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could see that V’nula was insisting on something, and Andrews and Landau were against it. He had the feeling this was about whether they would do a third pass or not. In the meantime, Anne was silently crying, swallowing hard but making no sound.

The argument continued for a while, but eventually they came to a decision. “We have no need of further investigation,” Landau said. “It is clear that Ms. Hardesty was coerced and in danger of losing her life.”

The doctor began to adjust the displays again. Kirk tried to bite back his anger. There was no need for this. Even if this was what Anne had chosen, Starfleet didn’t have to go along with it. They could have looked at the evidence. They could have used a mind meld. They could have brought a Betazoid in to listen to Anne and find out whether she was telling the truth. He was walking toward Anne before he realized it, but no one stopped him. Before anyone could do anything, he’d hit the release on the restraints. Bones stepped forward, reaching for one of the hypos on a nearby table, but all Anne did without the restraints was sit up on the table, curling her legs under her, and look up at Kirk.

“Do you hate me for what I did?” she asked, her eyes brimming with tears. “I know it’s the drugs but I’m so scared--”

He cut her off by pulling her into his arms. “No way. I get it. Let’s just get you the counteractives and then we’ll get out of here.”

Her whole body was trembling. Kirk snapped at the doctor, and he gave her a few shots with the hypo, after which she started to calm down. Spock and Uhura approached, and Anne smiled weakly at them.

“Would you like this memory or any other excised?” Spock asked.

Anne shook her head. “Thank you for making the offer. I’ll get over them the old-fashioned way.” She looked over at Claudia. “Provided you’re still available,” she said uncertainly.

“Of course I am,” Claudia said, her voice low and even. “Remember, Anne, we all knew your situation. Knowing the details isn’t comfortable for a friend, but it’s not like any of this was a surprise.”

Uhura stepped up, laying a hand on Anne’s shoulder. “We took them all down. Don’t forget that.”

Anne’s eyelids were starting to droop. “I know,” she said softly. “But some things you just can’t make up for.”

“It’s all right,” Kirk said. She looked exhausted, and no wonder. He glanced over at Vice-Admiral Landau, wondering if they were released to go. It wasn’t quite 1500 hours yet, but he wanted to get out of here. He wanted to get Anne out of here. Deciding he didn’t give a fuck, he asked, “Do you think you can make it to the car or do I need to carry you?”

That earned him a little smile. “I can walk. Probably.” Kirk moved out of the way and she slid off the table, a little wobbly in those spike heels but all right.

Bones shook his head. “I hope this decision was worth it for you,” he said, his voice curiously free of the disdain Kirk would have expected with a comment like that.

Anne rubbed the tears from her cheeks. “I do too.”

“I want to see you tomorrow,” Bones said. “There was an anomalous reading I want to check out.”

“I don’t know if… could you come to our place?” Anne asked, her voice tentative.

Bones smirked. “Better than having you wreck my equipment again.”

Not that he wanted to be impatient, but Kirk wanted to leave. It was over, she looked like she would recover, and they were expected at Sulu’s apartment before they could go home. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Vice-Admiral Landau must have overheard him, because he approached Kirk and Anne. “I would very much have preferred that this went to trial, but I’m glad it’s over with and you’ve been found definitively, objectively innocent, ” he said. “I hope never to have to see you in a professional capacity again after Loche’s trial.”

Before Anne could answer, Kirk found himself speaking up. “This was unnecessary, sir. You could have received the same results by using a mind meld or calling in a Betazoid to read her responses.”

The Vice-Admiral shook his head, his eyes regretful. “If we used a sentient for this, it would be less objective. At best it would be filtered through someone else’s biases; at worst, subject to potentially relevant concerns about corruption or conspiracy. It needed to be absolutely unassailable to protect all parties’ rights. I’m afraid there was no better way in this case.”

Frowning, Kirk was about to make a sharp retort, but Anne spoke before he did. “I just want to go home, Jim,” she said softly, her eyes inexpressibly tired.

It was her exhaustion that stopped him. “You’re right. It’s not worth it now.” Kirk sighed and wrapped an arm around Anne’s waist. “Let’s go.” Kirk nodded to Landau. “Sir.” Without waiting for a response, Kirk headed off to the elevator with Anne at his side, making for the lower decks.

#James T. Kirk/OC #Jim Kirk/OC #Star Trek #Star Trek Fanfiction #dark romance #fanfic #ST:WW #Star Trek: Walking Wounded

[beyondthetemples-ooc]

{{ This is one of my all-time favorite bits of writing; I really had something going when I was writing this, and I really wanted to share it. So, here, take this excerpt from DDD chapter 9. }}

--

By the time she stumbled into the tower shivering and dripping everywhere, she was swallowing sobs – there were probably tears on her face, but with the rain it was impossible to tell; she couldn’t have felt them even if they were there.

Dove clutched the pigeon close as she ran through the halls, and she stroked his back with her fingers anxiously – he was fading… “No, no, please,” she begged breathlessly, quickening her pace as swiftly as her near exhaustion would allow.

Raven wasn’t in her room. Dove felt a new wave of frustration mounting – he was slipping, slipping…

“Please,” she whimpered as she took off again, her legs barely willing to run anymore. She nearly collapsed when the doors to the living room opened, and she stayed by the threshold to catch her breath.

“Dove - ?” Raven began, but when she looked up, her mind veered onto another path.

“He’s hurt,” Dove whispered through her tears.

“That explains the empathy,” Raven responded, setting her book on the couch and rising to meet her.

“I tried healing him, but I-I can’t…” She bowed her head and inhaled shakily. “Raven - ”

“I can help,” Raven told Dove, reassurance in her words but not her tone; the empathy was so painful, her entire body felt stiff – she had to shift to total monotony to keep herself from giving in to the pain. “Dove, you need to calm down… and I can’t heal him entirely… but I might not even be able to save him, do you understand that?”

Dove shook her head. “Please, try… I-I don’t want to feel him dying…” She refused to tell Raven that the guilt would be as bad as the empathy…

Raven nodded. “I will.”

Raven held her hands over him, each glowing with a white-blue energy as she began drawing his pain into herself. She closed her eyes, bracing herself against the pain. It hurt. It always hurt. But she could deal with it, the relief would come soon enough. She tensed, having to pull just a bit harder as she felt more injuries, under his wing, over his back, there was the faint ache of having at least three of his left wing feathers pulled out… but it was tolerable. Barely, but she could process it…

Finally the pain was gone. Raven tightened her eyes, forcing the pain away from herself, away from her soul…

Dove even shivered as the temperature in the room dropped.

Raven gasped softly as she opened her eyes, her breathing just a bit heavier than normal. “Azar, Dove… What happened…?”

“He was attacked by a cat,” Dove replied softly, bowing her head and holding her eyes to the ground, desperately avoiding the specifics.

Raven was barely listening, remembered healing a dying dove in Azarath… the life-energy had been so similarly faint, but this one had been in so much more pain…

Dove sensed her distance and hesitated. She lifted her head, faintly wondering what– Her eyes met Raven’s, and the pull of the contact opened her soul to hers too. She was suddenly watching her sister’s memory as if it was her own, her mind lost to Raven’s feelings in the remembered scene…



     “Raven, the bird is dying.”

     

The Azarathean man knelt in front of young Raven, holding a pillow carefully in his hands, and on top of that cushion lay a white dove, wings limp at its sides.



     “I know, Theron. I sensed its pain before you brought it to me.” For the young empath, the pain had been hard to miss. Taking the bird in her hands, and under the watchful eye of her mentor, she began the process. “Its agonies flow into me, and into my soul…” And before long, she could sense the relief, “I feel it healing.”

She sent the pain from herself and watched as the bird flew away, light and effortless as a bird should be…

Entranced by the memory, Dove felt a call for her to go deeper, see more vividly exactly what –

She closed her eyes and shook her head, breaking the connection. The sensation had brought with it a sense of self-consciousness… What if Raven didn’t want her to see that…? She didn’t mean to… to… But no, Raven was still sifting the memory in her own mind, apparently she hadn’t noticed Dove’s accidental intrusion.

Dove blinked and sighed, a little ashamed that she could barely heal the most basic pains… She couldn’t help wondering how long it would take her to be able to learn to heal like that as she stepped over to the sink, lost in thought as she washed the blood off her hands.

If only she had watched a little longer, maybe she wouldn't have felt so ashamed…

     

“Is there no one I cannot cure?” Raven asked, still watching the bird as she directed the question to Azar.

     

“My dear Raven, there are only a very few you can cure. Those whose pains and agonies are too great are beyond even your redeeming.”

Raven blinked herself back to the present and found herself sensing… disappointment.

“Would you like to watch over him?”  she asked Dove, her tone so subtly hinting at the desire to comfort her.

Dove blinked, hesitated. If she hurt him again, even not meaning to… “Well… Maybe-- yeah, I guess…”

Raven nodded, handing him to Dove. “He’s still sore,” she said.

Dove nodded in response, holding the pigeon with her hands cupped, the same way she held Sieara. He shifted anxiously in her hands, and she felt a weak smile emerge. At least he was okay…

Raven could still sense a slight unease within Dove… but she didn’t dwell on the thought for too long; Dove had tendency to worry about something until a positive outcome was absolutely ensured. Then again, so much anxiety probably wouldn’t help with her recent control issues…

“You shouldn’t worry so much,” she told her as they turned down the hall that led to Dove’s room.

Dove shrugged. “I guess not…” She stroked the pigeon’s back softly with her thumb, whispering a soft phrase of comfort and trying to send him warm thoughts as her door slid open.

Rain was pelting hard against the window, drowning out the sound of Sieara pecking at her food bowl. Dove glanced at the glass a bit nervously, hoping that the storm would end soon… She held the pigeon in her hands as gently as possible, and she brought out an extra food and water dish for the newcomer. (Sieara wasn’t very territorial, but it would be easier to avoid any conflict between the birds if she could just keep them apart…)

She let the pigeon step onto her bed, and she moved a couple of papers from the top shelf – she wasn’t sure if he would roost next to Sieara or not, she wasn’t very sure about how pigeons reacted to doves. But they were both at least semi-social by nature, so it couldn’t be that bad…

Sieara fluttered down, landing on the side of the bed opposite of the pigeon. She tilted her head curiously, the intelligence gleaming in her eyes as she inspected him. She stepped towards him, and the pigeon crouched closer to the ground, almost as if prepared for flight. Sieara simply tilted her head the other way and stopped; this one seemed nervous… She stepped to him casually, and before he had a chance to flutter away, she nibbled her beak on his back and groomed him.

Dove smiled softly in spite of herself.  “Good girl, Sieara…”

“I think he’s going to be okay.”

Dove turned questioningly, and Raven clarified. “I know you’ll take good care of him.”

Dove nodded her thanks, and her gratitude. She might not have trusted herself to take care of him… but it was reassuring to know that Raven believed she would…

Raven turned and left.

Dove sighed, watching as the pigeon still crouched, his breast to the bed. He was nervous.

Sieara groomed him all the more delicately. Then she simply sat next to him, watching the window. Dove began wondering how long it would take the pigeon to adjust to the–

Her thoughts were cut short as the deafening sound of thunder crashed, not losing an iota of intensity through the glass.

And Dove screamed.

Raven stopped where she was and wheeled, hearing the sound and knowing that Dove was in a vulnerable state –

She ran through the threshold before the door was fully open. Dove was on the floor shivering, huddled against the bed and gripping her hair, and Sieara had abandoned the pigeon to rest on her companion’s shoulder.

Raven sighed, stepping over and glancing around the room – nothing seemed to be broken, yet, but Dove’s fear was reaching a dangerous height…

Dove gulped as Raven sat next to her, and she shook her head. “The-the thunderstorm’s not even here yet, and – and… Raven, i-it’s going to be horrible…”

Raven’s first thought was when Dove had first come to the tower. She had completely lost control when she heard the thunder, nearly destroying the room in the process. The only thing keeping Dove’s energies from lashing out against the world had been Raven’s own sphere of energies. It seemed like that necessity was returning to them now.

Raven waved her hand and formed the semi-sphere around them – smaller than the first time, but still a necessary precaution. “Dove, you’ll need to get over this eventually…”

Dove shuddered. “I-I can’t,” she said, her voice more like a gasp. “It’s-it’s just – Raven, it always reminds me about… about him…” She shuddered again, putting her head in her hands. She hadn’t meant to say that, but it came out before she could help herself.

Raven blinked, wondering if Dove had just now figured that out, or if Dove’s ‘not knowing why’ on that first day had just been an unwillingness to admit the truth to herself… either way, it was understandable. And Dove actually seemed to have a slight control over her fear. She told Dove her observation.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Dove said softly. She winced as another flash of lightning blanketed the room in its white light, and she whimpered as the thunder followed. She could feel the fear pulsing inside her, control wasn’t very far from the breaking point, and the only thing keeping her fear from running rampant was the sorrow dampening it.

Maybe she had been able to get him to Raven, and he was okay now… but… this was the second time she had completely lost control of her mind… and this time she actually enjoyed sensing his pain… the first time, the electric sensation had severed whatever ties that-- that side of her –(she whimpered at the thought)– had on her mind. But this time… if that thunder hadn’t sounded…

Dove shuddered visibly. Raven, sensing every bit of Dove’s fear, couldn’t help wanting to help Dove, somehow ease the fear… She knew she could, but, what good would it do anyone if she took away the emotions, and Dove never learned to deal with them herself?

“You really need to find some way to keep yourself calm,” she advised, her tone slightly stern.

Dove let out a choked noise, something like a sob. “I know,” she whispered tensely – Raven didn’t know it, but what she had just said had at least two different meanings. If she hadn’t started letting herself slip into the emotions, none of this would be happening…

A distant, soft echo of thunder was heard, and Dove bit her lip as the small streak of white energy left her control. Her defenses against the fear were breaking down, it was just getting to be too much…

She groaned, wondering if there was any way to stop the fear from taking hold, and if she’d be able to stop that side from taking hold next time she felt it…

Almost afraid of herself at that thought, she turned and huddled against Raven desperately –

Raven tensed, and Dove looked up at her pleadingly, knowing that she wanted space, but – but she really needed comfort…

Raven blinked, relaxing only slightly.

Dove shivered, and she closed her eyes and swallowed. She took a shaky breath, and she put her head on Raven’s shoulder. She felt… almost secure there. Raven was so calm, and it was such a relief, she let the empathy of that calm wash over her, the cool near-peace taking away the burn of the raging fear, it felt so soothing, even more soothing than her own mother’s comfort… If Dove had grown this afraid in her childhood, Alerina would have been terrified, and she’d try to hide it, but there was no way anyone could hide from the empathy…

~*~

Dove glanced up at Raven once she noticed the rain had stopped. “Is it over…?” she asked, a bit sheepishly.

Raven nodded.

Dove’s eyes flickered towards the window, and she let out a sigh. “Raven, I really need a chance to clear my head…”

Raven nodded understandingly. “Just try not to pick up any dying birds this time.”

Dove felt the half-smile cross her face. “I’ll try,” she promised, and she stood and left the room, Raven at her side.

#ddd #rhs writings #rhs has ocs and this is the tag about them #rhs makes yet another post about teen titans #rhs fanfics

[foxcroft-rpg-blog]

Congratulations, Charlie! I’m so excited to add a little more depth to the religious plotlines in Foxcroft with Gabriel. I’m so glad you applied for a custom, and can’t wait to see him in game.

Thanks again for applying! Please create your account and send in the link, track the right tags, and follow everyone on the masterlist as soon as you can. Welcome to Foxcroft!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Charlie

Age: 25

Preferred pronouns: She/Her

Time zone: GMT

Activity: 7/10, I can generally be online and posting every day.

Anything else?: None

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Gabriel Santos

Date of birth: 1st December 1984

How long have they been in Foxcroft: Gabriel arrived in Foxcroft approximately six months ago, reaching the town when the discovery of Adam Foxcroft’s body was still fresh in their minds.

Sexuality: To Gabriel’s father heterosexuality was the only acceptable outcome in another person, and any deviation from this norm was to be met with derision and disgust. Perhaps it is thankful then that, for his sins, Gabriel identifies at heterosexual - although he himself takes a far more open-minded view of the Bible’s teachings.

FC change: N/A

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How do you interpret this character’s personality? How will you portray them? Include two weaknesses and two strengths. (2+ paragraphs) [+] Charismatic / The kind of man with a joke and a smile for everyone he meets, he shakes hands with half the town and remembers the names of their children. At the pulpit he is transformed, a booming voice carrying to the back of the church and filling his congregation with the words of the Lord. Back in the city they called him inspirational, in Foxcroft they might just call him crazy. [-] Hypocritical / The face he presents to the world is a generous man with a good heart, but underneath the surface lurks the violence, the late night whiskey and the family who wouldn’t follow him here. He hasn’t yet found the Bible passage to justify that. He goes to great pains to relax his posture and sound jovial, but inside there is a taut string just ready to snap. [+] Ambitious / Once he was a man with a sparkling future ahead of him. The charity work with inner city kids and long days spent feeding the homeless were not insincere, but there is no denying another motive behind them. He dreamed of the day when he would have a leadership position in the church, a chance that was ruined in one dreadful night. [-] Obstinate / His faith is fixed firmly in his mind, and even in the darkest of days he has not wavered from its path. Not every idea might run deeply as his belief, but once his mind is set it is difficult to change - no matter the arguments that go against it.

How did this character react to the death of Hazel Abrams? Adam Foxcroft? (1+ paragraphs) Gabriel arrived in Foxcroft only after the deaths had occurred, so while it was always sad to hear of such tragic events, the loss was never a personal one to him. What he found much more difficult to comprehend was the town’s reaction – in most communities he had lived in people turned to religion for comfort in times like these. If he was not gently rebuffed by those he reached out to though, he was rejected outright with angry sneers. He gained the impression that he was overstepping his mark by so much as mentioning it – he, a stranger, an outsider, and worst of all, a preacher.  Their reaction to him forced him to learn very quickly that the church’s status outside of the town boundaries was not just a geographical quirk, but a very real representation of the resident’s feelings: religion had no place in Foxcroft, and no place in their lives.

How do they see the town and its people? Think about the different groups of people and prejudices the town holds about them. (1+ paragraphs) Gabriel’s experience has taught him to keep an open mind, but since arriving in Foxcroft he has felt as though is constantly on the defence. While only a few have confronted him directly, there is no denying the frowns and cold stares whenever he is in town. Naturally sociable and plagued with the desire to get exactly what he wants, he has found himself frustrated by the unwillingness to let old scars begin to fade. The straggling congregation that arrive in his church every Sunday appear to appreciate his presence,  but for everyone else he represents a centuries old grudge. He plans to counteract this by modelling the good that religion can bring into their lives – to the poor he will be a charitable man, to the rich he will be the reminder of the rewards that come after life. He only hopes he is good enough to be that role model, because he’s beginning to feel like one man trying to turn back the tides.

Please include 1-2 possible plots your see for this character (1 paragraph brief explanation for each) [1] The longer he spends in Foxcroft, the more the isolation and rejection eat away at him. Some days he is driven half crazy with missing his wife, and other days he think it’s much better that she’s far away, unable to see this pathetic thing he has become. In one moment he is scheming ways to convince her he has changed, and the next he is driven back to the bottle, unable to see a way out of his present situation. One thing is for sure though, that he will never find a way to get through to the town if he lets them ostracise them. Every day he makes a point of pulling himself out of bed and driving into Foxcroft, greeting those he knows and meeting those he doesn’t. He wants to be a familiar face that can be counted on, not a figure of hate and mistrust – and once he convinces them, maybe he can convince himself too. [2] Gabriel is painfully aware that in Foxcroft the church has an image problem – to put it mildly. He wants the residents to see it as a place of safety, not the source of the evil that was perpetrated years ago, and to do that he can only begin with the congregation he has. Gradually he has grown more aware of the rumours surrounding Val Pineda, that there was a night when the police were called to the church, although what happened there seems to have been kept a close secret. He can’t even tell if Valerie played the role of perpetrator or victim, but he would like to find out – and assess whether she is an enemy or an ally in his mission.

WRITING SAMPLE

There are two options here, and you only need to complete one.

The morning was spent in a prison. They put his cell phone in a plastic tray and searched his shoes for drugs. He lifted his arms and opened his mouth at all the right times - he had been coming here for so many years by then that it was second nature to him. Through the gates many of the inmates seemed pleased to see him, calling out “Hey, Santos!” and “Pastor, hey, I’ve been praying like you said.” Gabriel greeted them all in turn, “Your wife been out to see you lately, Shaun?” he asked. Shaun had a life setence for shooting two people while he was robbing a grocery store. They said he was the kind of man who would never be rehabilitated.

He ran three chapel services and two group prayer sessions. It was a gruelling day, the tall walls oppressive around him, the requests for his attention constant. “Why don’t you show them the same respect you show me?” he asked an inmate who had been in trouble for arguing with the guards. “You’re not like them Santos, you’re more like one of us.” Gabriel didn’t know what that meant. He supposed it never occurred to the prisoners who slapped him on the back and showed him pictures of their kids that ‘Prison Outreach Service’ was a glowing highlight of his resume.

The afternoon was worse than the morning. His first drink had only been a quick one (the first one always was). In the bar there was no responsibilities except to himself. He was not pastor or husband, no one needed him to do the right thing or have the right answer. He and ten other people watched the game on a TV screen, and all of them could have been anyone at all. The second drink wasn’t as quick as the first, and the third was slower than that.

Hope was waiting when he arrived home, her arms crossed, her jaw clenched. People who have been married a long time come to have a code, a way of talking to each other that can convey hours of built up emotion, years of history and simmering resentment in a few short words. “Third time this week.” She spat out, and Gabriel knew instantly what she meant. When they argued they always started close together, her finger pushed into his chest, his conciliatory hand on her arm. By the end they were far apart, his arms thrown wide as he swore, her watching him from across the room, her face closed and angry.

By the evening he was on a bar stool again, his back rigid and his shoulders tense. He sank into drinking with an intensity he afforded to nothing else in his life, a mechanical motion of glass to mouth. Gone was the feeling of being a face in a crowd, now there was nothing but him, even Hope was lost to him in some far off distant place. There had once been a time of morning kisses and late night talking, but he was beginning to suspect that those people no longer existed. The perfect pastor and the perfect wife. He snorted into his drink. God help me.

“Guess Jesus turned your water into whiskey.” a man Gabriel half knew said with a nasty sneer.

“Fuck off.” Gabriel told him.

“Pathetic.” the guy said with a shake of his head. Gabriel’s temper snapped.

He woke up the next morning in a jail cell, four tall walls with no window. There was still blood on his knuckles, although he had tried to wipe them clean. He remembered nothing except the feeling of his fist connecting with flesh, the horrible realisation that he was going to do it again and he could not stop himself. At the police station they had taken his cell phone and his shoes. He opened his mouth and lifted his arms so they could search him. He wondered if this was what a life sentence felt like.

EXTRA [THIS SECTION WILL NOT INFLUENCE ACCEPTANCE]

How would you feel about this character dying?: I would be comfortable with this.

Why did you choose this character?: I love the religious history that Foxcroft had and I was really interested in a character that explored that. My original idea was actually a very devout character who arrives in Foxcroft with his or her kids and has to deal with the issues of church, but I wanted them to be more morally grey to fit with the general atmosphere of the roleplay.

Extras: (pinterest boards, mock blogs, aesthetic posts, drabbles, etc.)

How did you find us?: (certain roleplay tags, friend referral, etc.) LSRP tag

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