#the only uniting factor among them is that they all look vaguely like someone tried to draw matthew perry from memory

[infestedguest]

Literally the only reason why I haven’t drawn this man more is that I’ve been trying to figure out how exactly I wanna go about it, which is kinda hard considering that not even canon material does it consistently.

#opening cutscene benny looks different from in game benny #and all roads benny looks like a completely different person panel to panel #his hair isn’t even consistent #the only uniting factor among them is that they all look vaguely like someone tried to draw matthew perry from memory #I guess that’s what you get when the most recognizable part of a character design is a piece of clothing lol #my art #fnv #fallout #fallout new vegas #benny gecko #benny fnv #benny new vegas

[overheardatthecontinental]

Kinktober Day 19: Vampire

If Helen was being truthful, which she often tried to be, her new neighbor was… odd. 

For starters, she had never seen him move in. One night, she went to bed and she swore the house was empty but when she woke up and opened her curtains, she could see furniture inside.

He was a night owl in the truest sense of the word. She couldn't remember ever seeing him before the moon rose but he was nowhere to be seen in the morning before work. Even on the weekends, there was no evidence that anyone was in the house save his parked car in the driveway.

After two days, the house was under construction. Every single window was replaced with tinted windows and soon she cannot see into his house. Not that she was spying. Not at all. She was just curious.

Another thing was that damn car. She looked it up and it cost as much as her little house.

That, factored in with the cost of installing tinted windows, he had to have money. Plenty of it. So why was he living in a small cottage in the suburbs?

It takes a week before she actually catches sight of him.

He is tall and dark and handsome and familiar. She knows him, vaguely.

Often, she sees him at the bar she tends in the evening. He’s a bourbon drinker and a fantastic tipper. Quiet though. Most people who drink at the bar come to have someone to talk to. They crave the ear of anyone who will listen, otherwise they’d drink at home.

Not John, though. 

He didn’t even talk to order his drink anymore. She’d see him and pour him the bourbon and he’d murmur a quiet thanks. Often, she didn’t even see him leave. He stayed till just before closing and then he’d disappear into the night.

A few times, she’s seen him standing out near the alley. Always alone.

She waves from her porch and John walks over. 

"Helen." He greets, "how are you?"

"Im well, John. I guess we’re neighbors now."

He lips quirked up in a smile, "Couldn't stand living in the city any longer.”

But knowing who her neighbor was did not make him any less strange.

Yes, John was always polite but it didn’t take away from the strange feeling she always got when she was near. Even at the bar, she got the feeling that she should be wary around the handsome man. The hairs on her neck would stand on end almost in warning.

But it seemed so silly to be nervous. 

She blamed it on the attraction. 

John was a gorgeous guy and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt another’s lips on hers, let alone anywhere else.

Soon, she started seeing him out and around in the neighborhood. It wasn’t all that strange. Of course he would habit the same grocery stores and pharmacies that she did. But she noticed that the grocery cart was nearly always empty. He’d buy a pack of beer or paper plates and the like, but never once did she see him buying food.

He had to eat, she told herself. No man with a physique like that got away without eating.

She saw him at the park, as she walked home from the subway. Again, standing by a tree, not doing anything. He didn’t even have his phone out. He would just stand there, staring into the darkness.

Weird, but not wrong. Certainly not illegal.

He offered her a ride home, one night when it was raining. The subway wasn’t terribly far but the walk from the station to her house was long enough to get her soaked. She accepted, ignoring the hair on her neck and the feeling in her stomach and every other warning her body gave her.

"How long have you worked here?" John asks as they climb into the car.

"Eight years or so? I teach second grade during the day but teaching pays shit and I needed extra money to pay for supplies for my class. And I found I enjoyed tending bar." She buckles and looks over at him, "it's a bit of a hole in the wall. How did you find it?"

His lips twitch, "I used to spend some time there back in the day."

It's Helen's turn to smirk, "you make it sound like you're so old."

"I'm older than I look."

She looks him over, not that she hasn't a hundred times before, whenever he is looking away. He's fucking gorgeous. If she had to guess, she'd place him in his late thirties. Maybe early forties, but only because he had the look in his eyes of someone who had been through a lot. 

In truth, she knows nothing about him but his address and his favored drink.

“You know,” she says as they pull out of the parking lot, “I don't think I have ever asked,  what do you do for a living?”

“Not sure I'd call it a living.” John says and that smirk just grows, “I’m a bit… nomadic. I tend not to stay in one place for too long so I do a lot of independent contracting. A lot of investing.”

It doesn’t feel like a real answer, Helen notes. He’s said a bit but he hasn’t really told her anything and that throws her for a loop. What is he hiding?

But that isn’t the right question to ask aloud so she settles on, “Where else have you lived?”

“I was born in Belarus.”

And again, she is thrown.

He has no distinguishing accent. Nothing that indicates he is from anywhere but the United States. It’s not that uncommon in New York to find people from all over but still…

“I’ve lived in Italy. Mexico. China. Spain. Russia. Canada. France. Most recently, I was in Reykjavik but I always end up coming back to New York.”

Again, her mind is blown. Utterly and completely. And he’s tossing out this information like it’s nothing and it’s completely overwhelming.

She glances out her window, watching the streets go by. She watches a raindrop race down the window as she tries to process all that. She sees herself in the reflection and is utterly underwhelmed.

She’s boring. A school teacher by day, a bartender by night.

She isn’t unattractive but she’s a dime a dozen.

She’s never left the country, not even to go up to Canada.

And she’s sitting next to this quiet man who has seen the fucking world.

She looks past herself in the reflection and her heart skips a beat. She looks for John but cannot see him. She can see herself. In the back, she can see the reflection of the steering wheel, seemingly turning of its own accord. She can see the street behind them but she cannot see John.

She looks over, sharply, and sure enough, he is there. Driving.

Helen settles back into her seat, wondering anew if he can hear her heart racing.

Or if she’s being crazy.

Because she can see the other window. She can see the reflection of herself and of the lights passing by but she sees herself almost as if John isn’t there.

She looks at him and he glances over, almost to unassuming.

Helen swallows and sits back in her seat. “It must be hard.” She says, “Moving to countries where you don’t speak the language.”

“I speak them,” John says.

“Which?”

“All of them. I make it a point to learn the language of everywhere I’ve ever lived.”

“So you speak Russian and Chinese and French and Spanish?”

“Among others.” His words sound like a taunt. They feel like a taunt, although they’re not belittling. Like he’s challenging her. 

Helen can barely breathe.

No. 

She was being crazy. She’d had far too little sleep.

John had a reflection, she just couldn’t see it because she was exhausted.

And there was a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why his house and car had tinted windows and why she had never once seen him during the day.

She had to be exhausted to even be considering…

They pull into John’s driveway and Helen quickly thanks him for the ride before she rushes, nearly running, to her house. She closes the door behind her. And locks it. And the windows. Even the ones she normally leaves open on the second floor, she locks.

And maybe she’s being paranoid but she can’t help it when she sits at her computer and types “vampire” into Google.

She’s being paranoid.

At least, that’s what she keeps telling herself.

.

She stays up half the night researching a mythological creature.

And when she passes out at her computer, she dreams of John in old-fashioned garb. In old cities with cobblestones lining each street.

She dreams of John kissing her, intimately, in an empty hall. His head is buried under layers of fabric, between her thighs driving her utterly wild before she quakes around him. Only then does he move, and only inches, to where his teeth sink into her thigh.

She wakes up in her bed, alone, and gasping for air. 

It felt so real, she checks her thigh for marks and finds none.

In the fresh light of day, she shakes it off. She acknowledges that she was being ridiculous to even consider the possibility that John was a vampire.

Its utterly ridiculous.

But he's not coming out of his house.

She tells herself she's making the cookies as a thank you and not to try to get John out of his house during the daylight. In reality, its both.

They're chocolate chip, because who doesn't like chocolate chip?

She waits for them to cool before stacking them neatly on a plate and covering it with wrap.

He’s home. His car is in the driveway. It’s parked where he let her out last night so she’s fairly certain he hasn’t left since they arrived.

This is ridiculous she thinks again. She’s analyzing his every fucking move and John, for all his weirdness, has never been anything but kind to her. And here she is, acting like he has something to hide just because he’s eccentric.

Another part of her argues that this is just a thank you for said kindness. For saving her getting soaked on her commute. For that unending kindness.

She knocks on the door and waits.

Nothing.

She knocks again and listens intently. It doesn’t sound like anyone is coming.

Because the sun is out.

Or because he’s sleeping.

She tries one last time before she gives up and leaves the cookies on the porch, walking away feeling a bit defeated.

If he had come to the door, she could have assured herself she was being crazy.

But he hadn’t, so now she was feeling paranoid.

She took out a legal pad in her kitchen and sat down.

Side by side she wrote the most ridiculous list she’s ever even considered in her life.

Proof John’s a Vampire:

He’s from fucking Belarus

He spoke way too many languages for any person who lived a human lifespan to pick up. (Or he’s just wicked smart… Or lying?)

Hot as fuck

He doesn’t live in one place for too long (cuz people will notice he doesn’t age!!!!)

He says he’s older than he looks

Says he used to hang out at the bar but I’ve never seen the owner or any of the other bartenders talk to him

I’ve never seen him during the day

TINTED FUCKING WINDOWS. No normal person needs fucking tinted windows

Wealthy but won’t say what he does for a job?

Never seen him eat

Helen banged her head into the table.

Fucking ridiculous.

She was definitely losing her mind. And figuring out whether or not her neighbor was a vampire was not how she wanted to spend her day off, so she left the pad in the kitchen and went to read on the couch. 

Helen relaxed, reveling in the freedom of actually having a day to herself. She did her best to enjoy the time and not think about her attractive, weirdo neighbor.

She made dinner for herself and ate watching the news. When she was finished, she poured a glass of wine and relaxed back to some rerun of a cooking show she hadn’t seen before.

And then there was a knock on the door.

She checks her watch. It’s nearly eight and she certainly doesn’t have friends who would come over this late without sending a text.

Helen climbs to her feet, heart already racing because, of course, it’s after sunset.

Maybe he’s just doing this to fuck with her.

Maybe he’s just been lying and teasing and trying to get into her head like some sort of psycho. That had to be more realistic than the truth, she thinks as she goes over to the door.

She peers out of the look-see and sure enough, John is on her porch.

Does he just wake up and throw on a three-piece? She wonders, opening the door. Granted, he’s technically missing his suit jacket but who wears a dress shirt and a suit vest on a Sunday night? 

“John.”

“I wanted to say thank you for the cookies.”

“You’re very welcome. I hope you enjoyed them.”

The corner of his mouth twists, “Absolutely delicious.” John pauses, “May I come in?”

She feels her eyes widen and hopes that he doesn’t notice but he just fucking asked permission to come inside? That was a thing, right? That vampires need permission to enter houses?

He blinks innocently but it doesn’t feel at all innocent.

“Is everything alright?” John asks, “You look a little… flushed.”

She’s being ridiculous.

Helen shakes her head because John is not a vampire but she might be losing her mind. Maybe she needs to check herself in somewhere... “Of course. Come in.”

John steps through the door and the paranoid part of her wonders if she’s just made a terrible mistake.

John looks around and Helen wonders how she never realized how big John is. He’s tall and, without the jacket, she can see proof muscles on his arms that she had never noticed before.

“You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I truly appreciate the cookies and you thinking of me. You’re very kind.”

“No, thank you. I’ve made that walk in the rain before and it sucks.”

“I was happy to do it. In fact, I’m at the bar most nights. I’m more than happy to stay and give you a ride home on a regular basis.”

“I couldn’t impose.” And you kind of scare the hell out of me, “Can I offer you a drink? I have water, juice, and wine?”

“Wine, if you don’t mind. And it’s no imposition. Like I said, I’m there anyway. And we are neighbors, after all.”

Helen offers a small smile as she turns towards the kitchen.

His words seem nearly laced with honey and it both excites her and kind of disturbs her.

Everything about John, vampire aside, screams dangerous.

And she’s invited him into her home and he’s almost a bit too kind. She doesn’t know what to do with that and it feels like her brain is fighting itself about John.

The logical part of her is telling her to calm the fuck down because John has been nothing but kind. The paranoid part of her is screaming VAMPIRE VAMPIRE VAMPIRE. The primal part of her seems torn between telling her to run as far and as fast as she can because John is dangerous and tearing that stupid suit off of him and jumping him then and there.

Instead, she manages to ask, “What kind of wine do you like?”

“I prefer red.” And it’s such a simple statement but his words tumble out like a taunt that just sets her on edge even more.

Helen goes to the cabinet and pulls down a glass of wine, hands shaking ever so slightly.

She has an open bottle of pinot noir in the fridge and she pours the wine as carefully as she can. It sloshes a bit over the edge and she wipes it with a dishtowel, feeling her cheeks burn even more at the small spillage.

She turns to hand John the glass and nearly drops it at the full-on smirk that graces his stupidly attractive face. She left out the list and John is reading it.

“Hot as fuck, huh?”

And it seems impossible, but her face feels worse than when she has a fever. She’s certain she must be red all over and she has absolutely nothing to stay to it because what can she say? 

I know it’s ridiculous but I thought you were a vampire?

John steps closer, leaving the legal pad behind and he takes the glass from her hand and sets it on the counter behind her. With his other hand, he reaches for her chin and tilts her head up just a bit, forcing her to look into his eyes. 

He whispers, “You really are fucking clever.”

Her eyes widen at the implication because no. No. She was definitely wrong and John was definitely messing with her but he smiles. He really smiles, not just a smirk. He bares his teeth and Helen swallows at the sight of long incisors. 

Fuck.

“You should have trusted your instincts.”

He steps closer and Helen, as a result, steps back and finds herself completely enclosed. She is pressed against the counter, completely enclosed in one of his arms while the other trails down her neck.

She can’t run. She sure as hell doesn’t stand a chance if she tries to fight him. 

“Are you going to kill me?”

John tilts her head upward, “And why,” He bends his own head down, brushing his lips against hers but not kissing her, “would I even think to destroy such a jewel?”

His arm around her tightens and she is hoisted off the ground and into the air. Instinctively, she throws her arms around her neck to keep balanced and John smirks at her, almost victoriously.

Before she can say anything, he is moving impossibly fast. She closes her eyes at the rush of dizziness that fills her at the speed and opens them only as she feels herself falling. Her back hits the bed and she bounces, sucking in a gasp as she does.

And John is on top of her before she can even acknowledge what is happening, the quick turn in events that had her from scared to terrified to, fuck, John is sucking on her neck and she is horny.

A vampire is sucking on her neck.

She hears a wanton moan and, Christ, that must have come from her.

She presses her thighs together as an ache spreads down her body, warming her tummy and sending the blood rushing south.

John’s hands tear the fabric of her cotton shirt into pieces as he rips it clean of her body before doing the same to her bra. She doesn’t even complain as John lowers his head and sucks a nipple into his mouth. He rolls it with his tongue and teases it with his teeth. The fang toys with it, dragging down her breast and the sharpness makes her whine with a sick mix of pain and pleasure. 

And then it sinks into one of her veins and his teasing is suddenly a thing of the past as he sucks and swallows around her tender flesh.

Her hand jumps to his hair and Helen realizes, idly, that she’s encouraging this. Forcing his face against her, not letting him move even as her head feels dizzy.

A large hand slides down her body and into her sunday sweatpants. A finger swipes up her slit, teasing her clit and checking her arousal.

John releases her and quickly slides down her body, ripping her sweats and underwear off with the same vigor that he had done to her shirt. She’s certain they’re destroyed but she doesn’t give a flying fuck.

Not when John is plunging two fingers inside her and curling them just right so that she thrashes and writhes on the bed. John holds down her leg with his spare hand and continues his minstruations as he sinks his teeth into her thigh.

Helen shrieks, but not with pain, as John sucks on her thigh while his fingers dance inside of her. Helen isn’t sure which is more pleasurable, his mouth at her thigh or his fingers inside of her but she knows she has never felt like this. Lightheaded and pleasured and desperate and needy all at once. 

He sucks and swallows while his thumb rubs at her clit and Helen wonders if she’s actually crying because there are tears spilling down her cheeks at the wanton desperation of it all. 

Nothing has ever felt so good. So raw.

He could drain her of all her blood right now and she would probably say thank you so long as he didn’t stop toying with her clit or moving his fingers around inside her. She could definitely die like this and be happy. 

All of the sudden, he pushes up slightly off her thigh. Just as quickly, he descends upon her other, sinking his teeth into the femoral artery. John sucks at her flesh and Helen feels her head spinning all the more. 

Why does dizzy feel so good?

His thumb speeds up along her clit and his fingers roll against the spot inside her that makes her mind melt like cotton candy. Helen comes, crying out in surprise at how quickly John had been able to completely undo her.

She feels him swallowing against her thigh as she writhes beneath him.

He’s brought her pleasure to new heights and he hasn’t even begun undressing.

Helen reaches down and grabs his hair, tugging up.

It’s laughable, really, her attempt at strength in the midst of an orgasm but John acquiesces and releases her thigh from his mouth. Blood dribbles down his chin and she has the sick urge to lick it.

John climbs back up her body. He unfastens his belt, his pants as quickly as he can before pulling himself out.

Helen finds herself licking her lips at the sight of him but it’s quickly taken from her vision as John lays down on top of her body, angling the head of his cock towards her core. With a single roll of hips, he impales her onto his length and Helen finds herself arching her back, keening at the contact.

John bends his head down to her neck and she feels his tongue tease her pulse point before she feels the quick sharp of fangs digging into her throat.

His hips move against her, driving him in and out of her slick heat while he frantically swallows against her neck again and again.

She sees stars and she still isn’t certain what it’s from.

She’s lightheaded and it shows when she tries to lift her leg to wrap around John and she finds she can’t lift it. It barely registers, however, because his hand is between them again. He keeps thrusting, keeps sucking, but now his fingers are teasing and rubbing her clit and a scream escapes her. He feels so fucking good, everywhere, and his expert fingers are bringing her back to that height of pleasure.

John drives into her as deep as he can and Helen, again, feels herself falling further and further, through the stars and into the dark.

She can’t open her eyes but she really can’t bring herself to care.

She can still feel John, pistoning in and out of her and a small rip that sounds like something tearing open. Her head is tilted up and something forces her mouth open and places something against it.

“Good girl,” she can idly hear John whisper to her, “Swallow it down.”

And as he says it, she feels something pouring into her mouth. Salty and rich and warm. It fills her mouth and again, John urges her to swallow.

She does and she hears John’s quiet praises. “Good girl. Keep going. You’re going to be mine forever.”

Helen feels consciousness slip away.

And everything is black.

#kinktober #john wick kinktober #kinktober 2020 #overheard at the continental #incorrect john wick #john wick #john x helen wick #helen wick #helen x john wick #vampire! john wick #vampire keanu reeves #vampire #vampire au

[rhosyn-du]

Title: A Wonderful Institution Artist: @bidnezz​ Pairings: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, various background pairings Word Count: ~53k Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, discrimination against Downworlders, reference to rape, Clave-typical homophobia, implied character death, minor character death Summary: Magnus doesn’t have time for this bullshit. Warlocks are disappearing in New York City—five people in less than three months—and Magnus is determined to find them and protect the rest of his people from whatever took them. He doesn’t have time for politics, and he certainly doesn’t have time for whatever nonsense the Clave is proposing about marrying a Shadowhunter to a Downworlder as part of the new Accords. He doesn’t really have time for a pretty Shadowhunter who’s surprisingly kind to warlock children, either, but, well, he’s always been good at multitasking.

Alec always knew he couldn’t have what he wanted, but he���s spent the nearly four years since the newly-appointed Consul recalled his parents to Idris without explanation making the best of what he can have. When life suddenly offers up almost everything Alec actually wants on a silver platter, he can’t quite bring himself to trust it, especially when it comes with a million caveats and a side of impending disaster. But he knows how to handle disasters, even if the return of the Circle on top of Clave secrets that could destroy the Accords is way beyond the disasters he’s used to fielding. Hope, on the other hand? He doesn’t know what to do with that.

This fic was created for the @malecdiscordserver​​ Mini Bang 2020.

Chapter Four

In the utter silence that descended upon the room, all Alec could hear was his own heartbeat, so loud and so fast he almost thought everyone else in the room should hear it, too. Throughout the entire meeting, he’d felt like there wasn’t enough air in the room for him to breathe, but now it was the opposite, as though his brain were suddenly flooded with too much oxygen, leaving him lightheaded and giddy and vaguely nauseous. When he looked at Magnus, he was surprised to see something like his own shock mirrored back at him.

The silence was broken when the vampire representative muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Dios mio,” at the same time that Maryse demanded, “Is this a joke?”

Alec tore his gaze away from Magnus. “Mother—” he started.

He was interrupted by the werewolf. “We aren't the ones questioning your choice, Shadowhunter. If anyone is treating this like a joke, it's you.”

“No one is treating this like a joke,” Consul Penhallow said, throwing a pointed look at Maryse.

Alec thought his mother might actually argue with the Consul, right here in front of the Downworld representatives, but the Seelie Queen spoke before Maryse could.

“I think it's a lovely match.”

Once again, the room fell into an uncomfortable silence. No one wanted to contradict the Seelie Queen, and seelies couldn't lie, so she meant what she said, but it was more than a little disturbing to have that kind of endorsement. Even Magnus looked uncomfortable, an expression that seemed wholly out of place on his usually self-assured face.

“The Clave will want some time to vet our choice, of course,” the Seelie Queen continued. “As we will to vet yours.”

“Naturally,” Consul Penhallow agreed. “We’ll be in touch by fire message by the end of the week, which should keep us on track to sign the updated Accords at the next new moon, as planned.”

“Indeed,” Magnus said. “We’ll be in touch, as well.” His eyes flickered to Alec for an instant, gaze full of meaning Alec couldn't decipher, then just as quickly back to Consul Penhallow, who met his polite smile with one of her own.

It dawned on Alec that they were talking like this was something that might actually happen, like he might actually marry Magnus. It wouldn't happen, of course. He knew the Clave would never let him marry a man, politics or not. They would find some reason to object to Magnus, and the Downworld would choose someone else—a woman—for him to marry. And even though that was what he'd spent the last several months expecting, what he'd chosen, the idea was suddenly alien and wrong.

Or, he realized, the Downworlders might find some reason to object to him. The brief flicker of hope that thought sparked died instantly when he realized that meant the Clave would choose another Shadowhunter to marry Magnus. That didn’t even bear thinking about.

He was pulled from his racing thoughts by his mother's hand on his arm. He must have missed the closing of the meeting, because the Downworld representatives were filing out of the room. Alec tried to catch Magnus's eye, but he seemed engrossed in a quiet yet intense conversation with the vampire.

“We’ll fix this,” Maryse promised him in a low voice. “I'm sure you understand now why your father and I were so concerned when you volunteered. But I'll talk to Consul Penhallow. I'll talk to the whole Council. No one is going to make you marry that—” her face twisted in disgust “—that warlock.”

“There's nothing to fix,” Alec replied evenly. “The Downworlders chose their representative just like the Clave did, and maybe Magnus isn't who any of us expected, but you don't have to make a scene just because you were expecting a woman.”

Maryse stared at him. “I was expecting a werewolf. Maybe a seelie. I wasn't expecting a warlock. I wasn't expecting Magnus Bane.”

For the first time, it occurred to Alec that his parents must know Magnus, at least in passing. According to the Clave’s file, he’d been High Warlock of Brooklyn the entire time Robert and Maryse had been Heads of the New York Institute, which would have given them ample opportunity to run into each other.

“What do you have against Magnus?” Alec regretted the question as soon as the words left his mouth. 

“Magnus Bane has something of reputation,” Robert said, stepping up to stand beside his wife. It was the first time in the years since they’d been recalled to Alicante that Alec had seen his parents present such a united front. “Even for a warlock, he’s a bit of a lothario. Alec, there is so much you don’t know about him.”

“All of which,” Consul Penhallow interrupted with a tight smile, “the Council will take into consideration during the vetting process.”

Alec’s breath caught in his throat. That almost sounded like…

“You can’t honestly be considering this,” Maryse said, echoing Alec’s thoughts, if not the sentiment behind them.

“There will be plenty of time for you to make your objections in an official capacity when we return to Alicante,” Consul Penhallow told her. “Right now, I need to speak with Alec.”

It was a clear dismissal, and although Maryse looked like she wanted to argue, she turned and stalked from the room, Robert trailing after her.

Alec turned to the Consul and found himself caught in Jia Penhallow’s unwavering gaze. Despite being more than half a foot shorter than he was, she had the uncanny ability to make Alec feel small in a way that few other people could.

“What are your thoughts on this, Mr. Lightwood?” the Consul asked.

It was a good question, and not one he was in any way prepared to answer. Alec chose his words carefully. “My reasons for volunteering for this union remain unchanged, Consul. Who the Downworlders choose to represent their end has never factored into it.” He was starting to think that maybe it should have.

Consul Penhallow’s mouth twitched in what Alec though might have been amusement. “Good answer, but not what I was getting at. The Council needs to vet the Downworld’s choice. Magnus Bane is the High Warlock of Brooklyn. You’ve been running the New York Institute for over three years. Surely, you must have some opinions on the man.”

Alec didn’t know whether he was more surprised that Consul Penhallow truly seemed to think the Council would seriously consider him and Magnus getting married (and, oh, he could not think about that right now), or that she’d referred to him running the Institute. She, along with the rest of the Council, usually at least pretended like his parents still ran things here.

“I, uh.” He faked a cough to give himself a few more seconds to formulate a coherent response. “I only met Mr. Bane recently, but I’ve worked with him a couple times, and I found him to be—” fascinating, beautiful, breathtaking “—very easy to work with.”

Consul Penhallow’s face remained impassive save for her eyebrows, which raised nearly to her hairline. “I’ve heard Magnus Bane described in many ways by many people,” she told him, “but I believe this is the first time I’ve ever heard him described as easy to work with.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Alec said with a shrug.

Consul Penhallow gave him a long look. “It’s not often I find myself agreeing with a Downworlder, but perhaps the Seelie Queen had a point.”

With great effort, Alec managed to force the question he’d been wanting to ask past the cacophony of butterflies in his stomach. “Do you think there’s really a chance the Council might approve Magnus?”

“I don’t know,” Consul Penhallow said. “It’s certainly an unconventional match, and there are plenty of people who will oppose it for that reason alone, but Magnus Bane is surprisingly well-respected among Downworlders, which makes him a particularly good choice symbolically. He’s the High Warlock of Brooklyn and you’re Acting Head of the New York Institute, which has a certain symmetry. And from everything I’ve seen, you’re at least as stubborn as your mother, which makes you less likely than most to be influenced or corrupted by someone like Bane.” She gave him a resigned shrug. “It’s really a shame neither of you is a woman, or I think even a few skeptics of this whole endeavor might be convinced.”

Alec didn’t know how to respond to any of that—wasn’t, in all honesty, sure he remembered how to breathe properly—so he simply nodded.

“Thank you for your input,” Consul Penhallow said. “I’ll be sure to relay it to the rest of the Council. We’ll send you a fire message when we’ve made our decision.”

And with that, Alec was left alone in the empty room. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, trying to pull his thoughts into some kind of coherent order, but the click of approaching heels snapped him out of it.

He looked up, expecting his mother had returned to give him another lecture on what a terrible idea this was, but it was Izzy who stepped into the room, followed by Jace.

“Alec, what happened?” Izzy asked. “Mom came out of that meeting looking like she was about to stab someone.”

“She, uh.” He swallowed down what he was sure was the beginning of a hysterical laugh. If he let it out, he thought he might never stop. “She doesn't approve of who the Downworlders want me to marry.”

“Whoever they chose, she can't be as bad as all that,” Jace said. “Not unless you think they're trying to sabotage the Accords.”

“Do you approve, Alec?” Izzy wanted to know.

“I don't think it's sabotage,” Alec answered, ignoring his sister's question. He wasn't even sure he knew the answer.

He liked Magnus, so of course he didn't disapprove the way his parents did. But he'd volunteered for this marriage assuming whoever the Downworlders choose, she'd be entirely the wrong gender for attraction to even enter into it. Instead, they'd chosen Magnus, a man Alec hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since they met. And he'd let himself think about Magnus, because Magnus could never be anything more to him than a seductive fantasy, not when he was about to get married. Except, now he was maybe marrying Magnus, and he didn't know what to do with that at all.

“Then what is it?” Jace asked, and Alec knew he was as much asking what had Alec in a state of near panic as he was about Maryse's reaction. Alec could only imagine what Jace was probably feeling through their parabatai bond right now.

“Magnus,” Alec said, and he was proud of how steady his voice sounded. “The Downworlders want me to marry Magnus.”

Jace and Izzy exchanged a look, then Izzy asked cautiously, “Do you want to tell us about it?”

“No.” That, at least, Alec had a definitive answer for.

“Cool,” Jace said, pushing himself off the wall he'd been leaning against. “Then you can come spar with me.”

“Oh, Alec gets an invitation to spar, but not me, huh?” Izzy said.

Jace flashed her his signature cocky grin. “I just thought getting knocked on his ass a few times might distract Alec from his problems, but you're welcome to come get knocked on your ass, too.”

And just like that, Alec's world made sense again, at least this tiny part of it.

“Yeah, we'll see if you're still smirking like that when I wipe the floor with you,” Alec said, falling comfortably into the familiar banter as he followed Jace toward the training room.

“Please,” Izzy scoffed. “You know I'm going to kick both your asses.”

Cocktail night that week was moved to Magnus’s loft, nominally because Catarina needed to be somewhere quiet enough she’d hear her phone if whoever was watching Madzie needed to get in touch with her, but Magnus suspected it was really because his friends wanted to lecture him about making questionable life choices, and were just kind enough not to do so in public. He’d already gotten an earful from Raphael after the meeting with the Clave.

“I’m more shocked that everyone went along with it than anything else,” Catarina said after Magnus finished giving her a very abbreviated recap of how, exactly, he’d come to be tentatively engaged to a Shadowhunter.

“I foolishly assumed he had a good reason,” Raphael told her. “In retrospect, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I had a good reason,” Magnus objected.

“‘He has pretty eyes and I had three glasses of whiskey’ is not a good reason.”

Magnus glared at him. “I never said anything about Alexander’s eyes.”

Magnus would, he was sure, have done a better job of defending himself if his wards hadn’t alerted him to the arrival of another person. The only person, in fact, who currently had access to pass through Magnus’s wards without express invitation, precisely because he never, ever showed up unannounced. At least he never had before.

“What,” Ragnor’s voice rang through the loft, “is this absolute nonsense I hear about you marrying a Lightwood?”

Magnus blinked at him in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s cocktail night,” Ragnor answered, reaching into Magnus’s liquor cabinet to retrieve the bottle of Laphroaig he knew would be there. “And I heard through the grapevine that you could use your friends’ support at the moment. As well as a bit of gentle mockery.”

“I did not say gentle,” Raphael protested.

Glass of scotch in hand, Ragnor settled onto the chair across from Magnus. “I've heard Raphael's version of events. Would you care to give me yours?”

“Don't listen to Raphael,” Magnus said. “It had nothing to do with Alexander's pretty eyes.”

Ragnor glanced at Catarina. “How many drinks has he had?”

“Just the one since I got here.”

“I'm not drunk,” Magnus told them irritably. “I'm just thinking.”

“It's about time you tried that,” Raphael said.

Magnus ignored him. “I sincerely doubt the Clave's prejudices will allow them to even consider a marriage between two men, but if they're serious about this marriage of politics, which they appear to be, then they’re going to want to reject me in the least insulting way possible.”

“Do Shadowhunters even know how to not be insulting when talking to a Downworlder?” Catarina wondered.

“No,” Magnus said. “Which means it will probably take them a few days to come up with something, and that means I have time.”

“Time for what, exactly?” asked Ragnor.

“To convince Alexander that he doesn't want to go through with this marriage.”

There were a couple beats of silence before Raphael said, “I take it back. Stop thinking. You're doing it wrong.”

“What if you're wrong?” Catarina asked. “The Clave is already overlooking their prejudices insisting one of their own marry a Downworlder. What if this is important enough to them that they overlook other prejudices, as well? Then you'll be stuck trying to find a way out of this without jeopardizing the Accords.”

“Even if I'm wrong about the Clave, there's still the Lightwoods to consider. There's no way Maryse Lightwood is letting me marry her son.”

“Just so I'm clear on the plan,” Ragnor said, “you decided on the spur of the moment to volunteer to marry a man with pretty eyes so you would have time to convince him not to get married at all?”

“Well, it sounds ridiculous when you say it like that,” Magnus said. “But in my defense, I was three drinks in when I came up with this plan.” He sighed. “And he looked so sad and so scared underneath it all, and I couldn't just let it happen.”

“Magnus,” Ragnor said softly. It was his serious and concerned voice. Magnus was not prepared for Ragnor to be serious and concerned. “Are you in love with this nephilim?”

Magnus gave him a sharp look. “Don't be ridiculous. I've met him a grand total of three times.” He stared down into the dregs of his old fashioned. “I think maybe I could love him, though.”

Ragnor sighed. “You certainly do know how to make things difficult for yourself, old friend.”

“Have you thought about what you're going to say to him?” Raphael asked, and Magnus didn't know whether to be grateful or annoyed that Raphael finally had non-insult-based input.

“I’ve thought of a number of things to say to him, none of them actually helpful.”

“So, you decided to spend your time sitting at home drinking, instead?” Catarina asked.

Magnus glared at her, and she held up a placating hand. “Just trying to understand the plan, here.”

Magnus was saved from having to try to explain the plan that he didn’t actually have by the arrival of a fire message.

“Ah,” he said, “someone must require the assistance of the High Warlock. Since, you know, some people actually appreciate me and don’t spend their time mocking my misery.”

“Their loss,” Raphael muttered.

“There’s no need to be bitter just because some of us…” Magnus trailed off as he read the contents of the message.

Something must have shown on his face, because all three of his friends went from relaxed to alert in less than a heartbeat.

“What is it?” Catarina asked. “Another disappearance?”

Magnus shook his head. “It’s from the Spiral Council,” he answered faintly. “The Clave sent word that they’ve finished their vetting process. They have no objections to me.”

It made Magnus feel only slightly better that his friends all looked as stunned as he felt.

The shocked silence was broken by the loud ringing of electronic wind chimes.

“That’s my babysitter,” Catarina said, reaching for her phone. “I’m sorry, Magnus, but I have to go.”

“Go,” he told her. “Take care of Madzie. I’ll be fine.”

Catarina gave him an apologetic smile and a quick hug before rushing out the door.

“Well,” Ragnor said with forced cheer, “I think this calls for another round of drinks, don’t you?”

“Just hand me the bottle,” Magnus said.

“Before you get too much farther into your drunken binge,” Raphael said, “there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Talk fast,” Magnus told him, taking a swig of bourbon straight from the bottle to emphasize his point.

“The missing warlocks you’ve been looking for,” Raphael said. “I think there might be a few night children missing, too.”

“Might be?” Magnus asked, setting the bottle down.

Raphael shook his head. “You know how Camille is. I asked her about a couple people I haven’t seen around lately, and she told me she’s sure they’re around somewhere.”

“Which could mean she’s actually seen them recently,” Magnus said, “or that she has them off doing something for her.

“Or that they actually are missing, and she just doesn’t care,” Raphael finished the thought.

Magnus glared at the bottle he’d set on the table. He was going to have to talk to Camille about this. He really didn’t want to talk to Camille. He wanted even less to do it sober, but this required his actual attention.

He turned his glare on Raphael. “I was really looking forward to getting exceptionally drunk, you know.”

Raphael put a hand on his shoulder. “I was really looking forward to you pulling your head out of your ass and deciding a pretty-eyed Shadowhunter wasn’t worth all this trouble. I guess we can be disappointed together.”

Alec was not panicking. He was letting a six-year-old teach him how to fold a paper frog (a little awkward, since she was using magic to do it, and he wasn’t) and ignoring the text his mother had sent him (which promised a much, much longer conversation in person) and not thinking at all about the fact that Clave really did want him to marry Magnus (which was almost everything he’d ever wanted except not at all, oh god) and he was. Not. Panicking.

“No, like this,” Madzie said, unfolding and refolding her paper.

Alec tried again. His paper did not look like a frog. Maybe a little like one of those tiny, smush-faced dogs, if he tilted his head, but not a frog. He was not panicking.

They both turned at the sound of a portal opening, and Madzie jumped to her feet to greet Catarina with a hug. It was hard to believe she was the same timid girl Alec had met only a week ago.

“Thanks for coming back early,” Alec said. “I hope I didn’t ruin your night. I just— Something came up.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Catarina told him, ruffling Madzie’s hair. “Nurse, remember? I know what it’s like to have something unexpected come up that needs your immediate attention.”

“Right.” Alec turned to Madzie. “I’m sorry I can’t stay and play longer, but I’ll practice my frogs so I can make better ones next time.”

“Okay,” Madzie agreed. “And if you make bad frogs even after you practice, I can share my frogs.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Alec told her, grabbing his jacket off the back of the couch.

“You want a portal back to the Institute?” Catarina offered.

Alec shook his head. “Thanks, but I could use the walk.”

Putting off the conversation his mother was sure to expect as soon as he arrived sounded like a fantastic idea. Along with the conversation Izzy was no doubt planning to spring on him. Alec loved his family more than anything, but sometimes they were more than he could handle, and this thing with Magnus… It was confusing enough without his mother and sister in the middle of it.

“Hey,” Alec said, pausing with his jacket halfway on as something occurred to him. “You know Magnus, right? Like, personally?”

Catarina’s expression was carefully neutral when she answered, “Magnus is one of my oldest and dearest friends.”

“Right,” Alec said, finally remembering to pull the jacket over his other arm. “Okay. I don’t know if he mentioned— Or maybe you just heard? But we’re sort of—”

“I was having drinks with Magnus when you texted me,” Catarina interrupted him. “I take it you got a similar message to the one he received this evening?”

“Yes,” Alec said, letting out a relieved breath. He didn’t know why finding the words to talk about this was so difficult, but he was glad he didn’t have to explain the entire situation. “And I was thinking it might be a good idea for me and Magnus to talk. Not through official channels. But it would be rude to just show up at his loft, and a fire message seems a little too impersonal, but I was thinking maybe you could give him my number and tell him he can call if he wants to, you know, talk. About things.”

Alec winced internally. That was a whole lot of rambling, but he thought it got the point across, at least.

Catarina stared at him for a long moment, then held out her hand. “Give me your phone.”

“Why?” Alec asked, handing over his phone anyway.

“So I can give you Magnus’s number,” she said, opening his contacts. “I love Magnus dearly, and I like you a whole lot better than I do most Shadowhunters, but I am not going to pass messages for the two of you.” She handed him his phone. 

“Thank you,” he said, pocketing the phone.

As soon as he was outside, Alec texted Jace.

On my way back to the Institute. If you can find an important and time-sensitive mission that needs my attention before I get there, I will owe you a lot.

Jace answered immediately. How much is a lot? Then, seconds later, JK, I’ve got you, buddy. We’ve actually got one of those already. I’ll tell Iz to get ready, and we can head out when you get back.

Thank you, Alec wrote back. You are the best parabatai.

He was putting his phone away when he received a final message from Jace. I know.

The prospect of spending the rest of the night on an actual mission instead of dancing around conversations he wasn’t even ready to think about, let alone actually have cheered Alec considerably, and he made it back to the Institute in much less time than he’d originally planned.

Jace met him at the entrance. “Izzy’s still getting dressed, but if you can get her to hurry, we can get out of here before Maryse gets off her call to Alicante.”

“Do you know what the call is about?” Alec wanted to know.

“No idea, but she closed herself up in the office to take it.”

As curious as he was about what his mother was up to, Alec didn’t want to risk actually having to talk to her right now. Thankfully, Izzy didn’t need much hurrying, as she met him in the hallway halfway between her room and the ops center.

“Really?” Alec couldn’t help asking as he took in the white wig slung over Izzy’s hand.

“Don’t change the subject,” Izzy said. “And anyway, demons dig blondes.”

“That’s white, and you can’t change the subject at the beginning of a conversation.”

“Glad you agree,” Izzy said, twirling the wig around one finger. “Mom told me you heard back from the Clave.”

“She told you,” Alec repeated.

“Okay,” Izzy admitted, “I might have been in the room when she was telling Consul Penhallow exactly what a terrible idea this is, but Alec,” she grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop, “I want to know what you think about it.”

“I think we have a mission,” he said shaking off her hand and striding into the ops center. “Jace, we’re ready.”

“Nice choice, Izzy,” Jace commented, taking in her outfit. “Demons dig blondes.”

“Told you,” Izzy said smugly.

“Am I the only person who knows the difference between blonde and white?” Alec wondered aloud.

“All right, guys,” Jace began. “For some reason, our demon friends are killing mundanes and draining their blood.”

“Why do they want blood?” Alec asked. “Wait, do you think these could be the same demons who are taking warlocks? Or are we dealing with multiple hordes of hunting demons?”

“If they are the same demons, the MO is totally different,” Jace said, walking to the weapons rack and pulling out seraph blades for each of them. “These demons are leaving drained mundane bodies lying around left and right.”

“There must be something special about the blood,” Izzy guessed, taking one of the blades.

“What could be special about mundane blood?” Alec wondered.

“You get me a sample, and I’ll tell you exactly what they’re looking for,” Izzy promised.

Alec supposed it was as good a place to start as any.

#malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #fanfic

[brokasteltranslations]

Fate/Requiem: Chapter 1

Once upon a time, there was a great war. It happened long ago, before I was born. And then it ended, and the world entered an age of peace.

–

In the modern era, each and every person held within their heart a tiny Holy Grail, which was nothing more or less than that person's preordained destiny. And each and every person was capable of summoning a Servant allotted them by fate, in accordance with the guidance of the Grail.

Servants were an information resource by nature, accumulated throughout human history. Their souls were enshrined in the Throne of Heroes, a place which transcended the bounds of space and time. By 'downloading' them from this Throne, it was possible to manifest them in our world.

–

The shape of the world changed greatly after the war. This town was born anew - reorganised into city units, known collectively as Mosaic City. Among them was Akihabara, the Maritime City, which I called home. Sea levels had risen dramatically as a result of global warming, and now the city quite literally bordered on the ocean. The Kanda river's name was nothing more than a vestige of the pre-war era; in reality, it was nothing more than a canal through which sea water flowed.

–

This town was watched over by the Holy Grail, and not a day went by when its citizens did not partake of its bounties. Those survivors from before the war had been given the opportunity to obtain a Grail upon its conclusion, while those young enough to have been born after the war, like Karin, possessed one within their hearts from birth.

The Grail had brought immortality to the masses. The principal causes of death in the old world – biological factors such as ageing, genetic degradation, infectious diseases, viruses and malignant cancers – had all been conquered. By expending Command Seals, one could even manipulate their biological age. In this city, one of humanity's oldest, dearest wishes – eternal youth – had been realised.

–

But I was different. I alone stood apart. I was the only citizen of this city who had not been granted a Holy Grail. I had been born into this new world, but I would age naturally – and, eventually, die – with all the senselessness characteristic of the old. An irregularity, born outside of the sight of the Grail. That was what I was – me, Utsumi Erice.

With no Holy Grail, I had no Servant to contract with as my partner. Every once in a while, someone would be unable to stifle the urge to ask me how that felt. If it were up to me, I would laugh at them, and tell them that they'd never understand even if I tried to explain – but I'd been chided no small number of times by my master for that. You would be remiss to be callous in your interaction with your social environment, if you wish to live peacefully in this new world.

So, for lack of anything else to say, I answered them like this:

“Imagine you were incredibly short-sighted, to the point where you could hardly see, but you were told you weren't allowed to wear glasses.”

“Imagine being told you had to travel somewhere on foot, while everyone else was allowed to use trains and buses.”

“Imagine going somewhere you've never been before, only to find that the navigation app on your smartphone was an unusable piece of junk.”

The question I had by far the most trouble with was the question of how I survived day-to-day life without Command Seals, which were one of the bounties of the Grail. On that point, no matter how thoroughly I tried to explain, most other people seemed to struggle to understand my situation any more than vaguely, and ultimately had no interest anyway. That was the ideal response, as far as I was concerned. I could find no fault with that.

There were also those who genuinely understood, and responded with exaggerated surprise and sympathy. Some would offer me the usage of their own Command Seals, assuring me with fawning pity that I could come to them if there was ever anything they could do for me. There were even a few so selflessly empathetic that they claimed to truly want to trade places with me – although always with some condition attached, by which they could return things to normal if they so pleased.

Every such encounter reminded me anew that I was nothing more than an amusement to them. A means of flattering their own altruistic sensibilities, and of relieving their boredom for a little while.

Akihabara was a labyrinth in three dimensions, not just two. In a block nestled a comfortable distance from the downtown area on the middle stratum, bordering a natural public park, stood a multi-storey building housing a collection of public service facilities. Contained on one floor of this building was the classroom I frequented.

I had arrived slightly late for the start time, and hurriedly took my seat. The wide, fan-shaped room was almost devoid of students. This was decidedly not a facility for compulsory education; it was offered the people at large educational lecture courses aimed at fostering lifelong learning. Citizens of all ages took the course, and attending every single lecture was virtually unheard-of. Consequently, I was known as something of an eccentric.

The people here knew nothing of the battle of immortals that occurred last night. Those kinds of incidents never made the news.

–

Well then – it was time for Pre-War Human History.

That was the name of the course I was taking. Unfortunately, it could hardly have been called the most popular subject. The content of the lectures was much closer to trivia than education. The main goal of Pre-War Human History comprised learning about the human race's greatest triumphs and blunders in the world of the past. It was...well, to put it bluntly, dry.

In the first place, Akihabara was Mosaic City's premier resort. Students who were sincerely striving to learn, or families concerned with the proper education of their children, would simply up and leave for another district. I had an inclination that this space only really existed to entertain the interests of the lecturer at the front of the hall – my master, Ms. Fujimura.

–

Oh, it looks like that girl's here again.

I cast a quick glance out over the lecture theatre from my usual perch at the back. A small, familiar figure was sat in the very front row, concentrating intently on the lecture. She had come again today. As a rule, I never saw students younger than myself attending these lectures, so she had stuck in my memory. She was a pale child, short in stature, and perhaps old enough to be at the upper end of elementary school. Her voice and attitude during the occasions that she posed questions to the lecturer had given me the impression that she was female, but there was no guarantee. All kinds of people lived in this city.

Her had was invariably pulled down low over her head, and her eyes were covered by her bangs, so I hadn't ever seen her face clearly. I had never engaged her in conversation, and I didn't even know her name. She appeared in lectures once a month or so; I felt a distinct disconnect between her keen attitude in lectures and her abysmal attendance rate.

Today, her standing record for youngest lecture attendee had been broken. The new champion was none other than my companion: the stray Servant I had taken in last night, the golden-haired child. He was at least sitting in his seat for now without making a fuss, but he was fidgeting constantly - rocking his body to and fro, and sometimes lying down as though trying to savour the feeling of the cool wood of the chair. Or so I was thinking, before he suddenly turned to peer into my face, obstructing my view of my tablet.

“You think you're a cat or something?”

“...Ca-...cat?”

“Maybe you're more of a dog, huh. Your hair's all floofy.”

“Dog?”

“Yeah, a dog. You know, woof-woof.”

“I know dogs.”

“Oh, really? Well, I'm glad for y- what the hell do you think you're doing!?”

He had scrambled up onto the seat of his chair, planted both hands on the desk and begun to howl, loud and proud.

Awooooo! Ow-ow-owooo! Awoooooo!

He finished his surprisingly accurate rendition, flashing a beaming smile. I sat for a moment in silent astonishment – and might perhaps have thought for a moment that it was a little endearing, although this really wasn't the time for that.

“Hey, stop that! Get down from there!”

Give me a break. I was just about to give you credit for at least not being as loud as Karin, and you go and pull this. The other attendees were turning back to look at us now, searching for the source of the noise.

“I'm sorry. We'll be quiet. I'm really sorry.”

My master had stopped giving her lecture, and was cocking her head at us. The girl in the front row was looking too. If looks could kill, the glare boring into me from beneath her bangs would have dropped me stone dead. Although I couldn't exactly blame her for getting annoyed at someone bringing this commotion into a class.

Yes miss I'm so terribly sorry I won't do it again...ugh, what did I do to deserve this...

I had no way of knowing how to handle a young child like this boy in the first place – but that said, I also couldn't possible have left him behind in my apartment by himself. And I had thought to myself that I might learn something about him if I brought him here with me.

“Don't dogs say “bow-wow” in English, anyway?”

“Boh-roh.”

“Not even close. Must be nice to be able to mimic things like that, huh...”

Ohh boy. Starting to get the feeling I'm not going to be learning much from today's lecture...

I rested my head on my hand and pouted. Gazing idly at the young boy's angelic face out of the corner of my eye, I cast my mind back through my memories of my baptism last night.

It had happened on the previous evening, after I had been fished from the riverbed by Karin and Kouyou on the wharf. To cut a long story short, I decided to take the boy back to my apartment and put him up for the night, still none the wiser about who he was or where he had come from.

–

I had been living on my own ever since parting ways with my grandmother.

In a quiet corner of Akihabara, there was a small, depopulated district that most people avoided. Before the war, it had comprised a collection of multi-purpose buildings crammed to bursting with shops, but they had all been abandoned after the Grail's large-scale restructuring of the city. My apartment consisted of a room in one such building.

The inside of the room was decorated in Victorian style. Every inch of floor was covered by wooden floorboards, and its antique interior had been preserved unaltered. Apparently, it had originally housed some kind of dubious culinary establishment known as a “maid cafe”.

–

My apartment wasn't exactly designed for ease of living, but it was furnished with a proper bathroom and bedroom, and was more than sufficient for one person to live in comfortably. It even had a veranda, albeit a small one. From the window of my bedroom I could gaze out over a small vertical slice of ocean hemmed in by the surrounding buildings.

–

My opportunities to invite another person back to this humble abode were rare. Considering my job, the risks involved in freely letting others know where I lived were far too high. The only reason I had brought this child back with me was that it would have been too irresponsible to leave him to his own devices. I didn't even know who his contractor was; to have allowed him to freely roam the town would have been unthinkable.

He might have manifested in the form of an innocent child, but that only set me more on edge. I had allowed myself to be disarmed by a target's outward appearance before, on a previous job, and had made a grave mistake because of it. A Servant I had believed nothing more than an angelic young child - like purity itself sculpted in alabaster - had harboured a terrible darkness. The Avenger, Louis XVII. The incident that arose around that particular monstrosity had ultimately claimed not only the life of his Master, but those of a great number of innocents as well.

At the time, I had not yet fully graduated from childhood. Louis and I had been similar in stature, and I had thought we could have been good friends. In the end, however, my friendship and goodwill had been used and turned against me. That incident was not one I would forget easily.

–

There was another reason that I had brought this stray child back with me: I had been driven to my wits' end in another sense. Frankly speaking, I could not take it any more: the rank stench that permeated the both of us had become unbearable, and I could not bear to go another minute without washing it off.

The culprit was the oil slick near the quay that I'd had the ill fortune to be dragged through when I was fished out of the Kanda river. Petroleum-based waste oil, that had leaked from one of the boats moored in the harbour. I had hardly had the time to worry about such things immediately after being deposited on the wharf, but now that I had returned to my senses the discomfort was driving me to distraction. Pouring water over myself or wiping myself down with paper towels would do nothing to remove this - I needed a proper bath.

I had been stopped by a worried Karin when I had tried to totter my way home, still bearing a serious wound that I had no right to have recovered from so quickly. She had only seen me off after I had explained about the charms and such that I kept in my house. She was easygoing like that.

I had tried to invite her to stay the night here, but she had breezily turned me down, saying that she had a friend in the vicinity who would put her up for the night. Karin's social connections remained as much a mystery to me as ever. Although she had given me a rueful smile, saying that her family would be angry with her for returning home the following morning.

–

In any case, I had finally returned home, and could allow myself to relax a little. I looked the boy over once more, this time with the aid of my apartment's artificial lights.

“Hold on. Hey, no, wait, wait, wait! Don't just go right in! Just stand here for a minute.”

I grabbed him by his sodden scarf and yanked him back, prompting a visible sulk.

“Uh...sorry.”

So he did possess emotions, and the capacity to appeal to them. That would be useful, at least.

Both of us looked ridiculous, soaked from head to toe and glistening with oil. I was at least wearing swimwear and a windbreaker in place of my ordinary clothes, but his lot was a much more miserable one. I could feel my memories of the unearthly spectacle I had witnessed below the surface of the water growing more distant by the minute.

Alll-righty. I pulled myself together, and sank to one knee in the entranceway, looking over this child once more from top to toe.

He at least appeared to be eight, maybe nine years old. He was Caucasian, with the pale features particular to Scandinavian climes - although given that Servants were as much concept as they were genetics, any attempt to determine their race was close to meaningless. His hair was a pale blonde, almost white, and it had been left to grow freely.

His scarf was sodden, and hung limp around his neck. Or maybe it was a muffler? Well, it wasn't as though it mattered. It was composed of fabric knitted from some strange, gaudy material – it was hard to say if it was actual gold, or just extremely intricate needlework. His clothing looked to be made of cotton, and had a simple design, reminiscent of a Greek-style tunic. He had a small embroidered design on his chest, which I made a note of as a potentially important clue.

His belt and shoes were made of the same material as his scarf. The heels of the latter had a strange design; they were tapered towards the back, like spurs used for riding horses. I could have taken that as an indication that in life he had been some sort of knight – but nothing else about him gave that impression. He's nothing like any other Saber or Rider-class Servants I've seen.

His pale blue eyes stared back at me questioningly as I scrutinised him. I was seized by a sudden rush of curiosity.

“Hey. Do you think you could tell me where you came from?”

He smoothly lifted an arm to point towards the ceiling.

“From the sky? From Heaven? You don't mean from the moon, do you?”

He shook his head at all of them.

“I've come...from somewhere very far away.”

“All Servants have.”

“...Really?” He must have found something amusing, because his face blossomed into a smile, and he giggled. I was relieved at the unexpected ease with which I was able to communicate with him, although it seemed like he was still struggling to understand what I was saying.

His first words had been in halting English, but from the way he had appeared to be listening in on the conversation between me and Karin I would venture that he at least understood our language. If he was a Servant who had been summoned legitimately, he would have been granted a bare minimum level of common knowledge about the modern era by the Grail, as well as the linguistic capabilities necessary to express himself to others naturally. However, now that I was trying to determine his true name, that was only serving to impede my search.

As I questioned him, I produced a pair of scissors and carefully snipped a five-millimetre length of thread from the back of his tunic, which I deposited in a zip-lock sample bag.

“Would you mind letting me take one of your hairs as well?”

It looked like he was giving me the ok. He did as I asked, without resisting, and as I did he asked me a question.

“Have you come from somewhere far away like me, Eri?”

“Don't call me that. Did you get that from Karin? Alright, listen here. I'm not “Eri”, I'm not “Old man Eri”, and I'm not “Eri-pie”. I'm Erice. Utsumi Erice.”

“Hmm.”

He remained staring at me, giving me no indication whether or not he'd understood. His reaction was a little dispiriting, but I continued anyway. If I kept talking, I might be able to glean something.

“It's not all that far away, really. I was born in Shinjuku. I'm fourteen now, so I guess you could call me a middle schooler, but I don't usually go to school anyway.”

“What's a 'school'?”

“A school is...it's where you go to learn. It's a big building where lots of children all go. Or at least, that's what I hear it was like before the war. They've changed a lot since then.”

“You don't go to school, Eri?”

“I told you to call me Erice. And I don't need to. I'm passing my academic evaluations, and I'm getting the credits I need from extracurricular courses. And I show up for health inspections and such.”

“You don't want to go to school, do you?”

I grit my teeth. He'd hit the nail on the head. He was annoyingly good at that.

“It's...not a matter of whether I want to go or not. I...I have more important things to do.”

“You're alone.” He cocked his head, and then broke out into another smile. “Just like me.”

I suppressed my irritation silently as I tapped at my tablet. I was trying a search for the symbol embroidered on his chest, but nothing was coming up. Just in case, I tried accessing the city network, but no-one had registered any missing Servants - although it wasn't as though that was a frequent occurrence anyway. I could ask my master about any information that might be being suppressed on a public level, but I could hardly go blithely to her cap-in-hand. Not after I had tried to hide from her that I had disobeyed her orders and let Kundry go.

Even so, there was one theory as to his identity that I had managed to come up with. Spurred on by that, I decided to bite the bullet.

“So, which Servant are you?”

“...?”

He tilted his head in confusion. Was he trying to play dumb? It didn't look like an act, at any rate. It seemed that somehow, he really didn't understand the concept of a Servant. Was that even possible?

“I'm asking about your true name. Although your nickname will do, if that's better-known.”

Once, Servants would not have revealed their true name lightly, but that was before the war. In the modern world, it had become more of a question of personal privacy. No small number of Servants had origins that could complicate life in Mosaic City if they became known to others, and the degree of discretion necessary might also change depending on their relationship with their Master.

This boy likely wouldn't talk about his true name if his unknown Master did not wish it. And all the more so if he didn't have one at all.

“Your name, I said. Tell me your name.”

“...Name?”

“That's right. Your name.”

“Don't you know it?”

“...Huh? Don't I...you mean my name?”

It was supposed to be me asking the questions here. I was starting to feel that if I just allowed this wide-eyed child to talk at his own pace, I would end up the one being profiled.

Abruptly, he opened his mouth again. “There's something I've lost.”

“Something you've lost? What did you lose?”

“I don't know.”

I heaved a sigh. At the same moment, a sharp stench once more pricked at my nostrils.

“It sounds like you're suffering from memory loss. I think things like that can happen after summoning...? Well, anyway, there's nothing we can do for now. And I'm about at my wits' end, so right now I'm going to have a shower. I'll let you use the bathroom too, so go on ahead.”

“Show-er?”

“A shower. You know, like a bath.”

“...A bath?”

“Wait, you really don't know? Don't tell me you don't even know what a shower is? Hang on, have you ever even had a wash?”

He shook his head. Apparently he really hadn't ever experienced a bath. Although even if he hadn't, surely the idea itself fell under common knowledge.

Do your job, Holy Grail.

For as long as I had lived here, my bathroom had been rather chic. It had a French-style interior, and was easily wide enough for two people. The star of the show was a shallow enamel bathtub, pulled straight from a western movie. Incidentally, the bedroom was decorated in equally charming fashion, and was the biggest reason I chose this apartment.

The design was uncharacteristically luxurious for a department store coffee shop. Either the owner had been extremely specific tastes...or from the beginning, this building had been designed with less-than-wholesome purposes in mind. Probably the latter. Not that that had anything to do with me; I was nothing more than a grateful beneficiary. But it did mean one more thing for Karin to tease me about.

I gritted my teeth, and led the boy by the hand to the bathroom. He was still dawdling, unsure as to what was going on. I had him take off his clothes and made him stand in the dressing room. Then I set to filling the bathtub, removing my own dirtied clothing as I did so. He's just a kid. What's there to be embarrassed about? Nothing! That's right, nothing at all.

There was still an outside chance that he would turn out to have the mind of a middle-aged man, but I'd cross that bridge if I came to it.

“I suppose I'd better put my swimsuit in to soak...ouch!”

Agony lanced through me as I twisted my body the wrong way. I re-treated the injury to my abdomen, and covered it over with a water-resistant patch. It was still undergoing accelerated recovery, and it was warm to the touch. The wound was serious enough that with the treatment methods of the past, oligemic shock and acute inflammation would have been unavoidable. But this new world had conquered death itself, and treatments for injuries and accidents had not been overlooked on the way. Many technologies had been developed during the war, and now I reaped the benefits.

“It looks like it hurts.”

“Well, maybe a little.”

His eyes were drawn to the scar on my ear, and he screwed up his face.

“It isn’t nice, is it? Every thorn-prick makes its own hole.”

“...You said it.”

Was he worrying that I might be left with a scar, in his own way? If so, he was quite the gentleman.

“But it's ok. Kouyou patched it up for me, so it'll heal with time.”

For my part, I carefully looked his naked body up and down once more. This was a vital step in my investigation, and thus an entirely proper and lawful act.

He was...definitely a boy, yep.

–

Once I had painstakingly washed away the cause of the stench, I finally entered the bathtub - along with the boy, who was trying to escape at any opportunity.

“It's hot.”

“That's what's good about it. Ordinary Servants love to take baths. They're all very happy to get in. There are even some who have baths as their Noble Phantasms. There's one who summons this great big bathchamber, called Terme di Caracalla...”

“I want to get out.”

He was pulling a very sullen expression, but at least he was being obedient.

I can't see any scars on him. His muscles and weight don't seem any different from a normal child's, either. I found it very hard to believe that he might be some kind of knight summoned in their youth. When he'd said that he didn't know what a bath was, the first thing I'd suspected was child abuse; Heroic Spirits who had come from such unhappy backgrounds were too numerous to count. But he showed no sign of having received that kind of treatment, or at least not outwardly.

My confidence in my hypothesis was growing stronger, and I decided to put it to the test.

–

I stretched out from the bathtub. With the steam-clouded mirror as my canvas, I drew a picture of a hat with my fingertip. It was a crude sketch of an old-fashioned, wide-brimmed men's hat with a slightly indented top, as seen from the side.

“Hey. Can you tell me what this is?” I asked him hesitantly, my chest pounding nervously. It only took a brief glance at the picture before he answered.

“It's...a snake.”

I started. For a moment, I was lost for words.

“It looks like it's eaten something big.”

He'd answered my question perfectly.

“It scares me a little.”

Droplets fell from his body as he shivered and turned away. I hadn't even imagined that he might show such a violent reaction. I quickly wiped away the picture on the mirror, and found myself patting his head to try and reassure him. I could feel the slickness of his wet hair and the warmth of his body through the palm of my hand.

“What about “B-612”? Or maybe you could call it “Besixdouze”?”

“Yes.” He nodded in answer. No hesitation.

“You know it?”

“It's a planet, isn't it? But there's no-one there.”

I was silent for a moment. That's right. It's a planet. Of course it is.

“I see...so there's no-one there. But I think...I might know your true name now.”’  

B-612 was the name of an asteroid that orbited the solar system. It was not remarkable in any way, save for the fact that it had been discovered by a Japanese national. It would hardly be included in the common knowledge that the Holy Grail bestowed upon Servants. But that asteroid was named for a novella from a foreign country, and the title of that novella was “The Little Prince”.

On a sudden impulse, I embraced him. In the bathtub, I wrapped my arms around his narrow shoulders from behind, and squeezed him tight. So as not to break him. So as not to hurt him.

“If only...if only you had been my Servant...”

He showed no sign of answering me.

Before entering the bathtub, as I was washing myself, I had checked everywhere. Desperately, I had searched to see if Command Seals, the proof of a contract with a Servant, had appeared anywhere on my body. I had strained my eyes in the mirror, checking my back, beneath the translucent medical patch, even the soles of my feet. But they were nowhere to be seen.

Then I was no-one's Master. I could not have made any contract with this boy through the Grail. I was just the Reaper, the same as I had always been.

In that case, what had that sense of foreboding been?

What had that trembling been in my chest? That sense that something had begun that would change my life forever?

In the end, it had all just been my own wishful thinking.

–

After the bath, we retired to my living-cum-dining room, where a mahogany table had stood ever since this place was a cafe. The boy sat in a chair, working his way through a lasagne that I had microwaved from frozen. I was recording the day's events, tablet in hand and a towel around my head, and I was blushing as red as his bolognese sauce. I felt incredibly embarrassed. This boy hadn't even yet come of age, but I had suddenly embraced him, whispered something that felt almost like a confession of love, and then ended up crying. While naked, no less.

His only response, after a while had passed, had been to furrow his eyebrows and complain “It's hot”.

“Is that good?”, I asked.

“It tastes.”

“Really? Sounds great.”

The samples I had taken earlier were on the table. Both contents of the zip-lock bag had vanished, just as I had expected. Separated from his body, his hair and the thread from his tunic had ceased to exist in their pseudo-physical form, and had reverted to being part of his mana. In other words, his body and the clothes he wore were woven from the stuff. That made for strong evidence that he was a Servant - but it was unneeded, because an easier way to tell was right before my eyes. The clothes that I had left on the floor of the dressing room had since returned to a clean, dry state.

The scarf that he wore around his neck floated freely, with no regard for the laws of physics. Even while he was eating, it fluttered gently, as though rising upon the wind. Needless to say, there was no wind inside my apartment.

He couldn't be the Simoun...could he? The poison wind?

–

The night had grown late, and I wrestled with the sleepiness and exhaustion that assailed me as I stared at my tablet. I thought back to the words I had exchanged with the Flying Dutchman, Captain Van der Decken. Every word of the warning he had given me lay heavy on my breast.

Until it became clear that our enemy was the mad queen, he had maintained a policy of non-interference, and only once had he commented on my methods. He had been cursed by a devil of the ocean. My lot was not too dissimilar - for I too was cursed, and possessed by evil spirits. Living my life beyond the sight of the Grail, I might as well have been a naked offering to them. But that was also the reason that I'd lasted as long as I had in this job.

I had let my guard down. I had allowed myself to believe that Captain Van der Decken and I might have been able to find an understanding, as bearers of the same fate. But he had seen through those naïve expectations, and had roughly spurned my advances.

“You have grown to feel joy in the act of slaying Servants, under the pretence of executing the authority of the city. Though you think yourself the master of your spectres, they in turn use you.”

He was telling me, in a roundabout way, that I was intoxicated by the idea of being a superhero. That what I had believed to be pride was in fact conceit.

“Someday, Erice, you will call forth a great evil. And when that time comes, that which you have clung to so dearly will instead force you to your knees.”

Unable to accept his words and fiercely ashamed, I had retorted with some frivolous argument - although I could admit now that it had just been something I had cooked up to make myself feel better. At the time I had thought he was just trying to put me in my place, but thinking back on it now, his words might have been as much in reproach of himself as they had been for me. His relationship with his contractor Aheseurus - equal in spite of being Master and Servant - spoke more eloquently of his sincerity than words ever could.

“Are you paying attention, Erice?”

I was brought out of my reverie by my master's polite chiding.

“You seem very tired. Perhaps it might be for the best if you took a moment to rest in the break room? I can prepare the lecture material for your perusal later, if you'd like.”

I let out a whimper. This was embarrassing. My second disgrace this morning. I shook my head vigorously. My master nodded, and recommenced the lecture in a soft voice.

–

Her name was Caren Fujimura. She was the lecturer responsible for this class, and also my master. I had known her for as long as I could walk.

Outwardly, she appeared to be in her twenties. She had light amber eyes, and wavy, pale grey hair that cascaded down to the small of her back. Her body combined a slender build with voluptuous Hispanic curves. Most notable of all, however, was her impeccable sense of style. Nobody else could come close to its audacity. Today, too, she looked sharp as a knife.

Or at least, I thought so, but waxing lyrical on the subject only seemed to earn me pained smiles from Karin and others. Well, it wasn't as though I cared anyway. If I was the only one who could understand her magnificence, so be it.

“...?”

The boy, who had been quiet at my side for a long time, had begun focusing on my master when she had spoken to me. Now he turned his gaze to the skirt of my school uniform, then to his own trousers, and cocked his head. He turned his head to make one more pass, carefully comparing, and then spoke with some conviction.

“She isn't wearing anything down there.”

“That she isn't.”

My master really was incredible.

It was not on account of her position as my lecturer that I called Caren Fujimura my master. Nor was it on account of her being my fashion role model. She was inhuman, in every way, and not in the sense of being part of the new postwar humanity. She was an artificial intelligence – an AI.

More precisely, she was the municipal administration AI tasked with the management of the Akihabara ward. A human interface that allowed the Grail to communicate directly with the people of the city. A hybrid intelligence – the most valuable in the city – born of the fusion of summoning magecraft, modelled on the kind that called forth Heroic Spirits, and cutting-edge information engineering technology. Such was the true nature of Caren Fujimura.

–

Ms. Fujimura's lecture on pre-war human history continued. Today's topic was the history and profiles of the great pioneers. Those brave adventurers who sailed west on crude wooden vessels, carving a path to an unknown lands. Those bold explorers who discovered – or rediscovered – the distant new world, and secured the shipping routes that would become the lifeblood of a global civilisation.

–

She spoke of Eric the Red, who crossed from Europe to Greenland and settled there. Of his son, Lief Ericsson, who made landfall in the northeast of North America and named it “Vinland”. Of the roots of the Polynesians, who propagated across the islands of the south Pacific in canoes little better than rafts, and were sometimes set adrift by rogue currents to journey thousands of kilometres.

Of Christopher Columbus, the conqueror who never once lost sight of his dream; who sailed to the farthest reaches of the western sea aboard the legendary Santa Maria, and there rediscovered the new world. Of Vasco de Gama, who crossed the Cape of Good Hope and pioneered the Indian trade route. Of the Cape itself - the southern tip of the African continent and one of the great perils of the Age of Discovery, where Captain Van der Decken's Dutch galleon met its fate upon the rocks.

She told of Ferdinand Magellan, whose vessels first circumnavigated the world. Although he perished before the completion of his journey, his feat proclaimed to the world beyond all doubt that the earth was not flat, but round. Through him, the people came to know that the world they lived on was just one more celestial body like the moon or Mars, forging silently onwards through the void.

And here too was the first captain to circumnavigate the globe: Francis Drake, the privateer! Ah, here was the magnificent Golden Hind! I had already been absorbed in the lecture, but here my excitement reached its zenith, my mind filling with daydreams of the open sea.

From Servants who had lived through the same era, I had heard tales that Drake, the admiral who broke the back of the invincible Spanish Armada, had in truth been a woman more gallant than any man. That the man who set the sun had, in fact, been the woman who set the sun. I personally found them impossible to believe, and I'd also heard them refuted by other pirate Servants. Stories like that ain't nothin' more'n piss in the wind, girly. Drake was a man, sure as my beard is long.

It was a common enough story when it came to Servants. Some ages of history had placed little importance on gender distinctions. Conversely, in others women had been so oppressed that they could only perform heroic deeds whilst disguised in men's clothing. Such confusion was liable to muddy historical records.

Even if Drake had been female, it would do nothing to tarnish the glory of her legend.

–

My enriching study time was now approaching its end, although I had struggled to focus on all of the contents of the lecture.

“I would like to give a brief introduction to one final figure. An American man whose one small step signified a giant leap for mankind.”

The screen changed in sync with Ms. Fujimura's commentary. Now it displayed a world of extreme contrasts: a sea of grey regolith, and the dark vacuum of space. Within the shadow thrown by a lunar lander, a figure in a space suit descended a ladder to stand upon the moon's surface.

“This was the first man to stand on the face of the moon. He, too, counts among the great pioneers of the human race.”

“...Eh...?”

A single voice arose, quavering not with wonder but with astonishment.

“A human went to the moon...? A living human?”

The source of the voice was none other than the young girl in the front row.

“Indeed. It would be fifty-six years before the modern day. Three astronauts ventured to the moon, and two among them descended to walk upon its surface.”

“More than half a century ago? There weren't even control units back then capable of calculating orbital trajectories-”

“There were.”

Another video resource flashed onto the screen. This time it showed a bulky copper box that must have weighed dozens of kilograms, and a small keyboard. The commentary indicated that this was the Apollo spaceship's guidance computer.

“Single-core, 8-bit. A most splendid computer to be mounted in the lunar lander. It likely had less than one ten-thousandth the processing power of the smartphones you all have in your pockets. And yet it was enough to guide the lander by autopilot, even though human error necessitated its rebooting just prior to landing.”

Ms. Fujimura sounded almost triumphant now. There had been a strange change in her expression, although it was so slight I doubted anyone but me would even have a chance of noticing. Perhaps, for an AI, it was a point of pride to be able to talk about the vital contribution a computer had made to one of humanity's most historic achievements.

No, that's not it...

She was delighting in the shock her student was experiencing, from her first contact with this knowledge. She was revelling in it. The girl retracted her body and sat back down in her seat, fuming.

“That's irresponsible. It's reckless.”

“Indeed it was. It was one of the most reckless ventures in human history, and precious lives were lost along the way.”

“That's all the more reason it could never have happened!”

As though scoffing at our worries from across the ages, the portly figure of the spaceman upon the screen began to moonwalk, gleefully bounding across the moon's surface. He was humming to himself merrily, like some shameless delinquent.

“Rather carefree, isn't he? One would never think only a thin spacesuit separated him from the zero-pressure vacuum and the hellish 110-degree temperatures outside.”

My master smiled faintly, as she expressed her admiration for the men in the video. Even when they raced their moon buggies across the lunar plain, they were rough and careless, as though they were driving go-karts at some amusement park. The girl at the front returned to gazing at the video, a flabbergasted expression on her face.

“Ah...ahaha...!” I couldn't help bursting out in laughter.

Her shoulders trembled a little. I'd picked an awful time.

–

The “Great Pioneers” instalment concluded by saying that although the human race had raised its flag in one great unknown after the other – first the new world beyond the seas, then the distant skies, and finally the void of space – landing a group of carefree delinquents on the surface of the moon had marked the end of their exploits. Not once since had they set their sights on anything farther. The Apollo generation's dream of a grand conquest of the stars remained a dream to this day. Mars, Venus and the outer space beyond the solar system remained unknown to the print of human boot.

I wondered if perhaps the human race had, somewhere along its way, lost sight of something incredibly precious.

I wondered if perhaps someday there might rise once again, on the edge of the farthest frontier, someone worthy of being called a hero. Someone who would lead mankind forth once more towards a new world.

“Hey, there you are, Eri-pie! Wanne grab some food?”

Karin burst into the classroom just as the lecture had ended. She must have guessed where I would be. I had thought she might have returned home after the events of last night, but she must have remained in Akihabara.

“Oh, it's you, Karin. I'll hold off for now. I've still got things I need to do.”

“Ehh? Hasn't your class just wrapped up?”

“Well, yeah, but I'm not talking about class.”

“Oh, the shrimp's tagging along? Good, good. You put some proper breakfast in him, right? What's he been eatin'?”

“Cereal. And some water.”

“Oh, ouch. You know that's child abuse, right? Like, I should probably be calling a social worker about now?”

“Just give it a rest, geez...”

I hadn't been back to my apartment for the past few days, and my reserves had all expired, so I had ended up with very little by way of food. I hadn't so much as forced cereal and water on him as noticed his interest in the food I was hurriedly shovelling down and shared a little.

Servants didn't typically require meals in the usual sense, but in the post-war world where they had become commonplace, more care was being paid to improving their quality of life. There were even some citizens' groups that insisted that they had a right to live the same as humans. In my view, Servants were fundamentally inhuman existences, and I saw those attempts to impose human restrictions on something unbound by the framework of nature as little more than evidence of their Masters' egotism – although I couldn't deny that might just have been the bitter prejudice of a have-not speaking.

“Sssssssup! Morning, Caren!”

“Good morning to you too, Karin.”

Ms. Fujimura approached the two of us.

“Karin...and Caren...?”

The boy looked between the two, confused.

“Yeah, you got it. Pain in the ass, right? The Caren in Akihabara has this kinda grown-up, sexy feel to her. The one back home is a lot more, uh...wha-chaa!”

“What's “wha-chaa!” supposed to mean? And you should be calling her Ms. Fujimura.” Karin had drawn one knee up to strike a kung-fu pose. I gave her a smack.

“Karin lives in the Shibuya district. The me who lives there is a drawer for a Chinese restaurant.” My master smiled gently. I wondered what it felt like, to know there were different versions of herself active all over the city.

A few elderly students were still hanging around in the classroom, chatting amongst themselves. My master ushered us from the room, and we relocated to a terrace protruding from midway up the building. This was a leisure space, and it commanded a wide view of the sprawl of Akihabara. At this early hour, the sea breeze was light, and the sun was not too strong. It was just cool enough that that shaded areas were still a little chilly.

The distant rumble of a train smoothly pulling in from the oversea viaduct drifted to us from across the water, along with the faint toot of its horn. Beyond the horizon, where the railway vanished, lay Shinjuku and Shibuya.

“So this child is the Servant with the unknown Master?”

“That's right.”

I had already informed her about the situation in advance, but I took the opportunity to introduce the boy to her in person.

“To tell the truth, I already have a good guess as to his identity. Although he doesn't really react to what I say most of the time. He doesn't seem to be entirely all there.”

I took the plunge, and told her about last night's discoveries – hoping somewhere deep down this made up for the regret I felt at keeping quiet about Kundry's flight and the events that had followed.

“Antoine de Saint-Exupéry...? A French author, as I recall, and one of great renown. He was also an accomplished pilot, and served in the Second World War. You believe this child's identity to be this Saint-Exupéry?”

The object of our scrutiny, the child in question, showed no reaction to the name. He took a sip of the freshly-squeezed orange juice that Karin had bought from a juice stand, and pulled a face. Sour.

“His appearance is a poor match, even taking into account the age difference.” I could sense my master checking records in the background, and cross-referencing them with the child in front of her. I pressed on with my next hypothesis.

“I think he's the Little Prince. Don't you think he looks just like Saint-Exupéry's illustrations?”

The Little Prince was an allegorical short story. It was the last completed work by Saint-Exupéry, who passed away at a young age. Whether online or in physical bookshops, one would inevitably find it in the children's book category, but it couldn't be more different to the fairy tales it rubbed shoulders with on the shelves. That said, nor was it something like the Bible, whose every line existed to be quoted and venerated. It was a comforting presence, like a familiar friend at your side, always ready with a lighthearted quip or a sobering anecdote. Or so I thought, anyway.

“Eh? So you're a prince, are you? Hmmmm? Now you mention it, he does look kinda regal. Think he'd make a good match with my Momi? She is a princess, you know. Whaddaya think?”

Karin pinched the boy's cheek, grinning wickedly, and he turned his head away in clear discomfort. I decided to leave them to it, and added to my master that last night the boy had answered my riddle with the keyword that only the Little Prince would know.

“I see...” She struck a contemplative pose as I continued.

“I'm aware that he doesn't look very much like Saint-Exupéry. That's why I'm wondering if he could be an author Servant who's taken on the form of a character from one of his own works. I'm sure there are examples of that.”

“There are indeed. Many authors' works leave a far greater impression on the world to come than the men themselves. Many more choose such forms of their own accord. However, if you would permit me my personal opinion - ”

She left a beat, pushing up her glasses.

“ - I would conjecture that Saint-Exupéry would project himself not onto the Little Prince, but onto the Pilot who narrates the story. It was, after all, his own experience of crash-landing in the Sahara desert that formed the basis for the book.”

“Ah...yes, I...I suppose...”

She was right. Given the content of the book, it was an entirely legitimate criticism. She was saying that this child was likely something fundamentally different to just some writer Servant with perverse tendencies and a strong capacity for empathy.

While I hadn't been watching, the subject of out conversation had begun sipping on a honey-lemon drink. He must have traded his orange juice with Karin. This was evidently more to his tastes; he was smiling broadly.

“I have conferred with the Caren units in the other districts, but he does not appear to match any Servant under our jurisdiction. I cannot even venture more than vague hypotheses as to his class.” It seemed that as an AI, she was capable of communicating with her other units in the background even as she talked with me.

So he wasn't a lost Servant who had wandered in from some other district. At the very least, we now knew that there was no record of Saint-Exupéry being registered as a Servant anywhere in Mosaic City.

“Please do not be disheartened, Erice. I do not mean to dismiss your opinion; the possibility remains. And just by having secured him, you have already done a wonderful job.”

“I suppose...”

“He seems to be stable, aside from his memories, so I will fit him with a classification tag. For as long as he continues to reside in this town, I will refer to him as “The Little Prince (TBD)””.

“...'Brackets...TBD'...?”

“Guess so. Would be a pain in the ass if he didn't have a name, right? Brackets, TBD.” Karin cheerily patted the Little Prince (TBD) on the head.

“Um...about last night's incident...” I straightened my back, and tried to change the topic to my report of the previous night's events – and suddenly my master stood up from her seat, looking at me ruefully.

“I owe you an apology, Erice. A matter has sprung up that requires my urgent attention. Would you mind submitting your report as a brief text document?”

“Eh...? I mean...of course.”

I felt relieved, but at the same time more concerned. Whatever this urgent matter was, this was the first I'd heard of it, and my master was not known for changing her schedule lightly.

“But what do you think I should do about him?”

“That was my next point. I am sorry to ask this of you, but would you mind taking charge of him for the time being? If his identity becomes clear during that time, all the better.”

“Eh-?”

My master's eyes narrowed into a smile as my mouth clamped shut. The already-unusual situation had just taken a turn for the stranger.

“No way, no way, no way. Isn't that going to be a problem? With my job and everything?”

“No other individual in Akihabara is so equipped to tackle as exceptional a case. To call you a specialist in the handling of Servants would not be an exaggeration.”

It would. It absolutely would. My specialisation was not the handling of Servants - it was murder. Restraining the most villainous of Servants, and keeping them under strict surveillance, I could do. But I was not nearly so capable of attending to the needs of a young boy, barely any different from an ordinary human child, who didn't even know his own name.

Karin chipped in. “Can't he just bunk at my place? What's an extra brother or two, anyway?”

“Quite a lot, I think...”

Karin's suggestion was extraordinarily irresponsible, but my master only inclined her head. “My thanks for your hospitality Karin, but I am afraid that I cannot yet say what threat this child poses. I cannot permit him to reside with ordinary citizens.”

“I'm tellin' you, it's cool. I've got Momi, don't I? It'll be fine!”

Karin dug in deeper, and my master responded with another polite but firm refusal. In all honesty, it would have been a weight off my mind – although I wouldn't say that the notion of Karin taking responsibility for a portion of my job didn't grate on me a little.

Just as I was becoming aware of my own troublesome misgivings, a newcomer hurriedly approached the recreation space where we were conversing.

“Caren Fujimura? If you wouldn't mind, there's something I'd like to ask you.”

It was her – the girl in the hat from the front row. She had run out of the classroom just before the lecture had ended, conversing with someone over her smartphone. She must have returned now that her conversation had ended.

“It's nice to see you, Haruko. Do you have a question for me about the lecture?”

“That's right. I wanted to ask about the role of astrology during the Age of Discovery-” A sudden squall blew through the terrace, and she clutched at her hat, pulling it down tightly over her ears. I saw my chance and hurriedly forced my way into the conversation – although really, she had been the one who had interrupted us.

“H-hang on a moment. I was already talking with Ms. Fujimura...”

She glared at me in silence. Her brilliant peppermint-green eyes glinted from behind a parting in her fringe. “It was only thanks to the repeated interruptions from you and your Servant that I didn't have the opportunity to ask these questions during the lecture.”

“Well, I'm...I'm sorry about that. But, well, you see, he's not exactly my Servant...”

“Is that so? My apologies. But as his guardian, you should be more conscious of your responsibility to ensure he does not cause trouble for others in public spaces.”

Her motions – her gait, and even the way she was holding down her hat - were clipped and precise. She was barely taller than the innocent child drinking juice by my side, but she somehow seemed many years his elder. Beneath the white gown I had seen so often in lectures, she was wearing a slightly old-fashioned bright yellow blouse.

I'm positive...I've seen those clothes before somewhere... Now where was it?

“Um...you mentioned astrology, didn't you? If you're curious about the involvement of magecraft in human history, why don't you go to the library? You'd be able to research it as much as you wanted.”

I'd intended it as a sincere and respectful recommendation...but instead she expelled a short, sharp sigh, and her attitude became palpably frostier. This was getting awkward.

“You're telling me to go to the library? That would be far less efficient than asking an administrative AI – I mean, Ms. Fujimura directly. I would have thought that someone who went to the trouble of attending lectures would be cognizant of the vast difference in value between the vague knowledge one can acquire through reference materials, and the clear and consistent explanations that can be gained through conversations with an expert in the field. And if you do not understand that, then I must ask why you insist on wasting others' time with your indolence.”

“W-what do you mean, 'indolence'...?”

“Well damn. Kid's got a mouth on her...”

Things were going from bad to worse - now Karin had taken an interest. If I left this alone, it could easily easily escalate beyond my control and into an all-out brawl. She was free to pick whichever fights she wanted, but I wanted to avoid any risk of worsening my relationships with other students and ending up barred from attending.

“Come on, Karin. Cut it out. I'm not mad or anything.”

“...Hm? Wait a second, I'm sure...” Karin looked as though she'd just noticed something. The girl hurriedly pulled her hat back down over her head. My master had called this girl Haruko, hadn't she?

“I too have important matters to attend to. I really do have to hurry.”

“I...I see. Sorry about all this.” She had come all the way to this terrace searching for my master, and I wanted to show some recognition of her dedication. In that sense, we were kindred spirits. “If I'm not mistaken, you don't come to lectures very often, do you? If you wouldn't mind, I could let you borrow my old notes...”

“If you're going to mock me so, I hope you're prepared for the consequences.”

“Eh? Did...did I say something wrong?” How short was this girl's fuse? I desperately looked to Karin for help, but she only shook her head as though to say there was nothing she could do. And then, in that moment -

“I think that's quite enough, Erice.”

Another newcomer – a woman, who had not been in the classroom – strolled towards us, calling out to me with uncomfortable familiarity. Her footsteps clacked on the floor as she approached.

“Welcome. Your arrival is earlier than I had expected.” Ms. Fujimura, who had been maintaining a position of neutrality in our argument, greeted her in an oddly forced tone of voice.

“It was your message that hurried me here, Caren. You said that I might have the opportunity to see something interesting.” She was dressed in a vintage black sailor uniform, and her long silver hair was left to hang freely. I knew this woman – this woman who looked so out-of-place in Akihabara, who clad herself in an elegant shroud of bygone days.

“Chitose... What...what are you doing here...?”

Now it made sense. Caren's urgent matter must have been her.

The girl in the hat must have caught my murmured whisper. “Chitose...? What kind of civilian could call directly on a municipal administration AI without an appointment...?”

I heard the rushing sound of an intake of breath, and she turned sharply back around to the woman once more. Now that they were standing face-to-face, her small frame meant that she had to crane her neck to look her in the eyes.

“You aren't...Manazuru Chitose, are you...? The Stigmata?”

“...I am indeed. It's been a while since I last heard that name.”

The girl let out a whimper. “How could this happen...”

Her reaction was so violent, I thought for a moment that they might have been about to duel it out on the spot. In stark contrast to her brief reverie, now she was tripping over herself to be polite. She scrambled backwards three paces, and lowered her head woodenly. Her ears were glowing bright red, and from the glimpses I could catch through her bangs her cheeks were similarly flushed.

One of her fingers brushed against the side of her hat. With a swish, it folded in on itself and collapsed into a hairband. With her face now exposed, she bowed her head once more.

“I apologise wholeheartedly for my insolence, Stigmata.”

Chitose only shook her head quietly. “You had business with Caren, did you not? I do not mind waiting a while.”

“I-it was nothing! Certainly, nothing of consequence next to your duties.” She was so stiff and anxious now, her haughty demeanour not two minutes ago seemed like a distant memory. It was actually a little adorable -  although in general, I found people's tendency to become so ill at ease in Chitose's presence rather hard to deal with.

For her part, Chitose might have been responding amiably, but that should not have been mistaken for warmth or compassion. Her gaze fell upon the boy seated at our table, and for an instant, her eyes were those of a serpent that had found its prey.

“Yes, that's the boy”, she said, as though talking to herself. “I can't even tell which class his Saint Graph is. I suppose the world is full of surprises.”

I confess - my interest was aroused, and I couldn't suppress a sadistic curiosity. What reaction would her gaze stir in him? Would he show awe? Animosity? Would he ignore her completely, as though erasing his own existence?

But instead – he smiled. A beaming smile, like a shining star. A clear window straight to his heart.

Silence reigned for a second, and then Chitose smiled back at him thinly. Next to me, I felt the girl with the hat flinch. And then, her expression relaxing into a slightly mischievous smile, she approached me, and laid a pale white fingertip on my shoulder.

“I charge you with monitoring this child, Erice.”

“Understood”, I muttered. She gave a small shrug at my disgruntled response.

It looked like our conversation was over. Once Chitose had made a clear decision, my master would abide by it. I stood up from my seat, bowed to my master, and accompanied the boy from the terrace as I'd been instructed.

“Who the hell was that?”, Karin asked breezily, once we were in the corridor. “Gave me the creeps.” Just this once, I was grateful for her laid-back demeanour.

“And what's up with you, anyway? Didn't you have something to ask Caren about? You sure you're ok just leaving like this?”

“It doesn't matter. Let's just go.”

I put the building behind me, as though I were running away from something.

#Fate/Requiem #translation #light novel

[competenceknowsnobounds]

When Chris was little and scared of the dark, his mother had taken his grandmother’s sewing form and placed it by the window. That way, she had explained, nightmares and monsters couldn’t get in because someone was always keeping watch. And since he was young and impressionable, it worked too.

These days, there’s another person in his room, in his bed really, that looks out the window and keeps the nightmares away.

Truth be told, their transition from colleagues to friends to bedmates wasn’t seamless at all. And it was his fault- he enjoyed messing with her. A talent he’d had since childhood, he kind of enjoyed finding a person’s push points. He couldn’t possibly get used to a woman on the bridge, he’d declared, and enjoyed watching her fume. She was the kind of person who avoided conflict, but was smart enough to know when to get out.

Exactly a week after that particular comment, he heard through the grapevine that she’d applied for a transfer back to her former posting, and Chris realized he should probably up his game.

Because he needed her! Chris wasn’t that dumb, he’d be the first to admit that he was a pretty boy with a penchant for action. Charisma had gotten him on the captain’s chair of the Enterprise, and without it he would be better suited for a small wartime craft on patrol. The Enterprise was a vessel of many talents, science among them, and Chris didn’t function like that. He needed someone who did.

Enter One. 

Chris the ruthless charmer had been just a tad busy with paperwork when the helmswoman, his new second officer, had introduced herself. 

And yes, he asked her name. And yes, he immediately forgot it.

When they didn’t interact so much, a “Commander” or “Helmsman” would suffice. And as a day became a week and a month, Chris became further embarrassed to ask her name. The personnel file was no help either- a long Illyrian name (more like a list of intellectual achievements) that sounded nothing like the name Chris vaguely remembered her telling him.

A month in, the first officer quits. He and Chris were both “big picture” people, which just wasn’t working out. Chris gave him a strong recommendation and set about picking a new first officer, and who better than the best micromanager he knew?

Lieutenant Commander Helmsman suddenly needed a new name, and Chris found one. A part of her file mentioned the name “Number One” for her leading intellect among their people, and since it matched with a nickname for first officers, Chris decided to put it to use.

Thusly, Lieutenant Commander Helmsman was Commander Number One after just a month onboard. Anyone with more modesty would probably suffer from a strong case of imposter syndrome, but as far as Chris could tell, One just threw herself at work and found that to be sufficient.

One laid it on the line pretty fast. At their first meeting as captain and first officer, she declared that she had no interest in human interaction or working the conn more than Chris saw fit. She would make the ship run in the nitty-gritty (no, she did not use that word, such colloquialisms were beneath her) and Chris could do the talking and the interacting. Chris agreed.

Of course, since he couldn’t possibly shut his mouth and even be polite to his new first officer, he set about messing with her. And so he screwed up, almost lost her, and almost had to deal with a call from Admiral Marcus about going through two first officers in as many weeks.

So he called One into his office, apologized, and that was that. It’s not like there was much of a cold shoulder for her to give him anyways, they saw each other about twice a day. Once in their morning briefing, and Chris factored in one random encounter per day, usually in passing, or occasionally doing repair work on a bit of machinery because an engineer had missed something.

It did occur to him that perhaps they could be friends. Yes, friends, not “friends” as in “can’t stand each other” or “friends” as in “fucking.”

“Kid, we don’t even bother trying to reprimand all the captains that sleep with their first officers,” Marcus told him offhand once. “God, off the top of my head I can list a bunch- Kos and Madeline, Pr’ait and Thompson, ah- what’s-his-face and Hewell, the like. It’s a whole thing.”

The best way to become friends, he decided, was to become more familiar. When his open invitation to eat lunch together went ignored, Chris took a more proactive approach and made sure to intercept her while she was taking her food back to her office to eat. Alone. One wasn’t very sociable.

So when they were together of her own volition, he tried to be friendlier. Started joking with her, switching up her name, trying to endear himself to her.

“Hey, Uno, where are we at on those reports?”

“What do you think, Ein?”

“Qu’est-ce que tu penses, Premier?”

(Okay, the french was a bit much, but Chris swore it nearly, almost made her smile.)

As soon as Chris got her to smile, he knew he wanted to see it again.

He started to seek her out more actively- instead of dueling day-night shifts, she joined him for half a shift on the bridge, and the other half was spent however she pleased, usually in the form of more lurking.

They worked well together, even bonding occasionally. Chris’ lack of scientific expertise was obvious, so when an admiral visited to check up on their experiments, One skipped the middleman and fed him lines through an earpiece. Chris found it drop-dead hilarious. One gave him a Chem 101 textbook for his birthday, which Chris took to mean that she thought it was funny too.

As time went on, One opened up to him. The woman who used nearly as few contractions as Spock started to fade away, and in her place came an officer of greater intellect, but snark and humor too. Was it really just that One was... shy?

As she explained it, standing in an uncomfortable-looking parade rest while they were talking one day and it came up, the Talosians were ill-equipped to deal with the full spectrum of human emotion, and had presumably misconstrued her desire to connect with him as romantic desire.

“I suppose that my behavior didn’t help your wanting to come out of your shell,” he had replied.

“That is correct.”

“Made all the more illogical to them by me being a jerk.”

“‘Illogical’ is Spock’s department, not mine,” she said. “But yes. Good day, Captain.”

Without waiting for a dismissal (and she probably wouldn’t have gotten it, he wanted her to stay and chat), she left and went back to her lurking.

It didn’t shock him, really, that stoic One wouldn’t be into him like that. Or that she simply wanted him to be less of a jerk. And even having apologized already, Chris figured he could do better.

The next day, he preempted her departure for their morning meeting by showing up at her room five minutes early with a bag of breakfast foods in tow.

“I haven’t eaten yet, and I feel like we’re at the point in our friendship where we can eat together without it being an awkward mess. Plus, I brought a lot for you since I don’t know what you like.”

She neither objected to the ‘friends’ bit, nor the change of venue, only hesitantly stepping aside to let him in. He’d never seen One’s quarters before. She’d declined the move down the hall into the first officer’s quarters, claiming that they were exactly the same except that the windows in her room were on the left, and the other quarters had them on the right. She had strongly objected, and Chris had the plaque moved.

But now, being in the room itself, Chris could see why One didn’t want to move. It was- well, it wasn’t a hot mess. Everything was in perfect order. It was that the room was full. It seemed that One had spent her nearly four years on the ship making her quarters ideally suited to her needs, from acoustic paneling on the walls and non-regulation light filters, to nearly every diplomatic gift that Chris didn’t want, arranged in color order on a shelf. The crown jewel on the center table was a small food synthesizer unit, that seemed to nearly be on the verge of buckling with the amount of wires on top of it.

“It’s a prototype updated food synthesizer.” She stood back and let him look around her room.

“Do you really hate socializing in the cafeteria that much?” He circled the table, examining One’s creation. It had a touchscreen menu instead of a chip insert like the Enterprise’s normal ones. 

“No,” she seemed less defensive and more amused by his accusation. “This one allows you to adjust the portions and composition of its offerings.”

“...So it becomes more accessible for people with dietary restrictions,” He turned back around to face her. “That’s very resourceful, Number One. I imagine the final product will be well-received by many in Starfleet.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, sir, but you really need to let me finish my explanation,” One said. “I’m afraid my motivations are a little less altruistic- all of the burrito options have salsa. I hate salsa.”

After their first meeting, the prototype synthesizer was relegated to a side desk so that they could actually eat on the table, and a few days of weird looks from the swing shift officers in the cafeteria prompted him to bite the bullet and become a test subject for One’s “replicator.” Chris ate nearly every breakfast food under the sun during those first few months of meetings, with mixed results. Most of the human food was delicious, nearly comparable to real food, especially the strawberry pancakes. Others, like the Illyrian apple dumplings that One showed him, similar to the ones her brother made, prompted an off-the-record visit from Boyce to treat numbness in the left leg. A warning about which foods were poisonous was added soon after that.

One simply ate her long-sought burrito sans salsa and took notes. Lots of notes. Not just on what foods sent Chris running to the wastebin, but on which alterations worked and which ones didn’t. How much caffeine could you condense into a shot of espresso before it altered the taste? What temperature should the scrambled eggs be? What colors make the cantaloupe taste best?

Chris learned that One was a born engineer. When Engineering had gotten too cramped and claustrophobic, she’d finangeled her way onto the bridge and became the helmsman. After that, it was a clean jump to first officer, even though she admitted to liking the helm. Chris made sure to give her a shift after she told him that.

As their morning meetings went on, he decided he liked her quarters as a workroom better. Hers had an actual window view, the food was objectively better, and the lights and sound were more calming. The company wasn’t too bad either, though Chris justified it as having someone who actually understood all the scientific paperwork that passed through his desk. One was a paperwork enthusiast by her own admission, so he let her handle that and he would sign off on whatever she put in front of him.

He started joining her after their now-joint shift, too. 

“Captain,” she said one day as he worked on the cramped desk with the replicator, patting the space next to her on the couch, “You can sit down. Don’t be a stranger.”

Even in such a private space, he felt uncomfortable being in such close proximity to One. It wasn’t that there was some sort of mythic ‘tension’ between them, it was nearly the exact opposite. Their relationship had been so purely platonic that there wasn’t anything else going on, even if he had solidly been giving that impression by disappearing into her room at odd hours each day. He was irrationally afraid that someone would bust in and see them... sitting a meter apart, doing work? Yeah, irrational.

“Don’t stress it, sir,” she added, as if sensing his discomfort. “After all, you made it perfectly clear that you don’t see me as a woman.”

He choked on air for a few seconds and eventually formulated something that could possibly be thought of as a ‘defense.’

“I didn’t- It’s not that I don’t see you as ‘female,’ it’s that I don’t see you as a purely sexual ob-”

He stopped when he noticed her laughter.

“You have blue nails,” he said, as if to explain her femininity.

One laughed so hard that she fell off the couch, while Chris stood there dumbly, realizing he’d been set up.

“I’ll try not to tell your yeoman that you said that,” she assured him between fits of laughter.

He wanted to snap at her, pull rank and shut up his embarrassment, but he realized that he couldn’t. If he became defensive, he would lose just a little bit of their friendship, and that simply couldn’t happen.

Thankfully he would have been saved from causing any real changes to the nature of their relationship by the shift change chime, which usually meant that they would part ways and go to sleep, but Chris felt the need to clear the air.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and One stood back up.

“No stress,” she replied. “It’s rude of me to bring up stuff you said years ago, since you’ve been so much better since then.”

One had said so plainly that she didn’t actually have romantic feelings for him, and that reminder made it a little more difficult when he wondered what it would be like to stay when the shift bell rang. To curl up next to her, to see her view out the window every night.

Somehow, Chris didn’t realize how deep he was ‘till he was drowning.

Somehow, in the next two months, they became more... tactile?

A mission gone terribly wrong meant that when he turned up after they got back, he found her crying on the couch, which was something that even a salsa-less burrito couldn’t fix. He’d sat down next to her, and they’d stayed there for the next hour as she’d sobbed her eyes out.

Even when she wasn’t crying, that meter between them on the couch shortened to fifty centimeters, then twenty, and then they found themselves next to each other on the middle of the couch. Chris didn’t know why he was measuring, but the fact that he watched it happen (by both of them) and said nothing seemed very telling.

That she didn’t either seemed telling too.

They ran the gamut of shitty missions during those few months. Sometimes it was his turn to be the sobbing wreck, while she sat next to him and tried to tempt him with the replicator’s latest recipe- chocolate bread pudding. It was delicious, even slightly seasoned with tears.

In spite of their new-found contact (or perhaps because of it), he found himself thinking about her more and more. Not just in the biblical sense, but he was seeking out her company more and more, the comfort of someone familiar, even touch sometimes.

On one occasion, he’s woken up by the chime of his comm unit, a faint “One to --ce.” 

He answered with drowsiness, but not irritation- it’s pleasant to hear her voice, almost thinking it was part of his dream.

“Were you calling for Doctor Boyce, One?” He was wide awake at the realization that she sounded ill.

“Yeah- but you’ll work too.”

“Work for what?”

“Can you come to my quarters?”

So, naturally, he got out of bed at a normal pace, put on something more decent, and walked calmly over to her quarters.

Absolutely the fuck not. This is Christopher Goddamn Pike we’re talking about, and he busts out the door and runs down the hall shirtless, to where his first officer may or may not be in distress. Or need furniture moved, it’s not yet entirely certain.

She was hardly visible, curled up in fetal position on the bed, and he was unused to the lack of light without those pretty yellow ones on.

“Number One?” He asked softly, as if they hadn’t had a conversation just a minute ago. “Is something wrong?”

She let out a soft moan in response, and he crept over to her bed. It was the middle of the night, and he’d never had great impulse control around her anyways, and so he slowly got onto the mattress and touched her softly. Soft was the theme there, with the mattress that was far and away too soft to be regulation, and the touch of her pyjamas to his. He could’ve fallen asleep right then and there, and happier than he’d ever been.

But her blue-nailed hand closed around his wrist, and “soft” was no longer the name of the game.

“Chris,” she said calmly, and he realized that it was the first time she’d called him that, “If you don’t get that hypospray from my desk, I’ll rip you to shreds and use you to fuel the replicator.”

Having never particularly been one to say no to a strong lady, he got up and retrieved it for her. Once it was injected and she was starting to uncurl, he lay down beside her and started to drift off.

The next morning, he woke up with her lying partway on top of him (it might be soft, but her bed isn’t very spacious), and her staring at him.

“Good morning,” he said with no particular affliction, as if waking up in your XO’s bed was something that happened all the time. “Feeling better?”

“Well enough, thank you,” she replied. Some little, possibly desperate part of Chris jumped on the fact that she didn’t use ‘sir,’ but that was mostly just a good situational choice on her part. “I get really bad cramps sometimes, and I couldn’t get up to get the hypo myself.”

“I’m glad,” he pushed himself up, looking at the now-normally-lit room, that somehow felt different after spending half a night in its occupant’s bed. “I should probably get going.”

“You have about three minutes before this hallway usually gets busy,” she offered. “I’d hurry.”

As he moved to stand, she backed up as well. To an outside observer, it would seem as if she was mirroring his movements, but in reality he was mirroring her. They moved together until they got to the door, and suddenly they were closer together. Much closer. He leaned down to kiss her, and-

Someone was coming. She nearly pushed him out the door, with a single word of advice.

“Run.”

He still doesn’t know her name.

The thought occurs to him the first time they tumble into bed together for real, that he has no idea what to call her. But since he wants this- their relationship- to last, he tries to put at least a little emotion into it, even if she’s doing what she calls “all the heavy lifting ‘round here.”

“I adore you,” he tells her, and she smiles. “You are the light of my world. A city that is set on a hill shall never be hid-” 

“Don’t quote the Bible right now,” she insists. “Or really any time. I’m Zoroastrian.” 

“I thought that was an Abrahamic religion.”

“You would be wrong.”

“Are you really Zoroastrian?”

“No.”

“How’d you know, then?”

“Met one, once. Guy ran away from law school to find Jesus, or some shit. Found another monotheistic religion instead.”

“Huh,” is all he has to say. “Well, you’re pretty. And smart. That’s what I was getting at.”

“You have a way with words, Captain Pike,” she says.

“Now it’s my turn to object,” he replies. “I think you know you can call me ‘Chris.’”

“Only when you stop calling me ‘One.’”

“False equivalence, much?”

“I have a name that’s not just a title, you know.”

“Would you prefer ‘une’? ‘m? Yksi? Odyn?” He’s kissing up and down her throat now in a rather desperate attempt to distract her. She turns to face him, and if he wasn’t so blissed-out right now he’d be incredibly nervous.

“Chris...”

“Beautiful? Intelligente? Pragtige? Schlau? Bonica? Aande?”

“Chris, is this all some bold coverup for the fact that you don’t know my name?”

“...No?”

#okay that 'woman on the bridge' quote can uhhhh choke so i'm declaring its death here and now #it's up there with troi and seven's uniforms on my list of things that simply do not exist as far as i'm concerned #also this is a good one to play 'spot the references' #i counted three major ones

[amoretheiwa]

So this came up on my newsfeed today on FB (I couldn’t crop the picture)

The girl who posted that posts a lot of things like. Now I’m wondering how she’ll respond to what I posed today.

It’s long so some is under the cut.

Before you read this, if you do, I want it made clear—this is a long post that I have been mentally gearing up to make for a while now, and it is not in specific response to any one person or post. Any comments are welcome that aren’t instigating an argument or are negative for the sake of causing problems (discussion/disagreement=great, welcome; arguing for the sake of arguing, being nasty=not okay, will be deleted off this post). If you still want to talk about anything mentioned but would rather not comment publicly, that’s fine! Go ahead and message me privately.

 Alrighty, here it goes *cracks knuckles*

 Prior to today, I had had no concrete idea of what the Women’s March was about and what was happening other than the fact that the instances of vandalism are not to be associated with the Women’s Marches that went on around the world. In both in person and on social media I have heard quite a lot of: the march was vague, what was the point, it wasn’t doing anything, it was just anti-Trump, etc. I also saw on social media (the closest march was/is 30 minutes away from where I currently am) people who marched and stated their purposes for marching, and mentioned things that they are going to do in the future as part of this movement.

Now, I wondered—what movement? Is it just regular, non-misandrist feminism? Some new group of women explicitly anti-Trump? What is this movement, who are the people behind the women’s marches? So, to answer this question I went to the source. “Sister Marches are solidarity events inspired by the Women's March on Washington, and organized by volunteers around the world.” ( https://www.womensmarch.com/sisters )This is taken straight from their website. It is the first line of text you see underneath the title “Sister Marches”. There were 673 marches, with an estimated number of 4,834,000 people who marched.

That still doesn’t answer the why, why people marched, what they marched for. If you click on their About page, you get some answers. “We stand together in solidarity with our partners and children for the protection of our rights, our safety, our health, and our families - recognizing that our vibrant and diverse communities are the strength of our country.” Okay, that’s an idea I can get behind. Solidarity means “unity or agreement of feeling or action, especially among individuals with a common interest; mutual support within a group” thanks to a quick Google search. So, those who marched stood together in unity of the feeling that there is a need for a protection of our: rights, safety, health, and families. That then poses the question: what/whom do we need protection from? Who/what is threatening these integral parts of our lives and society?

To go slightly off-topic, I am an English major, and since before I declared my major I have extensively studied literature in both high school and college classes. A specific lens I love to take is that of feminism. Feminism is not the idea of making women superior to men, it is not just fixing issues in our country such as the still-existing Tampon tax, wage gap, and rape culture we do live in. Feminism is, according to the online Merriam-Webster dictionary, “the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes” and “organized activity on behalf of women's rights and interests”. Now, some might disagree and say that the sexes are already equal. That being a feminist means giving up traditional values of home and family. That you can’t be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and call yourself a feminist, and that you have to deny or disagree with key doctrines of our gospel in order to be a true feminist.

You are wrong. There is no way to cut corners or honey it up—you are wrong if you think that feminism isn’t needed for everyone all over the world. But that’s for later. The timing of these marches is no accident. Donald Trump was inaugurated Friday, and the marches happened on Saturday. Now, something interesting to think about—according to the New York Times, crowd scientists are saying that 3 times more people marched in Washington DC alone than attended the inauguration (https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2017/01/22/us/politics/womens-march-trump-crowd-estimates.html?_r=0). There are factors that played into that, such as political demographics, but the roughly estimated numbers—and their impact—still stand.

Why did more people choose to march for “the protection of our rights, our safety, our health, and our families” than people chose to support our new president? I think that because of the things he has said in the past scare people. I think that the divisiveness of this election, and the topics most commonly discussed and argued about, opened people’s eyes to some harsh realities. Because of the “vibrant and diverse communities [that] are the strength of our country” that some of us are blessed to live in is what makes us as a nation stronger. It is not solely the white man. It is not solely the straight person. It is not solely the college educated business crowd. It is not solely the child raised in a home with two parents. It is not solely the Christian community. The United States of America is not a perfect country. In many ways, it is not even ideal. But it is a blessed land full of amazing individuals—and that individuality is what makes it so special. I have never once considered a person’s race, religion, political beliefs, gender, or sexuality to be something that would preclude me from forming a friendship with them.

Now, back to the original subject. People have tried to tell me that I don’t need feminism. I ask you: when have I not needed it? When I and two other classmates were sexually harassed and assaulted in high school? When it was assumed that because of my gender that a boy the same age, with the same experience and skill, could swim faster than me? When I have to pay a tax on necessary feminine hygiene products? When I had to learn on my own that women experience different symptoms when having a heart attack than men? When have you not needed feminism? When you, your brother/sister, your parents, your child, was told to “man up” and not cry because it’s a girl thing? When the word “gay” means an insult? When your daughters are taught by society that their anger is less valid than a boy’s? (http://rolereboot.org/culture-and-politics/details/2016-05-daughter-know-ok-angry/) When traditionally feminine characteristics such as kindness, compassion, and being quiet as seen as degrading? When being different from the status quo and deviating from the expected lifestyle results in social rejection or worse?

Anyone who is offended by someone else expressing an opposing opinion needs to take a step back and revaluate how they see others and themselves. There are ideas going around right now that everyone who voted for Trump is automatically racist, homophobic, and much worse. That’s wrong—but quite a few of those who did support Trump decided that that wasn’t a deal breaker for them. That someone else now being victim of people who feel encouraged by our president’s past actions is okay, because they’re not hearing about it and not seeing it. Whether you want to or not, almost everyone enjoys the benefits from a faulty society. All guys benefit from the world we live in in ways that aren’t so noticeable. As someone who is biracial but doesn’t look it, I definitely benefit in ways my friends who don’t have light skin don’t. There is a double-standard starting to emerge from forced diversity, such as quotas of different races, religions, and genders needing to be filled in certain environments, and that is just as wrong.

But you cannot deny that there is something even more wrong with the world and our country when people question someone else’s right to protest peacefully. When opinion-based articles circulate the Internet and are interpreted as fact over something that is in opposition to your own views but is true. I tweeted just earlier today that “Being informed by more than just people’s opinions is key to understanding the world around you”. I stand by what I said.

I’m not a feminist because I think that women are better than men, or that all men are aggressors—men suffer the effects of a patriarchal society and rape culture just as much as women do. Men get raped and sexually assaulted, men get abused, men have unfair stigmas placed on them (being good with or interested in cars, having to be physically and emotionally stronger, being expected to be the sole provider in the home).

Then, you might ask, why is it called feminism? Why was it the Women’s Marches and not something like the People’s Marches? The same reason it is Black Lives Matter and not just all lives matter. The same reason that there are women only gyms, and not male only gyms. As someone on Tumblr put it, when you’re in first place in Mario Kart, you don’t get the blue shell. You’ve already been given the whole cookie—it is time to give others the rest of their cookie, when from the beginning, they have only received half or less.

[irisplate9-blog]

Texas’s Favorite Grocery Store Is a Way of Life<p class="p-dropcap has-dropcap p-large-text" id="vavTjJ"><strong>The story of H-E-B seems</strong> unoriginal, as far as cult grocers go: A family launches a store in a small town a long time ago (in this case, the Butt family, in Kerrville, Texas, in 1905). That store earns a loyal following and expands throughout the region (Texas). It becomes known among its fans for its wildly dedicated employees (many have worked there for 30-plus years), top-notch customer service (only at H-E-B will someone hand you a freshly baked tortilla to snack on while you shop), and unique food products (hatch chile cookies!). Adoring <a href="https://www.epicurious.com/expert-advice/the-best-grocery-store-in-america-is-heb-article">public odes</a> are published about it across the Internet. <a href="https://www.itemonline.com/news/local_news/customers-flock-to-new-h-e-b-store-on-opening/article_1f9c3d27-617c-597d-9ab9-b9eeb81673bc.html">Long lines form</a> whenever a new location touches down. </p> <p id="D5oF9v">This tale could be told of any beloved regional grocery store — your Publixes, your Wegmans, your Harris Teeters — except that San Antonio-based H-E-B exists in a single U.S. state (with 52 stores across the border in Mexico) and is the 12th-largest private company in the country, <a href="https://www.forbes.com/largest-private-companies/list/#tab:rank">according to <em>Forbes</em></a>. What’s the difference between H-E-B and everyone else? Sure, it’s <a href="https://www.glassdoor.com/Award/Best-Places-to-Work-2018-LST_KQ0,24.htm">ranked among the top places to work</a> and is pretty ahead-of-the-curve with its mobile checkout (maybe that’s <a href="https://www.mysanantonio.com/business/local/article/Amazon-looked-at-H-E-B-Whole-Foods-to-break-into-11303341.php">why employees at Amazon suggested that the tech giant acquire H-E-B</a> before it settled on that <a href="https://www.eater.com/2017/6/16/15816202/amazon-buys-whole-foods">other Texas grocer</a>). </p> <p id="SciLGZ">But, really, H-E-B has just tapped into one of the most powerful cultural forces in existence: Texas pride. H-E-B’s corporate campus — where many of the buildings are made of Texas limestone, and the neoclassical design is quintessential Texas architecture — runs along the San Antonio River Walk, and is built on an old military compound called the <a href="https://tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/qbs02">San Antonio Arsenal</a>. A Texas landmark, known for being a major supply depot during both world wars, it now supplies Texas to Texans, from Whataburger Fancy Ketchup to Takis rolled tortilla chips to Franklin Barbecue sauce. </p> <p id="AJRBzf">The H-E-B <a href="https://careers.heb.com/about-heb/">website</a> prominently declares that H-E-B has “proudly served Texans since 1905,” and that its stores are all about “outfitting Texas families with all they need for Texas lifestyles.” In 2016, <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2016/05/08/us/what-makes-texas-texas.html">Manny Fernandez succinctly described</a> what that means in the<em> New York Times:</em> “You don’t just move to Texas. It moves into you ... We tattoo Texas on our arms, buy Texas-built trucks and climb fire escapes with Texas dirt in our pockets. Place, we are unsubtly suggesting, matters.” Being from most states is just part of your bio; being from Texas is a lifelong commitment. </p> <p id="2F2SFv">I know this is true because I am from Texas. My parents moved the family to Dallas from New Hampshire when I was around a year old. My dad shades his face from the Texas sun with a cowboy hat on his daily walks, and has long identified as more Texan than Indian; as kids, my sister and I posed for photos off the highway amid the Texas bluebonnets every spring; I know all the lyrics to the de facto state song, “Deep in the Heart of Texas”; and though I live in Brooklyn now, I still wear shorts emblazoned with the Texas flag to the gym. </p> <p id="50sbXJ">If you’re not from Texas, the state might seem like one giant stereotype of cowboys, conservatism, and brashness. But Texan identity is more complex than that: There’s rural Texas, Silicon Prairie Texas, honky-tonk Texas, hipster Texas, Latinx Texas, oil-soaked Texas, Vietnamese Texas, and yes, gun-slinging Texas — just to name a few. A grocery store can be a prism for identity, refracting and focusing it; Whole Foods famously does this for an entire group of people held together by little more than social class and a vague sense of taste. What’s unique about H-E-B fandom is that its customers are ultimately loyal to H-E-B <em>in so far </em>as they are loyal to Texas. This is perhaps one of the most distinguishing factors between H-E-B and the other cult grocers: People love Publix subs, crave Trader Joe’s snacks, and revere Wegmans’ customer service, but H-E-B is a way of life. </p> <hr class="p-entry-hr" id="sR5Xpr"/><p class="p-large-text" id="uEuADT"><strong>Have you ever wanted</strong> a cast-iron skillet in the shape of the Lone Star state? Party tray? Burger-shaper? Cutting board? Pecan cake? Cheese? You can find them all in the aisles of H-E-B. Texas’s unique outline, with its right angles and craggly edges, is probably <a href="https://www.texasmonthly.com/the-culture/the-shape-were-in/">one of the most recognizable</a> in the country. There are hundreds — literally hundreds — of Texas-shaped items at H-E-B. An employee at a San Antonio location tried to convince me that the Texas-shaped tortilla chips are superior because the unique silhouette, with its handle and curved ridges, was practically made for scooping up salsa. A shopper from Schulenburg, who regularly drives 25 miles to visit her nearest H-E-B, told me that she fills her grandchildren’s Christmas stockings exclusively with Texas-shaped novelty items purchased at H-E-B stores.</p> <p id="zXt6A1">It turns out that, after oil, Texas pride may be the state’s single most lucrative natural resource — in part because it can take so many different forms, each of which can be sold to a distinct audience. Against the backdrop of a <a href="https://go.redirectingat.com?id=66960X1516589&xs=1&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.newyorker.com%2Fmagazine%2F2017%2F07%2F10%2Famericas-future-is-texas" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank">broader conversation about the future of Texas</a> and Texan identity, H-E-B is unabashedly embracing the longer, wider, more diverse view of <a href="https://www.texasmonthly.com/the-culture/the-native-texan/">what it means to be a proud Texan</a>, and reaping the financial rewards of doing so; H-E-B’s more than 340 stores span several concepts, each of which appeals to a specific Lone Star State community or sensibility.</p> <p id="uHKAEn">Most notably, in 2006, H-E-B launched Mi Tienda, a grocery chain that caters to the needs of the state’s vast Latinx population, with a masa factory and tortilla presses in each store, products like dulce de leche and Mexican wedding cookies, and <a href="http://mitiendatx.com/">a default Spanish-language website</a>. Additionally, there’s Central Market, H-E-B’s specialty-foods store, which was launched in 1994 to appeal to a more globalized audience by offering a cross section of the cuisines that comprise an increasingly multicultural Texas, and now competes with Whole Foods; Joe V’s Smart Shop, a budget grocery brand; and Oaks Crossing, a family-friendly restaurant in one San Antonio store serving chicken-fried carne asada and brisket nachos. </p> <p id="ZMpoyY">Four years ago, H-E-B ventured into the barbecue business — the category of food that Texans are the <em>most</em> particular about (even if <a href="https://www.eater.com/2018/3/7/17081968/best-food-texas-tex-mex-barbecue">Tex-Mex is what more Texans actually eat</a>). “What is the most Texan food we can put out there?” Kristin Irvin, who is in charge of development for H-E-B’s True Texas Barbecue, asked me. “It’s barbecue.” She added that her team tasted barbecue from more than 25 different iconic Texas spots — Black’s,<strong> </strong>Franklin, and the like — to make sure that their version would pass muster. To Irvin and her team’s credit, the food I tried at a True Texas Barbecue inside a San Antonio H-E-B was pretty good — the sausage was appropriately snappy and well-spiced, the char on the brisket was just right, and even the turkey tasted impressively juicy. There are now 10 True Texas Barbecue locations spread across the state. </p> <p id="O44eMa">True Texas Barbecue was followed by another True Texas business, True Texas Tacos, which opened earlier this year in San Antonio. The restaurant, which focuses on breakfast tacos, is housed in another spin-off concept, the H-E-B Convenience Store, because eating gas station breakfast tacos is, to some, a Texas rite of passage. At True Texas Tacos, the tortillas are flour (anything else would be blasphemous) and freshly made on site. The fillings come in <em>barbacoa</em> (stewed cow’s head), <em>picadillo</em> (ground beef), and my personal favorite, a crisp slab of bacon with refried beans and cheese. </p> <p id="azF1Yn">You can also grab a Big Red, the bubble gum-flavored soda that was invented in Waco and is taken as a matter of fact to be the ideal counterpart to a smoky barbacoa taco. When an H-E-B employee found out that I had never even heard of Big Red, despite growing up less than 100 miles away from its birthplace, they immediately filled a large cup with the frighteningly red soda, and made me try it with the barbacoa taco — the combo was at first cloying, then pleasantly salty. (I probably could have done without the Big Red.) Still, I couldn’t believe that I had missed out on this allegedly quintessential Texas experience. It made me wonder: If H-E-B doesn’t do it, is it really Texan?</p> <p id="C78439">In Dallas, where I’m from, there’s no vanilla H-E-B location, a source of <a href="https://www.reddit.com/r/texas/comments/8nw1fa/rant_why_is_there_no_heb_in_dallas/">extreme annoyance</a> among locals. But my family has long been devoted to Central Market, where we could buy whole spices, ghee, <em>masoor dal</em> (red lentils), and whole-wheat tortillas, which are (still) the closest approximation my mom has found to roti in any mainstream grocery store. Central Market also introduced my family to English double cream, arborio rice, and miso, broadening our palates with tastes from other cuisines. There are still sizable communities that H-E-B could do a better job of showcasing — the state’s robust immigrant populations from China and Vietnam come to mind — but it’s hard to think of another brand that’s as expansive in its vision of who and what gets to be Texan, or that comes as close to its aspirations to represent all of Texas. Whatever the future of Texas looks like, there’s a good chance it’ll show up in H-E-B.</p> <hr class="p-entry-hr" id="cqZ2Ua"/><p class="p-large-text" id="MY2nZ2"><strong>We may </strong><a href="https://www.curbed.com/a/texas-california"><strong>live in</strong> the United States of California and Texas</a>, but H-E-B has no plans to expand beyond Texas, at least in the U.S. Julie Bedingfield, an H-E-B public affairs manager, says that the company gets requests to open stores outside of Texas, mainly from Texas natives living elsewhere, “every single day.” You’d think that, in the same way that Popeyes has exported its Louisiana fried chicken across the country, H-E-B would <em>want </em>to sell its brand of Texas to people outside of the state. But H-E-B just wants to dig into its native soil even harder: Shortly after Amazon acquired Austin-based Whole Foods, H-E-B announced the creation of a tech and innovation lab in Austin, which will house its latest acquisition, a Texas-based delivery app called Favor. </p> <p id="8Ypp10">The strategy seems to be working. “I don’t really like Whole Foods after they got bought by Amazon,” an H-E-B customer in San Antonio told me. “I don’t like seeing the Amazon stuff everywhere.” With H-E-B, on the other hand, “I feel like they do things to support the community,” she added. “Many people I know, their kids work there ... I think H-E-B has earned the monopoly.” </p> <p id="ceD2Rr">The dedicated barbecue sauce aisles and the chicken-fried steak may sometimes seem a bit like Texas caricature — but whether or not every H-E-B customer connects with every Texas-adjacent item isn’t the point. It’s all just a way for H-E-B to communicate its message, loud and clear: <em>We get it. You love Texas, and so do we. </em></p> <p class="c-end-para" id="fO5SdF">I’ve noticed, living in New York, that people tend to write off Texas as a Wild West of conservatism and unruliness. Similarly, when my parents moved to Dallas from Nashua, New Hampshire in the ’90s, everyone told them they would face intense racism. Instead, we’ve all found the opposite to be true, at least where we’ve lived — Texans, on the whole, are open, honest, dedicated, and friendly. Maybe that’s why H-E-B resonates so strongly in Texas. The stores represent Texans as they<em> </em>see themselves. There is no attempt to construct a monolithic image of Texas — or even to help people outside of Texas understand Texas. H-E-B is the secret that only Texans are in on. It’s a retailer whose ethos is very clear: This is Texas — where the food is better, the people are more loyal, and the shape of our state is actually quite remarkable. <em>Y’all got any questions? </em></p> <p id="J8iole"><a href="https://twitter.com/PKgourmet"><small><em>Priya Krishna</em></small></a><small><em> is a food writer who contributes regularly to the </em></small><small>New York Times</small><small><em>, </em></small><small>Bon Appétit</small><small><em>, and other publications. Her cookbook, </em></small><a href="https://go.redirectingat.com?id=66960X1516589&xs=1&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.amazon.com%2FIndian-ish-Recipes-Antics-Modern-American%2Fdp%2F1328482472%2Fref%3Dsr_1_1%3Fie%3DUTF8%26qid%3D1536589970%26sr%3D8-1%26keywords%3Dindianish" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank"><small>Indian-ish</small></a><small><em>, is out April 2019. </em></small><br/><a href="https://www.instagram.com/laurakraaydesign/"><small><em>Laura Kraay</em></small></a><small><em> is a freelance illustrator living in Austin, Texas. </em></small><br/><small><em>Fact checked by </em></small><a href="https://twitter.com/emgrill_o?lang=en"><small><em>Emma Grillo</em></small></a><br/><small><em>Copy edited by Rachel P. Kreiter</em></small></p> <aside id="YtlPqm"><div class="c-newsletter_signup_box" id="newsletter-signup-short-form" data-newsletter-slug="eater" readability="7.8834196891192"> <div class="c-newsletter_signup_box__main" readability="33"> <span class="c-newsletter_signup_box__icon"> <svg xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2000/svg" xmlns:xlink="http://www.w3.org/1999/xlink" version="1.1" id="Layer_1" x="0px" y="0px" viewbox="0 0 38 54.231" xml:space="preserve"><g><path d="M1,20.304v9.981v6.393c0,9.046,7.332,16.375,16.375,16.375H33.75v-11.09H17.375 c-2.914,0-5.285-2.369-5.285-5.285v-6.393h18.383v-9.981H12.09V11.09h21.66V0H1V20.304z"/></g></svg></span> <h3 class="c-newsletter_signup_box__title"> Eater.com </h3> <p class="c-newsletter_signup_box__blurb">The freshest news from the food world every day</p> </div> <div class="c-newsletter_signup_box__disclaimer" readability="8.6"> By signing up, you agree to our <a href="https://www.voxmedia.com/pages/privacy-policy">Privacy Policy</a> and European users agree to the data transfer policy. </div> </div> </aside><br/><br/>Source: https://www.eater.com/2018/12/11/18133776/heb-texas-origin-cult-following<br/><img src="https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/z/chef-cooking-kitchen-stove-flame-frying-pan-31742315.jpg"/><br/>