#until it bursts out of my chest alien style

[ravenekrops]

i may not be drawing but by god i AM fantasizing about drawing

#and storytelling in general #i can't write either but i see them. the scenes. the conversations in my mind. the interactions. the reactions. i see them so clearly #i can feel it. growing inside me #until it bursts out of my chest alien style #the horrors of childbirth #god i'm SO chatty today. i'm so sorry to y'all followers #like why do you even follow me fr 😭😭😭 i'm just a critter rambling about nonsense half of the time #the other half i'm just shitposting and aestheticposting #chatter

[allisondraste]

Cockroaches and Other Things That Just Keep On Living

Fandom: Mass Effect

Ship: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian

Word Count: 4019

Summary: It's only been two weeks since the Reaper War ended, and the Alliance is already trying to bury Shepard.

[Click Here for A03]

Two weeks.  It had only been two weeks since the war ended, since that devastating flash of red light burst from the Citadel and bounced off every active relay in the galaxy, since the Reapers fell dead in space and the Normandy crash landed on some tropical little human colony world just on the edge of the Terminus Systems.  It had just been two weeks, but the Alliance and the rest of the whole damn galaxy were already willing to declare Shepard dead.  And to add insult to injury, they’d  given Garrus the great honor and privilege of hanging her name up on a memorial wall in some trite ceremony to make the crew feel better.

“There isn’t anyone who could’ve been at the epicenter of that blast and survived,” Hackett had explained, far too matter-of-factly. “It’s time for us to move forward.”

“Shepard isn’t just anyone,” Garrus had replied, and then promptly told the admiral where to shove his plaque. It was not his finest moment.

Now, he sat in the mess hall, alone and staring down at the dextro-amino rations he’d barely touched. The bastardized version of some overly seasoned human dish would have been unappetizing even if he had an appetite. But he didn’t.  Something about the person he loved being declared dead left a sour taste in his mouth.  He’d only even tried to eat because Liara insisted, and he wasn’t in the mood for another well meant lecture about taking care of himself.

No longer willing to bother, he shoved the plate away from him with the back of his hand, and looked up in just enough time to catch Williams walk past him.  She stopped, performed a proper about-face and marched up to his table.

“Hey,” Ash greeted him like she’d never spoken to him before in her life.

“Hey,” Garrus replied and watched as she shifted uncomfortably and darted her eyes around the entire room before meeting his gaze.

She motioned to an empty seat across the table from him. “Can I— I mean, do you want some company? You just look—”

“Like I’m one news vid about the ‘late’ Commander Shepard away from going postal?” He let out a derisive snort. “Yeah.”

Williams smirked and  eased herself down onto the bench without waiting for him to agree to her company. “I was going to say ‘like shit,’ but that works too.”

He answered her dryly. “Gee. Thanks.”

There was a pause in conversation, then Ash tilted her head in that sympathetic way every human who knew him seemed to do since Earth. “Seriously though… how are you holding up?”

I’m not , Garrus thought, but the words didn’t make it to his mouth, just sarcasm.. “Didn’t realize you cared… or is this just one of those human things where you pretend to care for my benefit?”

She leaned back and raised an eyebrow. “Do I seem like the kind of person who pretends to do anything for anyone’s benefit, especially yours?”

He laughed. “Fair.”

“Listen, this is off the record but… Hackett had that mouthful coming.” She laughed and shook her head. “I’m just glad it was you that said it and not me because, well, I like my job.”

If anyone had told Garrus that one day, he’d have a heart-to-heart with the human woman who’d spent their entire first mission together shooting daggers at him from across Normandy’s shuttle bay, he’d have said they were crazy.  But there they were, raw from the absence of someone who meant so much to the both of them.

“It’s been two weeks,” he muttered, looking down at his hands. “ Two. They haven’t even found her bod—“ he tried and failed to choke back the lump in his throat,  but continued talking anyway, glancing up at her— “It’s too damn soon, Ash.”

“I know,” came her firm reply as she reached across the table.  She hesitated for a split second, but then let her hand fall on top of his.  Deep brown eyes welled up with tears that she tried to blink away.  She let out a frustrated huff as one rolled down her cheek anyway, then cleared her throat.  “ Damn. Pretend this isn’t happening.” “Pretend what isn’t happening, Williams?”

“Perfect,” she remarked, wiping her face with the heel of her free hand and laughing. “Kind of hard to believe it’s only been three years since we tracked down Saren.  Feels like a lifetime ago.”

“And look at us now, being mostly civil,” he said with a sigh, staring down at Ash’s hand.  Alien as it was, it reminded him of Shepard’s, strong to be as small as it was, with too many fingers.  He recalled the many times those fingers had traced the hard edges of his face, how that hand had fit so comfortably into his (after a few clumsy attempts, of course).  He’d take another missile to the face to hold it again.

“You know, Shepard worked her ass off to convince me it’d be fine having aliens on board an Alliance vessel,” Ash observed playfully, pulling him from his thoughts.

“You? Paranoid over a handful of non-humans? I’m shocked .”

“Nothing personal,” she explained,“Just didn’t feel comfortable sharing a station with a guy whose grandpa probably shot at mine during the War.”

“Hate to break it to you but—” he leaned back in his seat— “My grandfather was just a run of the mill C-Sec officer.  All he would have done was write your grandfather a nasty citation. ‘Being human in Citadel space,’ used to be a finable offense.”

“God,” she said with another laugh, “Back then, I rolled my eyes and told Shepard I’d do whatever she wanted me to do. ‘You tell me to jump, I ask how high.  You tell me to kiss a turian, I’ll ask which cheek.’”

“We don’t really have cheeks,” Garrus corrected, laughing when Ash shot him a pointed look, “But that’s beside the point.  I’m guessing Shepard never followed through with that order.”

“No, she told me, and I quote, ‘Nobody’s going to be kissing any turians on this mission, Ash,’” she said in her best Shepard impression, then muttered, “Fucking liar.”

“Well, to her credit, I don’t think she planned on me being so… irresistable.”

Ash snorted and rolled her eyes. “Okay, ladykiller .”

There was another pause in conversation, and her expression fell.  She looked down to where her hand still lay on his. “Back then, I just assumed you’d jump ship as soon as things got rocky, as soon as we— as Shepard — really needed you, but…” She trailed off, grip tightening around his hand.  “You never let her down, not once.  Not even when I—”

“You didn’t let her down, Ash,” he argued, sensing where she was headed, “She never thought that.”

“Yeah, well I do,” she snapped, words clipped, “I should have seen the signs that Cerberus had her pinned down, but I let my ego get in the way.  I’m surprised she wanted anything to do with me after that.”

“You’re not the only one who has ever screwed up trying to do the right thing,” he reassured her, “Shepard, of all people, understood that.”

“That’s… you’re probably right,” she nodded and looked up at him, “Thanks. And for whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Uh, sorry for what?”

“For ever believing you weren’t an important part of the crew,” she stated seriously, then smiled, “And for calling you birdbrain  behind your back.”

Garrus’ mandibles flared in amusement, and he gave her hand a few friendly pats. “No harm done,” he said, then paused for a beat, “Besides, you didn’t hear what I said behind your back.”

One of her eyebrows shot up. “You talked shit about me?”

“So much.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute,” shouted a familiar voice from across the mess, causing them both to snap their heads toward the sound. “Somebody get this heartwarming moment on camera.”

Ash stiffened, retracting her hand quickly and stuffing it under the table. “Joker.”

“Hey, Joker.” Garrus waved. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” he answered, words pointed. “You know, aside from the soul-crushing agony of my girlfriend dying. ”

Garrus had spent enough time around humans to know that the Flight Lieutenant looked rough, even for someone who’d never cared about keeping up appearances.  His eyes were red, the skin underneath dark enough that even the shadow cast from his hat couldn’t disguise the lack of sleep. He made his way unsteadily to the table and sat down next to Williams.

Garrus opened his mouth, preparing to speak, to express sympathy, but Joker cut him off. “And before you start with any of that ‘I understand how you feel’ crap— no you don’t.  Everyone knows you can’t say Shepard’s dead until we’ve ID’d the body.  Maybe not even then. She just keeps living… like a cockroach. ”

“You know you could just say, ‘I’m not doing so hot,” right?” Ash scolded him,  but there was still a softness to her voice. “You don’t have to be an ass about it.”

“Yeah, but see… being an ass is way more my style.”

The table went completely quiet as Joker crossed his arms over his chest and scowled, tension palpable enough it might as well have had mass.  Not one for tolerating awkward silences, Garrus ventured a question. “What the hell is a cockroach?”

Ash smiled, clearly thankful for the change in subject, and began to explain. “They’re these—“

“ Beetles ,” Joker cut her off, “Big, disgusting ones that are supposed to be able to survive extreme conditions other organics can’t.”

“Sounds about right,” Garrus admitted with a shrug.

The pilot flinched and glared at him. “Wait. I called Shepard a disgusting beetle and you’re just okay with that?”

“Are you kidding? Why wouldn’t I be,” he asked sarcastically, “It actually explains why she kept molting. ”

“You’re having fun. Stop it,” Joker whined, scowl deepening, “Stop having fun!”

Garrus laughed and threw his hands up in surrender. “This isn’t exactly my idea of fun. My cockroach is missing.”

Joking though he was, his words were honest, something Joker must have detected.  His expression softened even as he puffed his chest out. He deflated immediately as another familiar voice called out, likely interrupting whatever barrage of barbs he’d prepared to hurl at Garrus. This time, it was Vega who strutted over to the table carrying an entire fifth of some sort of human liquor.  Cortez trailed solemnly behind him, examining the rectangular objects in his hands.

“Yo, don’t tell me the party started without us,” shouted Vega, setting the alcohol down on the table with a loud clank , pointing a thumb back at Cortez, “Esteban here took forever polishing the name plaques.”

Garrus stiffened at the mention of the plaques, knowing full and well there had been one commissioned with Shepard’s name on it despite all his protests. Turned out, the Alliance brass didn’t give a damn about some loud mouth former C-Sec officer or his feelings after all. He just hoped none of the humans were able to read the pain in his expression— a hope that was in vain if the sympathetic glance Cortez gave him was any indication.

“What’s that for?” Ashley pointed to the bottle of amber liquid Vega sat on the table.

“What do you think,” Vega asked, as if his intentions should have been completely clear, “I’m going to pour one out for the commander.”

“All over the Normandy's floor?” She raised her brows at him.

“Nah.” He gave her a dismissive wave. “Just down the sink or somethin’.”

She picked the bottle up and examined the label more closely. “But…this is expensive stuff, James.”

“Don’t care,” came Vega’s indignant response, “It’s for Lola.”

Ashley gave him a solemn nod, seeming to understand whatever peculiar human tradition he was planning to perform. Satisfied, Vega turned his attention to Joker, snagging his cap, flipping it around, and placing it down on his head backwards. Joker cursed and grumbled, calling Vega a bully among other things, but Vega just smiled and walked over to Garrus, giving him a supportive clap on the shoulder.

Slowly, the rest of the crew began to filter in, each with their own expressions of concern.  Traynor and Tali arrived together, deep in conversation if the emphatic hand gestures were any indication.  They both quieted as they arrived at the table, Traynor frowning and bowing her head, whileTali approached and slid comfortably  into the seat next to Garrus.

She looked down at the uneaten food and back up at him, giving him a nudge with her elbow and complaining. “You are wasting all of the good dextro rations.”

“Good? Oh, come on,  we both know it’s garbage.”

“Well… yes, but it’s digestible garbage,” she said, holding a finger up to make her point.  Her voice softened when she continued. “And you’ve hardly eaten anything the past few days.”

He sighed and looked down at the rations. “Yeah.”

Tali observed him for a second, eyes glowing behind her helmet. She then grabbed his plate and slid it toward him. “Eat up, Vakarian. Or else I will have to feed you myself… with a spoon I am pretending is the Normandy.”

Garrus let out a laugh despite himself. “I don’t think that’ll work, Tali.”

“You don’t know that.  You haven’t heard my engine noises.”  She laughed along with him for a few seconds, then grew quiet once again and gave him a gentle pat on the back. “The Alliance is going to feel very silly when Shepard gets back and they have to explain why they hung her name up on the wall and sold her hamster.”

“ If she makes it back this time.”

“She will,” Tali asserted, voice cracking, “She has to.”

It was Javik who entered next, voice booming in a debate with Liara, who had taken it upon herself to explain human customs for memorializing the dead. He shook his head and ignored her entirely, stating that if he wished for a history lesson, he would ask for one.  He then snapped his many-eyed gaze to Garrus.

“You should not be saddened about Shepard’s fate, Garrus.  She died with great honor.”

Liara let out an exasperated sigh, and sat down in one of the empty seats at the next table over, bringing her hand to her face.

“What is it, asari?” Javik snapped, “Honor in death is something turians hold in high regard, is it not? This should be a great comfort to him.”

“Perhaps with time,” Liara explained,”But right now it is… insensitive.”

“It’s nothing my dad hasn’t already told me a dozen times,” Garrus stated flatly, “I appreciate the sentiment.”

Weird that a fifty-thousand year-old Prothean reminded him of his dad.  Then again, Castis Vakarian was as about as traditional as turians came, and they butted heads on almost every subject, including but not limited to: Garrus’ disregard for rules, his decision to leave C-Sec—twice, his “risk- and attention-seeking” behavior, and his “absurd infatuation with a human woman”. Their relationship had always been strained, to say the least. Still, he had always been there when Garrus needed him, and listened when it mattered. He was the first call Garrus made from the medbay after the Reapers were destroyed, when he realized Shepard might not be coming back.

He’d been sympathetic, but not even remotely comforting, not unlike Javik was at present. Garrus just didn’t have it in him to explain to either how little he cared about the honorable nature of her sacrifice, the high esteem the galaxy now held her in, or the way history would remember her. None of that mattered when she wasn’t at his side.  How could he be proud, when all he felt was empty?

Once all parties arrived and settled in, the group spent time talking and sharing memories. The Alliance crew members all told stories about encounters with Admiral Anderson, how he more often felt like a parent than a commanding officer, and how his reputation was so much larger than his ego. Traynor did most of the talking about EDI, their friendship, and how seamlessly she’d fit into the crew, how easy it had been to forget she was an AI. Joker just pulled the bill of his cap down to cover his eyes.  Then, the reminiscence moved to the commander.

Every single person present had a story about Shepard, about how she went above and beyond the call of duty to help them, and to make sure they were taken care of while aboard the Normandy.  Shepard had always taken time to check in with the people who worked for her, even when the galaxy was falling apart and herself along with it.  She was a good leader, arguably the best, and an even better friend.  It was clear that everyone in the room admired her, and that she was missed.

Garrus knew he should say something, tell one of the many stories of the trouble he and Shepard had gotten into together. The others all watched him expectantly as he scrambled for words.

“I—“ he began, but was interrupted by the buzzing of his omni-tool, followed by several bright flashes of light. He cursed and pulled up the interface to silence the damn thing.  An urgent message alert flashed on his screen, and he tapped the icon to open it.

From: Dr. Chloe Michel

Subject: Jane Doe

Dear Garrus,

I hope this email reaches you, and that you are still alive to read it.  I am on the Citadel working with an emergency medical unit out of what is left of  Huerta Memorial. The blast from the Crucible caused some severe structural damage near the epicenter, and we have been searching the area to find and identify survivors and remains.

There is a Jane Doe here, who I believe you might know. Please contact me on a private channel whenever you are able.

Take Care,

Chloe

His heart sank like lead into his gut as he read what could only be a request to come in and identify a corpse.  The space around him was suddenly too full, too loud, and the curious eyes of his companions lingered on him for far longer than comfortable. He tapped the display on his omni-tool once again to close it, glancing around the room from one set of eyes to another.

“It’s nothing,” he lied. The truth would only cause unnecessary alarm he wasn’t equipped to handle at the moment.  He stood abruptly, a jolt of pain coursing through his leg that was still recovering from a fracture, and excused himself. “Just need to make a quick call.”

“Now,” Liara asked, frowning, “But the memorial ceremony was just about to begin.”

“So start without me,” he snapped and made his way to the main battery.  He’d apologize later, when his world wasn’t caving in.

The battery doors shut behind him with a familiar hiss and he sank down into his seat next to the workbench where his favorite rifle lay surrounded by tools and unused thermal clips. It had taken a beating in the battle on Earth, and Garrus had poured over repairing it in the days following its end.  He hadn’t touched it since.  There were no more enemies to fight, and the gun just reminded him of Shepard.

Bringing up his omni-tool once again, Garrus established a link using the information Michel provided him.  He only waited a second or two before a voice on the other end picked up.

“Garrus,” exclaimed the woman, “I am so glad you received my message.”

“About that Jane Doe,” he began, cutting straight to the chase, “I— do you need me to identify the b— her ?”

“No… it is Commander Shepard,” she explained, “I am absolutely certain.”

“ Oh, ” Garrus said with the breath he’d been holding.  He was glad he was already sitting down, as the last shreds of hope he’d been clinging to slipped from his grasp leaving him dizzy and sick.  It was Shepard.  She was dead. There was nothing to be done about it.

He took a minute to collect himself and his thoughts, cleared his throat and told the doctor, “I, uh…I’m not really sure how to— I mean, I guess I should make funeral arrangements. That’d be better than letting the Alliance—“

“Garrus,” Michel interjected firmly, “She’s alive.”

“ What,” he asked, more loudly than he’d intended.  Hoping nobody had overheard outside, he lowered his voice and continued, “I mean, how is she? What’s her condition? Is she going to—”

“I won’t lie to you,” the doctor interrupted again, “Her injuries are serious, and she has been comatose since we found her.  Still, her vitals are strong and stable at present. She is a fighter.”

“She is.”

The line was silent for a beat then Michel spoke up again.  “I had a wonder… Shepard’s body has, ehm… extensive cybernetic modification. More extensive than I have seen. We are not certain how, or if it is even possible to repair all of the damage.”

One name came immediately to mind. “Miranda Lawson.”

“Pardon?”

“You need to contact Miranda Lawson,” Garrus clarified,  “She is an ex-Cerberus operative, the scientist responsible for Shepard’s upgrades. And a friend. She will be able to help. I can send you her contact information.”

“Good, yes. I will contact her immediately,” Michel replied, relief noticeable in her voice. She then sighed and said, “I apologize for sending such a vague email.  I am realizing now that it was likely… anxiety provoking. I simply did not wish for the wrong people to find out about Shepard’s survival.”

Garrus huffed, “Yeah, if the media caught wind of this, it’d be a circus.”

“That is what I feared,” she agreed with a sigh, “Besides, I thought you should be the first to see her. I know she is important to you.”

“Thank you, doc. For everything.”

“It is the very least I can do.  I owe my life to the both of you. Twice over, now it would seem:”

“I’ll get to the Citadel as soon as I can.”

“Talk to you then.”

The call ended with a beep and Garrus shut off his omni-tool display, staring blankly at the wall on the opposite side of the room for several minutes, attempting to recover from the emotional whiplash the last half hour had given him.  He took a deep breath, rose to his feet, and headed back out to the mess hall.

All eyes turned to him as he made his way toward the memorial wall just outside the elevator.  EDI’s and Anderson’s names had already been placed, tears already shed. Now they looked to Garrus, Cortez approaching with the name plaque meant to commemorate Shepard’s death. He took the polished silver plate and examined it, light glinting off its corners as he stepped up to the wall.  For a long moment he traced the letters of a name that had come to mean so much to him, to those crowded in the narrow hallway around him, to the hundreds of thousands who’d cheered from ships in the massive fleet she’d rallied and led to victory, and to the billions of lives she’d saved across the galaxy.  Shepard deserved so much more than a name on a wall.

And now, just maybe, she could have it.

Garrus would have preferred to keep  Shepard’s survival to himself, to snag her from the hospital and elope to some secluded tropical paradise where nobody could ask anything of either of them again, except “Would you like a refill on that incredibly alcoholic beverage?” But he knew he couldn’t do that.  After all, he was not the only one who loved her.

Lowering the plaque, he turned to face the others, all of whom looked at him with a mix of confusion and concern.  He glanced down at Shepard’s name again, mandibles flaring out reflexively as relief and excitement swelled in his chest.

“They found her.  They found Shepard,” he told them, bringing his eyes to meet their gazes as he spoke. “She’s alive.”

#mass effect #mass effect legendary edition #garrus vakarian #shakarian #ashley williams #tali'zorah #fanfic #my writing

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Beneath the Surface: A Retelling of “The Frog Prince”

If I’d had any choice, I never would have taken the underground train. I had accompanied Roger to a political summit in the city of Roshen, but spouses leave after the opening speeches, and since I couldn’t leave Roger without the hovercar, I had to use public transportation. The train--built by the natives decades before humanity absorbed Arateph into the Interplanetary Coalition--was a horrible excuse for technology. It rattled me to my destination, jolted me into an underground station, and left me so shaken that I could feel my bones clattering as I climbed up the stairs to the street.

The crowd surged around me as I emerged onto the sidewalk. There were far too many tephans. You know what Arateph’s natives look like—almost like humans, but it’s an unsettling almost. Their eyes just slightly too high on their heads, their ears just slightly too far back, and hands (ugh) split into only three fingers and a thumb. Like a person shaped by a sculptor with a hazy memory of how humans look. I can take them in small doses, but in groups? My skin was crawling. I powered through the crowd as quickly as possible and tried not to let any of them touch me.

I sped several blocks away from the train station before I realized I was nowhere near my hotel. The buildings in this neighborhood were old, made of crumbling stone bricks that had been stacked by physical labor rather than printed by machine. Half the windows were made of colored glass, and half of those were broken. Garbage rustled in the gutters, holes marred the concrete sidewalks, and all the signs were written in an unfamiliar alphabet. I was, somehow, lost in a tephan neighborhood. And not a nice one.  

I turned in circles, trying to figure out which way I’d come. Tephans watched me from storefronts and doorsteps and alleyways, and I kept walking to prevent them from figuring out just how lost I was. I was Priscilla Overton, wife of a Coalition finance minister, pillar of this planet’s elite—and human. Some groups violently opposed human rule, and tephan attacks against humans were on the rise. Who knew what these savages would do if they knew how helpless I was?

I rushed through narrow, dark streets until I reached a wider thoroughfare--a residential area with slightly less grimy apartment buildings. Still not a nice neighborhood, but not a place where I suspected otherworldly rats would tear the flesh from my bones or criminals would murder me for my technology.

I pulled my datapad out of my purse to look for directions. Dead.

I unfolded my wristcomm and tried to call for help. No signal.

I put my fist to my mouth to stifle a frustrated scream. Why did these things happen to me?

I stormed further down the street, cursing Roger for ever bringing us to this planet. We’d been happy on Earth. Comfortable. Respected. With no chance of wandering into streets where aliens stared at you with their off-kilter eyes. The rewards we got for helping to civilize this backward planet weren’t nearly enough to make up for this torture.

I turned a corner and found myself in front of a long, low yellow-brick building with dozens of small windows. The window boxes had flowers in them—fist-sized bundles of tiny red and gold petals. Not something you’d find on Earth, but...nice. Nice enough to pull me down from my fury and make me think I could give my wristcomm another try.

I powered down the wristcomm and stood next to a pink metal lamp post (Arateph has strange color trends) while I waited for it to restart. A metal grate was below my feet. These primitives still used storm drains! I shouldn’t have been surprised, since the road clearly wasn’t made of Draincrete, but it was still jarring. Living on Arateph was a strange combination of living on another world and living in the backward past.

My wristcomm buzzed, still powering up. I was ready to explode with anxiety. There were tephans straggling by—not many of them, but too many and too poorly dressed for my taste. To calm myself, I played with my wedding ring—a gold band with a spray of amethysts and pearls. The ring had been in Roger’s family for centuries. Some days, it felt like my last tie to a familiar world.

I kept my life on Arateph as Earth-like as possible, but it could never be the same as living on Earth. Alien things always lingered at the edges. Trees that turned purple in autumn instead of familiar orange. Toothy red-and-purple-feathered birds that rooted through the trash and woke me with their awful screeching. And around every corner, people who looked like grotesque parodies of my own kind. An entire world conspiring to make me constantly aware of how far I was from home.

My sisters were going about their own lives on Earth, and the few times we could afford appointments at synced comms stations, we found little to talk about--we literally came from different worlds. If Roger and I ever had children--doubtful but possible at our age--our families would only know them as data-images.

This was why I hated being alone on this wretched planet. Gave me far too much time to think about these things.

My wristcomm chimed—finally awake. I unfolded the screen and attempted to bring up my list of contact codes. I found Roger’s; he’d be in the middle of a meeting, but I couldn’t help that. I pressed the code and waited.

A discordant note sounded. No signal. I threw down my hand in frustration. My ring flew down with it. The golden band slipped off my finger, tumbled toward the ground, bounced off the edges of the grate, and fell into the drain.

I gasped in horror and fell to my knees. It couldn’t be, not now.

The ring sparkled in the sunlight, caught on a lip where the structure of the drain met the tube of the deeper pipe. I put my purse on the ground and slid my arm through the grate, but my arm got stuck just above the elbow. The ring was still a foot beyond my reach.

I burst into tears. I couldn’t help it. After the day I’d had—lost among tephans, fighting faulty technology, no hope of help from people who looked like me—this was the last straw. This planet had taken me from my home, my family, my friends, everything familiar, and now it was taking my one reminder of it all. Anybody would have cried.

Long before I felt any relief, a harsh voice broke through my sobs. “Are you finished yet?”

I looked up, furious at whoever was rude enough to interrupt my misery.

A tephan girl sat in the stairwell of the long yellow-brick building next to the gutter. I yelped and reeled back, tears still flowing. Have you ever seen a tephan child? They’re ten times worse than the adults; all their slightly-wrong features stretched even further out of shape, their eyes big and bulging in their heads. This girl was gangly. Her skinny limbs dangled out of baggy green clothes, and a wild brown bush of curls frizzed around her face and over her eyes. By human standards, I’d have judged her to be about twelve years old (though I have no idea if these creatures age like humans). By any race’s standards, she looked positively feral.

I couldn’t believe the creature had spoken to me. “Did you say something?” I asked.

She held up a thick book, bound human-style but with blocky tephan letters on the cover. “Can you cry somewhere else? I’m trying to read.”

She spoke Anglese with only a lightly slurring tephan accent. Somehow, this child spoke the Coalition’s language better than most of the tephan diplomats at Roger’s interminable meetings.

In my shock, I blurted, “How do you know Anglese?”

The creature rolled her eyes. “I go to school. With humans and everything.”

Roger hadn’t been in favor of the integration policy, but it apparently had some benefits. Or would have, had I any interest in talking to the child. Before I could decide if I wanted to reply, I glimpsed the ring again and burst into another involuntary round of tears.

The girl closed her book with a sigh. “What are you crying about anyway?”

I couldn’t tell her that I was crying because of her terrible, technologically backward planet and all its inhabitants, but I had to talk to someone and it was so good to hear human words, even from an alien’s throat. I pointed to the drain. “My ring,” I gasped. “It fell...”

She picked up her book, scrambled down the stairs, and peered in the drain. She huffed and rolled her eyes. “You’re making that much noise over that?”

I drew back my shoulders and snapped, “It’s an irreplaceable heirloom! Centuries of human history! You can’t get those stones anywhere but Earth!”

“Then you should have been more careful with it.”

That made me want to scream, but before I could gather enough breath, the child gathered the book to her chest and turned away. “Can you at least try to keep it down?”

As the girl sat on the building’s stone stairs, the wind tore a scrap of paper out of her book and sent it fluttering. She reached up and snatched it out of the air. My gaze fell on the girl’s arms—long, lanky things that were thinner than human arms. With four-fingered hands that could easily slip between the bars of the grate.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Little tephan girl! What’s your name?”

The girl cast me a dark, distrustful expression, but she finally intoned, “Tanza.”

Not bad, as far as tephan names went. I could pronounce this one. “Tanza,” I said, “Do you think you could reach it?”

The girl shifted her hand behind her back, her face becoming a hard mask. “What do you mean?”

I pointed to her, rambling in my excitement. “Your arms are thinner than mine. Just as long. You could probably reach...”

Her brow furrowed.  “You want me to dig in a sewer?”

“Not a sewer,” I said. “A storm drain.”

“Still dirty.” She looked at the storm drain with narrowed eyes.“If I get it for you, will you go away?”

I wanted nothing more. “Immediately.”

"What'll you pay me for it?"

I felt like I'd been hit by a train. "What? Who said I'd pay you?"

The child pointed one long finger at the storm drain. “If I get dirty digging in there, it’ll be my tenth laundry demerit and I don’t get supper. I’m not doing it for nothing!”

The building behind her held one of the few signs I’d seen with Anglese translations beneath the tephan words: Alogath Charity Home for Unwanted Children. I could see why this child was unwanted.

“I don’t carry cash,” I told her.

“Do you have a credit stick?”

I put a protective arm over my purse. “It’ll be deactivated the moment you touch it.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need the whole stick. Just buy me something with it.”

A truck—a noisy, clanking tephan thing that actually rolled on the ground—roared past us. The glimmer on the ring shifted closer to the drain pipe. If I didn’t act fast…

“What do you want?” I asked her.

“A lot of things.” Her eyes went blank as she stared at imaginings only she could see. Finally, she declared, “A meal at the High Palace.”

She really said that! As if it were a reasonable request! I don’t know how this urchin even knew about human restaurants, much less the finest of fine dining establishments.

“That’s ridiculous!”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I lose a meal, you buy me a replacement. That’s fair.”

“Do you know how much a High Palace meal costs?”

“A lot less than it’ll cost you to replace that ring.”

I growled in frustration. The child had me backed into a corner and she knew it. I shuddered at the thought of taking this…thing into the sparkling society of a High Palace dining room.

I pointed a fierce finger at the child. “Only if you give me the ring immediately. Understand? There’s not a place on the planet a creature like you could sell it without suspicion.”

“I don’t want your ring. I’ll live up to my end of the bargain. And you’ll live up to yours, or that ring’s staying where it is.”

Of course I couldn’t really take her to the High Palace, but one more street-rattling truck could take the ring forever out of anyone’s reach. I’d have agreed if she’d asked for a hovercar.

“Fine!” I shouted. “I’ll buy you the meal. Just save my ring!”

The child placed her book on a clean patch of sidewalk and returned to the edge of the street. I snatched up my purse and stepped aside while the girl laid face down in the gutter. She slid her arm through the grate, all the way up to the shoulder. I held my breath for an eternal moment and didn’t release it until the girl emerged with a ring of gold and amethyst in her hands.

The ring sparkled merrily at me, grimy but whole. I snatched it from Tanza's hands and tucked it into an inner pocket of my gray blazer. I wouldn’t wear it again without resizing it—and not until I was in a neighborhood where I didn’t have to worry about it being stolen from my finger.

The child picked up her book and looked at me expectantly. Demandingly.

I couldn’t give her what she wanted. She was a complete stranger. I’d made the promise under duress. Not a court in the universe would hold me to it. What right did a tephan child have to make such ridiculous demands of a woman of my stature?

“Thank you,” I said. “You did a very good thing.” Then I sped down the street.

The creature was right at my heels. “The High Palace is the other way.”

I didn’t know if she was telling the truth. It didn’t matter. I walked faster.

She yanked at my arm. “You promised me a meal!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t get you into the High Palace.”

“A human lady dressed like you? You could get me in if you wanted to.”

I yanked my arm away from her. “What a pity I don’t want to.”

She gave a feral yowl. I started sprinting—or as near as I could manage in the heels I was wearing. The girl kept pace with me. I was a foot taller than her; why couldn’t I outrun her? Could I lose her in her own streets when I was lost myself?

Just when I thought I’d never be able to escape, I rounded a corner and saw the green-and-silver uniform of a Coalition policeman. My heart soared as I raced toward him. Help, protection, guidance, all only a few steps away. Something wonderfully human in this alien world.

“Officer!” I shouted to his retreating back. “Please, I need help!”

The officer stopped and raised a hand. A four-fingered hand. When he turned around, his face had the skewed proportions of a tephan face.

I nearly screamed. I’d stumbled into a nightmare.

The officer said, with the crisp diction of a tephan overcompensating for an accent, “Have you a problem, morik—madam?”

I’d heard that a few tephans had been admitted into the police forces, but I’d never thought I’d meet one. This tephan was young. Wiry and blond. Almost insignificant-looking if it weren’t for the uniform and the stolen sense of authority. Would he help a human?

Tephan or not, he had an obligation to assist the public. “Officer,” I gasped. “I need directions to the nearest train station. I’m trying to get home and this child is harassing me.”

The girl stormed up to him and shrieked, “She’s a liar!”

She shouted a stream of gibberish, and it wasn’t until the officer responded with similar sounds that I realized they were speaking the tephan language. Flowing, musical vowels were interrupted by harsh consonants, like rocks in a river. The sounds sent chills down my spine that only grew fiercer as the officer’s expression grew darker.

When the girl finished, the officer looked at me, not like an innocent victim needing help, but like a criminal who needed hauling to one of their barbaric tephan jails. “You have wronged this girl.”

I lifted my chin. “She’s lying! I’ve done nothing to her!”

“She claims she rescued your ring in exchange for a meal at the High Palace, and you are attempting to break your word.”

“I owe her nothing!”

“Did you promise her a meal?”

I threw out my hands in frustration. “It’s not like we had a contract or anything!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your promise means nothing without a legal document?”

“She had no right to hold me to a promise. I was desperate!”

He put a brotherly hand on the girl’s shoulder. “And she was kind enough to help you.”

I scoffed. “For a heavy price.”

The child shouted, “It’s one meal!”

The officer examined my face carefully. “You are Priscilla Overton, are you not? The wife of the finance minister?”

My jaw dropped. I’m prominent enough in human circles, but I’d never dared to consider that my face was known among tephans. It terrified me, but I knew it could be my ticket out of this. “I am, and when my husband finds out about how I’ve been treated—”

“Your husband is not a popular man. Not among tephans.”

I had never cared about Roger's reputation among the tephans. These primitives didn’t know what was best for their planet. But that wasn’t something I could say when I was alone in a strange neighborhood with two of them.

The officer continued, “It will not help his reputation if his wife is known as a promise-breaker.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Are you threatening me?”

He leaned toward me and said in low tones, “I am helping you.” He gestured to the street around us. “Do you think I’m the only one who heard the girl’s story?”

I shuddered to see a handful of tephans staring at us from among the crumbling buildings.

The officer said, “The Coalition doesn’t care much for tephan opinion, but if there is enough outcry against one man, even a human representative can be released from his job.”

At first, the thought lifted my spirits. Sent home! To Earth! It was what I’d wanted from the moment we’d stepped foot on this planet. But sent home in disgrace? Roger would have no future in government after such a public failure. It would mean everything we suffered here would be for nothing.

I asked the officer, “You really think they’d protest? Just because I didn’t bow to a child’s ridiculous demands?”

“If a person can’t keep a promise made to a child, how can anything they say be trusted?” His tephan gaze raked over me, like he was dissecting my inner thoughts. “Your people may have different ideas, but tephans still value virtue.”

How dare he—this puffed-up primitive in a human position of power—accuse humanity of being inferior?

My opinion didn’t matter. These creatures thought it a matter of morality that I feed this ragged brat finer cuisine than their planet had ever produced, and nothing I could say would change their minds. Now it seems ridiculous to think that those tephans could ruin us, but in that moment, alone in those unfamiliar streets, seeing how these two strange aliens teamed up against me, I could believe their kind capable of anything.

I looked down at the child. Her big eyes. Her frizzy curls. Her long limbs clutching the book to her chest. The grimy, bog-green clothes that fell short of the wrists and ankles. The smug smirk of a spoiled child who knew she was about to get her way. I had never loathed anyone more in my life.

“Do you have a name?” I asked her. “I’ll need a full name for the restaurant register.”

“I told you,” she said, as though she’d expected me to remember. “It’s Tanza.”

“What’s the rest of your name?” Most tephans I’d met had at least three or four names and were obnoxiously eager to explain them.

The girl's face darkened like I’d offended her. “Just Tanza.”

The officer looked at her with new pity, and even I understood why. You know how important names are to tephans. One name was a badge of dishonor--forever marking her as a child who’d never been claimed by any family, who’d never been given anything beyond the minimum necessary label. Tanza would have felt the shame of that, and I wasn’t quite so surprised that she’d turned into such an irritating little brat.

But I had no room for pity. “Do you have anything better to wear?”

She tugged at the cuffs, trying to stretch them over her arms. “Just more green. And all in the wash. Laundry demerits."

The officer said, "It'll do." He knelt in front of the girl, then looked at me and held out a hand. "I'll bet a fine lady like you carries all kinds of cleaning tools."

I sighed and handed him the nanocleanser from my purse. I showed him the power button, then he waved the metal wand over the stains on Tanza’s clothes. After a few seconds, the stains evaporated and the dirt from the gutter fell away as dry sand.

“Good as new,” the officer said, while Tanza gaped at her freshly-cleaned clothes. These primitives were astounded by the simplest things.

The child brushed through her wild curls with her fingers, swept them back over her shoulders, then stood with her hands at her side and feet apart, as if presenting herself for inspection.

I sighed. “I guess it’s as good as we’ll get. Let’s get this over with.”

Tanza tucked her book beneath her arm and her eyes sparkled with victory.

I looked balefully at the tome. “The book’s coming with?”

“Well, I can’t leave it here.”

I considered insisting that she take it back to the home, but I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“Fine,” I sighed. “Bring the book.”

I was seriously planning on entering the dining room of the High Palace with an alien who thought the proper attire included a set of green work clothes and a giant book. I had gone insane.

The officer stepped aside and gestured for both of us to walk past him. “I’ll escort you there.”

And there went my last hope of escape.

#

The officer escorted us through winding streets, side alleys and dried up canals until we finally crossed a bridge into a civilized portion of the city with human-designed buildings. One sprawling building of white stone-print bore a black sign with elegant script that proclaimed it The High Palace.

As we approached the building, Tanza suddenly skittered across my path. I almost tripped over her feet.

I glared at her as she fell into step on my right side. “What are you doing?”

She glanced warily to the street corner. “Kids from school.”

I glanced back and saw a pre-teen human boy with short black hair and immaculate clothing. He leaned against the corner of a building while he spoke with a handful of human friends. Well-groomed, friendly, human—why couldn’t that child have rescued my ring? I’d have been glad to take him as a guest to the High Palace.

As I engaged in fruitless wishes, the human children disappeared, and I arrived with my tephan escorts at the entrance doors of the High Palace. Wide glass windows showed a sparkling three-dimensional display of Old Paris in springtime. Tanza studied the images of bakeries and floral shops and fluttering Earth songbirds, as if attempting to dissect the technology. The few people passing by looked askance at the tephan pair with me.

Tanza asked, “Are we going in?”

I looked back at the officer. He just smiled at me and waved us toward the door.

I took a deep breath, put a hand behind the girl’s shoulders and pushed her inside.

The interior was a vision of white and cream: pale artwork on the walls, a glass fountain trickling crystal-clear water, rugs in intricate shades of vanilla, beige and ivory upon white marble floors.

The street sounds disappeared when the door closed behind us. No foot traffic, no rumbling vehicles, no screeching of alien animals. Just the hush of quiet voices, the gentle strings of a European symphony and the trickle of the fountain. It was like we'd stepped into a different world. My world. Except for the alien next to me.

The host standing guard at the dining room entrance stared at Tanza, then looked at me with the horrified compassion of someone trying to tell you there’s a wasp on your shoulder. “Madam, are you aware…?”

The only way to get through this with any dignity was to brazen my way through it. “I’d like a table, please. Two seats. For Priscilla Overton and guest.”

I thought his eyes would pop out of his head. “Your guest? You mean she—?”

“Is my guest. Is that a problem?”

He stared as if incredulous that I didn’t know the problem. I didn’t even blink.

Finally, he put a stylus to his datapad. “Does this guest have a name?”

The girl stood as straight and dignified as I did. “Tanza.”

He poised his stylus over the datapad. “Anythin—”

“Just Tanza.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he set his stylus aside. “Two seats for Priscilla Overton and…Tanza.”

The host led us into a blindingly beautiful dining room. A full wall of windows overlooked a river that glittered in the afternoon sun. The other walls were meshed with holonet that made the room look like a small nook in a formal European garden, with the tables and chairs surrounded by roses, tulips, lilies, and a thousand other flowers whose names I’d forgotten in my years away from Earth. Real potted plants scattered among the tables added to the reality of the image and the string quartet played some of the finest music from Earth's history. The room was a bastion of civilization in this barbaric world. A taste of home. It was more filling than any food could be.

The host led us to windowside tables with an excellent view of the river. My heart lifted. Prime seating—a sign of my place on this planet, which not even a tephan could take away. And it was flanked by two potted gardenia plants that would screen my guest from the handful of other diners.

I took the right-hand seat and motioned for Tanza to take the chair that sat closest to the shrub. Its branches brushed her as she sat down.

The host left us as a waiter handed us our menus. As Tanza sat down, she reached toward the branch above her head, plucked a single white gardenia blossom, shoved it in her mouth, and began to chew.

I froze in terror, then glanced at the waiter. Had he noticed?

If he had, he’d been well trained. He didn’t even stumble in his recitation of the day’s lunch specials.

“Would you like a few minutes to make a selection?” the waiter asked.

“Yes, yes,” I said, waving him away before my guest could decide to take another nibble of the greenery.

He bowed and vanished toward the kitchen.

When he was gone, Tanza spit the flower into a gold-embroidered napkin and wiped her tongue on the far corner. While her mouth contorted in the most disturbing shape, those tephan eyes glared at me. “That’s not a spiceblossom bush.”

“No,” I said, my tone stretched with scorn. “It’s a gardenia. And the blossoms aren’t for eating.”

She wiped her tongue on another corner of the napkin. “Why do they put flowers by the table if you’re not supposed to eat them?”

“For decoration,” I hissed. “And if you can’t behave in a civilized manner, we’ll leave this restaurant, promise or no promise.”

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t know all the fancy human rules of eating.”

Her sarcasm made my blood boil—until I saw her blush. She was prickly, yes, but unless I was very much mistaken, she was embarrassed. Now she was lost in an alien world, and I’d experienced that sensation too recently not to feel a little sorry for her.

But only a little. She had demanded this, after all, at great expense to me. Let her suffer the consequences.

“Rule one,” I said. “Don’t put anything in your mouth unless I tell you to.” I tugged her napkin out of her four-fingered hands before she could run it across her tongue again. “That includes napkins.”

With the napkin gone, Tanza's tongue was on full display in front of her chin as she kept the taste as far out of her mouth as possible. I don’t know if you know this, but tephan tongues can stretch further and thinner than human tongues, and this child made hers come almost to a point. I couldn’t look at that for the entire meal, but I couldn’t have the child destroying all the table linens either.

I waved over a waiter carrying a carafe of water, and I pointed him to our empty glasses. He leaned over our table and filled my glass almost to the brim. Then he turned and saw my guest—her pale skin, green clothes, those big eyes and that long, thin tephan tongue. He yelped, recoiled, dropped the carafe, and knocked over my glass. Water flooded the table and spilled onto my lap.

The child yelped, shouted something in her alien language and scrambled to pull her book out of the path of the water. An old man at the next table dropped his fork and stared at her. Fortunately, the few other diners in the room were too far away to see.

I hushed the child and found myself in the strange position of apologizing to the waiter while I was the one standing drenched. I didn’t know what reznat meant, but I was sure it wasn’t a nice thing for a tephan to say to her waiter.

“Could we...” I asked as I ran the nanocleanser over my clothes, “have another table?”

“C...certainly, madam,” he said, looking at Tanza as if waiting for her to pounce. I half-expected it myself, from the fierce way she curled around that book.

Once my clothes were dry, the waiter brought us to an empty table nearer the center of the room. No window view. No shielding plants. But it was further from the kitchen—where I was certain all the servers would be gossiping about us as soon as this klutz left us.

Once we were settled with new water glasses and dry menus, the server scurried away as if the girl were a poison frog. Tanza muttered alien words while she brushed water from the edges of her book, and gulped water until she got the taste of the flower out of her mouth. Then she glared at me and reverted back to Anglese. “He almost wrecked my book.”

After watching her lug that book around for an hour, my curiosity—and frustration—were mounting. “What’s that book about, anyway? And why are you willing to curse out waiters over it?”

“It’s a biography of Queen Marastel.” She set the book deliberately on the table, and looked around the room as if daring waiters to spill more water on it. “And it’s mine. I finally have a book of my own, and I don’t want it wrecked by an idiot with a water pitcher.”

The book was thick. What I’d seen of the print was small. It was not a children’s history book. I hadn’t expected this grimy alien child to be the biography type. Was there a developmental disorder that gave children irrational attachments to academic texts?

“Who is Queen Marastel?” I asked.

Tanza showed me the book’s cover. It had a picture of a young tephan woman—in her mid-twenties, to my human eyes—with a pale, narrow face, and deep eyes. The woman's dark hair was covered with an elaborate system of veils, and she wore a dress covered in so many white jewels and so much gray and white beadwork that I almost couldn’t see the ivory fabric underneath.

“Her,” Tanza said. “The last queen of Arateph.”

“Arateph had queens?” I asked in surprise. They hadn’t had queens when humanity had found them. It must have been part of their history.

I’d never thought of this planet as having a history. If I’d considered it at all, I suppose I’d assumed that they’d been muddling along the way we’d found them for the last few centuries, waiting for us to show up and drag them into modern civilization.

Tanza said, “The planet was ruled by a monarchy until about forty years before the Coalition showed up.”

“The whole planet?”

Tanza sat straighter and her diction became crisper—she looked like a little lecturer at one of those cultural symposiums that Roger and I always had to make appearances at. “After Kepha joined the other eleven kingdoms, the entire planet was united under the monarchy for three hundred and fifty-eight years.”

Not just a monarchy, but a planet-spanning monarchy. Such a thing hadn’t happened in all of human civilization, and these people had accomplished it when they were still on their home planet, believing themselves alone in the universe. I hadn’t thought such an archaic form of government could rule an entire continent without overextending itself, yet it had ruled their world for centuries. For the first time, I found myself wanting to learn something from the tephan people. How had such a government come about? How had they managed it?

Why did the woman on the cover look so sad?

I didn’t ask any of these questions because just then, a waiter appeared—not the water-spilling one, thank goodness. (I didn’t trust my guest to look at that one without throwing something at him.) This one was older, with crisp lines in his clothes and face. He looked like he could have won a staring contest with a statue—perfect unshakable professionalism.

“Are you ready to order, Madam Overton?” He didn’t even look at my guest.

Tanza’s eyes brightened as she picked up the menu, flipping through the pages to examine the options.

I asked her, “What you want to eat?”

“I don’t know.  I’ve never had human food.”

My jaw fell. “You wanted to come here and you didn’t even know what you wanted to eat?”

She gave me a withering stare, as though I was the stupid one. “I wanted to try it.” She closed the menu. “Besides, you said I can only eat what you tell me to eat. So what am I allowed to eat, Priscilla?”

I picked up the menu and realized with horror that I didn’t know the answer. What could tephans eat? Were there foods that were delicacies to us and poison to them?

I asked the waiter, “Do you have any suggestions?” I doubted these people served many tephans, but food was their area of expertise, and we were on Arateph.

The waiter looked at Tanza for the first time. “I’ve heard that people of her...race...are rather fond of the amphibian.” He pointed to an entry on my appetizer list. “The frog legs are popular. And a specialty of the chef.”

I hadn’t eaten frog in years. But if I could choke it down for Roger’s political dinners, I could manage it to satisfy a petulant tephan child. “We’ll have that.”

“Excellent. Is there anything else?”

I didn’t want to give Tanza any more chances to upset the wait staff. “No. Just get us our food as soon as possible.”

As the waiter walked away with our menus, an afternoon crowd filled the dining room; within a few minutes, we went from being nearly alone to being surrounded by other diners. I could tell by the sideways glances that most of them noticed my tephan guest. And I could tell that Tanza noticed them. She sat silently at first, growing more and more tense as we all tried to ignore each other, but when a bald man at the next table stared at her for several long moments, she finally snapped.

“Can you stop it?” she barked at him. “You’re giving me the shivers.” The man, red-faced, studied his menu as if his life depended on it.

Tanza turned back to the table, muttering, “You humans look so creepy when you stare.”

I was too stunned to scold her. I’d never considered that the distaste for the other race’s looks went both ways. If she’d lived her life in a mostly-tephan neighborhood, a human face would look just as slightly wrong to her as a tephan face did to me. It sounds strange, but the idea that she found us ugly made me like her more. It certainly made her more relatable.

But I couldn’t have her making a spectacle. “Please, don’t bother the other diners.”

She seemed ready to protest, but I spoke before she could argue. “That woman in your book. You said she was the last queen of Arateph. What happened?”

Her eyes lit up, rude diners forgotten, as she flipped open the book. “Revolution. The People’s House took over and had her and the king executed.”

I shivered. “So violent. And so young to die.”

Tanza gave me a confused look, then glanced at the cover and understood. “Oh, that’s from her first years as queen. She was almost seventy when she died.”

I pictured the woman on the cover with hair turned gray, but the same dark, sad eyes, facing an angry mob as they led her to the scaffold or the firing squad or however these people killed their leaders. It was brutal, but humanity had often been equally brutal, so I couldn’t dismiss it as their backward alien culture.

Tanza flipped through the pages. “They say she was weak and self-absorbed, but this book gives her more depth.” She looked at a page near the cover. “Verai’s a good scholar. Uses lots of primary sources. Very readable.”

Now that her interest was unleashed, Tanza talked on and on, taking me through an alien history, the tale of a queen beset by tragedy upon tragedy as she helped her husband rule a crumbling planet and struggled to produce an heir. All the scholars at those Coalition events were nowhere near as enthralling as this alien child sharing her favorite book.

As fascinating as the story was, I was even more entranced by the pictures—dozens were embedded through the text. Tanza condescended to turn the book around so I could see. It was grandeur like I’d never seen, buildings in alien colors and shapes and patterns, but bringing to mind the grandest palaces in human history, from Versailles to the Forbidden City to the red spires of the North Martian Emperor's summer home. The people in the pictures wore elaborate, brightly-colored clothes, and feasted upon vast tables full of unfamiliar food—including blossoms from the potted trees next to the tables. No primitive civilization could have created such a culture. No wonder this alien urchin was enthralled, and no wonder she’d seized the chance to attend the closest modern equivalent to such feasts that she knew of.

The return of the stone-faced waiter snapped me back to reality. He planted himself next to the table, passing blank-faced judgement by how thoroughly he didn’t look at the book or the way we bent over it. Face burning, I sat back in my chair and felt ashamed to be caught hanging upon an alien’s story like a dim-witted child.

Tanza swept the book under the table and sat primly as the waiters placed the food in front of us. First a gold charger, then the crystal plates bearing the food—ten frog legs, crisply fried in butter and lemon, dotted with parsley and surrounded by a handful of greens.

Half a dozen nearby heads surreptitiously craned in our direction.

The waiters set a similar platter in front of me, and after I’d arranged my napkin on my lap, I thanked the waiter, picked up the silverware, and began to cut the meat.

Tanza watched me carefully as the waiters left. She picked up her silverware, examined it closely—did tephans even have silverware?—and tried to imitate me, but when she touched the food, the prim little professor became the feral street child again. She still used the silverware, but that was her only concession to decency as she gobbled her foot, downing the frog legs almost whole. The butter sauce ringed her mouth and splattered on her clothing. She made the most inhuman snorting noises as she swallowed.

Now everyone was staring—the red-faced man at the next table, his three dining companions, the ten people sitting at the other nearby tables, the waiters who'd halted on their way to the kitchen. People murmured to their companions. Diners flagged down waiters and asked discreetly if there was something that could be done.

My face burned in embarrassment, but I couldn’t stop the girl. With all these eyes watching me—watching me, Priscilla Overton, entertaining an animal at the finest restaurant in Roshen—I couldn’t even speak. I wanted to sink into the carpet. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to run from the restaurant, flee from this planet, and return to comfortable, civilized Earth. But mortification left me paralyzed. I just sat and did nothing as Tanza devoured her food and licked every last drop of sauce from the plate.

Finally, she dropped her plate back on the charger and leaned back with satisfaction. Her big tephan eyes were bright. “That was amazing.” She licked all eight of her fingers, so lost in the euphoria of her food that she was unaware of the horrified crowd surrounding us. She looked at my plate with confusion. “You’ve barely touched yours.”

I let my fork drop to the tablecloth. “I’m not very hungry.”

Her eyes brightened. “Can I have it?”

“No.”

She gave me a disapproving look. “You can’t waste food. At least try to eat it.”

After that display, I’d never be able to stomach another frog leg. “It doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Then I’ll eat it.” Before I could react, she leaned across the table, speared a frog leg with her fork, and was chewing it before she settled back in her chair.

I wanted to scream. I could have tried to correct her, but I had no idea where to begin, and by now, it was far too late.

The stone-faced waiter leaned over my shoulder. He was pale and his eyes were wide—apparently there were some things that could rattle him. “Madam, if you cannot eat your food here, we can send it home with you.”

He was offering me a doggy bag. The finest restaurant in the city, which usually recoiled in horror from such vulgar practices, was so desperate for me to leave that the staff were sending me home with leftovers. I was, in effect, being kicked out.

I didn’t even care. “Yes, thank you.”

In seconds, another waiter appeared, carrying a green box that had probably held some kind of produce in the kitchen, repurposed into this restaurant’s first take-home container. I sat in silence as they poured the frog legs into the container, then I handed them my credit stick, and when I examined the payment screen of their datapad, I added on a gratuity that cost twice as much as the food did. Perhaps with a tip like that, they’d let me show my face here again. At the moment, I doubted I’d ever want to.

I gathered my purse and stood. That creature gathered her ridiculous book and followed me, smiling, out of the dining room.  

When we reached the lobby, I thrust the box into the child's hands. “Take it. I don’t want it.”

The girl's eyebrows rose. “You don’t? Are you sure? It’s really good.”

“I think it appeals more to tephan tastes.”

She thanked me as though I’d given her all the jewels that the queen on her book was wearing, then tucked the box under one arm and the book under the other.

I put a hand behind her shoulders and pushed her out the door. When we emerged onto the sunlit sidewalk, all my frustration exploded.

“There!” I snapped, giving her one last push beyond the awning of the restaurant. “You’ve had your meal. Take your food and go!”

She stumbled forward, then stared at me in bewilderment. “What set you off?”

My laugh was tinged with hysteria. “What set me off? Maybe I’m just a little peeved at being disgraced in front of some of the richest people in the city by a tephan who gobbles her food like an animal.”

She stood with her mouth open, struck speechless. Those big green eyes showed surprisingly human-looking hurt. “Was it that bad? I know I’m not fancy, but...”

“You can’t tell me you didn’t notice all those people staring.”

The creature turned red. She stammered, “I thought it was because I’m tephan. You told me not to bother them.”

I couldn’t bear to have that creature looking up at me with those big, sad eyes. I didn’t want to feel sorry for her. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Maybe in a few years they’ll let me dine there again.” I pushed her steadily but firmly away from the restaurant. “I have more than paid you in full. Thank you for saving my ring. Goodbye.”

Still looking baffled, the girl trudged away from the restaurant. I walked in the other direction.

My anger started fading the moment the child was out of my line of sight. Each step away from the restaurant felt like a step back into a normal world. There were humans around me. I could read the signs. I even knew how to find my way to the train station. I’d be back at the hotel within the hour and I could pretend that this whole horrible afternoon had been a bad dream.

Light footsteps skittered behind me. A green-clad tephan child with a book and a box appeared to my left.

I yelped and reeled back. “What are you—?”

Tanza fell into step beside me. “I’m really very sorry for embarrassing you. I need to make it up to you. Let me show you the way to the train station—”

My previous anger felt like a candle flame compared to the volcano that those words set off within me. “Leave me alone!” I towered over her in my fury. “I gave you your meal! I fulfilled the promise! Now leave!” I stormed away, but at the first sound of footsteps behind me, I whirled around. “I swear, if you take another step toward me, I will see you arrested!”

The child’s face hardened into the petulant mask that I recognized from my first sight of her from the gutter. “Sorry for helping.”

“Helping,” I mocked. “Your help comes at too high a price.” I gave a short, cynical laugh. “I see through your plan. You think you can trail after me demanding handouts all day. Well, I have had enough.” I secured my purse over my shoulder like I was holstering a weapon. “Get out of here!”

Face white and lips tight with anger, Tanza bowed her head and turned away. I strode away in triumph.

An old man looked at me sideways, shaking his head. I made it to the end of the block before the guilt hit me. The old man had reason to disapprove. Tanza had made an offer of help, and I’d responded by screaming at her in a public street. Perhaps she had felt remorse. As embarrassing as it had been to be seen with a girl who ate like an animal, how much worse would it feel to be the one who’d done it? I thought of those pictures in that book of hers. Would I have fared any better at a tephan feast?

I turned around. “Tanza, wait—“

“Hey, Tanza!”

The voice, coming from the other end of the block, was louder, harsher, and younger than mine. A crowd of boys stampeded down the sidewalk—all humans, about twelve years old, and led by a boy with slick black hair and gray and white clothes in the latest crisply-cut fashions. The children Tanza had noticed when we’d first arrived at the restaurant.

Tanza—standing near where I’d left her—tried to move away from them, but hesitated when she saw me standing at the other end of the block. In seconds, the boys had her surrounded.

The ringleader prodded her shoulder. “Escaped from your cage, Tanza? What are you doing among civilized people?”

His yellow-haired friend poked at the box of frog legs. “Looks like she’s looting houses.”

Tanza yanked the box away. “I’m not a thief!”

The ringleader tugged at the book under her other arm. “That’s a big book. Still playing at being smart, small-brain?”

Tanza pulled it back. “Don’t touch that!”

One boy pried up her arm while two others slid the book away from her. “Ooh, it’s a small-brain book!” the ringleader said in mock delight. He flipped through the pages with dirt-stained fingers. “It’s even written in their pretend letters.”

Tanza snarled, “Give that back!”

He slammed it shut and pulled it toward his chest. “Why? Scared it’s too complicated for me?”

“It’s mine!”

He looked at it thoughtfully. “Is it, though? I don’t think a charity case like you can afford a big book like this.”

“It’s mine!” she repeated, nearly shrieking now. “Teacher gave it to me!”

“Bet she stole it,” said a voice from the crowd. “She’s just a grubby little nameless charity house thief.”

Tanza, driven past the breaking point as the ringleader held the book just beyond her reach, shrieked in outrage and pounced. She tore at the book while the boys yanked it away from her. The individuals disappeared into a storm of arms and legs and paper. Five against one. I watched in terror for a few moments before thinking to call for help. I had my wristcomm. I could hit the emergency button….

It was over before I could lift my wrist. Tanza was sprawled across the sidewalk, surrounded by the shredded, dirty pages of her book. Her box had been torn open. Fleshy frog legs were scattered on the ground as though the animals had been thrown against the wall.

The boys, barely scuffed, loomed over her, mocking. They lifted the empty binding of the book like a trophy, cheering over it and slapping each other on the back. Then, satisfied with their destruction, they ran off the way they came, leaving their victim on the ground.

Numbly, I shuffled toward her, feeling lost in a different sort of nightmare--one where I was one of the monsters. Those boys had been waiting for her. If she’d had an ulterior motive for coming after me to apologize, she had been hoping for protection, not handouts. And I’d thrown her to the wolves.

Tanza pushed herself onto her knees and pulled the pages toward her, like a mother hen gathering up chicks. She looked more vulnerable than I’d ever seen her, eyes wide and glistening, her face slack with horror. Her emotionless mask was gone. She pressed an armload of shredded pages to her chest, curled into a fetal position, and cried.

Curled up like that, face and hands hidden, she didn’t look like a tephan. Not like the rude negotiator at the gutter. Not like the little professor or even the animal at the table. She was just a friendless little girl, surrounded by the wreckage of her most prized possession.

I thought of the last time I’d seen her lying in the street, arm threaded through a storm drain while she reached for my ring. The ring was in my pocket, safe and whole. How had I thanked her for her service? Tried to duck out of the promise, treated her like a savage, screamed at her in the streets, and left her at the mercy of bullies.

The ring I loved so much was one of dozens that I’d brought from Earth, and my day had been destroyed at the thought of losing it. This book was the only one she owned, and it was gone forever. I couldn’t imagine her distress.

How had I thought her the savage?  

My stomach twisted with loathing, and for the first time all day, it was directed toward myself. I could fool myself no longer; I’d done nothing to be proud of today.

But that could change.

Approaching Tanza with soft, careful steps, I crouched next to her. “Tanza?” I brushed a finger across her shoulder.

The girl recoiled from my touch and turned away. She came up on her feet, but stayed scrunched into a ball, protecting her pages and hiding her red eyes.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

Her voice was thick with tears. “Go away.”

I grabbed one of the pages. “I can help—“

She whirled her head toward me and snapped, “I said go away!”

I stumbled back, and for a moment I was ready to do as she wanted. This was not my problem and she didn’t want my help.

Then my good sense returned, and I barked, “Don’t be stupid. I’m not going to leave a child in the street.” I started gathering pages. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

I looked around for help. The crowd had merely started taking a wider berth around us, but after a moment, I saw the green and silver flash of a Coalition policeman’s uniform—on a policeman with tephan hands.

I’d never thought I’d be glad to see that officer again. I waved toward him, shouting, “Officer! Please, can you help?”

My voice startled the officer, and his surprise turned to concern as he neared and saw the devastation. He crouched next to us and asked me, “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” I said. The twist in my stomach reminded me that those words weren’t the complete truth, so I amended, “I didn’t destroy the book. There was a group of boys...”

The officer had already turned his attention to Tanza, speaking low-toned words in their tephan language. When they finished, his demeanor toward me was less hostile but more disappointed.

“Now you want to help her?” he asked.

That now was an accusation that cut like a knife. I deserved it, but I met his gaze boldly. “Yes,” I said, daring him to deny me.

He spoke a few more words to Tanza, then told me, “Gather pages.”

He helped Tanza to her feet while I gathered what I could of the paper. Torn edges, smeared alien words, and pictures of long-dead royals who stared at me with accusing eyes. The queen providing food to the poor, shelter to the homeless, clothes to shivering orphans. She’d done all that and wound up executed; looking at Tanza and the tephan officer, I couldn’t help wondering how much worse they thought I deserved.

#

When I’d gathered all the pages I could into a crinkling, crunching mess, I followed in silence as the officer led us along the route we’d taken, every block seeming as long as a mile. When we reached the familiar yellow building where everything had started, I gave the pages to the officer, and he motioned for Tanza to go toward the stair of the building.

“Is there anything else I can do?” I asked Tanza, almost desperate.

Tanza just turned her head away.

“I think you’ve done enough,” the officer said. The words were soft, but I heard the condemnation in them.

I shouldered my purse more firmly, avoided Tanza’s eyes, then asked the officer, “Can you tell me where to find a train station?”

The officer pointed down the street in the opposite direction from where I’d originally approached the building. “The nearest one is just beyond the Killing Square.”

The words shocked me out of the numbness I’d been feeling. “The what?”

But the officer was already rattling off directions, and I was too busy memorizing the steps—left, then right, past the purple tower, turn two blocks after the bridge—to ask what exactly a Killing Square was. I didn’t think a uniformed police officer would purposely send me to my death, so I assumed something had been lost in the translation.

“Thank you, officer,” I said when he finished. Then I looked at the girl and added, “Thank you, Tanza.”

Tanza's green clothes—now scuffed from battle—hung loosely off her slumped shoulders. After a long moment, she raised her head and looked at me from beneath lowered lids. “Goodbye,” she said.

Her tone meant, “Good riddance.”

My pride flared at that. I thought I'd been rather compassionate--helping her gather the pages, hailing the officer, even trailing her all the way to her home to make sure that she arrived safely. Surely she could show a little gratitude.

But as I walked through the narrow, battered streets, it was my own rudeness that haunted me. Snatching the ring from her fingers as though afraid she'd contaminate it. Fleeing from her rather than fulfilling the promise. Leaving her to fight five against one when a moment's action on my part could have saved her. All day, I'd thought myself better than her because I was human, but my actions had been inhumane.

I tried to put it behind me. There was nothing else I could do. The book was gone, beyond repair. Tanza probably never wanted to see me again. It was best to move on and forget all about the tephan girl and the dark-eyed queen that so fascinated her.

Then I turned the corner and came face to face with Queen Marastel. A picture on the gray stone wall, larger than life, showed the woman whose face I’d seen a hundred times in Tanza’s book. I stopped in my tracks, mesmerized. The image was a photo, more or less, but not like any photo or holo-image I’d ever seen from human technology. The colors were more muted than reality, while a strange vibrant shimmer added depth to the image, so it looked as though I could walk inside the pictured scene with a little effort.

The queen’s hair had gone completely gray, her jewels were gone, and her vividly colored gowns had been replaced by a white fabric sheath. What I noticed most were her eyes—they were striking in most of the book photos, but here, her gaze knocked the breath from me. Surely no human gaze could show that much sorrow.

How was she here? Would this queen haunt me wherever I went on this planet, reminding me of my sins against the child?

I noticed a small plaque next to the picture, with a tiny Anglese translation at the bottom, which explained that the image showed Queen Marastel in front of this very building, moments before she was led to death in the center of the square. “Oh,” I said aloud, turning slowly to examine the streets and buildings around me as understanding struck. “The Killing Square.”

This was the center of the revolution that had ended this planet’s monarchy. It was a hauntingly bland neighborhood; no sign of the violent destruction that Tanza had told me of, not after more than eighty years’ worth of repairs.  But pictures and plaques decorated almost every building I saw, telling the story that time had erased. Seven brothers from Kepha stood scarred but proud before a jeering band of executioners. A red-haired older woman tried to cheer up three children as armed rebels escorted them all to prison. The king himself stood tall and white-haired, every line of his face showing his fierce love for his planet even as his people tried to kill him.

I could list examples all day, but I could never make you understand the feeling of being there, gazing at these people in the moments before their deaths. They were young and old, tall and short, had hair and skin in every imaginable shade. They came from regions I hadn’t known existed--desert wastes and mountain ranges and snow-covered tundras. These people had families they’d hated to lose, homes that were as familiar to them as the cottage by the Atlantic had once been to me. They’d made mistakes and suffered for it. They, too, had regrets.

Fear, anger, hatred, love, bravery, cowardice--every possible human emotion filled those alien faces, and it didn’t take long for me to stop seeing them as alien at all. They were people, who’d lived on this planet just as I did, who had loved it the way I’d loved Earth.

I’d never even wanted to know about this world before, but now I was desperate to understand every story these pictures presented. Without Tanza’s book providing context, would I even have paused to look at these pictures? Would I have cared about these people? I doubted I would have. Tanza's childish enthusiasm for a book had upended my world--as I’d upended hers.

With that thought, I found myself back before the picture of the queen. Her sorrowful eyes pinned me in place. It seemed, to my overworked imagination, that she was disappointed in me.

I glared at her. “What else do you want me to do?” I demanded. “What’s done is done. I can’t fix it. I don’t even know what book it was.”

In that hall of death, it seemed a pitiful excuse.

I tore my eyes away from the picture, and my gaze landed upon a door I’d wandered past in my history-induced daze. It was brown and wide, with a sign above proclaiming it the entrance to the Museum of the Alogath Execution Center. I wandered toward it, then froze in my tracks only a few steps away. Next to the entrance was a window—and through the window, I saw books.

This was a museum! Museums—even tephan ones—had gift shops! If there was one place in this world that sold books about Queen Marastel, it was likely the museum that displayed her face on a public street.

I raced into the building, almost giddy, and found the shop just beyond the main entrance. The tiny nook held pamphlets and trinkets, and at the front of the room, a big, silver BookVend machine printed and bound volumes with lightning speed.

I raced through the door. The tephan woman behind the counter dropped her book in surprise as I leaned, panting, against her counter.

The woman asked in smooth Anglese, “Can I help you?”

I stood up and tried to look less like a maniac. “Yes,” I said, in my best politician’s-wife voice. “I need you to help me find a book.”  

#

The door to the charity home loomed large in front of me. I hesitated with my hand before the door. Was I doing something stupid? The freshly-printed book under my arm might not change the fact that the child would want nothing to do with me.

This wasn't about me. I had to try.

My knock was answered by a pale, knobby tephan woman with wisps of blond hair hanging around her face. She stared when she saw my face and clothes. “Madam?”

“Excuse me," I asked, "but does a girl named Tanza live here?”

The woman's eyes glazed over as she struggled to translate my Anglese.

I tried again, speaking more slowly. “Is Tanza here?”

“Tanza…” She trailed off in confusion before her eyes lit with understanding. “Oh!” Gently, she corrected, “It’s pronounced Tanza.”

It sounded exactly the same to me. I was starting to believe those people who said tephans could speak and hear sounds that humans couldn't.

The woman called into the building, and after a storm of voices and footsteps, a slight tephan girl in green clothes came to the door, her curls making a curtain over her still-puffy eyes.

Tanza scowled when she saw me. “What do you want?”

I took a deep breath and stepped forward. “I wanted to apologize,” I said. “For what happened. How I treated you. You saved my ring and I treated you like an animal. That was wrong.”

Tanza crossed her arms. “Glad you noticed.”

This child kept finding ways to irritate me, but I swallowed my words before I snapped back in response.

I pulled a book from under my arm. “I know this doesn’t erase what you went through, but I wanted to undo some of the harm that I’ve done today.” I handed her the book, which had the same cover as the book she’d brought to the restaurant. “This is for you.”

Warily, Tanza examined the queen on the cover. “It looks the same.” She flipped through the pages, and her eyes brightened. “It is the same!”

“I printed a new copy. There’s a BookVend down the street. You rescued my ring; it was only fair that I replace your book.”

"Yes, but I didn't think..." She examined the book in amazement before turning that astonished gaze upon me. "This is really mine? To keep?"

“Yes, of course,” I said.

Tanza clutched the book to her chest and smiled at me, positively radiant. That smile transformed her from a feral orphan into a polite little princess.

I couldn’t keep from smiling back.

“Thank you,” Tanza said. Then she saw the other book under my arm. “What’s that one?” she asked, as though hoping it was for her and not daring to ask.

I pulled it out and showed her the cover. It showed the same image of the queen, but this time above an Anglese title—The Queen of Sorrow. “The Anglese edition,” I explained. “This one’s for me.”

If I’d thought she was happy before, it was nothing compared to her radiance now. “You’re going to read it?”

I shrugged. "I couldn't resist. You made it sound so interesting."

She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Wait until you get to Chapter Five. That’s when she first meets the king, and you would not believe the uproar it causes."

She set down her book, grabbed mine, and started flipping through the pages, desperate to show me the start of the story.

From down the hall, an adult voice barked, “Tanza! Don’t bother the woman. I’m sure she’s busy.”

Embarrassed, Tanza closed the book. She pushed it back into my hands. “Sorry. I don’t get to talk about it much.”

“I don’t mind. You’re an excellent instructor.”

Her eyes brightened with hesitant hope. “I could show you more. If you want.”

“I’d be grateful.”

Tanza called over her shoulder. “Garsa! Can I have a visitor in the study room?”

The tephan woman appeared in the entryway. She blinked, taken aback. “As long as she leaves before supper."

Tanza looked up at me. “Do you want to stay?”

No tephan had ever asked me that question before. In all my time here, I’d been an outsider. An invader. I’d never had the desire to be anything more. But those words, coming from Tanza, felt like a welcome.  

I was glad to receive it.

I put a hand on Tanza’s shoulder and smiled. “I’d love to.”

#arateph #fairy tale retelling #sci-fi

[ichayalovesyou]

Unexpected: Shipping Spones

and how I think it went down subtextually

Preface: I do not think they’re relationship would’ve really kicked into something more than platonic until Mirror, Mirror (I think that’s when Bones realizes he’s physically attracted to Spock but we’ll get into that later)

Miri

“Aww, you do care!” 😊😳😑

Dagger of The Mind

“Wow, I’m seeing something about you that you haven’t even told Jim... that’s kinda, really fucked up and freaky, but also elegant and beautiful?”🤔

The Conscience of A King

“Crap, okay, Jim is acting weird, guess we have to rely on eachother.” 🙄😤😑😏

The Galileo 7

“Wow, you’re an asshole but I’m also learning about your redeeming qualities?? And also I really, really don’t want to see you die?????” 🙄😒😳

*Space Seed

This isn’t a very Spones-y episode I just think it revealed to us, or even to Bones, that he finds dangerous, intense, confident men attractive. Bones’s love language is jokes and threats punctuated by genuine earnesty and he was ABSOLUTELY low-key flirting with Khan with the knife at his throat.

Return of The Archons

I don’t think Bones was aware of it while it was happening because of Landru but it’s heavily implied Spock tried to mind meld with him. I think it left a subconscious impression on Bones, and a very conscious impression on Spock that he does actually care about him. He sounds so frustrated when he says he can’t break Bones out of it 🥺

Operation: Annihilate!

I mean this one kinda speaks for itself, it is a miserable time for the Triumpverant and Bones is so, so, high empathy. To see Kirk on the verge of bursting in to tears (and he probably did tbh we just didn’t see) for the entire ordeal and seeing Spock in enough pain to show it must’ve really, really shook him. Then on top of that he has to deal with needlessly blinding Spock while testing the cure. I honestly think 90% of the time he seems like he’s teasing Spock about his differing biology, it’s that he’s actually way more angry at himself. Angry for not being able to be certain Spock is really okay and nothing’s wrong, because half the time he wouldn’t know what to look for. He cares about Spock so much that getting to a point where he doesn’t know what to do for him when something could be done, scares the fuck out of him.

Mirror, Mirror

Now this is where the steamier aspect begins. I think Bones is so absolutely hellbent on saving Mirror!Spock because he’s a bit traumatized and just cannot deal with the prospect of any Spock dying on his watch. Even if it means being trapped in a dimension where he’d have to break his hypocritical oath or die upholding it. He’s rewarded with a very intimidating, very sexy mind meld. It’s been established that Mind Melds are two way windows, Bones can experience everything Mirror!Spock is, and I think he’s surprised and intrigued by what he finds out about what’s going on under that Vulcan veneer of calm. (I also headcanon that Spones are already a relationship in the Mirror timeline but I think my point would still stand even if Bones didn’t find out they were a thing in an alternate universe).

At this point, I think Bones starts legitimately wondering if he’s missing out with what Kirk & Spock have by being so closed off with Prime!Spock. (yes I love McSpirk too, I could never pick one ship and poly rep is where it’s at! I also can’t imagine Kirk and Spock ever going without one another, they’re bond is so much deeper than friendship.)

Amok Time

It checks so many goddamn boxes!

“Wait?! Vulcans go into heat?? It’s called what?!” Playing into both his fear that he won’t be able to save Spock if something goes horribly wrong, and let’s be real, Pon Farr, as like a concept is 🔥 even if it doesn’t make a ton of sense lmao.

You’re asking me to come along to this super sacred private occasion of yours?? With your other choice being your current lover? Okay! 😳

“No! No no no no I am not going to lose either of you! Not to-fucking-day! Time to risk a diplomatic incident by faking my dearest friend’s death and traumatizing the guy I now realize I have a major tsundere-style crush on!”

“Wow, I just saw Spock emote, god I wish I could get you to smile like that. I’m just gonna pretend to not know what you guys mean by ‘minding the store’. It’s not like a thank you for breaking you out of Plok’tow and preventing you from killing the man we you love is in order or anything.” 🙄😏

Journey to Babel

I mean, everything he does for Spock’s sake this episode. Also talk about unlocking your closed-off friend’s tragic backstory! I mean, experimental medicine, alien surgery, caving with no real argument on one of Kirk’s hair brained life threatening schemes?! That’s love!

Also: prying for cute/embarassing information about your crush/SO from their parents is On Brand (Bones always wants The Drama 😆) COME ON “A teddy bear???!!??”

Also also: I’m sure there’s some serious fringe benefits to having your attractive friends confined to sickbay so that neither of them accidentally bleed to death.

Bread and Circuses

I feel as though it’s in Bones’ nature to interrogate and goad Spock about his feelings, not because he thinks Spock doesn’t have any, but he wants to see how deep they go. I think this comes from the vibe that I get from Bones that he has Imposter Syndrome and projects it onto his close relationships in times of stress. They’re both trapped in a cell together and deeply scared for Kirk. I think he’s asking:

“Do you really love Jim as much as I think you do?”

“Do I actually care about/feel attracted to you? Or do I just think I do because Jim does?”

“Am I actually capable of love? Or capable of being loved?”

“Are there really warm, decent feelings in there for me too?”

The Immunity Syndrome

This the episode I just saw all the way through for the first time (I’m watching TOS all the way through for the first time in general) and if this episode doesn’t confirm for Spock & Bones that they love each other, it sure as hell does for me.

Bones is unusually worried (even for him, we all know he gets hella agitated when Spock is hurt) when Spock feels the Intrepid die.

It feels to me that it’s not that Bones doesn’t believe Spock about what happened, he just doesn’t want it to be true. Because what does that mean Spock just went through? What does that mean for any single person to experience so much death in a single instant? He barely has the heart to deal with one at a time!

That and they keep throwing themselves in each other’s way in the professional Who Gets To Die for Science contest. We good good shit like “... good luck Spock” & “Shut up Spock we’re rescuing you!!!”

Spones is such a weird, nuanced ship that can be as painfully prickly as it is overwhelmingly, mind-bogglingly tender. It’s like the odd-couple done right. I definitely ship it to slowly increasing degrees after Miri (and not before) it’s definitely got slow burn energy. It’s not as mutual soft boy energy as their respective relationships with Kirk. They’re loving AND combative which is what makes the Triumverate so refreshing and compelling, whether you ship any of it or not. I’m not saying Bones (and Spock) don’t have their shit to work on with each other, but the work is what matters.

Anyway, Spones is good. I just wanted to get these thoughts off my chest.

#star trek #tos #spock #bones #spones #mcspirk #the triumvirate #Star Trek tos #shipping #Miri #dagger of the mind #the Galileo seven #operation: annihilate! #space seed #return of the archons #mirror!spock #mirror mirror #amok time #journey to babel #the immunity syndrome #bread and circuses

[monofpoke4life]

Once Upon a Rooftop

(AN: This originally started as a livewrite on discord with the prompts Roof and Dance, and this is what I came up with. I thought I’d share it here. Note: Dance companies make you sign up for more than one class of different dance styles. Also, you don’t control the outfits, especially for something like The Nutcracker. It’s like a uniform. Lmao, can’t believe I had a review on ff.net that didn’t know that. Anyway, please enjoy).

Zim clamped his mouth shut as he peered into the hallway from inside the vent. His analytical gaze watched closely as a pair of boots passed by. The shadow of his enemy's abnormally large head trailed behind him.

The boots squeaked as they cautiously rounded a corner, ready for an ambush that never came. There was a pause, and the owner of the boots continued forward. Only when he could no longer hear the footsteps did Zim dare to emerge from his dusty, makeshift cave. Quickly taking a moment to brush the dust off, he dashed up the stairs to escape pursuit.

Higher and higher he climbed, never daring to stop in one of the classrooms. That's where the Dib-armadillo wanted him to hide! But as a formidable, Irken war machine, such as himself, the mighty Zim was much too smart for that.

Not to mention he just wanted to desperately leave this citadel full of the stench of humiliation and shame that humans called "Hi-Skool."

It was bad enough that, for the sake of his mission, his presence was required to be here during the daytime, but to stay for research only to end up in failure was even more torturous, especially when Dib started chasing him. 

As his mind reminded him of his failure, just as he swiftly approached the lone, cold door, he channeled all of his frustration into ramming the normally locked door. He was so lost in his ire that he failed to notice the door propped open by a fist sized stone.

"HAHA-" Zim screamed in triumph, bursting through the rooftop doors with a bit of a stumble. It immediately swung back and hit him, knocking him over. Springing to his feet, he screeched at the loathsome thing! How dare it lay its nonexistent hands upon his greatness!

His pak legs sprung free with the ends glowing red-hot, ready to deal the final blow, but a voice stopped him in his tracks.

"If you destroy it, the alarm will go off."

Zim's fists tightened and his pak legs instantly retreated. His skin prickled at the sound of her voice, and he whirled around on his heel.

"You didn't see anything!" The words belted from his mouth before he fully turned. However, now that he had, and taking in the sight of the Dib-sister, his tirade of insults fell short.

His face frozen in indignant anger as he gawked. The earth's filthy moon bathed her in an otherworldly glow as it reflected off vast expanse of rarely exposed skin and the sheer, white fabric of her pitiful earth attire. As her “long tunic” swayed in the breeze, he couldn't help but think she looked like that white thingy upon Dib-dirt's shirt. Of course, she was much more not unpleasant to look at.

His mind nearly blanked in captivation before her response snapped him back to reality.

"Should've known you'd find me. I mean, you've only followed me for like what? Two weeks?"

"What?! No I haven't! Don't be ridiculous! An Irken as mighty as Zim has no need to follow the likes of you! I have way more important things to do than that."

Gaz narrowed her eyes as he nonchalantly sat beside her, yet she observed his eyes flicking frantically around at anywhere else but at her. His back stiff as a board as he leaned against the air conditioning unit, and claws nervously clicking against the warm roof.

"Okay, let's pretend I believe you. What important things are you doing here?"

The change in his mood was instantaneous as he smirked, and puffed his chest like a proud peacock. "Oh silly little Gaz, isn't it obvious?"

He offhandedly gestured towards her from head to toe, doing nothing more than conflicting his previous words and confusing her more.

Unfortunately, her puzzled glare did nothing more than feed his ego. He sent her a devious, superior grin that made her want to punch him, and made her stomach do tiny flips. "Oh you don't know? Well, I suppose such effects are to be expected from such a powerful form of hypnosis capable of ensnaring the little Gaz."

"Hypnosis?" Okay, now the alien grass stain really had her confused as she let herself blurt her puzzlement. She knew he misinterpreted human things all the time with his logic, or his lack there of entirely, but she could usually make some sense out of his backwards nonsense. Unfortunately, this time she was at a loss.

He nodded, his grin grew wider, as he continued. "Yes, the one you clearly broke out of since you are no longer in the audi-toe-rem with the rest of the frilly filthies. I expect nothing less from someone as superior as Little Gaz."

Gaz bit her lip as a slight heat rose to her cheeks. She normally didn't care much for compliments, but one said so flippantly and without some form of backhandedness was actually a welcome compliment.

However, she couldn't bask in it, nor did she want to, as she finally had some clues to work off of. Her eyes narrowed once more at him as her mind whirled through the possibilities a mile a minute.

"Hypnosis in the auditorium?" As she said it aloud, memories of why she was even on the roof, in this stupid dress, made her fists clench at her side.

Ignoring her knuckles turning white, Zim obliviously elaborated, "Yes, I stumbled across it's magnificent power in the gym two weeks ago."

"Oh what a coincidence," Gaz growled.

Normally, this would strike fear in those around her within a 20 ft radius, but Zim turned to her, unfazed, as he bragged, "I know right? Sometimes my brilliance amazes even me!"

"I suppose somebody has to be."

"At first I thought of how pitiful and weak minded humans were to fall for such simple methods of mind control such as dainty and weak music coming from a rounded box. With they're rapid twirly movements and unnaturally pointed shoes, they all looked like flailing flobblewumps!" He screamed that last part.

At the mention of some creature she didn't know of, he threw his head back to laugh at the ridiculous memory.

"Quit screaming in my ear before I turn you into a flag."

His mouth abruptly clicked shut. He glared at her. She stood up, and he flinched. She smirked at that, before leaning back and hopping on top of the ac unit, ignoring the high voltage sticker.

He opened his mouth once more, but she cut him off. 

"Oh keep bragging about your brilliance and tell me what changed. Just not so loud."

Her "compliment," despite sarcastic, had its desired effect as Zim stood. Brushing himself off of imaginary dirt and congratulating her for finally noticing how great he is, until he stopped as something finally clicked in his mind. "Eh? Change? What change? Zim is still brilliant."

Gaz rolled her eyes at that. "You said the hypnosis was simple and weak. I'm assuming you didn't think it was worth your time, but you're here looking for it, right?"

"Affirmative."

"Then what changed? What made it worthy of the powerful Zim?"

Zim's narrowed eyes immediately lit up at that. In fact, they seemed to glimmer at her like a kid being handed a lollipop, as he bragged, "You finally acknowledge my superiority"

"I never said that."

"I suppose that hypnosis has some benefits. In any case, if you must know, it was during my observations that I noticed among the group was the deadly Little Gaz. Someone as strong in strength and mind would never fall for such a weak hypnosis, meaning it's power was far greater than even my powerful Irken brain meats could fathom! I knew I had to make it my own!"

"I suppose me being in a revealing leotard and tights had nothing to do with it?"

"Eh? You were not wearing any fur?"

"Leotard, Zim. Le-o-tard. Not leopard." Gaz shook her head at this not knowing whether to smile and let the chuckle bubbling up from her throat out or frown and squash it down. Zim's misunderstanding logic was always good for a laugh, yet it unsettled her how easily she could follow his logic. She'd been spending too much time with him.

"Eh?! No that's- I was just testing you! After experiencing such a powerful hypnosis, one's meat functions of their mind might not come back. Just making sure everything was there. It is. You're in top tip shape like a good soldier. Yes indeed ha ha Ha ha ha."

Zim didn't realize until it was too late that he instinctively reached out and patted her head. He'd gotten more "human" and "handy" as of late with Gir, and giving little praises usually involved patting his metallic head. So he didn’t realize he’d done the same to her until it was too late.

The feeling of her soft hair beneath his gloved-touch sent him reeling back. His arm immediately clutched to his chest as if he had been struck by a snake.

Well, definitely something akin to it. The Gaz-beast was quite known for her brutal fists, merciless kicks, sharp nails, and power that could make even full grown human-filthies soil themselves at just a glance. The former three he knew very well from personal experience, so he wasn't wrong to assume what was surely to come. 

After all, nobody touched the Dib-sister without retaliation.

Well, actually there was that one time he…

Zim shook his head to dispel the thoughts from his mind. Something was wrong. He was still able to think. Too many thoughts and not enough pain for someone about to stare into the depths of hell of her amber eyes. He should be experiencing more pain than thoughts right now. So why wasn't he?

Zim opened his eyes, that he didn't remember closing, and found himself still very much alive and still very much not in pain. Also, it was too quiet. He at least expected to hear the sounds of a nightmare world without waking; however, all that met his hidden antennae was the muffled sound of the gentle winds.

Tentatively, Zim glanced out of the corner of his eye. Maybe she hadn't noticed the touch? No! That was impossible! The Gaz didn't miss anything! She must have her reasons.

Feeling braver from his lack of death, Zim turned his head, and found himself transfixed by the wisps of see-through material of her long tunic dancing upon the breeze. A dress, if he remembered correctly. 

His gaze shifted down to the clear outline of white, tight covered legs and those bizarre shoes she wore. Their white, shiny, cloth exterior also shined within the moonlight as they shook.

Wait, shook?

Immediately his eyes flicked back up to the rest of her to find her shoulders shaking as well. Her arms crossed in a manner as if she were hugging herself, and her head was tilted down in a way her bangs hid her more pleasant than average face.

Was she? Was Gaz- No! She wouldn't! She couldn't...could she? Well, she was only human. A regretful feature, but surely...by the Control Brains what should he do?

Tentatively he shuffled closer, clearing his throat like a cat hacking up a hairball. Her shoulders began to shake more ever so slightly. 

He took a long moment looking at anything but her before finally returning his gaze to her once more. "Little Gaz, are you-" He began as he reached out to touch her shoulder.

However, just before his clawed-tips made contact, her body pitched forward and then back. Her head thrown back as she laughed uproariously.

She was...she was laughing?! At Zim?! It was the only reasonable explanation! Others' stupidity and misfortune always made her laugh, and what she said next only confirmed his suspicions.

"You- haha- you thought I was under hyp- hahaha hypnosis because of my recital?"

"Yes!?" Zim yelled quizzically, desperately trying to use his volume and bravado to hide his embarrassment. It made her snicker. She could never take him seriously when he got like this, let alone the hilarity of the situation.

"That's another type of earth hypnosis, is it not?"

"What did I say about yelling?"

His mouth clicked shut, and she snickered again. It was too easy at times.

"No, it's not," she answered simply as she hopped down from the ac unit. Using the movement as extra time to regain her composure.  She was careful not to scuff the satin of her shoes or land awkwardly on the pointes. This night was a shit show enough without her tripping and landing on her face. 

Smoothing out her dress, and finally calm enough, Gaz turned to him as she replied, "A recital is a type or performance, usually for dancing. You know what dancing is, right?"

"Yes I know what dancing is!" He angrily hissed back, still feeling tricked from earlier.

His eyes grew wide for talking back to her, something he learned a long time ago to never do to her. His hand slammed fearfully over his mouth, yet Gaz made no move to maim him.

At his response, she merely shrugged and said, "That was a dick move on my part, so let's call it even, okay?" 

Zim didn't know the meaning of that one word, but he knew the rest and merely nodded.

Whiner. Anything to save his own skin.

She snickered at him again, and he kept himself calm this time, as he elaborated, "Yeah- well- even by inferior, human standards, the clearly superior vision spheres of Zim have never seen this spinning and leaping dance at school dances."

"That's because it's an old, fancy dance. Earth has tons of outdated dances."

"And what is the dance you were doing? The one that makes you look all-" he trailed off as he found himself at a loss for words. He unconsciously began to wiggle his arm in imitation of a snake, or a wave, or just water. "All liquid-y?"

"Fluidly. The word you're looking for is fluidly, and what happened to humans flailing about like a space alien?"

Zim looked away from her. Pfft. Typical. As he cleared his throat once more, and mumbled something under his breath.

"Spit it out, Zim," she hissed, putting extra venom on his name. 

He crossed his arms like a child, kicking a chunk of concrete, before he finally muttered, "You are the least terrible at it out of the group."

Gaz took a deep breath as she fought back the heat in her cheeks, crossing her arms across her chest in what she'd call defiance. 

Others would call it protectively. Of course, those others were wrong. 

"Thanks, I think. I'm glad somebody liked my dancing. Oh, and by the way, it's called ballet."

"But what does this bullet dance-"

"Ballet."

"Have anything to do with hypnosis?"

Gaz wanted to facepalm at this.

"I just said it wasn't hypnosis. It's an after school activity, like Dib and his stupid marching band or soccer."

"But you are not a server drone! You're of much higher quality than that. I can understand an activity that's a competition like with the game of the ball kicking, but as you said this is to perform, to entertain others? Why would little Gaz want to perform for others?"

At this, Zim regretted his choice of words instantly, as it was like a switch had gone off in Little Gaz's head as she immediately reacted. However, unlike the pain he expected, which would be a welcome change at this point, she took a few steps back, sitting down and turning away all in one movement.

In human terms, he had fucked up, and had fucked up badly. 

He clicked his claws together nervously, unsure of his next course of action.

"You...are..." he paused. He needed to choose his words carefully. "You are... unsatisfied?"

"Understatement of the century." Gaz quipped back sarcastically to hide the bubbling emotions that wanted to come to the surface.

"What is it that unsatisfied you, and why are you here and not down there or dooming what ails you?" He asked as he quietly approached. She seemed to be of sound enough mind.

"Zim, if you actually want me to answer then you have to stop asking questions."

He froze in place, just an arms length away. He pondered if he should take a step back, before she took a shuddering breath, and answered, "I'm up here for the same reason I joined this stupid activity."

Finding himself not doomed and nothing was on fire, Zim sat down next to her, imitating her pose of having her knees drawn up to his chest and arms around his knees. He glanced over once more, yet still remained silent.

At his quiet puzzlement, Gaz let out an exasperated sigh as she reflexively covered her face. She didn't want to be here, up here, like this...she should've known better...she did know better, but she left herself hope. Now she was up here with Zim of all people. It was quite ironic if she thought about it. Funny actually.

At the sound of her snicker, he thought she had fooled him again. However, as he turned to face her and to yell, he stopped short as the water droplets dripped down her face.

Zim recoiled as he watched her throw her head back to laugh and cry at the same time. He nervously drummed his claws against the roof tiles, completely unsettled by her insane behavior. Worse still that it was so out of character for someone like her. He merely gulped and remained where sat. Too afraid to move.

"Ya know, it's fucking ironic that the people who like me, aren't even here for me, yet you're here! You! You the alien who hates humans is here for performance and my own family isn't!" Gaz barked out between laughs.

"But the Dib-foot, he is-"

"Is only here because he followed you here. I know. I ran into him before coming up here," she said this time, only a bit quieter as her laughter turned into quiet, choked sobs.

Zim watched her curl herself further into a ball as she desperately wiped at her face, as if just realizing tears were leaking down her cheeks.

Zim looked all around him. There had to be something there to distract the Gaz. Surely something he could set on fire or tip over to cause her devious laughter to spring forth from her and not this crummy...not laughter!

However, he found nothing, and his gaze returned to her once more. What to do? What to do? What to do?!

Gaz stilled as she suddenly felt something touching her hair. It felt like a mix of a pet and a pat like someone who didn't know how to touch others.

She almost wanted to laugh at the mental picture within her head. Even if they weren't the only two on the roof, it was no surprise who this was. After all, nobody else was stupid enough to touch her. Another side of her wanted to break his hand, and the final part of her wanted to see where he would go with this.

"There...there? Yes, there there Little Gaz. Do not fret. Ultra Peepi will live up- Wait-"

Zim frowned and pulled back, rubbing his chin pensively as he realized that was the wrong scenario.

Luckily, despite being unintended, it seemed to work as Zim heard a snicker escape her. His head whipped around to see the liquid had stopped falling, yet she still hid her face from Zim.

Well, it was a start.

There was a moment of silence between them where neither of them dared to say anything. Gaz ran the jagged edge of bitten nail against her shoe, and Zim stretched his legs out, boredly clicked his heels together. 

Although, something had to give. Zim was going bonkers with curiosity as he exaggeratedly fought with himself, internally, of whether or not he should say something or to her or something. 

When he finally couldn't take it anymore with his shuffling antics, he leaned over, claw raised, and mouth open ready to interrogate her for brain worms left over from the hypnosis, yet she beat him to it.

"You have no idea what's going on, do you?" She stated more as a fact than a question.

"Eh? Was I supposed to?"

Gaz merely shook her head, yet it was unclear if she was dismissing his answer or herself for the question. He wanted to ask more, but the white knuckled grip she had upon her shoe ribbons kept him silent.

Good thing too, as she continued, "Ya know how my dad has been home a lot more? He's been trying to do better at the whole being a dad thing."

Zim listened attentively, but he was unsure why. It's not like it was important to him. Then again... that which was important to the Dib-sister must be important; however, he found his gaze drifting to her hands as they roughly began to untie one of her shoe ribbons.

It was best when in the presence of a predator to keep an eye on their greatest weapons. The only reason. Not because of how merciless she made the frantic job of shoe untying.

"He asked us why we didn't participate in any school activities or if we had any other interests." He flinched as he heard the earthly stitching rip slightly at the extra force she used when she said activities and interests.

"He wanted to expand our horizons and to be supportive of us."

Zim lit up at this, having finally found an opening, as he quipped, "And he did unsatisfactory?"

Zim immediately regretted speaking as she violently slid off her right shoe, and threw it at the gate lining the roof, to make sure people didn't fall off.

Zim scooted backwards as it softly bounced back to them, landing right beside his boot.

Although, despite her lashing out, what she said next surprised him. "Oh no. He did great. Wonderful even! He's been there every step of the way with my dancing and Dib's whatever!"

Zim narrowed his eyes at her as she began to work on her other shoe. Her tone suggested sarcasm, yet he could also tell she meant it. She wasn't lying. 

Zim shook his head to ward off his confusion. She was apparently committed to telling him. He just needed to listen.

"But, as you've noticed, he's not here!" 

Another rip of her shoe ribbon.

"He's not here, for once, not because of work, but because he decided to be a normal dad and decided to get here in a normal car!"

Two more rips.

"And a normal," rip, "car can't get by a four car pile up on a freeway!"

She yanked her shoe off and threw it at the gate, as she exclaimed louder than intended, "He's not here like always! I got my hopes up, I was let down like always, but it's not his fault and I can't even be mad at him!"

The final shoe bounced back and landed next to her this time. She paid it no mind as she began to rub at her feet and ankles, sore from the months of practice and from rehearsals earlier that day. "He says traffic is backed up and there's no way for him to turn around, and it's going to be hours before they let traffic through. Which means all of my effort, all of my hardwork to make him proud has been for nothing because he won't get to see it!"

The wind picked up around them, but they paid it no mind. Too consumed with their own thoughts to notice. 

Neither were willing to say anything. At least, not until Zim spoke first. 

"I wouldn't say it was all for nothing, even if it is just an inferior earth activity."  Zim shuddered as she sent him a pointed glare that spoke volumes.

It said, you better have a good point or perish.

He gulped.

"What I mean is that you learned a new skill? One that even a highly advanced creature, such as Zim, must admit is quite amazing." He picked up the nearest shoe, analyzing it, as he pondered allowed, "I mean, how is that you spin on the tips of your hooves"

"Feet."

"And leap so high?"

"Practice?"

"And move like an Irken elite?"

Gaz gave no reply at that, and Zim immediately feared he had screwed up. He whipped his head around to see if he should run, but was pleasantly surprised to see a small smile upon her face.

His squeedily spooch simultaneously stuttered and did backflips at the sight. He nervously drummed his claws against the shoe. Maybe he was not entirely unaffected by the hypnosis as he once thought.

"An elite, huh?" She inquired slyly. Two compliments in one night. A new record. If this were a game, she'd surely have unlocked an achievement of some kind. 

"Y-yes! As a superior Irken Invader, who are only picked from the most elite of the elite, such greatness can't hide from my magnificent vision." 

She smirked at what should have been his clean getaway of his third compliment hidden beneath all of that bragging, if not for the dark emerald fish staining across his cheeks; meanwhile averting any and all eye contact with her.

"Greatness?"

Reeling from realizing his mistake, Zim's eyes grew as wide as dinner plates, and he made a sound that she could only describe as a verbal key smash.

Gaz couldn't help herself as a small laugh bubbled to surface. The sound made Zim's shoulders relax, but also deflated a little. He appeared conflicted, but what he said earlier still rang in her head.

Before she knew it she had picked up the other shoe, and gazed down upon it thoughtfully. "I hate to admit it, but I suppose you're right." She rolled her eyes as he puffed out his chest, before she continued, "I did learn a new skill, and it was kind of fun."

Unfortunately, her better mood turned bitter rather quickly as she gripped the shoe tightly, glaring at it, as she continued, "But what good is a skill if I can't use it? If I can't show it to the people I care about?"

"You can't?"

"That was rhetorical, but no, I can't."

"Why not? Don't human babies show off to their parents units all of the time in their dwellings?"

"Because it's not the same. They can, but, it's not the same as an actual performance. You would lack the tools and the rest of the cast. It would be like a machine missing some parts because it doesn't...fit together."

She reached atop her head, and pulled on a ribbon, setting her hair free from its tightly coiled bun. She shook her head with a scoff, as she remarked, "I guess this skill will just go to waste."

She hadn't really meant it, nor did she mean anything by it. However, Zim didn't get the memo, and sprung to his feet. Ignorant of the fact that he dropped the shoe Zim shouted, "No you can't!"

Gaz's wide eyes quickly turned back to their normal, apathetic facade, as she inquired, "And why can't I?"

"Because the mighty Zim demands it!"

"Yeah, well I demand my foot up your-"

"No- I- Grrragh! Look! You look not unpleasant when you do it, and it makes you stronger for it!"

"But I don't have anyone to wat-"

"You have me! Teach to Zim!"

Okay, now Gaz was stumped. Forget the fact that Zim was asking a human to teach him a human thing, but she didn't even mention teaching.

"Okay, you've lost me."

"Heh heh heh, foolish human-babe-"

"Watch it-"

"-y. I any human can watch another perform a skill, but it takes skill to learn a skill, and Zim is the most skilled of skilled Irkens. Besides, it's best to stay in practice, and will keep you on your toes."

"That made no sense and that last part sounded more like a spar, but I'll bite. So what's the catch?"

"Eh? Catch? Like human germs?"

"Nevermind. Look, just don't screw me over later."

"I would never."

She glared at him as she stood, brushing herself off without breaking eye contact.

Zim cleared his throat. "Starting now, I have never screwed you over."

"Better keep your word, space bug."

"I wouldn't dare risk your wrath."

"Fair point. Now step forward."

"Wait, what about your tippy shoes."

"They're pointe shoes, and I don't need them."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not teaching you ballet."

"But-"

She didn't let him finish as she pulled him closer by the hips, almost slamming into her. She smirked as he squeaked.

"We don't have months, Zim. Besides, ballet isn't the only dance I learned." With that said, she grabbed  his left hand with her right, interlacing their mismatched fingers far easier than she anticipated. "Now put your right hand on my shoulder."

He did as instructed, and she couldn't help but quote her teacher, as she scolded, "Keep it there softly. Don't grip it like a claw machine."

Immediately the pressure relented and she sighed a little in relief. She placed her hand around his waist. Her cheeks began to heat, or they would've, if he didn't look rather smug at that moment. 

It took a second for her to realize, and she rolled her eyes.

"I'm only two centimeters shorter than you, ya know?"

"Two glorious units of measurement."

Oh it was on. She didn't give him time, as she jumped right in with the bare minimum of explanation. "Now where I go, you go. Follow my lead."

Zim opened his mouth to object, but quickly found her surging forward, ready to bowl him over. Thankfully, with his far superior Irken training, he swiftly back stepped without falling over...more or less.

"Back, side, forward, other side, repeat." They did it again, and he did rather well.

"Not bad. No stepping on feet and no stumbles, except for that one," Despite her jab at the end, Zim lit up at her praise and puffed his chest out once more like the proudest peacock that ever peacocked.

"Okay, now we do that while spinning and moving in a circle."

"Do wha-" and they were moving again.

Zim stumbled once more, as she purposefully caught him off guard. Couldn't let him get too cocky. 

"And what is this dance called?"

"The waltz."

"Is it also old and fancy?"

"Very old and very fancy."

"Fancier than ballet?"

"No."

He deflated a little at that and she chuckled at that. Zim frowned that she was laughing at his expense, but it wasn't an unpleasant laugh. I'm fact, it was one he wouldn't mind hearing again. They easily fell into a rhythm after that, as they whirled around in their tiny circle like two stars rotating around each other. Lost in their own little world. 

Her wispy skirt fluttered and flared with every movement and dancing upon the occasional breeze. He finally understood the need to make satire out of such flimsy material. 

Not long after Zim made this observation, did he realize another. There was a soft melody in the air that he hadn't noticed before. It was one of the few he recognized from one of her practices, yet it was different somehow. Only when Gaz stepped forward and into his distracted chest did he feel the vibration coming from her, and he realized she was humming.

He found that this was also not unpleasant. 

In fact, many things about Little Gaz were mostly not unpleasant, and that was fine by him.

#zagr #zagf #zagr discord #Word Prompt #rooftop #dance #Invader Zim #Gaz Membrane #Gazlene Membrane #Zim #Had a lot of fun writing this #ballet #The Nutcracker #Waltz

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “Animal Planet Hungry.”

You guys liked the last stuff, so here is some more.

“We have just had the opportunity to meet a real life alpha human in their den. Led by doctor krill, we have been able to touch one of these fascinating creatures and interact with him on some level, and now we are following him through his lair as he seems to have heard something. Look, he seems to have stopped.”

The camera crew pulls to a halt, and the group nearly trips over each other trying not to get to close to the human who begins to tilt his head this way and that as if listening to some sound. Dr krill moves forward to stand next to the human who grunts and hoots at him in the strange primitive language.

A moment later they begin walking again, and suddenly they can hear the sound of distant noises. It echoes badly in the microphone of their recording equipment, so it is difficult to tell what it actually is, but the closer they get, the more it sounds like human vocalizations, chaotic and loud, much louder than those that the human had made so far. Nervously they shift hiding behind the doctor and the alpha human who walks, relaxed at the front of the group.

The camera zooms in on his back highlighting the powerful way in which his shoulders move to match his body, and the surprising grace with which he balances upright as he moves down the hallway.

“Now doctor, can you tell us a little bit about the strange covering that human wears. I mean besides the Rundi and a few members of my own species who have adopted the style, they seem to be the only one who cover their bodies.”

Krill turned to look at them with a dark expression, “Well…. That is a status symbol. It has been tradition, since great antiquity of the humans, to wear ...” He leaned in close, “the skin of those animals they have hunted.”

There was a gasp around the circle as they stepped back staring at the human in shock and disgust.

“What is the human wearing now.” One of them squeaked pointing towards the fabric covering the human’s legs.

The doctor looked back at them, “Oh that, that is…. A Denim!” 

The camera crew recoiled in horror staring at the poor denim which had been fashioned into pants for the human to wear, “But that’s ot it.” That, “he pointed at the heavy brown material covering the human’s shoulders, that is a Polyurethane.” More quiet sniveling, whatever the creature HAD been, it must have been large and frightening o have a skin that thick, “And what is worse, the humans save the most savage for last, the greatest disonor to poor poor…. Cotton.”

“A cotton, what is a cotton.”

“It is used primarily as under-clothing next to their most unsanitary bits.” 

A chorus of ewing 

The human turned his head at the sound. The corners of his mouth pulled down in the direction of the doctor who looked back at him with a shrug. The human made a hissing noise at Krill who just waved him off, “Oh behave yourself, human.”

The little furry lines above the human's eyes raised, and then he did something most unsettling, he flashed the white’s of his eyes at Krill before rolling the colored part of the orb back into place. The group of them flinched at the expression, “What was that?”

“He is trying to communicate dominance to me, it is not working.”

The human let off a sharp burst of air from his nose and turned away with a strange shaking of his head.

They continued down the hallway, and the noises grew louder. It was definitely the sound of other humans, and there were more than one of them, which meant there was a group, and that thought was absolutely terrifying for most of the crew members who began to fall back behind afraid of what they were about to see.

The noise was close by now just ahead and around the corner. 

Ahead of them, the alpha was just about to step into the hallway, when a sudden eruption of whirling limbs and glittering white teeth roared around the corner. The human leaped back with incredible speed nearly tripping over the doctor who dodged out of the way. The crew members squealed in fright as the two humans went rolling past them locked together by their powerful limbs, both trying to pin the other to the floor.

leg s flailed and feet kicked nearly knocking a camera from someone’s hand.

The crew members  ran back up the hall in absolute terror.

“HEY BOTH OF YOU KNOCK IT OFF!” There was a sudden pause in the group as they turned.

“Get this on camera Damn it!” Mendex ordered from where he was hiding behind one of his cameramen. The camera is fumbled around for a bit and the screen shows mostly the floor and then a wild spinning as the hallway flies past and then is brought back into focus.

On the other end Krill stands between the two humans having pushed them apart.

The aliens watch in fascination as the humans stagger to their feet opposite each other with the doctor standing in the middle.

“Are you alright doctor!” Medex called, “Is everything ok. Are we safe?”

Dr. Krill looks up at them, “You are safe now. I have subdued the humans, though that was only their play fighting. If they were actually fighting I wouldn't have had such luck.”

“That was their play fighting.”

The two new humans looked down the hall at them one with hazel eyes and the other with a sort of honeyd amber. They hooted in confusion and looked over at the alpha. What ensued was a strange gibbering between the three of them punctuated by wild articulations of the arms and the face.

Teeth were flashed seemingly at every other second.

The speed at which they communicated nonverbally was fascinating.

Krill motioned them forward, “Now, come here come here. With the alpha protecting us, we should have no problem with the rest of the pack. This time he is only able to get the aliens halfway up the hall before completely giving up and allowing them to wait there.

“How did you do that.” One of the breathless cameramen asks.

“How did I do what?”

“How did you break them up…. Wasn’t that super dangerous.”

The doctor stand sup rather straight patting one of the humans on the leg. The two humans exchange a strange expression before going back to staring at krill, “That is for one simple reason, and that reason being the human social hierarchy. As i have said before, that over there is the alpha.” The human in question raised his head almost as if he was interested in what they had to say, “The alpha is the most important human on the crew and tells everyone else what to do, however there is a structure below him. I am what might be considered a beta in this category. The only human I let boss me around is the captain.”

One of the humans made a hooting noise, and the other three burst into fits of that strange revving noise showing their teeth at each other. The doctor looked over to glower at them, “Better keep your mouth shut, or I will make sure to order you another physical.” The humans stopped the noise they were making 

“If one of you had tried this, you likely would have been torn apart.”

More strange noises from the humans which was quickly silenced by a growl from the alpha.

“What were they doing Like why were they fighting, was it just play fighting, or was it something specific.”

The doctor stood there smiling, “Oh probably fighting each other for mating rights or something similar.”

The humans gurgled something towards the doctor crossing their upper limbs over their chests. 

Krill ignored them, “yes, it is often that the less desirable humans fight each other for dominance. In this case, these humans are very ugly, and so need to show their prowess through combat.” The chattering grew louder, and the alpha started up on that strange revving noise again.

One of the humans loomed over Krill form the side.

The crew shrunk back in concern, “Dr…..”

“Don't worry, they won’t hurt me. I am too valuable and high up in the social hierarchy to allow it.” The humans eventually backed off beginning with a deep rumbling in the back of their throats.

“Are there any times in which you find yourself worried for your safety, doctor?”

The little creature shrugged patting one of the humans on the leg. There was a short little back and forth between the alpha and the omegas, but eventually the creature lowered itself to allow the doctor access to it’s short spiky fur. He made a strange humming sound as Krill patted the top of it’s head.

Oh I am worried for myself every day…. “Mostly when the humans get hungry.” 

The alpha had moved a bit closer kneeling on the floor with Krill and the other human. The third joined suit so now Krill stood in a semi circle of humans patting one of them while he continued to speak. He prodded one of the humans, “Open your mouth.” The human made a strange expression at him, but he did it again until the human complied. The group of them stepped back a bit in disgust as the slimy interior was opened up to them.

“You of course now what teeth are. However, generally in the intergalactic community, teeth are made a different way, usually out of some sort of hard deposit built up in the mouth. Other species have beaks and use rough areas in their mouth to grind up their food. Humans on the other hand have a special set of bones in their skull, that is specifically designed to rip their way through the inside of the mouth and poke out. These white things right here, these teeth, are-”

“Bones!” Someone stammered, “They…. They rip their prey apart with sharpened bone… that grows in their mouths.”

“Thats…. That's hideously fascinating.” mendex said, from where he had ended up, still lurking behind his camera crew unintentionally, or perhaps very intentionally in the safest place in the group if the humans were to suddenly attack.

“And what is that?” Someone asked pointing back towards the human.

“Oh that, yeah that is a tentacle. Humans only have one in their mouth and it allows them to manipulate their food and make the strange vocalizations they have.”

“I wasn't aware that humans had tentacles.”

“Not tentacles A TENTACLE. The human mouth must remain wet at all times in order to digest their food. While most species start the digestion process in the stomach, if they do possess such an organ, humans begin the digestion process in the mouth with enzymes which begin the breakdown process, makes it easier for them to digest greater amounts of food, and food that is generally harder for other species to eat.”

“Wait, hold on…. You said you get worried when the humans are hungry…. Why is that?” 

The camera zoomed in on the humans. The alpha licks his lips wetting the skin with a layer of digestive slime. His eyes focus on the camera crew who can’t help but back away in a measure of concern.

The other humans look between each other and then turn their heads towards the crew. Their eyes are very still and very focused. Together the three of them fall into a sort of low crouch hungrily staring at the group of cowering aliens.

Krill glowers at the humans just as another one was licking their lips, “Well, Case in point. Now would probably be a good time to feed them.”

“What…. W-what do humans eat?” Cme a trembling voice from the back.

Doctor Krill patted his hungry humans on the leg, “Oh, I think the better question is…. What don’t they eat.”

Shuffling and nervous swallowing.

“Some humans will eat anything plants, fungus, non food items, but their most popular item of food, is o take another creature, skin it, dismember it, chop it into little pieces, and then light it on fire.” 

It was almost surprising that the camera crew didn’t pee themselves upon hearing that. 

As if to punctuate the point the final human licked their lips as if hungry for what the doctor was talking about. The other two humans were making some sort of ace at each other though it was hard to determine what it all meant. Out of all the species in the galaxy, humans have the most complex system of nonverbal cues. Facial expressions, while common in other species, are more prevalent in human society.

“Y-you have to be joking.” Someone peeped.

“He’s a Vrul they don’t joke.” Someone else whispered from behind 

Krill remained stoic, “Well what did you expect when you showed up here. Humans are known for being entirely insane, so why wouldn't they eat fiery dismembered corpses?’

#humans are space orcs #HUMANS ARE WEIRD #humans are insane #humans are space australians #humans are spaceoddities #earth is a deathworld #Earth is space Ausralia

[ia-bi-tia]

Ok so today was a disaster day for art HOWEVER it seemed to have been a good days for writing :^3

Here's a thing I wrote on my phone - a word vomit if you will

1, 691 words

I feel like you don't really need much backstory for this other than it's set like 6 months after their mother physically assaulted them and they stayed in the home of a physician. This drabble is about how they met Vedra. It's set in Nevinon.

(The whole backstory is coming just be patient and pretend like all this makes sense, thanks!)

They had been so silent for almost half a year - only a few silent words would leave their throat when they were spoken to by the physician or his wife.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Okay."

"Have you eaten anything?"

"Yes."

"Oh? What have you eaten?"

"Bread."

"....The bread is still intact, darling."

They didn't even have the strength to argue. They were so weak. They could barely leave the bed on most days. 

Their back was usually turned to their current guardians, always in a state of sobbing and trembling or complete and all consuming nothingness. They'd just stare at the white wall in front of them until their vision went spotted, and then they'd just keep going. The period was rough and any sense of joy seemed too far out of reach. 

The closest they felt to joy was the rare chances they got to visit the nearby city. 

It would usually be when the physician had work there and nobody could look over the child so they'd get the chance to explore on their own.

And explore they did.

Their lanky frame could be seen slithering around the streets, always covered and silent, looking up at all the buildings. The architecture was different from the farm they grew up in - it felt alive. 

They'd stroll down the streets and watch the people of it and listen. What lives these people led. 

With hearing only bits and pieces they could try to string together stories.

It kept their mind busy on those days.

These outings would spark the tiniest fire in them.

But it seemed so out of reach. So intangible to lead a life like that.

To be old and share gossip with an old friend.

No.

That wasn't for them.

They didn't know where they belonged, their imagination envisioning them maybe an hour in advance at most.

They wouldn't live to be sixteen. 

How could they? Life seemed to be out to get them. 

Would they stay in the house they were at forever? That would be so depressing, wouldn't it?

On one such day they found themself on the streets again. They heard the sound of an accordion coming from the square. They tried to push through the crowd to see the musician but were found lacking in strength as well as attitude to do so. 

They frowned and looked around to find a pile of sturdy looking crates. They clutched their chest as they climbed, still not trusting the injury they got a few months back not to burst if they pushed themself too much.

With a huff, they plopped down onto the crate, now with a better view of the show.

But it wasn't much of a show.

A boy maybe a few years older than them played the instrument, his legs crossed as he lazily played. Beside him was a badly put together bench with a big pot of hot stew on it. A girl about his age was stirring the pot, offering the food to anyone who passed. She held a polite smile as she talked to the would-be customers(?), but the second their backs would turn, her face would show the full extent of her frustration. She'd mumble something to the boy beside her to which he would only shrug.

The pair intrigued Ia and they couldn't keep their eyes away from them. They felt so alien to them yet the two also reminded them of their father so much that it made their chest tighten.

"Oi, you little rat, get off there!"

The sound of a merchant, presumably the owner of the crates, boomed from behind them. This frightened them and they lost their balance and they could feel themself slip from their seat, no matter the flailing of their limbs.

They fell ass-first onto the floor, a loud thud heard from the rubble. They felt their spine reset from the impact and tears started streaming from their shocked face. They tried to get up but a sharp, throbbing pain in their back stopped them in their tracks. All they could do was close their eyes and cry from the pain and from the humiliation of the crowd gathering around them. 

They didn't see the people who helped them up, but they knew their knees trembled as they tried to stand. They cried miserably, not sure what to do next. 

"Iotta!"

They heard the physician call out as he seemingly stumbled across the scene. He tusked as he took hold of them.

"What happened?! Are you okay?"

Ia sobbed and shook their head no. 

"Ay yai yai, we best get you fixed up."

The physician lifted them up bridal style to at least get them away from all the people.

Ia managed to catch one look of the two that helped them up - the musicians.

….

It had been a few days of them recovering. It wasn't too serious, their back was just a little beaten up.

They spent the period thinking about the musicians and what energy they possessed. 

The boy was the prettiest they'd ever seen - tall and lean with angular features. The way he was hunched over that stool was somehow both effortless and elegant.

The girl was an intrigue of her own. The roots of her dark hair were dark hair were showing under the copper red she dyed it in and her face was so expressive. She seemed discouraged by whatever she was doing, yet she stood tall and determined despite her short frame.

It had been a while since they felt the need to make friends.

Making friends. 

The idea seemed so far removed from what they had been experiencing for the last few months. As a child they loved walking up to the other children from the village. But now they weren't sure if they could do it.

But the human need was there and they were determined to fulfill it .

They rummaged the little belongings they had to find their father's tambourine. They hadn't touched it in almost four years. 

They dragged their fingers over the smooth, darkened skin of the drumhead. They seemed to have grown into it; the weight and size of the instrument weren't as awkward in their hands anymore. 

They struck the tambourine again their thigh, at first flinching at the loud sound but it soon turned into a wide, happy grin. 

Oh, how they've missed it.

Noise.

Perhaps it was the silence driving them crazy all this time. 

They messed around for a while, just enjoying the pure joy of making noise.

They left a note on the door as they snuck out. 

'I'll be back. Do not worry.'

They awkwardly clutched the instrument under their cloak as they threaded the well known path into the city.

Their heart raced. This was stupid. How would they even find them? What would they even say to them? What if they didn't like them? What if they were mean?

Though their mind was uncertain, their legs walked like no tomorrow.

It was late afternoon by the time they saw the pair at the beach a little far off from the docks. They had company. Lively company.

There was about six of them, all making music together around a campfire. 

They were all as varied and colourful as the instruments they played. The music was intense and rowdy and sometimes they would sing and other times they would scream. But it sounded so good.

Ia stood quite a ways back from them as they tried to catch their breath, watching them from behind the long curly mess that was their hair.

They battled against themself for an agonizing amount of time before taking a few steps closer. Then a few more. Then another few until the girl from earlier noticed them.

She squinted in their direction then smiled widely.

"Hey! How's your bum doing, kid?"

Ia freezed in their tracks, eyes wide like a deer's. Their mouth hung open but no words seemed to come out. Oh no. This was a mistake.

The girl stood up and walked over to them, head cocked to the side. 

"You feeling okay? Sorry if that was a bit-"

Her words were interrupted by them shaking their head.

"Okay then. Would you like to sit with us?"

A nod.

"Come."

The girl led them to a stool so they could sit down and she plopped into the sand beside them.

"Introductions, band!"

The girl called out and the whole group puffed up their chests and assumed soldier-like expressions.

"Anvil."

"Esfir."

"Apolonia."

"Ras."

"Mete."

"Vedra."

Ia watched them all, amazed at just the little glimpse of their dynamics. They were all so much different from the people they'd usually see as well as so different from each other.

They were surprised when Vedra looked up at them with an encouraging smile.

"What do you like to be called?"

The simple act of not asking for their name, but for what *they* wanted to be called gave them a new type of feeling. A new type of euphoria.

They stuttered, their voice so unused and unnatural.

"I-Ianais. O-or maybe only Ia."

Vedra clapped her hands together, her smile as bright as ever. They could notice one golden tooth in her otherwise impressive teeth.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ia. Say, what brings you to our merry little banď?"

Ia didn't really have an answer so they just shyly showed them all their tambourine with an honest and hopeful smile.

The group burst into cheers and laughter at the weird new kid in their company.

"One of us, it seems like."

The pretty boy, Mete, commented with a little nudge to their arm.

*One of them.*

Maybe their imagination could stretch their lifespan a little further. They'd love to see what it would be like to be seventeen. Maybe even eighteen.

They had never felt so relaxed and accepted, even with just so little.

And it gave their life purpose to know feeling like this was possible.

Little did they know they just met the rest of their life.

:^)

#writing #this isn't v good however this was my little beadtime project for the last few days so i hope you enjoy :^) #ia #vedra #this is completely unedited and not proofread so like he he #it's cheezy af but that's exactly how i like it 😌 #also my askbox is open for any questions or whatever!

[entity9silvergen]

Why Don’t you Play Me One of Your Songs? (Sanders Sides Fanfiction)

Summary: Logan professes his love for Patton through song.

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Characters: Logan, Patton

Relationships: Logan/ Patton

Other Tags: Valentines Day, Band, Music, Song fic, BoJack Horseman, College

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1500

Chapter Count: 1 (Oneshot)

Written 2021

Author’s Note: As of when I started this, I’d written over 25,000 words for Aromantic Writing Month. With Valentine's Day coming up, I figured I’d take a break from that and write something short with romantic love. This fic was inspired by Judah’s song in BoJack Horseman. When I heard it, I immediately knew I had to write a fic where Logan sang it.

========

It was… How to describe it?

It was entropy. 

In thermodynamics, entropy was defined as a measure of the unavailable energy in a closed thermodynamic system that is also usually considered to be a measure of the system's disorder, that is a property of the system's state, and that varies directly with any reversible change in heat in the system and inversely with the temperature of the system.

When Logan was retailing the story for Virgil, his roommate used a much simpler definition. Entropy is the tendency for chaos, the belief that things in order will move toward disorder. Logan had to admit that definition was a bit better suited for his situation. Virgil had called him dramatic and Logan agreed but the word truly fit.

Logan was working at his local library. He was a broke college student and it was about the best job he could get. He liked it just fine. He could get lost in aisles of books, far from the demanding world, and spend hours just organizing. He rather enjoyed it. That was until the library hired another student to man the cafe, that is.

Logan hadn’t liked Patton when he started his job. He was noisy, always striking up conversation with people coming in, and people eating his baked goods never followed protocol. Crumbs. Everywhere. So many that Logan even had dreams about crumbs getting in his beloved books. But when Logan had gone to talk to Patton about it, he found that he couldn’t.

Patton was sweet. And beautiful. Logan couldn’t say a negative thing to his face. He’d actually panicked so hard that he ended up leaving. That night when he came home, Virgil had laughed at him and told him to try to talk to him. It might do him some good to have a friend at work.

Logan had protested but followed Virgil’s advice and talked to Patton. Patton took to him with the same friendliness that he did with everything else. They became friends. And as time went on, Logan realized he was falling in love.

Which brought him to tonight. Or rather, that morning.

“Hey, Lo,” Patton greeted when Logan came by that morning and Logan’s heart had fluttered a bit at the nickname. “What’s that?”

Logan mentally froze for a moment before holding up the case in his hand. “This? It’s, um, my guitar. I’m in a band. A small one. We’re playing later.”

“I know. I saw the flyer.”

It took every ounce of Logan’s willpower not to glance at the bulletin board by the door. Why had he put the flyer up here? Where Patton could see it? Oh right, because Remy had told him they needed people to show up to their concerts if they were going to call themselves a band. But here? Really, Logan?

“So, um, I was just wondering why you hadn’t invited me? I was talking to Roman and Emile and it sounded like you invited everyone else.”

Logan felt a flash of guilt at Patton’s tone. Stupid, Logan. He mentally slapped himself Had he really been so caught up in worrying about his crush that he’d accidentally alienated Patton?

“I know you’re working tonight,” Logan said, the words coming to him with remarkable speed. Words had never failed him but he kind of wished they didn’t come so quick, not right now. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to put you in the position where you felt obligated to come or felt bad saying no.”

Patton’s face softened and Logan felt a bit better. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’d love to hear you play and I’d cancel my shift to-”

“No!” Logan cut him off before he realized what he was doing. He cleared his throat. More calmly, he amended, “I mean, no. You don’t have to do that. I’m a college student too, I know how important these paychecks are.”

Patton looked doubtful. “Well, if you’re sure…”

“I am,” Logan responded in an even tone that didn’t match the storm of feelings in his chest. “Don’t worry yourself over it, Patton. Maybe next time.”

“Next time,” Patton echoed but Logan was already stepping away from the counter and heading toward his beloved books, failing to see Patton’s disappointed gaze watching him walk away.

But Logan regretted it.

That night, standing up on that stage, he couldn’t help but feel crushing disappointment when he didn’t see Patton’s face in the crowd.

“Go to him, gurl,” Remy said, making Logan turn around, startled. The other man was leaned casually over his keyboard but his eyes were fixed on Logan. “We can survive without you.”

“But-”

“Hey, gurls!” Remy yelled at the crowd. “No vocals tonight! All vibes!”

The crowd cheered. Logan didn’t take offense. The confused glances of his other bandmates did offset him a bit and he offered them an awkward smile before thanking Remy. “Thank you.”

“No prob, gurl. Now get your ass out of here.”

Logan didn’t hesitate. 

He’d carpooled here and he didn’t want to leave his bandmates hanging so he just ran. He ran like it was 7th grade PE and he needed to beat his record mile time to pass the class. He ran like Remus was chasing him with a booger on his finger. He ran like he was being chased by death itself.

He ran like he was in love.

But when he burst into the library, Patton wasn’t there.

Logan didn’t know he could feel such crushing disappointment.

He took a seat at one of the chairs at the cafe tables and crumbled. Under the weight of his despondency or out of exhaustion, he didn’t know. He just knew he felt hopeless. Right when he’d found the courage to tell Patton how he felt, he wasn’t even there.

But then he heard the door swing open and there Patton was. He looked stricken but relaxed when he saw Logan. He smiled and drifted over to one of the seats at the counter. “Hey, Lo.”

“Hello, Patton.”

“I closed early to go see you but you weren’t there. Someone told me you left.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

They slipped into silence for a moment. Logan gazed into Patton’s eyes, seeing something unreadable in them. Patton didn’t look away.

“Hey, Logan?”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you play me one of your songs?”

Logan suddenly noticed he was holding his guitar case in a death grip. He swallowed and nodded, taking care to slip his guitar out of its case. It felt nice to have it in his hands. Grounding. And then the words came to him.

“I strive for precision.”

He sang slowly. His voice was almost hesitant. This wasn’t a song he’d written. It wasn’t a song anyone had written. Logan wasn’t a songwriter. He was awkward with words, always making sentences too long and lacking rhythm. But, he had an even voice so he sang. And sometimes the words just wrote themselves.

“My aim is to be accurate and clear.”

He was hopeful. It wasn’t something Logan could say often. He relied on concrete proof and evidence, not feelings. But hope was a nice feeling. He felt like he could do this.

“I don’t say things I don’t know to be true.”

There were few things Logan knew were genuine truths. This was one of them. He knew it deep in his heart. It resonated in his chest with the words as they formed. And that made him feel at peace.

“So believe me when I tell you I love you.”

His voice cracked halfway through. Logan didn’t look up to see Patton’s face but the words flowed to his mouth almost faster than he could keep up.

“I don’t write good love songs. I’m not adept with metaphors or rhymes. I just want to describe the things I know. And the only thing that I know is that I love you. Please believe me when I tell you…”

He took a deep breath and forced himself to look up from the strings of his guitar.

“I love you, Patton.”

And Patton smiled.

==============

Author’s Note: I tried a different writing style for this. There’s very little detail, more of a tell than a show story, and I did very little editing. Let me know if you like it. There’s a fine line between stylistic choices and bad writing.

#fanfiction #sanders sides #logicality #logan sanders #patton sanders #logic sanders #morality sanders #human au #college au #band au #songfic #bojack horseman #valentines day

[queennicoleinboots]

Chrissy And All Of Her Glorious Titles Have Spoken

A/N: Sequel to "Bears, Eat Your Heart Out, Chrissy, The Baby Girl with Many Glorious Titles Is Trying To Arrive. Apparently, So Is Everyone Else.

"Lights! Sound! Costumes! Make-up! Camera! Action!" Chrissy with all of her glorious titles spoke with her distinct English voice.

The cameras turned on to reveal seven speakers sitting at the purple Planetary Broadcasting Corporation's newsdesk sitting seven inches apart wearing seven different colors, seven different style shirts, and seven different collars having seven different personalities and representing seven different cities.

Blinky blinked seven times and wore a light teal long-sleeved button-down shirt with a gold chain collar. He wore round-framed glasses. He represented Ocala, Florgia, United Emirates of Chinta.

Count Vanilla growled 63 times and wore an off-white polo shirt with a pocket on the left side of his chest with a silver chain around his neck. He wore square-framed glasses. He represented The Fountain of Youth City of Georgia.

Banana Ice rolled his eyes fully in the back of his head before he spoke, "I'm Banana Ice, the submissive husband of Abigail Ice and son of Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas, the beautiful lady sitting next to me. I'm truly honored to be next to her and in front of you broadcasting, and... translating Count Vanilla's growls that translate Blinky's blinks. My mother will speak French." He removed his lip piercings to make it easier for us to understand him. He still had that same mohawk and wore the same black collar with the bananas hanging off of it, a sleek black long-sleeved button-down shirt with a banana yellow collar. He represented Graytown, Georgia, United States of America that is still America.

"WHAT?! YOU'RE MARRIED TO MY DAUGHTER?!" Bruce Ice shouted as he turned toward Banana Ice. "Nobody fuckin' informed me!" He was wearing a silver and blue tye dye blazer with a white button-down shirt, a pale blue tie, and a thick gold chain down his neck. He represented Athenia, Glorgia, United Emirates of Chinta.

"Oh yeah. That's going to be discussed in a later broadcast," Banana Ice said as he looked at Bruce Ice.

"Well, we should have prepared that AHEAD of time! How the hell am I going to concentrate? I have questions goddammit!" Bruce Ice shouted as he hammer fisted the desk with his right paw.

"Ay, merci, Bruce Ice, ay. Some of us would like to introduce ourselves. You sort of cut me off, as you say. Do you mind?!" Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas asked in her heavy French accent as she narrowed her brownish hazel eyes that had heavy mascara on the lashes at him. When wasn't that woman picture-perfect? She wore a pure white pearl necklace, a blue blouse with brownish gold speckles on it, and her sapphire wedding ring on the ring finger of her left paw. Her fur was brushed to perfection. She represented France.

"ABSOLUTELY! BUT THE SHOW MUST GO ON! Back to you, Gloria Balalalala-lalalalalas," Bruce Ice tried to say.

"Lala lala lala lalalas," Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas corrected him. "Ay. You English-speaking bears drive me crazy, I swear. But yes, I am Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas, wife of Skipper Balalalalalalalalalas and mother of Francesca Asiago Cheese, Victoria Filetmignon, and... Banana Ice? When did my son change his name to that monstrosity? This is news to me, Banana Ice," she said as she yanked a few of his ear rings with her right paw and stared at the camera.

"Yeeeeeooooooooow! That's in a later story as well, Mother Dearest," Banana Ice said as he winced in pain. "Ooooowwwww!!!" He gently rubbed his left paw to gently ease her paw off of his ear.

"THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN DISCUSSED AHEAD OF TIME!" Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas and Bruce Ice yelled as they stared daggers at Banana Ice.

"Sorry! We didn't have time until now! I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Banana Ice said to them with wide eyes before he turned back to the camera. "Besides, there are much more pressing matters to discuss than my existence right now."

"Very true," Bruce Ice said before he cleared his throat. "Hello, PBC viewers, I am Bruce Ice, husband of Megara Ice, daughter of Abigail Ice and three other female cubs that shall not be named because they are minors. This is a no-minor broadcast!"

Blinky, Count Vanilla, Banana Ice, Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas, Prince Oliver: Werewolf of the United Planets, and a new golden bear named Penn made growls and nods of agreement.

"I COULD NOT AGREE MORE! NO MINORS SHALL EVER PARTICIPATE IN THE PLANETARY BROADCASTING CORPORATION NEWS REPORTS EVER. IT WILL BE RARE THAT THEY ARE EVEN FEATURED, MUCH LESS TELLING NEWS ON THIS ESTEEMED NETWORK. THANK YOU VERY MUCH. NOW WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, I FINALLY GET TO SAY MY PEACE. It only took a DAY. The hell is wrong with this planet?! I'm Prince Oliver, Werewolf of the United Planets formerly known as Prince. Ahahahaha! No really. "Purple Rain" was my song. Some asshole from America stole my song. Bastard." Prince Oliver: Werewolf of the United Planets was wearing only a black tie and a black spiked color. He represented the Greek region of Hades.

Blinky, Count Vanilla, Banana Ice, Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas, Bruce Ice, Penn, Chrissy, and all of her glorious titles chuckled.

"Ahem. I was formerly known as Prince Oliver, Werewolf of London, but as you all know, if you watch this network AT ALL, London is literally burning in Hell right now. That's why a bunch of my crew and I, no seriously, I stuffed over 10,000 of us on that spaceship. When we all exited the ship, it looked like a multitude of clowns coming out of a car. It was RIDICULOUS!" His greenish gray eyes and mouth were wide as he spoke.

"I can vogue for that," Chrissy, babybaby said on a separate green screen as she wore a black and white maid outfit, a black collar with a gold bell in the front, black fishnet stockings, and black high heels. Her black and gray fur was brushed perfectly.

The green screen showed the footage of her, 44 wolf puppies, Master wearing a black and silver fox fur, EliEli: Mistress of the United Planets, Catman, Stan Doe, the entire cast of the PeeWee Herman show, 300 assorted cats, 400 dalmatians, 500 other assorted dogs, 600 goats, 700 sheep, the Chinaman from the pranking soundboard, the Vietman from the pranking soundboard, an android popularly known as Mark Fuckerberg, Max Headroom, 209 fat bears of all colors, and countless clowns, including Ronald McDonald and Pennywise the Dancing Clown, burst from that ship. How did they fit?

"Excuse me. I normally wear a black wig to further accentuate my head, but it's entirely too fucking hot on this planet for that shit right now. Summer everywhere in the last few galaxies has been ABSOLUTELY BARBARIC!" Chrissy, babydoll with all glorious titles spoke as she stared directly at the camera with her kaleidoscopic greenish yellowish hazel eyes.

Blinky, Count Vanilla, Banana Ice, Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas, Bruce Ice, and Penn laughed and nodded with agreement.

"Hahahahahaha!!!! All right. Hello Everybody, as if the news isn't crazy enough without the first bit of news we heard today, I'm Penn with Off Grid Desert Farming with Penn and Alexia doing a GUEST appearance on the Planetary Broadcasting Corporation news network to explain what is actually going on behind the jab, mandates, checkpoints, and why these space ass... aliens are pushing it so hard among all the planets," Penn spoke with his southern accent. He was a golden bear with serious blue eyes. His fur was brushed perfectly as well. He looked to be the same age as Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas, but in reality, she was much older. (She looked much younger than she was and gave that trait to all of her children.) He was wearing a navy blue shirt and his platinum wedding ring.

Penn continued to speak, "Sorry about delaying our news report on August 11, 2021 until now. The powers that be were downloading contact-tracing software to everyone's electrical devices. They are used to track and control jabbed people. They are also used as weapons against you if they decide to make it self-destruct in T minus five seconds. The jabbed are automatically being downloaded into. The patent number that has been downloaded into their brains is 060606. The jabbed are now (encrypted voice done by Chrissy, Encrypting Genius saying Five GEEGEEGEE) repeater towers. They are the temples made without hands. But SO ARE YOU. The Creator made the unjabbed without hands. More news will come on this topic. Please watch my news broadcasts on the 900 Club, Stumble.cahm, BiteChew.cahm, and Facefail.cahm. Thank you for listening."

"Yes. Thank you for sharing, Penn. Finally, some useful stuff this morning," Prince Oliver: Werewolf of the United Planets.

Blinky blinked. Count Vanilla growled Penn's message in his own words and spoke Penn's references verbatim in bear growl language to the bears.

"You have the choice on which side you take. I, personally, like to watch sports for hours, sing the American National Anthem, drive Captain America's speedboat, fly in my Batbearmobile, read books about everything including religious texts... from all sides. I personally like to debunk the arguments of all pastors on TV.... except Penn. Penn is solid. He is speaking correctly on the Federal Emergency Medical Assimilations news and what they are doing to us PATRIOTS!" Banana Ice grabbed the desk tightly with his paws and leaned forward for a moment before he sat back down and began to speak calmly. "Also, Austria Australia have cracked down on the unjabbed and stripping their rights away as they speak."

Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas translated Banana Ice's message in French. She added more, and Bruce and Banana Ice worked together to translate her message.

"In France, they are looking for the unjabbed and are trying to silence them with blowdarts," Bruce Ice said.

"League of Legends is a true story. Teemo, Trastana, and Lala are among us. They are shooting the (encrypted voice done by Chrissy, Encrypting Genius saying PLAGUE MEDICINE) and I mean that in the most sarcastic way. They are inhuman. They are (encrypted voice done by Chrissy, Encrypting Genius saying Communal Toilets)," Banana Ice said.

"No one wants to hear the Truth," Penn said. "People are talking about the CDPCP Captain Planet American shielding that separates the jabbed from the unjabbed. They're real. They're coming and coming fast! This is not a joke. This is real. I repeat. This is real. Banana Ice said correctly that Austria Australia has started to crack down on us unjabbed. They have come door-to-door asking for papers just like the Germans did to the (encrypted voice by Chrissy, Encrypting Genius saying JuJubes) back in the 1940s on Earth and God Knows Where Else. Then if you don't have papers, they take you away to some throwaway galaxy where no one can find you."

"IT'S UNAMERICAN! IT'S UNCONSTITUTIONAL! PATRIOTS MUST RESIST!" Blinky, Count Vanilla, Banana Ice, and Bruce Ice shouted.

Bears shouted in the background.

Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas spoke wildly in French. She spoke in English. "I'm just a messenger! I did not write these news!"

Penn spoke, "Read John 3:16. Read Psalm 91! That's what will save you! Stay strong. Do not get jabbed. Humble yourself. You know better than to take the (encrypted voice done by Chrissy, Encrypting Genius saying PLAGUE MEDICINE)! Amen!"

The screen switched to Chrissy and her glorious titles. A screen was scrolling with her titles. "Thank you, Penn, Banana and Bruce Ice, Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas, whoa! That name should be a title! Count Vanilla, Blinky, and last but not least, Prince Oliver, Werewolf of the United Planets for your news today. More will come after this short break."

--------------------------------------------------------------------

A video of Chrissy, her glorious titles, and her 46 wolf pups playing played for five minutes as an intermission. It was still entirely too fucking hot for her to wear the wig.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

The camera then showed Chrissy, submissively and dutifully our reporter standing in front of a photo of Mars still without her wig.

"Hello Everybody, as I am forced to say on every broadcast in case you aren't informed, I'm Chrissy, babybaby, baby baby hit me baby one more time, not Aguilera. Ugh. My glorious title changes every minute, I swear. My Dom is a cruel jokester. But," Chrissy.... spoke before she started. "Let us get on with our next broadcast. Jaybird, a floating head on Mars-"

Banana Ice was beginning to crack up. Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas elbowed him hard with her right elbow.

"Ahem, yes," Chrissy, babybaby space reporter on live television said before she was trying not to laugh. "Jayhead from Mars would like to tell us about a new and upcoming screenplay author who is a lot like me, not he or it but maybe something in between. Jayhead! Excuse me Jaybird, how are you doing?"

Jaybird's bald floating face with thin brown eyebrows, hazel eyes, a distinct nose, and small lips was staring at us in front of a giant intergalactic "solar system" green screen. "I'm great. Thank you, Chrissy-," Jaybird said with a Cleveland, Ohio accent.

At this point, Bruce Ice busted up laughing. Banana Ice had completely lost it and started to hyperventilate while laughing. He was falling out of his chair. Count Vanilla stared at the camera and looked disturbed. Blinky looked confused and wanted to know what happened to the rest of Jaybird's body. Penn was smiling and suppressing laughter.

"Excuse me. What's so funny? I haven't even told the story yet," Jaybird asked.

Chrissy, baby master of laughter suppression said with a grin, "Excuse me, Banana and Bruce Ice! Do you MIND? Some of us..." she said as she involuntarily giggled. "Would like to hear the news today. Could you please be quiet?"

Banana Ice was rolling on the floor while his chest heaved as he laughed. He was wearing black dress pants and those godawful ridiculous banana rocket shoes. It's dangerous to only spend a minute shopping for new shoes. The shoes were firing off and making him scoot across the floor. Bruce Ice was falling out of his chair laughing. Penn was throwing his head back and laughing. Blinky and Count Vanilla were laughing hysterically as they watched Banana Ice jet across the floor as he laughed. Prince Oliver, Werewolf of the United Planets was laughing sheerly out of disbelief.

Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas was trying to talk over the laughter. "This is why you don't wear rocket shoes in a news broadcast. What a mockery of news journalism. Or was that his point?" Even she was trying not to laugh.

"I have no idea," Chrissy, baby giggles said as she was giggling. "I think that clip's going viral."

Jaybird's floating head was hysterically laughing. "Wow! That's the embodiment of space right there! Sci-Fi, eat your heart out. And here I thought robots writing movie scripts was hilarious. Shoot, the best form of entertainment is buying your children rocket shoes and making them laugh hysterically to see what happens."

Chrissy, baby mama giggles stickles crackalacka cracked up. "Yes. Wolf pups with rocket shoes flying around would be something," she said with more laughter. "Whoever he bought those shoes from is going to have a massive increase in sales."

Banana Ice was trying to calm down and turn his shoes off. "Sorry! I just don't understand what's going on right now."

"Does anybody?" Chrissy, babybaby with more questions than answers asked.

"I doubt it, but this upcoming AI script-" Jaybird was trying to say before he was rudely interrupted by Banana Ice's continued laughter and scooting across the floor with rocket shoes.

Seriously, why the fuck did he buy those?

"I need to mute that screen. I can't report like this," Chrissy baby drama queen said as she walked off the set for a second. "Zachary Girrafinakis, mute screen 1 please!"

Zachary Giraffinakis, my newly hired slave who happened to be good at working cameras, looked exactly like the American actor Zach Gallifinakis. But he was behind the scenes and was born and raised on the Green Planet. We really do live in an alternate reality. I allowed Chrissy, babywolfgirl bitch mama news reporter with 46 hungry pups to borrow him for this breaking news report. Zachary Giraffinakis kindly muted the screen.

But Banana Ice was mute laughing and trying to shut off his shoes with not much success. Bruce Ice was beating the desk and heaving with mute laughter. Blinky was crying as he blink-laughed. Count Vanilla was mute growling and mute laughing. Penn was wiping his eyes while mute laughing.

Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas was mute speaking. The closed caption said, "You have to excuse my son. His brain is malfunctioning. I don't know why it happened. He got that faulty brain mechanic from his papa."

Prince Oliver, Werewolf of the United Planets was mute laughing and wiping his eyes with his tie.

"Thank you, Zachary Giraffinakis, now we can continue this news broadcast. I'm telling you. Today's broadcast alone has been one big news blooper. It goes to show that the events of the multiverse truly have begun to mock the multiverse itself. Perplexing," Chrissy, amused babygirl newscaster spoke.

"Yes. Truly. And the AI movie script writer actually touches on that," Jaybird said with a chuckle. "Excuse me. I'm still trying to get over a ridiculous-looking bear scooting... hahaha across the floor with rocket shoes. I mean, who wears rocket shoes to a press conference? That's a great screenplay idea for the AI script writer! Haha! I have no idea if he wrote one like that yet."

"No idea," Chrissy, babygirl Wolf Mama still in disbelief said. "I don't think I'm ever going to get over this traumatic experience." She was giggling.

"Me neither. Someone has GOT to make a Sci-Fi movie with malfunctioning rocket shoes during a news broadcast. If you're watching this Bouregard, you need to calibrate the transcripts from this broadcast and MAKE THAT INTO A MOVIE!" Jaybird said with laughter.

"How would he do that?" Chrissy, perplexed babywolfmama asked.

"Well, it all started with Ross Godwing, who collaborated with Oscar the Grouch to come up with this Artifical Intelligence Unit, sort of like Spock from Star Trek, that could write scripts using an algorithm that pools lines from all Sci-Fi scripts that have ever even been thought of. One day, they sat near a computer, the AI unit was computing a script by putting its head through the computer screen. After about five minutes, the AI unit took its head out of the screen and spat out a script for an hour and a half long Sci-Fi movie. The movie was called Moonfall," Jaybird answered.

The screen then showed a poster with a space background with a large white moon in the center and rainbow-colored 1960s style font saying "Moonfall." Two brown bears were on either side of a small female red bear. They all wore white space helmets and gray spacesuits.

"Moonfall is about a... very strange space station that has three bears in it who are trying to survive. They are in a disjointed love triangle. The first male bear is named B, and he has green eyes that are crossed the whole time. He is the leader of the group. The female bear is named X, and she has gray dead eyes. She spends all of her title in front of a computer that talks to her in gibberish. The other male bear is slightly smaller and is named Ib, and his eyes are all black. He speaks mostly in gibberish. His favorite line is 'I want to stick my head in a telephone socket.'," Jaybird continued.

Chrissy, curious babywolfmama, nodded and spoke, "That sounds advanced for an AI unit. And that is very eye-opening to see the result of years of Sci-Fi script writing. And a lot of the best stuff comes from 60 years ago. I'll be daaaamned."

"Yes. When the Sesame street crew got together and read the script, they pissed themselves laughing," Jaybird said.

"I can imagine. Would you like to play some clips from the movie?" Chrissy, curious babywolfmamallama asked.

"Why sure!" Jaybird said before he spat out some film.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Moonfall (2021), Act 2 - Holy TIHS, bro!!!!

Some Sci-Fi rap music was playing in the background, and the main computer was spitting out lyrics.

"I don't give a fuck. I'm rich, bitch.

Three pods and a ship. I'm rich bitch.

Hit the bar and blow it up. I'm slick, bitch.

I don't give a fuck."

Then the song "Intergalactic Fanatic Scholastic" by Peter Whitey Parker and the Floating Clowns started to play. (It sounds like "Intergalactic" by Beastie Boys.)

While the computer spit out these lyrics,

"Intergalactic, planetary, planetary, intergalactic

Intergalactic, planetary, planetary, intergalactic

Intergalactic, planetary, planetary, intergalactic

Intergalactic, planetary, planetary, intergalactic

A new born dimension, a new born dimension

A new born dimension, a new born dimension

A new born dimension, a new born dimension

A new born dimension, a new born dimension

A new born dimension, a new born dimension

A new born dimension"

"COMMA!" B shouted in a high-pitched nasally voice.

B and Ib started to dance wildly while shaking their fat bear asses on camera. B kept sticking his tongue in and out and poking himself in the stomach. There was text above B's head that said, "Yes. These are stage directions. I told this mother f%$#^@ to do it."

Ib started shaking wildly and yelled in a deep baritone voice similar to yoitssteve on Twitch.TV, "Radio Mania! Radio Mania!"

Then the computer imitated Peter Whitey Parker's voice verbatim. It sang while it showed Peter's face on the screen.

"Don't you tell me now to well smile

I'll make you stick it around worth your while

Beyond my numbers what you can dial

It's because maybe we're so versatile

Style, profile, I say

It back brings always me when I hear, "ooh, child!"

From Savannah River out to the Nile

I grind the marathon to the very last mile

Well, if you fondle me I feel reviled

People always sayin' my body is wild

Got you gall, got you guile

Walk with me I'm a grape-o-phile."

Clowns, Ib, B, X, and Peter danced.

Then the signal got interrupted.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

"Whoa! What the hell?!" Jaybird shouted.

"The transmission's been interrupted. What in the world is going on?!" Babywolfgirl Chrissy asked dramatically.

Banana Ice was mute-screaming. Count Vanilla was straightening his fur rapidly. Blinky was squirting eyedrops in his eyes. Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas was quickly redoing her make-up. Prince Oliver: Werewolf of the United Planets was gulping and staring at the camera as though he had seen a ghost. Penn was reading the King James Version of the Bible.

And Bruce Ice was mute-speaking and smiling. His closed caption said, "Thank Whoever interrupted that transmission. That was the worst movie I ever had the displeasure of seeing in my life."

Master then appeared on a screen by himself. He was dressed to the nines in fox furs and wolf tails. His aquamarine eyes, strong nose, full lips, and strong chin showed through his layers. Then he spoke in his deep voice, "Excuse the interruption, Chrissy, sub of many glorious titles. If I didn't know better, I would ask if you were a switch instead. But my point is, I need to announce that the Florida News Agency is no longer trendy."

"You are absolutely correct, Master. Thank you for the interruption," Chrissy, sub of many glorious titles said. "I'm as submissive as it gets, Master. I guarantee you that."

"I am well aware. Also, a fur gathering is occurring tomorrow at midnight. Be there, or be the Florida News Agency!" Master said with a chuckle.

Bruce Ice nodded, mute-laughed, and mute-spoke. His closed caption was, "Will do. I have thousands of dollars worth of furs to present at the event."

"Zachary Giraffinakis, please unmute that screen," Chrissy, sub of many glorious titles said.

"Yes ma'am," he said as he unmuted the screen.

"Only thousands, Bruce Ice? Really? I have like a whole case worth of furs. I have spent tens of thousands on furs. You don't know brown bear privilege," Banana Ice said.

"He is correct. Banana Ice... I can't with this *ridiculous* name, my dear son, is the most entitled, spoiled, and submissive subby cubby in every galaxy. I'm his mother. I can vogue for that, but as I'm saying this, I don't know whether to be proud or ashamed," Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas spoke as she visibly shrugged.

Blinky, Count Vanilla, and Banana Ice shrugged. Bruce Ice scratched his head and looked at her with a puzzled look.

"Definitely proud. His title should be Prince Banana Ice," Prince Oliver: Werewolf of the United Planets stated.

"Ashamed. The Lord doesn't award those who were spoiled here in this life. He values hard workers," Penn said.

"Actually. He's both," Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas said flatly to Penn.

"Can you explain that to us, please?" Penn asked. "I'm very confused right now."

"Oui. While my husband and I are extremely wealthy, we definitely trained my son to be inquisitive and read as much as possible. We also instilled the value of having a lot of physical activity through rigorous training. He also was taught to be specialized in his craft," Gloria Balalalalalalalalalas said.

Prince Banana Ice smiled at the camera.

"Someone put a crown on his head, please," Chrissy, sub of many glorious titles said.

"As a matter of fact, find a crown for Queen Gloria as well," Master spoke. "After all, a prince is not a prince without a queen."

"That is absolutely correct, Master," Chrissy, sub of many glorious titles said.

"Hold the phone. If Prince Banana Ice and Queen Gloria exist, then technically Abigail Ice should be Princess Abigail Ice, Megara Ice should be Queen Megara Ice, and I should be King Bruce Ice," King Bruce Ice said.

"THAT IS A BRILLIANT OBSERVATION," Master and Chrissy spoke at the same time.

"Everyone. Our news anchors are now all royalty. We have Squire Blinky, Count Vanilla, Prince Banana Ice, Queen Gloria, King Bruce Ice, Prince Oliver: Werewolf of the United Planets, and Pastor Penn," Chrissy, sub of many glorious titles said.

Squire Blinky smiled and blinked with excitement. Count Vanilla smiled. Prince Banana Ice smiled and blushed. Queen Gloria dramatically fanned herself with a shy smile. King Bruce Ice growled.

"Thank you, Chrissy, submissive queen of nomenclature," Prince Oliver: Werewolf of the United Planets said.

"Thank you. I appreciate your recognition of my being a pastor. I welcome the title, but I do not require to be called 'Pastor Penn.' I am forever humbled by the true royalty, my Lord Jesus Christ," Pastor Penn said.

"We have spoken! Can someone please get crowns, medals, and sashes for our anchors please?" Chrissy, sub with many glorious titles asked.

The backstage crew quickly rushed through the props.

"Thank you. And on that note, we will take a 15-minute commercial break," Chrissy, sub with many glorious titles spoke.

"Thank you. I need that in hopes of completing my broadcast," Jaybird said as his head took up the whole screen.

And Prince Banana Ice started laughing uncontrollably again over some elevator music that was playing to ease into the commercial break.

[xxlittle0birdxx]

Every Story Has a Beginning

Read on AO3

'Erp!' The training droid's lightsaber slipped past Obi-wan's defenses and tapped the back of his calf. The jolt of energy temporarily seized his muscles in the grip of a painful cramp, and he fell to his knees. He waved a hand at the droid, shutting it down, then collapsed onto his back, panting for air, and lay gazing up at the dojo’s high ceiling, criss-crossed with several rafters. Karking stupid mistake, he moaned to himself. It was the sort of error a youngling would make. He’d allowed his concentration to slip for a tiny fraction of a second. He swiped his face with an already-sodden sleeve and sighed, acknowledging the source of his lapse of concentration.

Anakin.

Obi-wan sat up and rested his forearms on his bent knees, letting his hands dangle between them. What had the Council been thinking to let him take Anakin as an apprentice? True, he’d done his share of baby-tending in the crèche, but infants weren’t nine year old Padawans. And Obi-wan had little experience with being solely responsible for the well-being of a child.

And Anakin wasn't a mere child.

It had nothing to do with any of the Chosen One prophecies. Anakin's life experience made him far more jaded than his age would suggest. He was, what Rael would call, street-smart. The years of toiling for that Toydarian on Tatooine made him more proficient that most adult Jedi with machinery, and he was forever neglecting his studies to tinker with something. The few times he’d casually offered his perspective as a child slave in one of his classes resulted in shocked, horrified silence, so heavy with disapproval, that it took Obi-wan days to reassure Anakin that no, he had done nothing wrong, and the disapproval wasn’t aimed at him. The concept of play was an alien concept to Anakin. For all their supposed solemnity, Padawans played hard in their leisure time, with their chosen pursuits ranging from dejarik to the rather odd game from Chandrila that involved a stick and a ball, with a great deal of running, throwing, and catching. For a child who'd spent most of his days working, idleness of any sort was anathema. He struggled to find the stillness within him to meditate. He struggled in his classes. Not with the material. He soaked up everything like a sponge, analyzed it, and applied it to the next lesson before it even started. He chafed against the expected behavior of the more typical Padawans. 'He's fidgety!' one of the instructors had sniffed to Obi-wan, like it was a disease. His flight instructors, though… One of them had already quietly informed Obi-wan — with no small sense of awe — that Anakin had already passed the qualifications to fly starfighters and small shuttles, and was well on his way to the larger vessels. The flight simulators were one of the few places where Anakin felt truly comfortable. That, and the dojo.

Obi-wan shivered as the sweat on his body evaporated, but he didn't move.

He felt he was always chastising the boy. Eat your vegetables. Fold your tunics, don't just wad them up in the drawer. Have you finished your homework? You must calm your thoughts. For Ashla's sake, Anakin, where the hell are your socks? Slow down; no one's going to take your food away. Anakin, you must go back to your classroom.

Obi-wan was completely over his head, and he didn't dare ask for help. It would have just reinforced Yoda's doubts about Anakin’s suitability as a Padawan and Obi-wan’s as a master. Obi-wan had initially thought the Council would let Anakin ease into the Order with the rest of the younglings, but they’d plopped Anakin the Apprentice into his unprepared and gobsmacked lap. He heaved a pitiful sigh. 'Be mindful of the past and future, Obi-wan, but not at the expense of the present,' he reminded himself, imitating Qui-gon's burr.

'That wasn't half-bad.' Obi-wan's head swung up. Rael Averross leaned against the doorframe. He still looked as scruffy and rumpled as he did when Obi-wan first met him on Pijal nearly seven years ago. Perhaps his robes were slightly less shabby. 'Time honored tradition to mock your master's voice,' Rael laughed. He took in the glowing holocron, the training droid, and Obi-wan's disheveled form, then pointed to the holocron. 'Form III?'

'I… Yes.'

‘Suits you.’

‘I suppose.’ He picked up his fallen lightsaber. Three months ago, he would have argued that he could master Ataru. Even two months ago, he would have still said as much, and used its aggressive style to defeat the Sith on Naboo. And then he started replaying the final moments of the duel at odd moments, thinking of all the ways it could have gone so horribly wrong, had the Sith used a good defense. But now… He'd started to wonder if the best offense was indeed a tightly-woven defense.

Real merely grunted and walked into the dojo. ‘You know what time it is?’

Obi-wan waved a hand at the holocron to close it, then sent the droid back to its charging dock. 'I honestly don't know.'

‘After twenty-three hundred.’

Obi-wan’s stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly in the otherwise quiet room.

‘Sounds like you missed dinner, too,’ Rael observed.

‘I’ve got some ration bars stashed somewhere.’ Obi-wan pushed himself to his feet and ran his hand through his shaggy, sweat-soaked hair with a grimace. 'After I've had a shower.' Preferably a long one with water as scalding as he could stand it.

‘Might want to find your Padawan first. It's why I came looking for you.’

Obi-wan’s shoulders slumped. Not again...

‘He wasn’t at dinner with the rest of the Padawans,’ Rael continued. ‘Thought he might be eatin’ with you, but he never made it back before curfew.’

Obi-wan bit back a curse. It wasn't the first time Anakin had disappeared between his last class of the day and the Padawans' dinner. The first few times, Obi-wan had found him in one of the rooftop gardens or in a hidden corner of the Temple, his round cheeks wet with tears, feeling the press of resentment and antipathy from the other Padawans, their disdain for his lack of knowledge about the finer points of the Jedi or the Force. Or he'd crossed paths with Mace Windu, who seemed to have a special glower reserved just for Anakin. There were thousands of nooks and crannies where he could hide. And Anakin was very good at making himself small when he didn’t want to be found. He hooked his lightsaber to his belt and glanced at Rael. 'Does it get easier?'

'What? Havin' an apprentice?'

'Taking care of a child,' Obi-wan retorted, letting the weariness creep into his voice.

'Honestly?' Rael scratched his scraggly beard with both hands. 'No.' He sighed. 'Be a damn sight easier if they came with instruction manuals.' He squinted at Obi-wan. 'The Code doesn't help, either. No attachments, it says, like we don't get attached to them or them to us.'

Obi-wan closed his eyes, and massaged his temples. 'Brilliant,' he muttered. He let his hands fall to his sides, and breathed deeply, letting his consciousness fly through the Temple on the swift wings of the Force. Anakin wasn't in the gardens, or in one of the pools. He was endlessly fascinated by so much green, even limited as it was to the gardens, and with the sight of all that water contained in one place, just so the Jedi could swim. He wasn't in the kitchens sneaking food, nor was he in the flight simulators or the Padawans' dojo. Obi-wan didn't bother with the archive. Anakin disliked Jocasta Nu on sight. Where are you, Anakin? He despaired that the boy had left the Temple and was somewhere in Coruscant, boasting about his podracing or piloting skills in some flea-bitten hive of scum and villainy that didn't care that a nine year old boy's life was in danger. Something flickered in the corner of Obi-wan's mind, and he took a sharp turn toward it.

There.

Anakin was in his quarters. Just as Rael had suspected.

Obi-wan blinked. Then broke into a dead run. Something was terribly wrong.

The thick carpeting that lined the corridors muffled his footfalls as he pelted through them, panic making his heart pound in his chest. Why were his quarters so far from the dojo? He smacked the control panel of the door to his quarters with the Force and skidded to a stop just inside.

Anakin lay on one of the meditation platforms, bundled into the duvet that he'd apparently dragged from Obi-wan's bed. Despite the warmth of the duvet, and Anakin's tinkering with the climate controls to make the room as warm as possible, the boy shivered. Obi-wan laid a hand over Anakin's forehead. Kriff me… Anakin burned with fever. He scooped the sleeping child into his arms. Anakin mewled a weak protest, but wrapped his arms around Obi-wan's neck. Obi-wan balanced Anakin’s bottom on his crossed forearms. 'I'm going to take you to the infirmary,' he murmured. 'You'll feel better soon.'

Anakin's head lolled on his shoulder. 'You stink,' he rasped.

'My apologies.' Obi-wan rolled his eyes. If Anakin could comment on his current lack of personal hygiene, he must not be terribly ill. Then Anakin spoke again.

'Hurts,' Anakin complained.

Obi-wan peered at him. One thing Anakin never complained about so far was physical discomfort. 'What does?'

'Head. Throat. And I'm cold…' He burrowed into Obi-wan's chest, who grew more alarmed. He was most definitely not cold to the touch. Obi-wan could feel the heat radiating from him and walked faster.

The infirmary was just ahead. Obi-wan's strides lengthened, and he burst into the dimly lit space. The medical droid rolled up to them, and scanned Anakin before Obi-wan could so much as speak. The droid returned to a workstation, and retrieved a small bottle that it shoved into one of Obi-wan's hands. 'Give him these. Two pills every six hours until the fever breaks.'

'When will that be?'

The droid didn't shrug, but the pattern of blinking lights suggested one. 'As long as it takes. Could be as few as two or three days. Could be six.'

'What's the matter with him?'

'Nerf-pox.' The droid turned away. 'Nothing to do but ride it out.'

Obi-wan felt outraged on behalf of his apprentice. Surely there was more to be done then ride it out. 'Are you joking?'

'It's not in my programming to make japes about illnesses,' the droid retorted sharply. 'Pills every six hours to help with the fever. Put him to bed, and let him rest. Keep him hydrated.'

Obi-wan refrained from sticking his tongue out at the droid, even though he dearly wanted to, then left the infirmary. He stopped and let the relief course through him. Nerf-pox was a common childhood illness. He took a few steps toward the Padawans' dormitories, but stopped and pivoted toward the Knights' barracks, returning to his quarters at a much slower pace than he'd left them. The Padawans' sleeping cells were barely large enough for one person. He couldn't imagine trying to care for a sick child in one. His own quarters were quite modest, but he did have his own 'fresher and a minuscule kitchen area.

Rael waited on one of the meditation platforms. He stood when Obi-wan entered, and lifted a bundle of clothing. 'Nerf-pox?' At Obi-wan's nod, he sighed. 'Figures. Most of 'em have it when they're in the crèche, where he should be.' He motioned to Obi-wan to follow him, and went into the small bedroom and laid out a set of small pajamas. 'Musta had chores in the crèche this week. It's runnin' through the three year olds…'

Obi-wan set Anakin on the edge of the bed and began to peel off the layers of his clothing. The boy was barely conscious, limbs heavy and limp. 'How did you of all people end up in the crèche?'

Rael sighed and handed him the pajama top. 'Fanry. To make up for what I didn't do with her.' Obi-wan glanced up at him with an upraised eyebrow. 'See her as a person. I only ever saw what I wanted to see. I kriffed it up on Pijal.' He shrugged and passed the pajama bottoms to Obi-wan. 'So when I came back… I asked the Council if I could work with the crèche masters.'

Obi-wan tucked Anakin into the bed and stood. 'And now you're one of the resident advisors for the Padawans.'

Rael snorted, gathering Anakin's clothing and folding it. 'Not sure how well I advise, but I do look out for the Padawans whose masters have to leave 'em behind.' He cuffed Obi-wan on the back of the head with a muttered, 'See ya 'round.'

'Rael?' Obi-wan's head ducked. 'Thank you.'

''M not the best one to ask, but if ya need help with your Padawan… Y'know where to find me.' He left with a wave.

Obi-wan found the small bottle of pills and scanned the label. 'May be administered sublingually,' he read aloud. He glanced at Anakin, sprawled on his back. 'There's a relief. I won't have to try and wake you.' He shook two tiny pills into his palm, then poked them into Anakin's mouth, belatedly thinking he should have washed his hands first. Too late to bother now. He grabbed a clean set of clothes and headed for the 'fresher, trading his much-desired hot water shower for a sonic one. He intended to spend the night in the single armchair in the other room, but a scratchy whisper halted his steps.

'Don't go.'

He turned. Anakin was awake, his blue eyes glassy and bloodshot with fever, silently pleading for Obi-wan to stay. Obi-wan hesitated. The others would insist he must be firm with Anakin, teach him true Jedi detachment. But he couldn't say no. Just as he couldn't say no when he woke up in the middle of the night, and nearly tripped over Anakin, sleeping on the floor next to his bed. 'All right.' Obi-wan slid onto the bed, bracing his back against the wall. He lifted Anakin's head and pillowed it on his thigh, just above his knees. He wasn't going to sleep anyway. He could meditate in here just as well as the other room.

Anakin sighed and coughed, his breath rattling in his lungs. 'I miss my mom,' he murmured.

'I know.'

Anakin turned on his side and curled into a ball. 'Why is it bad to miss my mom?'

Obi-wan felt this was a serious philosophical question from Anakin, and not a querulous complaint. He was silent for several minutes, trying to think of an answer, and not just quote dogma at him. 'I'm not certain I'm the best person to ask,' he finally said. Anakin's only reply was a soft snore, for which Obi-wan was grateful. He was still grieving Qui-gon's death. It had left a gaping hole in Obi-wan's life. Rael was right. For all the Code's admonishments against attachments, masters and apprentices did form emotional attachments to one another. How could he not, when he'd spent the past twelve years following in the formidable footsteps of Qui-gon Jinn? Two months on, and the memory of Force leaving Qui-gon's body still made his hands twitch. He leaned his head against the wall and slowly exhaled. Satine Kryze likewise occupied a corner of his heart and soul, even more than seven years after he'd left her on Mandalore. Leaving had been the correct decision — and a mutual one — but he often wondered if they'd been in the right to close the door their friendship as well. He could do with her counsel right now. He called his datapad to his hand and entered the codes for his personal data archive, then pressed his thumb to the indicted location to read his thumbprint. Then an iris scan. One can never be too careful, he mused, tapping on the message from Satine for what was probably the hundredth time. She hadn't sent it directly to him, but to the Council. Master Plo Koon then passed it along to him.

Please offer my deepest condolences to Obi-wan. Nu kyr'adyc, shin taab'echaaj'la.

'Not gone, merely marching far away,' Obi-wan muttered. For a Mandalorian saying, it hewed rather close to the Jedi way of viewing death. He glanced down at Anakin to assure himself he was still asleep, then switched to the HoloNet, and searched for a tidbit about Satine. It was never a regular habit of his. Just when he needed to feel good about something he'd done. Truth be told, he seemed to look her up nearly every night lately. He felt like he was failing Anakin, and by extension, Qui-gon. Seeing Satine flourish made him feel as though he had done one thing right with his life so far. A holovid appeared of her touring a new hospital on Kalevala. Mandalore seemed to be thriving under her leadership.

Time unspooled around him, while the miniature image of Satine moved through the sun-drenched room, over and over.

Anakin stirred and squinted at the blue-tinged hologram over his head. 'Who's that?' His breath whistled through his clogged sinuses.

'Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore,' Obi-wan told him. 'An old friend.'

Anakin watched her for a few moments, the blue light from the holo making his pale face even more pallid. 'She's pretty.'

‘She is,’ Obi-wan agreed, although he felt he was terribly biased. He switched off the datapad.

Anakin yawned and blinked a few times, eyelids growing heavy. 'Not as pretty as Padmé,' he sighed before falling asleep once more.

The corner of Obi-wan's mouth tipped up with a rueful grin. Anakin was rather taken with the young queen of Naboo. The Naboo penchant for pomp, and the queen's correspondingly elaborate wardrobe did little to dispel the notion that they were in some sort of fairy tale. Obi-wan had little doubt that Anakin dreamed of defending Padmé Amidala against Star Dragons, the bold and fearless Jedi Knight wielding his trusty lightsaber.

Hours passed before Anakin stirred again in the peculiar light before dawn that leeched the color from the room. 'They think we're gonna fail,' Anakin remarked, pushing the duvet away. 'Hot,' he mumbled.

With a few gestures, Obi-wan brought a cool, damp cloth to his waiting hand, and draped it over Anakin's forehead. 'Oh?'

'Mmm-hmmmm.' Anakin gazed up at him. ''M too old to be a youngling an' too young to be a Padawan. An' you're too young an'…' His brows drew together as he groped for the word. 'Inexperienced.'

Obi-wan wiped Anakin's cheeks with the cloth. 'Who told you that?'

'No one. But they all think it. All the other Padawans… Master Windu…'

Obi-wan smiled grimly. Why am I not surprised? He ran his hand over Anakin's hair. 'Well, I suppose we'll have to succeed beyond everyone's wildest dreams.' Anakin started to shiver again, and Obi-wan tucked the duvet around his skinny shoulders, struck anew by how small and frail he felt. You will be a Jedi, even if it kills me, he thought.

#obi-wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #obi-wan & anakin #padawan anakin #master obi-wan #post-star wars: the phantom menace #a few months after phantom menace #early padawan anakin #obi-wan trying to parent anakin #mentioned qui-gon jinn #mentioned satine kryze #implied obi-wan/satine kryze #rael averross #trying not to fail #obi-wan doesn't feel ready to be a master

[thanksjro]

More Than Meets the Eye #13- Swerve Doesn’t Have Any Friends

Okay, let’s go ahead and get this out of the way.

It’s a FUCKING SPORTS BRA AND RUNNING SHORTS ALEX.

And don’t think I don’t see that friggin’ cleavage alien back there. You ain’t slick.

I’m going to make it a law that all comic book artists learn how to draw clothes that don’t vacuum-seal themselves to women’s bodies. Milne gets six months for this infraction alone, and Roche gets a year for the initial bra crime he committed back in Last Stand. Learn how women’s underwear works, you ninnies.

Our issue opens up with Swerve stretching his radio personality muscles.

Oh, Guido Guidi, whisk me away to flights of fancy!

Our artist for this issue is none other than Guido Guidi, ascended from fanwork to deliver us from evil with his near-superhuman ability to emulate other artists’ styles and just make things look really pretty. He was responsible for the mythos pages in the 2012 Annual, AKA the best part. He also filled in on some of the art for Last Stand of the Wreckers, not that I really noticed because he’s just that good.

Swerve lets Blurr know that while it might have looked like the Lost Light had exploded, thus killing everyone onboard back in issue #1, that isn’t actually what happened. I’m glad someone filled in the Cybertronian populace on that.

I was never great at math, but those speech bubbles might be phoning it in a bit.

Swerve says that he’s having a great time on the quest, despite all the hiccups, and we get an explanation for why this long-range communications system hasn’t been seen prior to this point. It’s been broken for a while- most likely due to the quantum jump that started the series off with a bang- but Blaster managed to get it running again. Good job, Blaster. With this little setup for our framing device out of the way, we get into the meat of the story.

Swerve is being nosey about things that weren’t any of his business, happening in a closed off room, when Drift drags him down the hall and hid him away for safety. Swerve doesn’t much appreciate being manhandled, but there’s a method to the madness here.

Drift’s nose has vacated the premises once again, so we’re just going to have to deal with that. And how shapely does one have to be to be known as “the guy with the legs”? I mean, Drift is RIGHT THERE.

Drift uses his own powerful legs to kick down the door to Cyclonus and Tailgate’s room. It turns out that the horrific screaming wasn’t the sound of a murder or sexual relations taking place, but rather that of Cyclonus singing in Old Cybertronian.

My god, he’s completely enamored with this unrepentant murder machine.

We are just all up in Cyclonus’ grill for this panel. Nothing but lips. Was this specified in the script? Because it feels like it might have been specified in the script.

Old Cybertronian, or the Primal Vernacular as some might call it, was last seen in general when Rodimus channeled the will of the trapped Titan all across Tailgate’s chest. It was last seen spoken when we met Vos, the terrible murder gremlin who turns into a gun and uses his face to cause puncture trauma.

Comic books are wild, y’all.

Now that we’ve established that no one’s being killed, Drift goes back to what he was doing earlier, with Swerve deciding to tag along because he’s horrifically lonely. He invites Drift to come room up with him, because I guess if you’re going to sell off your comatose roommate’s bed out from under him, you might as well go for the guy who’s third in command,  is probably one of the hottest guys on the ship, and slices people into chunky salsa if they try anything funny.

Drift politely declines, and awkwardly removes himself from the conversation when Swerve doesn’t take the hint, returning to his sword lesson with Rodimus.

Oh thank god, the obnoxiously pink room is back.

Ultra Magnus bursts into the room, appalled by the actions of his fellow crew members. Some of his concerns are well-placed. Others, well…

Is- is that another friggin’ retainer on those lower teeth? Why does this design choice keep showing up?

So Magnus has imprisoned roughly a third of the ship at this point, and Rodimus suggests he take a chill pill. Magnus doesn’t even know what a chill pill even is, so we’re forced to make use of our most dangerous weapon- the threat of a good time, courtesy of Swerve.

The fact that Ultra Magnus hasn’t reduced Swerve to an oil stain on the floor is genuinely astounding. The guy has zero respect for bureaucracy or proper business management. It has been MONTHS, you dinky little man, get your act together as a business owner.

Swerve takes the bribe, and soon everyone’s shipping off to Hedonia, where the drinks are plentiful and the women… well, most of the Lost Lighters don’t even know what a woman is, so that aspect doesn’t really come into play. Thanks, Furman.

Also, Rung’s back to normal. Don’t worry about it, not a big deal.

Swerve isn’t having much luck on his Roommate Quest, as Tailgate spurns his advances, stating that he’s good kicking it with Cyclonus, mainly because they’re both old as shit.

I see we haven’t quite hit the threshold on the “Cyclonus is allowed to have friends now” meter. Give it a few more issues, I’m sure we’ll get there.

Man, zero for two for Swerve on trying to get a hot roommate. Maybe third time’s a charm?

Rodimus pops into the back of the shuttle to remind everyone that their entire race is more or less despised by the entire galaxy, and to play it safe by using their holomatter avatars.

The revamp by Brainstorm and Rung is truly a blessing, because the avatars in IDW were awful to look at up to this point.

Y’all, that is HOT ROD. Jesus wept.

Getting back to Tailgate’s questionable taste in companionship, Tailgate asks if Swerve and Blurr connected right away. Swerve gives him an affirmative, then starts listing off the guy’s racing stats until Ultra Magnus plops down between the two of them, drawn in by the melodious sound of statistics.

Magnus is having a hard time relaxing, but he’s giving it his best, and I think that’s very commendable of him. It’s hard trying new things.

On the surface of Hedonia, it would appear the B-Movies are having a Pride event in the entertainment district.

Okay, moment of truth- show us those avatars!

Oh thank god, they aren’t totally hideous. Though, isn’t Rewind old as shit? I guess youth is a state of mind. Still, I can’t believe we missed out on silver fox Rewind.

Rung’s line is in response to folks at the time claiming that Rung was a self-insert character, which is interesting, because we’ve already seen what a self-insert looks like when it’s Roberts doing the inserting, and we’ve also seen his Mary Sues.

Rung, while an original character who had appeared in Roberts’ pre-professional works (a single line of text in Eugenesis, where he was a psychiatry play-on-words), he isn’t what I’d consider a Mary Sue. Mary Sues are usually stunningly beautiful, beloved by their peers, insanely talented in ways that no other character is, and typically have some sort of connection to another character that more or less forces them into the story despite not needing to exist.

Mary Sues don’t get their friggin’ heads exploded, or exist in a constantly-forgettable state. Sure, he’s the only therapist we’ve ever seen in the Transformers franchise, but there was kind of a massive need for that sort of character to be created, seeing as all of these sons of guns have PTSD and clinical depression. And, as we’ve seen in previous issues and will continue to see later on, he’s really not even that great at it.

That isn’t to say that he doesn’t have certain traits befitting such a characterization, merely that they don’t add up to equal that sort of whole by issue #13. Transformers (2009)-era Drift is way closer to a true Mary Sue than Rung is.

Anyway, where the hell did Tailgate get to?

They really just let Frodo Baggins in this bar all babybjörned up, huh? Does Tailgate even know what a baby even is at this point? Does he just think he’s a very small person? How much human media has he consumed? We haven’t gotten into the reproductive process for the continuity yet, but fresh Cybertronians aren’t exactly a one-to-one to human infants. Damn it, Roberts, what the fuck am I supposed to make of Babygate?

Whirl’s off in the corner, disguised as a 12-year old girl who’s fucking STRAPPED. Magnus has disappeared, but Rewind locates him pretty easily as Rung makes a comment about Magnus needing to make an appointment with him.

Oh hey, Verity. Been a minute. Careful, ol’ six-eyes over there is leering at you.

The fellas come back to the bar as they truly are, and sit down for a round of drinks. Whirl gets Ultra Magnus a drink that sounds disturbingly like a Cybertronian equivalent to Milk Coke, and we get a little anatomy lesson. Transformers have something called a Fuel Intake Moderation chip, something that keeps them from getting drunk on pretty much the only thing they can consume. Swerve suggests Magnus turn his off so he can have a good time- which I don’t personally agree with, but this is Captain Stick-in-the-Mud we’re talking about here. Magnus gives it a shot.

And that’s a series wrap on Ultra Magnus!

No, the man’s just got no tolerance and has been knocked the hell out by his drink. Things begin devolving. Tailgate is crying. Skids has found out that Whirl didn’t give Magnus Milk Coke at all, but instead the equivalent of liquid cocaine. Swerve is convinced he’s going to prison. Rewind is filming the whole thing.

Nobody actually checks to see if Magnus is actually dead, until Rung gets around to it. Swerve, you’re a doctor by original trade, what the hell are you doing?

The boys sit Magnus at the table to wait out his nap. Hours later, nothing’s changed, except that they’ve started up the nemesis game, and Whirl’s decided he’s going to be rude about monoformers being monoformers. Rung gives a non-answer, because that’s just who he is as a person. Skids names Misfire as his worst enemy, only because he’s still missing a good chunk of memory and can’t remember if he had a worst enemy, but still wants to contribute to the conversation.

Rung, don’t be a dick, he did his best. You were right on top of Fort Max, it was a tricky shot.

Ultra Magnus finally starts waking up, and that’s the point where everyone decides to foot Swerve with the bill for the emotional labor he’s going to have to perform by explaining just what the friggity-frack happened.

Magnus starts laughing, then crying, then offloads his troubles onto Swerve. Magnus feels like he just doesn’t fit in on the Lost Light. He’s just trying to do his job and everyone makes fun of him, or disrespects his authority. He’s trying, he really is, but he’s just not built for post-war life. He’s actually tried to leave his position on the Lost Light, but they just keep pulling him back in.

Probably doesn’t help that Rodimus seems more interested in Drift’s opinion on matters than his own SIC half the time.

Oh no, he’s making digs at the things Swerve’s sensitive about. Where is Rung?

Magnus just wants to be understood, y’know? He’s a fully realized creation. He’s got interests. Like music! And the fact that Swerve is missing his Autobot badge!

This was the point where MTMTE was still bouncing back and forth on whether it wanted to commit to the crotch badge. It was a tumultuous time for everyone, very dark days.

WHERE THE FUCK IS RUNG

Magnus, having had enough of sharing his feelings, takes another sip of his cocaine and slips back into unconsciousness. Swerve admits to his limp body that people don’t actually like him, but rather only stick around because of what he can offer- namely, a good time.

The rest of the Swerve posse comes back, with Cyclones having joined the party. Rung shows off his new model ship, which gets Rewind started on his movie collection. He pulls up the opening ceremony for the Ark 1. Y’know, the Ark 1, that ship that Cyclonus was on that disappeared into the Dead Universe for six million years. The Ark 1 that Tailgate was supposed to be on.

Before we can get started however, someone throws the model at Rewind’s head.

That someone is none other than Cyclonus, who proceeds to fly into a rage, throwing tables and shoving the still-unconscious Ultra Magnus to the floor. My word, what a reaction! What could possibly be setting him off so much? Does he not like being reminded of his fated trip to the stars? Is this a manifestation of trauma from that event?

Who knows? No time for questions, Skids is too busy punching him in the face.

Tailgate intervenes, explaining that because Cyclonus and himself are so goddamn old, the engex Cyclonus consumed is wreaking havoc on his body. He tells the rest of them to go on while he tries to calm Cyclonus down. Interesting that Rewind doesn’t have any sort of input on this, given that he is also super fucking old, but there’s no time for questions! We’ve got to get Ultra Magnus back on the shuttle in the next 20 minutes, or else they’ll be stuck on Hedonia FOREVER.

They start throwing Magnus on the floor repeatedly, trying to get his t-cog to spin up. No dice, however.

It’s 4AM. Do you know where your Domey is? Because Rewind sure as hell doesn’t.

Okay, time for Plan B.

I’m guessing not, Rung. I’m guessing not.

Using Magnus as a trampoline does the trick, and the boys are rewarded with the sight of Magnus’ alt-mode… resting on its roof, upside down. They get him sorted, pile in the cab- Rewind is driving, which leads me to believe he at least has some experience handling a vehicle. Chromedome does turn into a car…

I don’t even know what that sort of activity implies for a Transformer. We won’t go any further down this line of thought.

The boys manage to get Ultra Magnus to the shuttle in time, and all’s well that ends well!

This is about the time that Blaster knocks on the glass at Swerve to wrap things up, seeing as he’s been at this for over nine hours now. There’s one last little aside before we’re done with our story, however, and it involves just what happened in the bar after everyone else left.

Cyclonus calmed down almost immediately after the rest of the guys left, paying for what he broke and inviting Tailgate to have a seat.

Well, I say invite, but it’s really more of an order.

If you’d already figured out at this point that this jumpy little marshmallow was lying about being the biggest badass who ever lived, a gold star for you! It turns out, dear Tailgate has been crafting a fabrication, spinning a yarn, telling a tall tale since Day One on the Lost Light. The story has been feeding us a steady diet of fish the whole time!

Red herring!

Red herring!

Red herring of Tailgate’s own design! Autopedia’s mods are a friggin’ joke.

Tailgate was supposed to be a the Ark 1 launch, but it was because he was on the cleanup crew. Boy’s a sluicer, and his arm SHOULD say "waste disposal”. Through a cunning use of his wits and cold reading, Tailgate faked his way through the dismantling of the bomb on Temptoria. A smart boy, he is, if not a bit self-centered.

Which brings us to why exactly Cyclonus freaked out in the bar: he wasn’t having an episode, but rather faking a reaction to prevent Tailgate’s lie from being exposed. He still thinks that Tailgate should come clean about this whole thing, before things get really messy, but it wouldn’t be an issue of MTMTE without some raw-ass emotions getting thrown about.

Cyclonus, who hasn’t allowed himself to feel anything other than simmering rage or national pride for over six million years, is beginning to feel something for Tailgate.

That feeling is sympathy, and maybe a little pity.

He offers to teach Tailgate a song to help him feel better, because that’s what he does when he has feelings.

And given that Cyclonus seems to sing often enough that Tailgate’s gotten used to the horrific sound, it might be that Cyclonus has feelings a hell of a lot more often than he lets on.

Roberts, how many times are you going to make Tailgate cry? How much pain are you going to subject him to before you’re satisfied?

The scene closes out on the two of them getting their karaoke on in the empty bar, in the god-awful language that is Old Cybertronian. I can only imagine that they get kicked out of the bar pretty quickly after this.

Getting back to the present, Swerve has finally, finally finished his story, closing out with an invitation for Blurr to come visit Swerve’s.

Blaster gets ready to shoot one hell of a voice message at Blurr, but there’s a problem; the number Swerve has isn’t long enough to be a personal hailing frequency.

Yeah, turns out that Tailgate isn’t the only liar on board the Lost Light.

Four million years ago, Swerve met Blurr at a publicity event, got way too friendly with a celebrity, pestered the guy until he gave him a fake number, and has convinced himself that he made a life-long friend to this very day.

Big oof.

Later, back at Swerve’s, Swerve is busy cleaning the glassware when Ultra Magnus comes in, sober and having just gotten out of surgery to fix his fuel tanks. Guess that second sip of Nucleon really wasn’t a good idea.

Swerve tries to tell a lie about what happened the night before, only to have the dawning horror that Magnus remembered the entire night, as he’s presented with a new badge. Swerve, bolstered by the fact that, while Magnus didn’t enjoy the previous evening, he appreciated having company, begins to ask Magnus if he’d want to room with him.

Wow, zero for three! That’s rough, buddy.

Kind of a bummer end to this whole issue, but it was still decently light, tone-wise, for MTMTE. A great deal of fun was had, in between all the mortifying reveals of our characters inner demons.

...Well, shit.

#transformers #jro #mtmte #issue 13 #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post #overthinking about robots #incoming analysis #comic script writing

[cagestark]

WinterIronSpider Ch. 2

Read chapter one here. 

Story spurred by this prompt: There's a meme about a poor college student being robbed; the robber, upon learning just h o w poor, stopping and giving the (empty) wallet back and being sincerely concerned. "You... you live like this?" What if the winter soldier/bucky barnes breaks into struggling college student Peter parker's apt and all his pre-serum steve instincts are triggered by the state of the place and how /tiny/ Peter is. 

Chapter warnings: dubcon/noncon discussed, not between any of the OT3. 

A note: In the brief teaser I gave of this fic before I’d written chapter one, Steve had skipped timelines to live his life with Peggy. But that is no longer the case. 

-

Tony stands lounging against the back of the sofa, watching the elevator doors. FRIDAY alerted him moments ago that Bucky and his guest had entered the building—those are the exact words she used. Bucky and his guest. He finds himself drumming his fingers against his legs, filled to the brim with fizzing carbon bubbles of energy. They’ve been dating for two years now, and Bucky has never brought anyone back to the Tower. He’s tempted to ask FRIDAY to bring up video feed, to get a glimpse of whoever Bucky is bringing home, but the elevator is rising, rising.

“Here, boss,” FRIDAY warns, soft, redundant.

“Quiet from here on out, baby girl,” he reminds her. She doesn’t respond.

Then the doors open.

His eyes go to Bucky first. He can’t help that. Tony will never get enough of him, spends an embarrassing amount of time staring out of the corner of his eye (or unashamedly when the other man is sleeping). Bucky’s hair is past his chin, wind-swept and tangled. He’s dressed casually with his dark jeans and t-shirt—Tony’s, it’s Tony’s t-shirt, he notes with a burst of warmth in his chest—his gloves on, the soft leather ones that Tony had custom made. He stance is guarded, from the low eyebrows to the hunched shoulders.

Tony glances down to the figure at his side and sees why.

It’s a boy, man, maybe, anywhere from sixteen to twenty-six, if Tony had to take a guess. The sad, tired eyes belie the youthful features, so it’s difficult to tell a specific age. He’s petite to an extreme (sickness? Tony wonders. Cancer?), dressed in what appears to be the common man’s version of his Sunday best—dress slacks, a collared, long sleeve shirt with cuffs that gape around his tiny wrists. Paleness verges on sallowness, skin tinged faintly green, lips faint white. But he’s handsome: sharp features, if a little too gaunt, dark eyes and dark curls that are still damp from a shower, or maybe the rain on the way over.

Then he spots it: the hero worship. The kid has stars in his eyes. Tony can spot a fan at fifty paces, the slack mouths, the wide eyes, the oh my god, you’re Iron Man! And it gets him, gets him like a knife between the ribs. He loves the praise. It flatters him, it waters his ego (which isn’t ever flourishing the way the press makes it out to be).

Coming from the right person, it makes his cock hard.

Tony knows he cuts quite a figure, even in his sweatpants, socked-feet, and tee. His hair is un-styled, soft the way Bucky likes it. He’s wearing the blue-tinted glasses that contain his latest AI, his latest baby—but he’s always wearing those these days, even when he doesn’t have EDITH active. He must look soft, relaxed, alien, because the kid looks like he’s seeing something from outer space and not upper Manhattan.

“Hey, cupcake,” Tony says, hands in his pockets, watching Bucky nearly carry the kid out of the elevator. His face is white as a sheet, mouth quivering. “Who’s this?”

“This is—” That’s as far as Bucky makes it before the kid swoons. His eyes roll, body going lax, a puppet with the strings cut. Bucky, quicker reflexes, catches him before his head can hit the tiled floor. Kneeling with the boy in his arms, Bucky gives a tentative smile that looks more like a grimace. “—Peter. He’s sick.”

Tony clutches his heart. “And here I thought it was just my influence. FRIDAY, diagnostics please. Give me some biometrics.”

“Scanning, boss.” Peter’s eyelids flutter at the disembodied female voice, but even if he is regaining consciousness, Tony doesn’t think he’ll remember it.

“Send it to E, Fri.”

No response, but the words appear in front of his eyes. Sex: male presenting. BMI: 16. Which is—yeah, that’s too fucking low. Temperature: 102.8 degrees Fahrenheit. His girl manages to narrow the age from 20 to 24, and she has more. The information goes on and on: he’s sick with the flu, it looks like, but now it has blossomed into the beginnings of pneumonia. Evidence of long-term vitamin deficiencies. A heart murmur—probably benign.

Gonorrhea.

“I got medicine for him,” Bucky says, holding up the pharmacy bag. There’s where Bucky used his card, then. “He took some in the car on the way over, and didn’t cough so much after that.”

“He’s got pneumonia, cupcake. Nothing over the counter will help that. It won’t help his gonorrhea either.”

“He’s got VD?”

Tony hums. “Can I ask what he’s doing on my four-thousand dollar leather sofa?”

“He’s sick,” Bucky says. “I thought you could help.”

“How’d you two know each other?”

“We met today.”

“How?”

“I—don’t want to say.”

Tony softens. Bucky’s skills of deception are honed enough that he could have lied without Tony being the wiser. In the beginning of their relationship, it was a serious problem: Bucky hiding things from Tony that he was worried would upset him. It’s taken a long time for him to know that he can keep secrets if he wants to, that telling Tony I don’t want to say would, under most circumstances, be enough to end the line of questioning.

“Alright. But I feel obliged to say this: there’s no legal way you could have met that I would blink an eye at.”

It’s Bucky who blinks, once, long and slow.

“You met illegally?”

“You’re getting very good at reading me,” Bucky says. Which is nice of him, considering there are still days where his lover seems like a closed book to him. “Could we, like, get him a doctor? Do you have a doctor who makes house calls? Do doctors make those, these days?”

“I’m rich enough to afford one,” Tony says. “And luckily, I have a very discreet one on container. Fri, ask Bruce to come by. Tell him it’s an emergency and to bring whatever he needs to treat pneumonia and gonorrhea—God, I wish I could see the look on his face when you tell him that. FRIDAY, take an image capture of Bruce’s face. Don’t think I didn’t notice you sidestepping the question, either, mister. We talked about your extracurricular activities—”

“I couldn’t leave him there, Tony,” says Bucky, voice tortured. “He’s sick, and he’s got no food, no health insurance. I don’t want him to go back there.”

While they’re waiting for Bruce, Tony wets a rag to put on Peter’s burning forehead. His eyes flutter, and he is looking less pale—no chance he’ll be out much longer. “Here’s a list of things that are acceptable for you to bring home with you: stray dogs, some of those pastries from that cafe we love, a downright egregious number of sex toys–actually, a few of those things I would even encourage you to bring home. But Bucky, baby, a stray human is not on that list.”

“I know that, but he–” Bucky cuts off.

“Yes?” Tony prompts. He lifts a hand, slow, fingers still damp from the washrag to tuck some of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. It’s getting longer and longer these days, and the other man doesn’t trust any professional to cut it. That leaves Tony for the job: Bucky shirtless in their bathroom, hair damp, split ends being carefully trimmed to rain down around their bare feet.

“He reminds me of Steve,” Bucky admits. “Before the serum. Small, and sick, and with a heart bigger than his stomach. I didn’t turn away then, and I can’t turn away now.”

Steve isn’t a name they mention often, not since Thanos. For Bucky to bring it up now shows how serious he is for this. How much it means to him. That’s all Tony needs to hear to be sold. He’d give Bucky the moon, if he could.

“My sugar baby wants a sugar baby,” Tony sighs fondly. “What does that make me?”

Bucky’s lips twitch. “A sugar granddaddy?”

Peter stirs. His eyes open, bloodshot, tender, honey-tinted eyes. They get wide again when they see Tony kneeling by the couch he’s resting on. He holds out a shaking hand, palm down, like he wants Tony to kiss his knuckles. “Mr. Stark,” he breathes, tongue thick and clumsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Behind him, Bucky snorts, the softest exhalation against his neck. Tony reaches out and takes the burning grip in both of his own hands. Peter is short for a man, certainly underweight, and though he has long fingers, they are thin and spindly, swallowed whole by Tony’s larger, tanned hands. The size difference between them makes him swallow—the size difference between Peter and Bucky? It’s—indecent. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Parker.”

“Oh, call me Peter, please,” he says. The softness, the earnestness charms Tony.

“Peter, then.”

A coughing fit comes on, lasting until the younger man’s face is red and tears are at the corners of his eyes. Tony fetches him some water that he sips at. He blinks like he’s trying to focus his eyes. “Did I faint?”

“Gracefully, if it makes you feel any better. Welcome to Stark Tower, kid. Sorry the experience has been less than ideal.”

The younger man gives a dopey smile—more than likely high off of whatever he took in the car. “The only way it could have been better is if you’d caught me, sir.”

Tony fights to keep his twitching lips from blooming into a downright grin. Bucky’s face is red, the only indication that he’s holding back laughter. “I’m sorry to say that my days of being quick enough to catch damoiseaux in distress are about ten years behind me. Luckily, Bucky was here to act as my hands. Trust me, kid, he’s got nicer biceps to cling to anyway.”

“Oh, I noticed that when he helped me to the car,” Peter says, craning his head back to wave frailly at Bucky behind the couch. Seeing Bucky wave back, stiff and straight faced, is a sight Tony will cherish for many years to come.

The elevator opens. Bruce is there with his bag in hand. He looks like a man who is about to face the gallows—but at the sight of Peter sitting on the couch with the half-empty glass of water in his hands, his eyebrows raise. This could hardly be what he was expecting when FRIDAY told him to come to the penthouse floor.

“Hello,” he says carefully stepping into the room. “Someone rang?”

“Bruce!” Tony rises on creaking joints to greet the man. The warm hug takes the younger man by surprise based on the way he tenses, returning it hesitantly. Tony says under his breath: “He doesn’t know he has the clap, and he wouldn’t understand how I know. Proceed with caution.”

“What have you gotten yourself into?” Bruce mutters, patting Tony awkwardly.

“Oh, you know how it goes. In for a penny, in for a pound.” Then, louder: “Peter, this is Dr. Bruce Banner. Bruce, this is Peter Parker.”

“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Banner,” Peter slurs. He’s looking remarkably like a damsel with the way he’s lounging on the sofa, the back of his hand pressed to the cloth on his forehead. “Call me Pete.”

“You’re not looking well, Pete. Under the weather?”

“Uh-huh. ‘ve got the flu.”

Bucky and Tony stand back while Bruce pokes and prods the kid, taking his temperature, listening to his heart and lungs, interrogating him about his symptoms, medical history, and current medications. He examines the bottle of cold medicine that Peter drank from on the way over, face serious and stern. His diagnosis only backs up FRIDAY’s findings: atypical pneumonia, something most people Peter’s age would have been able to fight off alone.

“I’m prescribing an antibiotic to help you along,” Bruce says.

“Oh, I can’t afford that,” says Peter.

“It’s on the house,” Tony calls from where he and Bucky are setting the table for three. “Consider it complimentary—like the bottles of shampoos at hotels. Bruce, are you joining us? It’s Thai.”

“No, thank you,” Bruce says without offering an excuse. He packs up his back but leaves the antibiotic on the solid fiberglass coffee table. If Peter wonders why Bruce already had the antibiotic on him, he doesn’t question it, just stares at the bottle looking a little glossy-eyed. Bruce gives Tony a pointed glance. “That there is azithromycin, which could clear up a wide range of illnesses. But Peter should still be seen by a doctor who can perform a thorough examination. Understand?”

“Understood.” Tony salutes. He owes the younger man one; actually, a million ones, considering how many sticky situations Bruce has gotten him out of over the years. With nothing but a tense smile, Bruce sees himself to the elevator. Once he is gone, they turn their attention to the young man on the couch who is cradling the bottle of medicine to his chest like a drunkard might the bottle. “Hey Peter. Are you hungry? Do you like Thai?”

“Starving,” Peter says. “And I’m not picky, I’d eat anything. But you don’t have to go through any extra trouble for me, Mr. Stark. I’m just honored to be here.”

“No trouble at all,” Tony insists. “The food is already here. I hope that someone eats it, lest it go to waste. Need help making it to the table, kiddo? Bucky here makes an excellent chariot. Quite the ride.”

The look Bucky gives him might send a lesser man cowering: the perfect mixture of scathing and unamused. But when Peter does nothing but sigh and say, I’ll bet, the former assassin gets distinctly red around the ears. And that is an interesting development, in all of this. It isn’t a stretch that Peter would be attracted to Bucky (anyone with eyes would be), but for the first time, Tony wonders if Bucky’s interest in Peter isn’t entirely platonic.

Peter stumbles on the way to the table, giggles, buzzing off of the cough syrup he drank on the way over. Bucky is nothing short of a gentleman, stiffly helping Peter to a chair, offering him first servings from all of the boxes of takeout. Tony makes a note to himself: no funny business. The kid isn’t in his right mind—even on his best days, he’s obviously vulnerable. As cute as he is, the idea of the kid as prey turns Tony off entirely.

Over dinner, they make small talk. Peter and Tony do, that is. Bucky listens, thoughtful and solemn while he fills and clears his plate twice. A few times, he smiles, when Peter does something absolutely goofy—like missing his mouth with the fork and smearing food on his cheek—and the look he gives Tony is so fond, a shake of his head, like he’s known Peter all his life and is telling Tony, Get a load of this kid, always so silly.

“Bucky tells me money is tight for you,” Tony feels comfortable enough to bring up after the plates are cleared, boxes are emptied, all of them reclining back in their seats, bellies full and sated.

Peter looks sleepy, eyes half-closed. He nods. “It is. I applied to NYU when my aunt and uncle were still alive. They said they’d help me pay for it, since my parents weren’t alive to help themselves. I got a scholarship that was going to do the rest, and everything seemed great my first few semesters. Then they passed away. I tried the work-study program, but there are limits on how many hours they’ll work students. So I worked a few other jobs too—but it just made everything worse. My grades slipped and I lost my scholarship.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters. “You’re one unlucky kid.”

“Look—Peter. It’s no secret that I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. Bucky here has taken a liking to you—” Peter gives a soft aww, looking so tender and touched “—I hope that you’ll let me help you out with some expenses. Get you back on your feet and focusing on your studies. How does that sound?”

Peter hums, one hand resting on his rounded stomach. “Mr. Stark—it sounds like a dream. Honestly. I’ve had like, three different dreams with hot older—uh—wait—what was I saying—”

“No, please, go on.”

“I just mean—I want to say yes.” His face grows serious, the thin, pretty mouth down-turned, a furrow between his eyebrows. “Not having any money—being poor, I guess—it’s really hard. And I know that I’m luckier than a lot of people. At least I’m not sleeping on the street. At least I’ve got, got clothes and stuff, you know. At least Mr. Rumlow lets me suck him off in exchange for rent. But my aunt and uncle, they didn’t raise me to—”

“Sorry, Pete, let’s back up,” Tony says. On his respective side of the table, Bucky has stiffened. He sits, stoic, hands clenched into fists on his lap, staring down at his empty plate. His jaw is a sharp enough weapon without it being clenched tightly enough to grind his teeth. Tony works hard to keep his own expression neutral and unalarmed, even though he feels nothing short of horrified. “Who is Mr. Rumlow?”

“Mr. Rumlow is the super. He runs the Lafayette Hall.”

“And you’ve got an arrangement with him.”

Peter hums, nodding. He coughs a little, and they wait, still like statues for him to continue. “I was late one month with rent. Single room apartments are so expensive. Mr. Rumlow was real understanding, though.”

Bucky gets up, chair screeching against the floor. He mutters some excuse and stalks to the balcony, opening the doors and stepping out into the wind. It’s starting to mist, and Bucky looks like a phantom haunting the building, a handsome gargoyle dressed in black, hair dripping, standing perfectly still with his hands on the railing. No doubt with his enhanced senses, he can still hear their conversation, but at least with his face turned towards the city, he can react however he needs to.

“It sounds like it,” Tony says, heart clenching. “Is that—something you like?”

“What’s not to like?” Peter asks. Something about this must be reaching through his drug induced fog, because his eyes are a little wider and more alert; perhaps, the haze of the cough syrup is fading. He sits up a litter straighter in his chair. “Free rent, Mr. Stark.”

“I mean to ask (and forgive me, kid, tactfulness is not in my DNA) if you’d engage Mr. Rumlow that way without the—ah—benefits.”

“Probably not,” Peter says. He looks down at his dress pants. The knees of his khakis are faded, worn, and he rubs at the spot anxiously. “He’s not really my type. But sometimes it does make me feel less lonely. Is that bad?”

It’s terrible. It’s heartbreaking. It’s illegal in New York. It’s immoral—the nerve of a person to take advantage of another’s financial vulnerability and coax them into prostitution—it makes Tony want to explode. But that’s not going to benefit Peter.

And that’s certainly not how Tony is going to get even with this Mister Rumlow. “No,” Tony says, soft. “I don’t think that’s bad.”

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, blinking slowly. “Could you call me a cab? I’m—I think I’m about to fall asleep on your table. It’s a nice table though. I’m sure it’d be very comfortable.”

“I’m sure that it wouldn’t, kid. I could call you a cab if you want. We’ve also got spare rooms here at the Tower, though. Why don’t you stay here tonight, take your first round of antibiotics and stick around for Bruce to be close by in case you need him?”

Peter turns pink, tickled at the offer. “You’ve already been so nice—I couldn’t—"

“You could. Like the Thai food, kid—if you aren’t enjoying those organic cotton sheets, then no one is. In the morning, we can talk more over breakfast. How do you feel about waffles?”

That sells him. The kid already looks hungry. “Alright. If you insist. Is Mr. Bucky okay? He’s been gone for a minute.”

“Mr.—” Tony laughs long and loud, unable to stop himself even as Peter’s face turns red. Out on the balcony, Bucky hunches over, and Tony thinks that maybe he’s laughing too. Smiling at least. Because the kid really is too fucking cute. “You can just call him Bucky. Formalities make him nervous. How about we check out the meds Bruce set you up with and then find you a room?”

“Sounds great,” Peter says. He’s the picture of contentment. “But I don’t have any way to repay you for all this, Mr. Stark.”

“Tony, kid. And don’t worry about it; I’m not looking for reimbursement.”

“I could suck you off,” Peter says, a little breathless. Coy, looking up at Tony through his eyelashes—only, no, that’s not coyness, it’s shyness. And instead of turning him on, the offer makes his heart break. “It works for Mr. Rumlow.”

“That doesn’t work for me, kid. Thanks, but no thanks.” He helps Peter out the chair, but with food in him, still feeling the benefits of the medicine he took, he is much steadier. Once he’s sure that the kid won’t tip out, Tony gives him space. He feels like a creep, thinking how adorable the kid is when obviously other people have seen it to—and abused it.

“In the morning, can I put peanut butter on my waffles?” Peter asks.

“You can put caviar on your waffles for all I care, kid.”

“I’ll stick with the peanut butter, thanks.”

After Peter has taken his first dose of antibiotics (and spent several long minutes ooo-ing and aww-ing over the guest room), he asks if he could speak to Bucky for a moment. Bucky is still on the balcony, soaked and unmoving. If he hears Peter ask, he doesn’t show it. Tony waves him ahead, standing back far enough that he knows he’ll have no chance at overhearing. Let Pete have his privacy.

Bucky is pale and solemn when he turns, blinking rain out of his eyes. The railing is twisted where he hands have been, but Tony doesn’t think that Peter notices. They exchange brief words, and then Peter hugs Bucky, wrapping thin arms around Bucky’s waist, resting his head against Bucky’s broad chest. They look like yin and yang. It’s art, he thinks. FRIDAY, image capture, please. The tenderness with which Bucky lifts a hand to cradle the back of Peter’s head is—God. Tony loves him.

When Peter comes back in, Bucky is on his heels. Peter’s shirt is wet from where he pressed against Bucky, and his cheeks are flushed, maybe with returning fever. Maybe. “Goodnight, Mr. Stark,” Peter says.

“Goodnight, kid. You need anything, just step out of your room and shout. Bucky here is a light sleeper.”

That makes Peter’s face turn even pinker as he bobs a nod and then disappears into the guest room, closing the door behind him softly.

“Are we, like, fucked over this kid?” Tony asks, jerking a thumb towards the guest room.

Bucky just shakes his head, and that’s all the answer Tony needs.

-

Tips not required but very welcome. Leave behind a prompt and I’ll write you a drabble in exchange. <3 Ko-Fi is here. 

Tag list: @shinycreatoroafbonk @kkomusume @bound-vivisection @sorgmantel @phoenixwench @latenightsintherain @bros-before-ghosts @starkerthanreality @richieleeparker

If you want tagged please let me know. Not tagging my current starker taglist because since this is winterironspider, I wasn’t sure if you’re interested. <3

#winterironspider #winteriron #starker #chapter two #wip #poor!Peter

[yourplayersaidwhat]

Could I be pregnant??

A town we came across, unbeknownst to us, had been invaded and enslaved by slaads. Our only source of information was the only man left in the town who kept crying about “the frog people”. We headed into a nearby empty tavern to look around. Turns out, there was a lone slaad hiding behind the bar, and a battle was initiated. We were doing pretty well, until I failed a con. save against a claw attack. Now, we had never encountered a slaad before, so we had no idea what their deal was, but our DM made it pretty clear that something had happened after it slashed at me. Shortly after, we killed it, leaving me trying to figure out what happened.

Me, Goblin/Elf Cleric (OOC): Okay, but what the hell happened with me?

DM: Hmm… Roll intelligence.

Me (OOC): …18?

DM: The slaad planted an egg in your arm.

Me (OOC): Excuse me?

DM: Yep. It’ll eventually move to your chest cavity and burst out, killing you.

Me (OOC): So, I’m gonna die “Alien” style?!

Tiefling Rogue: Oh my God! Did you just get pregnant?!

Me: Wait, no!

Eyebrawler (homebrew race) Warlock: Oh no.

Rogue: You’re gonna be a mom!

Me (Pulling out my longsword): Welp! Time to chop off my arm, I guess!

My character is fine now. We didn’t have to cut off my arm. All is well, but our rogue still makes fun of me for being so “irresponsible”. I vow to murder every slaad I ever come across.

#submission #dnd #rpg #shit my players say #shareable #nope nope nope

[brilliantpride]

“—Assassin?!”

Yako stops in her tracks as she comes to a jail-like room, clutching onto her slingshot, looking Yan Qing up and down as he gestures in greeting. He’s the only Servant she’s seen at all so far... He could be an enemy, right? ...But if he’s from Chaldea, then they should buddy up… “W-What are you doing here? Wait, no, how did you make it out?”

“Guess I slipped through the cracks,” he shrugs. “Anyway, wanna do a guy a solid and open the door?”

“O-Oh, right,” Yako sighs, scrabbling around for this room’s key. There’s a creeping thought that, maybe, he might be working with Kama… but men aren’t allowed in the Ooku, right? So it’d ruin the atmosphere… so it’s probably likely he was supposed to become a column or something, but he’s glitchy as it is, and… her head hurts. It’s probably fine. Probably. …There, under a potted plant, a key attached to an Old-West-style keyring. She trots over to unlock the door and let Yan Qing out. He stretches his arms, an easygoing look on his face, or at least… unperturbed by the circumstances. 

“Well, ya freed me, so you’re stuck with me ‘til we find Master,” he says with a glint to his eyes… he’s not taking this seriously at all, is he? “Good thing wandering’s what I’m best at!”

“Sure,” Yako scoffs back, the heaviness to her shoulders lightening slightly. “Just don’t slow me down, 'kay?”

“Slow you down? Ya kiddin’? Y’can barely walk.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she sighs, looking at the broken spear in her hand she’s been using as a walking stick this whole time. Sheesh… “I’ll make it through, one way or the other.”

“I know! I’ll carry ya!”

“Wait— huh? Hold it, I don’t—”

Yan Qing picks her up by the torso and hoists her over his shoulder; she clings to her slingshot, trying to keep her balance. “It’s easier like this, yeah? Won’t have ya slowin’ me down!” Urgh, don’t give her that earnest look… 

“All right, yeah,” Yako huffs, resigned. “This beats walking.” 

-

“Hey, look at this one.”

“Pfft. What is that?” 

Yako and Yan Qing rummage through a room of doujinshi, a strange reprieve from the rest of the dungeon. At the bottom of these boxes is probably a key… but Yako can’t resist the temptation to page through the works, all of them, seemingly, erotic works. Some are good, sure, but others… it makes her wonder where they came from, an alien planet? It’s like a human was drawn by someone who was given only a vague idea of what people were supposed to look like. Just who left all this here? Is it Kama’s personal stash? Yako didn’t take her for the fangirl type… 

One of the boxes begins to rumble. Yan Qing glances at Yako and, with a twinkle to his eye, goes, “Watch this.” He picks up a rolled-up limited-edition poster and holds it out to her. “Magic this for me. Hurry.” What, reinforce it? Yako does as told, though the magecraft makes her fingertips feel icy. Then---

“HOME RUN!” Yan Qing thwacks a flying box of doujinshi with the reinforced poster, sending it crashing into a far wall. 

The next volley of boxes hardly hold a candle to the ace batter skills of this Assassin. Cursed books fly out from the boxes, but his pinpoint accuracy in sending them crashing into the walls would make any major-league player jealous. Are they even being damaged? Some fall to the ground and stay there, as if the magic was knocked out of them, while others float again and rush the duo. Yako pulls back a runestone with her slingshot, launching it at the books, and it bursts with a spring of water, soaking the books and dissolving their pages. 

“...Aw, man, wait.” Suddenly, it dawns on her. “I didn’t get to read the ending…” 

-

“…You’re done for.”

Yako sends her spear through Kama’s chest, the last blow she can offer in this drawn-out fight. The goddess wears a shocked expression as she dissolves into light, her body disappearing like any defeated Servant’s, and the final key clatters from her hand. Yan Qing stays readied, keeping an eye out. ...It was that easy? No way. The Singularity should be failing. Her comms should be back online. Yako falters, falling to one knee and panting with the effort, her muscles straining with excruciating pain. She gasps for breath, too exhausted to move for the door, which stands so tantalizingly close… 

“Yaaay, congratulations. You won the key. For a leftover Master, you aren’t half bad at this. Maybe I can stop going easy on you.” 

“Assassin---!”

Crystal hands wrap around her waist. “You want to get inside me that bad, huh?” Chills run down Yako’s body as Kama whispers in her ear, then two more appear in her vision, then more. Yan Qing tries to grab Yako’s arm, ready to break into a sprint; “Don’t interrupt me,” Kama spits, and the Kama clones close in on the lone Assassin. As they multiply, so, it seems, does he, fighting back valiantly with his Doppelganger skill. Both of their actions are too fast for Yako to keep up with. The hallway stretches while he’s distracted and she can’t move, getting further away even when he tries to close the distance; Kama’s hand covers Yako’s eyes, and the sounds of the floor disappear. 

“I’ve held myself back up until this point, but I’m reaching my frustration’s limit. I think it’s time we got a little more personal... Yako.”

-

At the threshold of the fourth floor lies a slingshot, its return rune glowing uselessly.

#a lil shorter than the others.. yako gets a small reprieve #she isnt by herself so she isnt in her head as much #event comm. #drabble. #t: tokugawa labyrinth.

[thefinalexperiment]

The Final Experiment Chapter 28: James Buchanan Barnes

Peter Parker x OC

A/N: So I just wanted to preface by saying this chapter is fairly intense. Not necessarily violent, but just a bit more intense than an average chapter. The italics are flashbacks, any dialogue in the flashbacks is in Russian. It was way too much to run through Google translate lol. Hopefully you will enjoy getting some answers about Kait and Bucky's history together!

P.S.

        This is the longest part I've ever written, at almost 3,000 words, so celebration time for a new record!

I will no longer be linking things on new part posts due to dumblr and the link censoring, and just to be safe from any potential image post censoring, I will also not be including covers on my stories. All previous parts can be found in my masterlist, in my bio!

Warnings: This part contains a brief description of a knife wound, imminent danger to a child, and generally more intense themes than previous parts

---

        When we arrived back at the tower, the medical alarms on the transportable equipment they’d hooked Bucky up to began blaring and beeping like crazy. I jumped to my feet before we had fully touched down.

        “What’s going on?” Natasha demanded as the exit ramp lowered.

        “He’s lost too much blood,” one of the medics said, unfolding the wheeled legs of the gurney. “He’s gonna need a major transfusion, ASAP.”

        “We’re the same blood type,” I said quickly. I reached to peel my gloves off, but Natasha stopped me with a gentle touch to my shoulder.

        “Kaitlynn…” she said softly, “You can’t. You’d risk infecting him with the Ainterbach symbiote…”

        My heart was pounding so hard I feared my chest was going to burst, Alien style.

        “But…”

        The medics clicked the gurney into place and began to wheel my father away.

        “Don’t worry, Kait,” Steve said, unbuckling the top part of his Captain America suit as he moved to follow them. “Buck and I are the same type too, and the super soldier serum will help him heal. We have plenty of backup CCs on base for this exact occasion in case he needs more.”

        With that, he was gone, headed off to the medbay.

        What had just happened? It felt like the world was on fast-forward while my brain was in slow motion. Normally, my mind was ten steps ahead of everyone, but right now, I was dumbfounded and frozen.

        “Hey, Kait,” someone said, trying to get my attention. I couldn’t tell who. There was a gentle tug on my arm, guiding me inside, sitting me down. “Kait, look at me…”

        I was so lost in my own head, I wasn’t even aware of who was talking to me, much less where to look at them.

        “Kaitlynn, you’re making it snow…”

        I snapped out of my stupor at that, suddenly glancing around. Sure enough, flurries of snowflakes fluttered around my head. Natasha’s hand cupped my chin, obviously trying to get me to focus. Wait, what?

        “You’re touching me,” I whispered. “You’re touching me and you’re okay…”

        She paused, as if just realizing it herself.

        “I am…”

        I laughed, and, for the first time in over a year and a half, I willingly and joyfully wrapped my arms around her in a hug. She held me close, and I wondered if this was what a motherly embrace was meant to feel like. Suddenly, I pulled back, thinking of something.

        “But I don’t understand,” I said, “What’s changed?”

        Natasha shrugged.

        “I think you have,” she offered. “This is the most vulnerable and open you’ve ever been… these past few days, with all that’s happened and everything that’s come to light… It’d be a lot for anyone to handle. I’d say you’ve taken it all pretty well in stride. Maybe the more you learn to control your emotions - control, not suppress - the more you can control your powers.”

        I nodded slowly. That made sense. I let out a deep breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding.

        “It’s just… it’s all so crazy. Yesterday, I wanted to kill Bucky, and today, I--” I paused. “Oh m… I… I called him dad…”

        Natasha laughed softly.

        “Well I wasn’t gonna mention it, but yes, you did.”

        “That… that was like, instinct…” I frowned. “It wasn’t just a slip… It was… familiar.”

        “Maybe you should take a look at those video files,” Nat said. “It might have some of the answers you’re looking for.”

        “Maybe… we should take a look at them…” I suggested softly. I looked up at her, and we held each other’s gaze for a moment.

        Then, she nodded.

        “If that’s what you want.”

        “It is.”

        She nodded again, then stood.

        “Alright then. Let’s see what’s on that flashdrive.”

---

        I plugged the flash drive into the meeting room hub, and the hologram flickered to life. Natasha flicked through a few options until she found the files we were after.

        “Are you ready?” she asked.

        “No,” I said honestly, “But it has to be done.”

        Natasha nodded, then pressed play on the file. On the hologram screen, a scientist addressed the camera in Russian.

        “Winter Soldier and Child, Entry Number One. Today, we will introduce the Asset to the Offspring, age nine. The Asset was recently wiped and reprogrammed, no orders given yet. The Offspring has been given the most basic and rudimentary conditioning. This test will determine the strength of the Asset’s paternal bond. We wish to see if he will behave differently around her of his own accord. If not, we will inform him that we created her from him, and that he is to train her so as to one day surpass his skill. Should either of these yield a reaction, the wipe and reprogram process will need further adjustment to remove emotional connection or weakness.”

        The screen switched to security footage from the compound. I held my breath when I saw my younger self on the screen. She obediently sat on a chair, opposite the complacent Winter Soldier, who looked to be awaiting a command of some kind. Her hair was lighter than I ever remembered mine being when I was normal… it must have darkened with age. I know that happens sometimes.

        “Soldier,” said one of the… the trainers, I suppose you could call them. “This is your new charge. Say hello.”

        It was clear that the last bit was a joke. The Soldier glanced at the little girl, who stared right back. She looked him in the eye, unafraid. Or maybe it was her assassin genes showing, telling her not to back down, to never show fear or weakness… To always be the one to challenge. But, oddly enough, her gaze held no challenge. She was not passive either, however. More… expectant. She was watching the Soldier, as if waiting on him.

        The Soldier watched her in return. For a while, it seemed he might simply continue to regard her passively, but, after a moment, his face twitched ever-so-slightly into a frown. His expression was dazed, as if he was registering something off. It wasn’t clear if his hesitation came from the fact that he’d just been told he, a lethal killer, was now in charge of a child… Or if, perhaps, because he sensed she was more than just a child.

        The scientist off to the side wrote something on his clipboard, then asked, “Is something wrong, Soldier?”

        The Soldier let his face relax back into neutral and shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

        “Very good… Now, before you begin with training her, I want to ask you, how do you feel, knowing that this is your child, Soldier?”

        The creak of the grinding plates in his arm echoed through the room. Now, the expression written on his face was unmistakable. No longer was he a blank slate. His eyes were alight with a simmering fire. This was James Buchanan Barnes breaking through, even if not fully. Still, the Soldier did not speak. His dark gaze fixed on the scientist, then the guards, then the child, who had never stopped watching him. It was as if he were trying to calculate whether or not he could take them all and get her out safely…

        “Enough of this,” the scientist said, “Time for reconditioning.”

        The first file clicked off. I hadn’t realized I was trembling, ever so slightly.

        “We don’t have to watch these all today,” Natasha said.

        “No,” I said almost instantly. “I have to know. I have to remember…”

        Nat sighed, but switched it over to the next file. It was that scientist again.

        “Winter Soldier and Child, Entry Number Two. The Asset shows particular weakness when it comes to the Offspring. The programming lasts longer with each new method, but upon training her, he begins to slip. The Offspring, however, is beginning to become inquisitive. Memory wipe may be needed in the future. Cryofreeze will be utilized when the Soldier needed for a mission or is put in storage with no other trainer available. Other methods may be needed to bring the Offspring to a more lethal level than the Asset. This month, we shall attempt to spur further progress by utilizing the Asset’s weakness.”

        I knew my childhood had been wiped away, but hearing it suggested so casually was much more jarring than I had thought it would be.

        The Soldier was training the girl to fight. Trying to, anyways. Nine year olds aren’t exactly known for outstanding motor skills. Though this girl was obviously smarter than any other her age, she was still having difficulties mastering the physical aspects of it. More than a few times, a hit from the Soldier sent her sprawling. He stood menacingly, waiting for her to get to her feet.

        “Do not let her get up, Soldier!” a guard barked. “If she cannot defend herself, she must pay the price!”

        The Soldier’s jaw clenched, but other than that, he didn’t react.

        “Enough,” the scientist scoffed in disgust, “He is weak! Take her to the Foreman.”

        For the first time, The little girl’s expression changed. Her eyes widened, and she reached out for the Soldier.

        “No, Soldier, please, do not let them!” she cried.

        The Soldier made a move to go to her, but a quick reprimand, and several guns pointed at him held him back as she was dragged away.

        The Foreman… The sound of that name sent icy fear into me, even though I didn’t know why. In this next tape, the scientist had aged… It seemed a few years had passed since the last entry.

        “Winter Soldier and Child, Entry Number Three. The Asset was placed on cryofreeze for three years until better programming could be developed. His connection to the Offspring is becoming a problem. The Offspring has been trained by the Foreman in the Asset’s absence. It is time to test her against the Asset once more, to see where improvements can be made.”

        The fight between them was much more lethal than in the previous entries. Now three years older and with far more training, she lasted far longer in each bout against the Soldier. At least, until the trainers insisted on testing her weapons proficiency.

        By the way she moved, the girl was no stranger to knives. But against the Soldier, she was like a kitten chasing a string. She managed to plunge her knife into his bicep, but he used this to his advantage and pulled her off balance. With this one false move, the Soldier sliced a wound from the outer side of her right collarbone, curving to the top of her sternum. She cried out and released the knife from her right hand, exactly as the Soldier had intended.

        But then, the Soldier did something no one expected. He dropped his own knife and pressed his flesh hand over her deep cut.

        The scientist was heard cursing in the background, and a guard growled, “Back away, Soldier, let the medics through to check.” He muttered under his breath to the scientist, “It’s probably not even bad enough to need to stop…”

        Other guards with guns closed in, but the Soldier growled out, “No.”

        The tension was electric.

        “What?”

        “I said no. I will take care of her. She should be shown how to care for herself should an emergency occur on a mission, yes?”

        There was a heavy silence. Then…

        “Very well. Take her to your quarters. Just get it over with quickly.”

        I rubbed at that curved scar… My fake-parents had told me all my scars were from surgery, that I had been a very sickly baby… but that one, they said I had fallen from a playground set as a toddler. I suppose not everything could be explained away by surgery. There was only one video file left. This would hopefully hold the answer to how mine and Bucky’s story together ended… But undoubtedly, it would still leave me with many questions.

        “Winter Soldier and Child, Entry Number Four, Final Entry. Winter Soldier and Child project has failed. The Asset recalled details of personal life, and disclosed his fathership to the Offspring. The science division has developed a dark parasite… Tests are very promising. The Offspring and the Asset with both be wiped and reset. The Offspring will be relocated to America for the new project. The Asset will be placed back into cryofreeze and shipped to the new leader of HYDRA in a separate region of America. The wipe of the Offspring will be observed for data purposes on both the Asset and the Offspring. While the Offspring has never been wiped before, she has seen the Asset wiped, and she will know what is coming. The results should be intriguing.”

        The Soldier and the girl were both led into a room with a menacing looking chair. Evidently neither of them had known this was coming. The girl’s eyes widened, and she couldn’t disguise her concern, on behalf of what she apparently thought only the Soldier would be undergoing. The Soldier growled and struggled against his guards. It was evident how much of his programming had worn off. He was much more mouthy now.

        “Not again! You can’t take me away again!”

        “I’m afraid you don’t have any say in the matter,” said a technician. “But don’t worry, you’ll have enough time to prepare yourself… The girl is first.”

        The Soldier seemed to have had all the air knocked from his lungs. The girl’s expression morphed from concern to fear.

        “You won’t touch her!” the Soldier shouted. He managed to send two guards flying into the wall with a sickening CRACK, fighting to reach the girl.

        “Dad!” she cried, struggling against the guards dragging her towards the chair. She elbowed one in the throat, and kicked the other in the groin, making a break for the Soldier. He reached for her, too, and managed to grasp her by the shoulders long enough to whisper something to her before the guards tore them apart once more, more than happy to use the blunt ends of their weapons.

        The Soldier fell to his knees when the guards zapped him with what looked to be cattle prods. Not the two he had thrown, they looked pretty dead. Other guards forced the girl into the chair and restrained her, forcing the bite guard between her teeth.

        “You can remember, sweetheart!” the Soldier shouted as the contraption lowered around her head, “I know you can! My name is James Buchanan Barnes! I’m your father!”

        One of the guards around him slammed the butt of a gun into his jaw, then forced him to watch as the electricity turned on. The sound of the girl’s screams rang out across the room.

        When the last file finished playing, I noticed a wetness on my cheeks. I don’t know when I started crying. I swiped at the tears.

        “Are you okay?” Nat asked softly, rubbing my shoulder.

        “Not really,” I said honestly. “That was… really intense.”

        “Did… anything come back?” she asked tentatively.

        “Sort of… but mostly no,” I said with a sigh. “But I have a feeling I can predict the greatest hits reel for tonight’s nightmare. At least I might recover some memories from that…”

        The sympathetic look on her face didn’t irritate me, for once. Maybe because it wasn’t pity, but empathy.

        “Well then you should try to rest now.” I went to protest, but she wouldn’t hear it. “If anything changes with Bucky, I promise, I will drag you out of bed myself to tell you.”

        I sighed, but relented.

        “Fine…” I headed for the door, but paused, glancing at Nat. “Is there something you wanted to ask? I mean, I know we’re gonna talk this whole thing with the videos out eventually, it just seems like there’s something you wanna know now.”

        Natasha shrugged. “I know you said you don’t remember… But I was just wondering what Barnes whispered to you.”

        I paused, thinking. I don’t know how I knew, but I did.

        “He… he said… ‘No matter what happens… I love you’…”

        Wrapping my arms around myself awkwardly, I inched towards the door again.

        “I’ll see you later, Nat…”

        She nodded. “Go rest up, kiddo… Heaven knows you need it.”

        After everything I just saw? I definitely agreed.

---

A/N: Things are beginning to come to light... I think the next chapter will be fun to write. What did you think of this chapter? Let me know in the comments below!

Series Tags: @shamvictoria11 @mla02 @fanficcrapforme @goodbyefornow123 @thebookisbtr @what-inspirational-name

Everything Tags: @coconutknees @hollymac79 @jordan-ia @ace-marvel-chick

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #spider-man #spiderman #spiderman imagine #spiderman x reader #spider-man imagine #spider-man x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fic #steve rogers imagine #tony stark imagine #bruce banner imagine #natasha romanoff imagine #clint barton imagine #loki imagine #t'challa imagine #thor imagine #pietro maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff imagine #eddie brock imagine #marvel fic #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel x reader #avengers fic #avengers fanfic #avengers imagine #avengers x reader

[rebelrebelwrites]

Desti—ny: Supernaturally-Sized Reylo Crack

SUMMARY: In which Rey and Ben, massive Supernatural fans, accidentally summon an angel, a demon, and two hunters to their watch party for the final season.

NOTES

For Rowan, aka @midnightbluefox, have this incredibly crazy crack set in the Pacific Northwest, where hunters and demons and angels and Den Headmistresses freely roam, sort of. Happy birthday! @thereylowritingden

(P.S. This is easily the silliest thing I’ve ever written as an adult. Ever.)

“How’re we doing on snacks?”

“Popcorn is popped, pizza and plates are artfully arranged in the kitchen buffet-style, and your candy receptacle is primed for a true chocolate binge.”

Rey glared at her boyfriend.

“It’s a candy jar, Ben.”

“Sure, if a grown woman could squeeze into a jar.”

“That was one time, and I’d eaten that special gummy bear without knowing— ”

“It’s a tub, Rey. A candy tub.”

Rey rolled her eyes and resumed digging through their hamper. The clothes were clean, but they hadn’t gotten around to folding them yet, so her Destiel shirt would be a bit wrinkled.

“I can’t believe we had to do laundry just so you could— ”

Rey whipped around, shirt in hand. It wasn’t as wrinkled as she thought it’d be; success.

“Excuse me? What’s that you’re wearing?”

Ben looked down. He’d crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned against their bedroom doorframe; now, he let them dangle at his sides.

“You bought this,” he harrumphed, nodding to his Eat More Pie t-shirt.

She grinned.

“That’s right I did! Now come on, we’ve only got like ten minutes ‘til the premiere starts, and everyone else will be— ”

The shrill, almost metallic sound of their apartment intercom interrupted her.

“They’re here!”

She blew past him, dancing over to their front door. She’d barely turned the knob before it burst open; Finn, Rose, and Poe pouring inside with the energy of three sugar-stuffed children.

“9 minutes and 14 seconds until the new season starts!” crowed Finn.

“Are you actually counting down?” Ben asked from behind Rey. He’d followed her into their living room, hands stuffed into his jean pockets and pie shirt still on. Much as he pretended he wasn’t as invested as the rest of them, the truth was, he was just as big of a fan of Supernatural as Rey and the others, and Rey knew Dean was his favorite character.

“Of course he is,” Rose chirped, sidestepping her boyfriends so she could hand Rey a massive apple pie. Rey weighed it in her hands; the whole thing was almost as wide as she was.

“Holy— ”  

“Yup!” Rose proclaimed proudly, “It’s caramel apple chocolate peanut butter pie with a candied crumble on top. Thank Pinterest.”

“Dean would be proud,” Rey said, grinning. “Ben, will you go put this in the kitchen with the pizza? I’m gonna go grab our, uh, spooky pre-show surprise while everyone settles in.”

Ben nodded, taking the pie from her with one hand. Rose’s eyebrows lifted a little at that, but she held back her giggle till he’d lumbered away.

“Shut it,” said Rey, blushing. Rose giggled again but pranced over to their couch, snuggling in between Finn and Poe.

Rey took the opportunity to slip back to her and Ben’s bedroom to grab it. When she emerged holding the old book above her head, she received mixed reactions: from their spots on the couch, Finn looked intrigued, Rose wary, and Poe confused. Ben just smirked from where he was perched on their threadbare armchair.

“What the hell is that?”

“Rey found this ratty old joke of a b— ”

“It’s a spellbook!” Rey interrupted him. She raised it higher overhead, beaming.

Everyone else burst out laughing.

“It looks like a community theater prop,” Poe sniggered.

“It… really does,” said Finn, wincing. “Sorry, Peanut, but I think you got duped.”

“Hey now, hey now,” Rose interjected, stifling her laughter, “we don’t know that!” She looked up at her best friend. “Where’d you get it?”

Despite her friends’ teasing, Rey’s smile hadn’t slipped even an inch.

“Rowan,” she shot Poe and Finn a look to quell any more laughter, “You know, my Destiel Discord friend.”

“You’re not actually taking any of this seriously, are you?” Poe asked.

“No, of course not,” Rey said hotly, bending to flip the book open on their coffee table, “it’s just for fun. I figured we’d read a couple of silly passages as a joke before we start the new season, that’s all. She sent it to me as a funny gift.”

She glanced up at Ben, who looked surprisingly pensive.

“What?”

He shook his head but said nothing.

“Well, I’m intrigued,” Poe said, pulling the book toward himself. “It’s silly and hilarious and the Winchesters, bless their beautiful hair, would love us for it. I’m in! Shall we?”

“Me too,” agreed Finn, scooting closer (slightly squashing Rose in the process).

“No harm ever came from reading a book,” Rose added, smiling and shrugging. Rey grinned again and sat on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, leaning her elbows on the glass to try and read the thing upside down.

“Well, this is gibberish,” said Finn, squinting at the page.

“Gobbledygook. Come on, Shakespeare, lend us a hand,” called Poe, trying to wave Ben over.

Ben rolled his eyes.

“Please, Ben?” Rey asked, “Your experience lecturing about Mary Shelley to high school kids makes you the most qualified.”

His lips twitched; a suppressed smile.

“You’re the one who speaks engineer.”

“Together, then?” she needled him.

He sighed and flopped down next to Rey. Rose turned the book toward them both, and they each grabbed a side.

“It looks like that weird alien font in Microsoft Word,” Rey said, pressing a finger to the first passage.

“It does,” Ben agreed. “Maybe just… try sounding it out?” He bit the inside of his cheek, then started to try and shape words out of all of the odd vowels. “Zod ee reh doh noh koh ah...”

“...beh rah ma geh nah zod peh sah geh…?” Rey continued, reciting the incantation — or whatever you’d call it — like a question. She couldn’t seem to keep her giggles from infecting the gobbledygook.

Rose laughed next to her, and the boys made a show of looking around the room dramatically as if a demon might pop out at any second. Even Ben chuckled.

“Wait, we should check each other’s eyes,” Rose suggested, still giggling, “you know, make sure everyone has the white in their eyeballs.” At that, she actually snorted a little.

Then, the room shook.

The laughter died.

“Sounds like some kind of construction,” started Poe.

“We didn’t see any when we came in,” countered Finn.

“What do you think that was?” Rose asked Rey, frowning. Rey opened her mouth to reply, but the room rocked again; so hard this time she toppled over into Ben’s lap. His arms immediately circled her.

The shaking didn’t relent; in fact, it just got louder and louder, buzzing in their ears and their eyes, so Rey clamped hers shut, trying to drown it all out, and then—

Silence.

“Where the hell are we?” growled a deep voice.

Rey opened her eyes. In front of her, Rose, Finn, and Poe were all wide-eyed with shock. She whipped her head around to see what they were looking at, Ben still clutching her tight. When she saw who it was, her jaw practically fell to the floor.

The cast of Supernatural was in her living room.

Not the whole cast, but Jensen, Jared, Misha, and Mark. Rey’s insides went squiggly as she took each of them in. How did they…?

She ran the risk of some serious drool with her mouth hanging open this much.

By the looks of it, they were halfway through some sort of scene — Jensen had Mark by his shirt collar, anyway, with Jared looming over his shoulder and Misha hovering, all dressed in their character’s costumes. In her living room.

Behind her, Rose let out a strangled little sigh.

“How in the…?” Ben trailed off. He still hadn’t let go of her, which was probably a good thing, because her legs felt like jelly.

“Where the hell did you take us, Crowley?” Jared asked.

“Don’t look at me, Moose. This is above my pay grade. Talk to the giraffe,” Mark replied, rolling his eyes.

“Are you guys serious?” Ben asked, tone caught somewhere between disbelief, confusion, and utter awe. Slowly, his hold on her loosened.

“Oh— ”

“— my —”

“— god!”

Rey couldn’t tell who’d shrieked what; it could’ve been Rose, Poe or Finn, but it was Finn who barreled on. At least someone could string words together — something she was having trouble with at the moment.

“They’re in the middle of a scene!” Finn insisted. “In your… living room. After appearing magically. Right after you guys read that thing in that book. And the whole apartment felt like it was going to come down.” He eyed Jared, grinning weakly. “We’re big fans.”

Jensen groaned.

“Fans? Damn it, don’t tell me we’re in that alternate universe again!” He rounded on Finn, letting go of Mark. “You know us?”

The room fell deathly silent.

“Holy shit,” Rey finally said, realization sweeping over her in a wave. “Guys. It’s them. It’s Dean. And Sam. And Cas. And Crowley. We actually summoned the real thing!”

“Rey, don’t be silly,” Ben said, “They’re actors. You know Sam and Dean aren’t actually real.”

“You know about hunters?” asked Sam.

“Of course we do!” said Rose, springing to her feet. Even feet away, she looked hilarious compared to his giant frame.

“We’re in that alternate dimension again,” Dean groaned, “Did you do this, Cas? If it wasn’t Boris over there, then this has some serious angel stink all over it.”

“It was not me, you know that, Dean,” Cas said solemnly, eyes shining. Dean practically flinched before turning back to them, and Rey couldn’t help squealing a little.

“Oh my god, oh my god, Destiel is so canon!” she shouted. “You two love each other, don’t you?”

“What?!” asked Dean. The slight absence of the typical gravel in his voice was enough for Rey — that, and how Cas’s face fell.

“It’s complicated,” said Cas, body stiff as a straightjacket in his trench. “Anyway, we can deal with that later; I think I know how they summoned us here.”

“Frankly, I’d like to hear more about whatever Destiel is,” quipped Crowley.

“This is insane,” muttered Poe. Like his boyfriend and girlfriend, his eyes kept trailing Sam, who didn’t seem to know what to do with all of the attention apart from averting his eyes.

“Enough!” said Dean. “Go ahead, Cas.”

“These two,” the angel started, stalking toward Rey and Ben, “Seemed to have accidentally summoned me — through multiple dimensions — with a very ancient, very powerful summoning spell.” He bent down, and before Ben could reach for her, Castiel had snatched the book from where it still lay on the coffee table behind them.

“Not sure how it’s possible that you two somehow deciphered Enochian, but here we are,” he finished.

Rey looked at Ben, and then they both shrugged.

“We’re big fans, too?” Ben offered.

“And good at linguistics,” Rey added.

“Right,” Sam said, “Cas, can you get us out of here?”

“Now that I’ve got this back, yes,” he said, tucking the book under his arm. Rey opened her mouth to protest, but the look he gave her made her reconsider. And think that maybe she’d been wrong about who wore the pants in his obvious relationship with Dean.

“I think I’m chuffed here, thanks,” said Crowley, but Sam clapped a massive hand on his shoulder, forcing him to join him in grabbing onto Cas’s trench coat.

“Sayonara, alternate dimension uh… fans,” said Dean. He grabbed Cas’s wrist, noticed Rey watching him like a hawk, then flinched and glanced at Ben. “I like your shirt.”

And with that, there was a flash blinding, white-blue light, and they were gone. Just like that.

“Rowan is never going to believe this,” Rey murmured, slumping to the floor.

“I’m not sure I do, and I was here for the whole thing,” said Ben, joining her.

“Hey,” said Finn, glancing at his watch, “The premiere started over ten minutes ago. Did anyone remember to DVR it?”

“Oh my god, you’re right,” squeaked Rose, falling back in between Poe and Finn on the couch. Poe made a noncommittal sort of grunt, slinking an arm around her, while Finn did the same on her other side.

“Oops,” said Rey.

Everyone looked at each other before erupting into a fit of giggles.

“Well,” said Ben, reaching for the remote — now that Sam had (presumably) left the building, he had the longest limbs, no doubt — “Least we got a special preview.”

“Worth it,” Rey agreed.

THE END

#birthday fic #reylo #supernatural #crackfic #destiel #I don't know how to tag this even more than usual #ben solo #rey of jakku #kylo ren #rose tico #finn #poe dameron #the reylo writing den #supernatural crossover #star wars crossover #fanfic #reylo fanfic #reylo fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #happy birthday