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secretsfromwholecloth · 4 years

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Dragon Age: Origins, day 12.

Crashing while I’m trying to load up last night’s save? That’s new.

Anora, dear, Alix would really just love it if you’d stop this nonsense and vacate her boyfriend’s chair. No? Ah, well, she tried.

I could listen to Riordan all day. All. Day.

Alistair, sweetheart, of course Alix remembered. You’re not the only one who had Duncan (and his war gear) there at a big time in their life. Do you, ah, recognize the dagger strapped to her left shoulder at all?

So. Party for the Landsmeet. I have a decision to make. Alistair is obviously necessary, but I have two more slots after that. It looks like the only combat is going to be the one-on-one duel with Loghain, so Wynne isn’t a no-brainer like she is normally, though I don’t know, she might want to be there for her new son’s big day. Sten makes in-character sense for “scary bodyguard” reasons. So Sten and Wynne it is, I think.

Alix would really rather not fight Cauthrien again, not after how last time went, but if this damned woman keeps refusing to see sense...whew, she stood down. There’s a good ser, now stay well out of Alix’s way.

Ooh, rousing speech time! I love rousing speech time!

Loghain characterizing Alix as Alistair’s “puppeteer” is deeply uncharitable, but it’s hard to call him wrong. If you ask her, she’s merely sheltering him until he has time to grow into someone who can rule effectively on his own and doesn’t need her whispering in his ear every second, so that she can get on with her own work, of which there’s sure to be quite a lot—rebuilding the Ferelden branch of the Wardens on top of all the usual queen stuff like maintaining relations outside the palace, seeing to the royal household, and eventually either popping out a kid by some miracle or finding some other way to secure the succession.

I’d almost forgotten what game I was playing, but then Loghain yelled about rape and insulted Eamon for apparently being fat. Thanks for the reminder!

OK, duel time. Another decision to make: In-character, it makes sense to either have Alix fight herself or have Alistair do it. Or even Sten, who’s there specifically as muscle.

Alix took down Howe, it’s only fair to give Alistair a go at the man who played a similar role in his life.

This is going to be fiddly—I’m used to letting the AI deal with him unless he’s in immediate danger, so I’m less familiar with the use of his abilities than I might be. Lots of pausing, lots of poultices. Come on, kid, we can get through this.

Welp, that’s that taken care of. Alistair, kid, I’m sorry, I could really have gotten you here in a better way, but rest assured that Alix loves you and takes her responsibility to you as (literally) the poor bastard she dragged along on her revenge coup very seriously. You’ll have all the help she can give you in adjusting to being king.

Yes, this is the sound of me desperately headcanoning my fuckups to be less bad and swearing to redo this route one day, because I absolutely owe Alistair some nice things after all this.

And now, we level ‘em up, kit ‘em out, and pray.

...oh, this is that bug where Leliana thinks you were dating and gets hurt and shocked by your engagement to Alistair, isn’t it. Come on, Leliana, I don’t appreciate having to get sharp with you for no reason.

Ah. Here we go. Morrigan is making her offer of the dark ritual. Now, look, considering who perpetrated this bit of writing, I do wonder if the idea was to translate the emotional impact of compulsory heterosexuality for a presumed straight audience. If it is, I am 100% not the person to critique it on that level; as far as the outside world is concerned, I’m a cishet woman slinging strange words around to seem special, and this is very much not my lane. But the particulars launch it into the realm of simple misogyny and rapeyness, and those are things I can speak on. So. I don’t like it. Maker spare me from white dude writers who find the violation of others’ boundaries and bodily and mental integrity absolutely fascinating. Someone please tell sir that this isn’t edgy and cool, it’s creepy.

You know, I’ve said the same thing about Av*ll*ne more than once during Pillars or KotOR playthroughs. But at least he’s subtle about it and tucks the rapey stuff away in backstories or behind metaphors! Never thought I’d be pining for that guy, I swear to God.

The “It must be him, and it must be tonight!” bit—OK, we’re clearly playing a fun game of How Much Creepy Can We Load Into One Conversation. Yaaaaaay.

So. We’ve got the dodgy consent thing, we’ve got the “women are scary witches after men’s precious bodily fluids” thing that’s been going on the entire time with Morrigan, glad to see it all in the fucking open. So to speak. *sigh*

Anyway. In-character: Alix has asked a whole hell of a lot of her fiancé over the last few days. Maybe not been too considerate at times. Now there’s one more thing. It’s a big one. He’d be within his rights to hate her for it. Please let him not hate me, she thinks. I only want him to live. I only want us to live.

And yes, she was absolutely mortified to explain the whole thing to him. Pretty much ready to have a panic attack the whole time.

...does Morrigan think the issue here is jealousy? Oh, honey, no. Alix had her whole life to get used to the idea of her future husband potentially having a mistress, a one-off sexual encounter with someone he has no desire to go back to is nothing. No, her worries are a. that this is hurting him and b. that you could wreak all sorts of havoc with a child housing an Old God even if he never presses his claim to the throne. In that order.

I can’t speak for anyone else, but I did not need that cutscene in my life.

Headcanon: Alix and her various boyfriends have had a thing for bathing each other since she was a teenager. It’s a way to fuss over each other and have physical contact that’s only as sexual as you want it to be. So while there wasn’t time for a proper bath, you bet your ass that before she sent Alistair off with Morrigan, she told him she’d be ready with a basin and a rag if he could still stand the sight of her afterwards.

Aw, Alistair’s rousing speech before the battle is rather sweet.

Final party: Alistair and Wynne, my usual undroppables, obviously. I think I need another combat wombat, but does that mean someone tanky, or does it mean a second rogue? Hm, I think I could do with Shale, she picked up some pretty sweet skills at her last level-up.

Aww, mama Wynne is proud of her new daughter.

Really, all of the goodbye speeches are sweet.

And with that, it might behoove me to go get some sleep and finish up tomorrow.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #alix cousland

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twitchesandstitches · 5 years

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Red Lantern Alighting

In the dark, there was loss.

In ages so often made dark and grim by the selfishness and vainglory of those who measured personal achievement in mountains of the dead, there were plenty who looked up from the bottom of the heap, and found something there.

Jackboots ground down on their faces, and the warlords who destroyed their lives cared nothing for the suffering they wrought. Tyrants, fascists, conquerors and world-wreckers all simply did their thing, and like incredibly inattentive farmers, did not realize what they were sowing.

The people ground down on the bottom learned well what it meant to suffer. To lose everything. And in the pits, in the slave arenas and at the end of an overseer’s whip, they learned the shape of hate.

And one day, on so many worlds stained with suffering, made into something filthy by despair and torment, a red star bloomed in the sky.

And those who suffered the most, burning on the inside, found a clawed hand extended to them.

And in his claws, there was a ring offered out to them.

“Make them pay.”

-------

It was a common rumor, perhaps to pass the time, but there was enough of an edge to it to suggest some panic that remained in the news, all the same:

Ten thousand worlds are burning.

To many across the places touched by the Eunoianet, the magical web of communications, stories, and media that connected the Fleet worlds and kept their culture alive, there was some mild interest. Plenty took the news literally, and organized fire brigade fleets to put the fires out.

Blaster, an Endowed Autobot with a keen interest in xenosociology particularly as related to culture and music, thought something was off the moment she first heard the specific phrasing, and its connections to conflicts on a chain of interstellar empires.

“Ten thousands worlds,” as she told her team, “Is a kenning.” Her team gave her politely incomprehensible looks. With a look of delight, one of her daughters (a minibot named Rewind) eagerly leaned out of her seat, visor shining bright, faceplate wiggling excitedly.

Wicke, possibly one of Blaster’s closest friends in the theoretical engineering sub-sets, opened her mouth to say that she knew what it meant. Blaster shook her head repeatedly. ‘Let Rewind have her moment!’

Rewind spoke up. Like many minibots, she was human-sized; about seven feet tall, but so incredibly thick that she was almost that wide too (at least at the chest-mounted Energon tanks and her impressively massive hips), her heavily plated exterior indicating her preferred alt mode of a tanky attack drone. As she began to speak, her present siblings (both of them beastformers; a moody red robot rhino named Ramhorn and a yellow leonine tracker called Steeljaw) rolled their optics. “Did you all know? A kenning! Is a common term for a culture-specific metaphor, usually tied to folklore. Typically it is a shorthand for a more complicated concept, you see!”

Wicke, shifting about and balancing her gargantuan breasts onto legs easily thick enough to be bust-supporting shelves, nodded. “And what might this kenning refer to, dear?”

The other two of this particular mission winced at Rewind went into a needlessly and painful convoluted explanation with too much time spent on unnecessary asides on cultural context. Bismuth, rolled her temporary optics and tried to nap. A tricky thing considering that to save on space, she had installed her Gem into a fembot shell that at least matched her amazonian, outrageously curvy true form, but one of the things it couldn’t do was sleep. Smaller even than Rewind was arguably the most famous of them all; Toshinori Yagi, better known by his professional name All Might; once a massive tower of muscle and masculine charm, his self-sacrificing job as a Fleet champion had left him an emaciated wreck, his powers too dangerous to access often. Nonetheless, his experience made him a highly skilled mech pilot to channel his spirit. He was doing his best to pretend to be listening but was clearly suffering.

The gist of the lecture, in any case, was this: ‘a thousand worlds is slang, in this little intersection between a dozen or so little empires, for all known worlds’.

“So,” Toshinori said gravely after some thought. “It’s a great deal more serious than even ten thousand individual worlds!”

Bismuth’s fembot shell shrugged its expansive shoulders. “Honestly, you sure it’s even appropriate for us to get involved? I mean, I’m all for intervening, but the people in this area…” Her shell’s emoticon-displaying face cycled through a number of uncomfortable expressions. “They’re not gonna be welcoming or appreciate us.”

“The power structure could use a shake-up,” Steeljaw observed, his voice cultured, deliberately refined. This was the voice of a cat-bot who could somehow hold a cup with his pinky-claw out. It was a strange thing to see from someone who had grown up in a society where setting yourself on fire was considered a good icebreaker. “They’re… well, I shouldn’t SAY they are dreadful tyrants, by and by, but alas…”

“Can we kick their ass?” Ramhorn said hopefully. “Please tell me, we get to do some tyrant toppling!”

They looked at Blaster, to see what her vote might be. She thought about it and shrugged. “Personally I’d rather do what we can if trouble comes to us; I won’t say no to rescue, even if the folks around here yell at us. But actively dismantling their empire, however deserved, is really not a good idea. We’d need to work things out better before we decide if we have the RIGHT to do that or not.”

The ship approached the first world to investigate, and Toshinori’s eyes widened, the modded dark patches around them accentuating his shock. “I… do not believe we will have the opportunity! Look!”

They looked out.

The flames were bright on the windows, even from super-orbit.

They had seen continents, entire landmasses, on fire before.

They hadn’t often seen the landmasses in question rearranged to spell out an extremely crude message.

“...Ah,” Wicke said, wincing. “I suppose the worlds being on fire was not entirely a metaphor, then.”

The ship found stable orbit, relatively safe from most sensors, and with their on-board alchemizers and raw materials, it was a simple matter to build an observation station to live in and wait to come to some kind of a conclusion. If there was a problem with the Fleet’s organization, Blaster mused, it was that waiting for every participating citizen to come to some kind of a consensus took forever, even with cybernetic telepathic stations to work it out. At least with this small group, it was easier to work it out.

Rewind and Blaster were considered the best at stealth to go down and put the fires out; Wicke was undoubtedly the most powerful but her raw power made her inefficient at HIDING her presence, and they weren’t sure if they were ready for confrontation. Bismuth waiting for the all clear (and once she got it, she alchemized terraforming rainfall that put the fires out in days), and Toshinori had many sterling qualities to make him such a paragon, they put his face in the Big Book of How To Hero. Holding back or being stealthy was NOT one of those traits.

Before Bismuth got to work, Rewind gave her report to the others:

“Most strange, so very strange indeed? Did you know, it is very strange for there to be no one left on the planet?”

“The place WAS on fire,” Bismuth had said. Sourly, she had added, “Maybe they were attacking each other… this whole region is a mess of conquerors trying to kill each other. Yeerks looking for better hosts to enslave, elven supremacists, orks that kill everything just to get a better fight out of it…”

Rewind nodded. “Yes, certainly! But, there were NO bodies! Not on the scale that we ought to have seen!” She had paused, looking uncomfortable. “At the very least, those bodies were not killed by the fire.”

Wicke frowned. “What do you mean?”

Rewind was equipped with recording abilities, in her role as a scout. She did warn them first, though, that it would be graphic; Wicke often was employed as a coroner to study the bodies of metanatural encounters, Bismuth was a vetern of many revolutions, and Toshinori had been a hero for a very long time. All of them were acquainted with brutality.

Even so, they were taken aback by the horrors on the screen. “Oh… Arceus’ peg…” Wicke said softly, as they showed them ashen streets and bodies that were by then mostly… pulled apart. Heads were mounted on spikes, and were the only recognizable bit. Everything else had been torn apart, burned so badly and then pulverized into a meaty pulp to coat buildings and streets.

The Fleet was a rough place, and its heroes tended towards extreme fury and ferocity as a rule; nonetheless, this was extreme, even by the standards Wicke knew. “I thought you said fire hadn’t killed them?”

“Analysis indicates that they WERE burned to death, but not by the fires we see. It was a different sort of burning inconsistent with what’s ravaging the planets.

Bismuth had examined several other such photos. She was a ferocious fighter, even by the standards of her Dinobot partners (long since married to them, by this point), but even the greatest savagery of Grimlock or the combined fury of Volcanicus had a point; the shock was intended to terrify the enemy into retreat, or encourage allies to greater morale. This felt more like just randomized lashing out.

Toshinori didn’t much like what he was looking at. “Infighting, perhaps? This is just so… excessive, though. Why would they kill each other so brutally?”

“Rivalries? Combat doctrine?” Ramhorn suggested.

“Or maybe whoever killed them was really angry,” Bismuth suggested. “I’ve done stuff that… okay, not as bad as THIS but… when you’ve been ground done long enough, you’d be surprised what happens when you let that monster off its leash.”

Toshinori considered this. His eyes widened. “Oh…! Rewind, Blaster! You said there were no bodies found, yes?”

“Indeed, sir!” Rewind said. “No bodies besides these!”

“No ashes, then?”

“None that would fit the profile of the bodies, or any traces of incinerated corpses on the scale of an entire population.”

Toshinori looked thoughtful. “Perhaps there are no survivors because they have already been evacuated from the world.”

Bismuth brightened up. “Oh! That’d be a relief.” Perhaps thinking along the same lines as whatever was prompting Toshinori, she compared the visible mounted heads, stabbed on display by whoever had been angry enough to burn the whole planet down, and compared them with all Fleet records of multiversally-wanted villains.

Most of them matched someone on the lists, with the ones who weren’t at least suspected of awful crimes. Bismuth did not much dwell on the evil deeds attached to them; it was sickening to behold, but it was enough to know that very evil men and women had died this day. “Check this out. I compared the skulls to records of some serious bad guys, and they’re all… yeah, the multiverse is better off without them.”

Toshinori nodded. “As I suspected.”

Steeljaw was several times the size of Toshinori (who was tall for a human, but puny by Fleet women standards), but he gave him an adoring look nonetheless. “Sir, do you perhaps have an idea?”

Toshinori looked thoughtful. “Let us at least consider the idea that the downtrodden of this world may have had their opportunity to rise up, at least.”

“You think so?” Wicke said, raising an eyebrow. “This much destruction is rather excessive.”

“People who have suffered terribly, all their lives, often do not have much reason to hold back once they have the opportunity to strike!”

“True enough.” Wicke had turned, and other matters called their attention.

Bismuth’s terraformers conjured forth enough rain, with a mild connection to the Elemental Plane of Water, to put out the fires and render the planet suitable for all of them to at least walk on. Several days onwards, they landed to investigate properly.

As they suspected, there was no life on the planet anywhere. Blaster had flown across the planet in her preferred aerial form with a massive armory of sensory drones, and there was no signs of life; no organic presence, no living movement, no hints of the electromagnetic activity that marked the presence of synthetic life forms. And the ashes of burned things did not account for all the inhabitants being dead, either.

Several days, the mystery continued to deepen as they continued the search on other worlds, and the pattern on the first repeated itself. Uncannily the same, at that.

And it WAS a pattern; Wicke was certain.

Above them, far in the sky, a red star seemed to appear; the figure within watched them dispassionately, weighing their hearts.

They shone bright and good. But, he judged, they did not have the burning anger he sought out.

He contemplated the Gem, however. There was the spark of fury there…. Perhaps later, then.

The red light flew away, leaving the battleground behind.

And in the meantime, unaware of this, Blaster’s team continued to search. Unexpectedly, they found something interesting on one of the cities that hadn’t quite been exploded.

Blaster was over sixty feet tall, her minibot offspring incorporated into her body in cassette forms and channeling their power to her, so she could achieve a far greater size and curve level than normal, and she had to be careful not to let her waist-level bustline demolish things worse. Slowly she leaned forward, studying something on the wall. “I found something!”

Bismuth was in her true form now that she had room to grow, and she stood over a hundred and twenty feet, not even a trickle of her full power being used. SHe wasn’t just an amazon, she was a gigantic gray-blue beauty, her multi-colored dreadlocks shining bright, her gem core just barely visible in the cleavage of two massive breasts with lower slopes extending past her mighty thighs. Power crackled in her hard light body, and she was cheerfully refusing to reign it in. (“This much awesome DESERVES to be on display!” she had boasted, and kissed her biceps.) “Whatcha got there, Blast?”

Toshinori approached. While he did have his own powers, they were so strong as to be a serious threat to his emaciated body, and he preferred to channel them through powered exoskeleton frames; in this case, he operated a mech slightly too large to be considered power armor, but small enough to operate on a human scale, which seemed to be the standard size on this world. It looked like a brightly colored egg, with powerful limbs to channel his energies through and punch things, and a colorful aura of energy created a luminous V-shape above him from the back.

Its sensors relayed it to him. Toshinori studied it. “Graffiti, or perhaps a calling card.”

Wicke, standing at a very far distance from everyone else in case she suddenly needed to grow to fight (and would thus need a LOT of space; she could exceed planetary size without even putting in effort), linked up to Toshinori’s mech to see it for herself. “It IS more recent. I think this was left as a message.”

It was all red against the slag; a bright cherry-red color that would have been friendly if not for it being carved into the collected skulls of, apparently, the most cruel and hateful tyrants in the entire system. It had been burned into them, in fact, possibly by whatever had set the planets on fire, and then painted over.

It looked a little bit, then, like a round circle. Two vertical lines were set on either side, with additional zags moving outwards over that. There was a short message, written in an unfamiliar script similar to the Daedric alphabet. “A curious sign,” Rewind communed to Blaster. “It resembles that of the Green Lantern Order.”

“Green Lanterns?” Blaster said aloud.

Toshinori shifted. “Green Lanterns, did you say?” He looked at the sign. Bismuth and Wicke were running a translation cipher, comparing the letters to the most likely solutions. “They were an ancient order of heroes! They predated the Cataclysm by many eons; I suspect the last of them perished trying to fight that disaster, though they left behind relics and lore.” He patted his chest proudly. “My heroic predecessor, One For All, supposedly refined the power I carry with Green Lantern secrets!”

“So perhaps whoever did this was evoking their legacy?” Blaster said. Well, Ramhorn asked, and she relayed it.

Toshinori considered it. “I think that is possible, but it would be an odd thing. The symbol is different; the Green Lantern sigil was a, well, a lantern, with horizontal lines above and below.” He pointed out another thing: two circles inside the sign, at angles. “Nothing like that there. And it was green, of course. Not… well, red.”

Bismuth glanced aside. “It does look like a lantern, though.”

“Yes,” Blaster said thoughtfully, surrounded by charred landscape, burned by the rage of those suffering for so long. “A red lantern.”

“Got it!” Wicke said triumphantly. “The script originates from Beforus! A curious thing; It hasn’t been spoken since Beforus.was lost; it is similar to various forms that have derived from it since then, but… oh, just a digression, not that important.”

Rewind perked up, eager to hear more, but Blaster was in a hurry. “So why Beforus? It’s not anywhere near here, and these worlds didn’t have a significant troll population.”

“Yes. That is the difficult part. And the language is fairly obscure; there are a few figures who survived Beforus and gained the ability to avoid aging who would still speak it, but I can’t imagine what they would be doing here.”

The Condesce, Blaster thought. The Dolorosa, mother of vampires. The Grand Highblood. The Blue Arrow and executioner of the degenerate. The Psiionic, sailor of the stars. And the others, the founders of modern troll-kind and preservationists of their culture; most were within the Fleet, and all of them had at least spent some time with it, in the past. Most were accounted for.

But not at all.

Bismuth frowned as the translation software ran. “The symbol thing is a bit wonky; someone chipped away a few bits here and there. See?”

“Yes,” Toshinori said. “It looks a bit like like an incomplete circle, then. I wonder if it was sending a message?”

Blaster leaned in. “And with those little circles inside, it kind of looks like the astrological sign for Cancer, doesn’t it?”

“Ah, it does!”

Blaster chuckled. “Now that’s obscure, what does that even-”

Oh. OH.

Bright red colored. Mutant red.

A sign that looked like what trolls called the Iron Manacles, the Crab Claws.

And Beforan script, as would be remembered by someone who had actually lived through the fall of Beforus.

And now, she realized, she had seen this level of brutal destructiveness, this unfettered and passionate rage.

She kept it to herself for now. “Is that translation ready?”

“Yes,” said Wicke. She cleared her throat, and spoke aloud. “Bear in mind, this is quite a rough translation, and the software likes poetic meter, but nonetheless, this should get the spirit across.”

Wicke translated thusly:

“With blood and rage of crimson red,

“Passed on by those long dead.

“Together with our righteous hate,

“We will burn them all.

“No one else will share our fate.”

Wicke finished. “And it is signed… I think it translates as the Anointed. Of… the Red Lantern Corps? I don’t suppose you know anyone by that term.”

“None that fit the situation,” Toshinori said. Bismuth said much the same.

“Kankri Vantas the first.”

Blaster said this heavily, with mounting shock.

The name called to mind a fussy and passive-aggressively angry young troll, a bit older than the likes of Terezi and her generation. “Uh, are you sure you have the right guy?” Bismuth said. “Kankri, you said? Chubby, really pretty? Has a really bad case of pent-up anger he needs to deal with?”

“Not him,” Bismuth said. “The other one.”

“What other one, I don’t- oh.” Bismuth’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“The Sufferer.” Toshinori said, horrified. “He’s here!?”

“Or he was. It fits his… preference for rising up. But on a bigger scale. And of course, the Anointed is what Beforan religious practices named him. He’s never liked being called the Sufferer or the Signless.”

There was silence, then, for a time.

It was not bad news, exactly. But it was certainly concerning.

The Signless, the Suffferer or whatever you might call him, had come here. He had… slaughtered the worst of these worlds, and had done something with everyone else. The wording indicated numbers; the ‘we’ and all’. Perhaps… he had been recruiting?

For what?

They stared at the sign of a red lantern, shaped to be like the sign of suffering among trolls; an icon of enduring the unspeakable, a sign for those fighting to make a kinder world even if you did it on a tide of blood.

Kankri Vantas of Beforus was the kindest of his people. A living prophet to some, handing down law and covenant to mortals, fulfilling ancient prophecies and setting people free. He was a just man, a good man.

And he was also someone who had waged wars so bloody that even the Condesce, a woman no stranger to cruelty and ferocity, had been afraid of his savagery.

“Let’s get back up and upload our findings to the Eunoianet,” Blaster suggested. “We need to figure out what to do from here. And someone give the word to Karkat Vantas that I need to have a talk with him,” she said wearily.

“We’ve found his ancestor.”

-----

(It should be noted that some elements of this fic aren’t exactly in chronlogical order.

Yes, the Signless is the leader of the Red Lanterns here, rather than Atrocitus. As it is, they are the only extant Lanterns, but the others will soon arise, more likely than not. This much is certain!

However, I’ve planned for Signless’ Red Lanterns to predate the Fleet, at least as a fully functional organization. He may either have been making it during his initial time with the Fleet, or at some point, the proto-Fleet’s founding families discovered relics that the Signless was inspired to create the first Red Power Battery and rings from; it could be that he’s only recently made them fully practical and is expanding his Corps’ reach.

They are intended as heroes; merciless, angry and destructive, but they are good guys all the same. Their job is to make the monsters fuckin’ BURN. They are not antagonists, but the Fleet does not yet know what to make of them!)

#queued #my writing #fics #crossthicc AU #twitchy!wicke #twitchy!blaster #twitchy!bismuth #twitchy!all might #twitchy!su #twitchy!pokemon #twitchy!transformers #twitchy!homestuck #twitchy!signless

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randomnoteforfuturereference · 6 years

Text

Aftermath: Bombshell

With Business Dealings showing off the Nurses’ response to the Zimbits kiss, I thought it nice to have a counterpoint piece with the perspective on Dex. Though “nice” may be stretching things a bit in regards to this one. Continued thanks to my awesome beta @kleeklutch.

Warning: this fic contains explicit homophobic language, bullying behavior from someone twice the age of the bullied, allusion to past physical trauma, anxiety, and allusion to the current opioid crisis.

With that said, I hope you find this to be an engaging story.

It’s late, and half the village is either asleep or getting ready to sleep.

The rest of us? Well, the rest of us are crammed into Aunt Trish & Uncle Jim’s diner and focused on the diner’s new sixty-inch OLED screen, just as we’ve done for the previous six games of the Stanley Cup.

Except now we’re no longer at the edge of our seats and filled with the tension that typified all seven games. Fucking seventh game overtime…

Now we join the cheers coming out of Providence.

Jack raises the Cup, and we all raise our drinks and let out another collective holler that’s probably loud enough to be heard from Bar Harbor.

As everyone else goes from watching the broadcast to chatting with each other, I keep my eyes glued to the television to see if I can find anyone familiar.

And there he is.

Bitty runs across the ice right into Jack’s arms. Because of course. Still, even as I roll my eyes, I smirk and raise my bottle to them. Jack not only deserves the Cup; the two deserve all the happiness they can get.

I bet Ransom and Holster have to resist pulling out the sin bin. Because the way those dramatic saps are hugging, they’re probably close t—Oh.

My smile fades as blood drains from my face. They aren’t actually going to… They wouldn’t be so reckless… They wouldn’t… Would they?

Bitty leans back and stares straight into Jack’s eyes. Something’s said, and the serious look between the two turns into smiles.

Oh fuck. OH FUCK.

I scramble for the remote. Everyone’s having fun celebrating, so nobody should notice me turning off the television.

Gotcha! As I mash the remote’s buttons, the room goes silent.

They’ll probably tell me off for messing with the controls. I don’t care. It’s not like there’s anything to watch now since it’s just the post-game. All I’m doing is keeping the electricity bill down.

Then I see the blue light reflected off the countertop. No. This isn’t happening. Nonono…

As I raise my head, my stomach drops.

In grabbing the remote, I hadn’t turned off the television. I merely muted it.

On screen, my captains are kissing. Not the affectionate pecks that garnered so many fines. No, it’s the intense lip-locked version that they indulge in whenever they’d think nobody is nearby; their expectation is frequently not the reality, but it’s not like we’ve let them know that.

The camera hasn’t moved on but instead is zooming in on them. In the background, other cameras are focusing in as well.

Leave them alone, you fucking seagulls!

Of course, they don’t. As there’s no way in hell the media’s going to look elsewhere, I turn away for them.

I immediately regret my decision.

Everyone in the diner has their widened eyes locked onto the screen. There’s no more joy on their faces.

Only shock.

I steel myself for what will come after that shock. I hope that they’ll accept Bitty and Jack, whom they were cheering just minutes beforehand. I prepare for the possibility that they may not react well to the news. To be honest, a cowardly part of me just feels relief that the matter will be settled one way or the other, and it’s not brought up by me.

Finally, Pa breaks the silence:

“Huh.”

… What.

I wait for the elaboration on that. Any kind of elaboration. Anything. Anything!

Uncle Miguel looks in my direction. Dammit, anything but focusing on me.

“The blond boy…” he notes, “that’s your captain next year, aye?”

I almost gag in my attempt to get my throat unstuck. “A-ayuh.”

“… Huh.”

Oh for FUCK’S SAKE!

Aunt Meg chimes in: “I mean, from what you told us about the blond one, I can kind of see it? Didn’t you say he’s a bit…?” She makes a limp-wrist gesture.

I’m saved from answering that by Uncle Jeremy saying, “Yeah, no surprise there. But Jack Zimmermann?”

By now, the whole diner is overcome by a low chorus of discussion, bafflement, and speculation. As well as those damn noncommittal grunts. Not to mention a bucketful of confusion from my younger cousins; one’s just asking me if that means Bitty is the girl.

The whole while, I’m trying and failing to make sense about the reaction.

While there are some comments of disapproval about how Bitty and Jack are making a scene, nobody’s explicitly disparaging or condemning the two. Which I guess is good? But nobody’s offering notes of support or at least acceptance either; though I suppose the comments about the “gutsiness” of the move count as a positive.

Overall, nobody seems to know what to think about this. If they do know, they certainly aren’t letting their thoughts be heard.

It’s pissing me off.

“So Zimmermann’s gay,” states a cousin.

“Bi,” I correct.

“Huh.”

Okay, that’s it! I all but throw my hands up as I move for the exit.

“You knew.”

The hissed accusation stops me in my tracks as I realize that there’s one person who would have a stance, and I turn to have Uncle Owen glaring right in my face.

“I… I—“

“You knew those two were screwing each other.”

Uncle Owen punctuates his statement by jabbing his finger into my chest.

In this moment, it doesn’t matter how much hockey has built me up. I feel like I’m a scrawny ten-year-old again, and each jab forces me backwards. Except for those in the immediate vicinity, most of the crowd is still too deep in conversation to notice.

“How long, boy?” he spits.

“Since…” I hate how small my voice sounds. I hate how those around me, even though they don’t like Uncle Owen, are curious for an answer. I hate how part of me wants to give more information than they expect but… can’t. “Since December.”

Actually longer, but nobody needs to know.

Nobody needs to know anything.

“Only two years in that libtard ‘school’, and you’re just full of surprises,” Uncle Owen muses. “Wasn’t the captain elected unanimously by the team?”

“Yes.” Shit! My answer comes out just as I realize why he asked that question. But it’s too late to take it back.

“So you knew the little shit’s a pervert and still voted for him?”

“He’s not a pervert.” I grit out as my hands ball into fists.

“So you say,” he sneers. “And I hear you’re spending the next year in the same house.”

A small part of me feels relief that he doesn’t know that I’m going to room with Nursey. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to control myself right now if the shit he spews goes in that direction. “The rent’s better.”

“Hah. Of course that’s your excuse: ‘The rent’s better.’” There’s a gleam in his eyes that’s too knowing for my liking. “What other faggoty secrets—“

“That’s enough, Owen,” Pa growls while shoving his way through the now-silent crowd. “Leave my son alone.”

My father may be leaning his cane, and he may have kept his right arm back home. But in this moment, he looks ready to kick any able-bodied asshole’s ass.

Uncle Owen sputters, “You’re willing to let this Cultural Marxism—“

“I don’t give a flying fuck if Billy has a Little Red Book in his back pocket. You say another goddamn word to him tonight, and I’ll convince Shannon to finally cut you out of her life for good.” Pa doesn’t even raise his voice, but it’s enough to make everyone take a step back. “That will be after I rearrange your face to be as ugly as mine.”

I don’t know how long the standoff lasts. I only know that Uncle Owen is the one to back down and storm out… and that the bloody crescents in my palms are probably going to last a bit.

As if to enforce a sense of normalcy, the collective conversation picks right back up where it left off. This is despite the subject of the conversation being anything but normal. Still, Pa and I spend a few more minutes milling around before he nods to the door. Then the two of us take our leave and begin the walk back home.

As the sounds of the diner fade, I finally check my phone. Surprise surprise, the chat feed is on fire. Right now it’s mostly incomprehensible gibberish; also Nursey’s making cryptic suggestions to check the national business news in the coming week.

Once everyone calms down, the team should discuss how to proceed from here.

Finally, I look up from my phone and back at Pa to state, “… You do know I’m no tankie, right?”

Pa chuckles, “I know. Just making a point.”

Heh, yeah. A point. He’s just saying that he’d love me no matter what. But would his love really be so unconditional if I actually started spouting commie, nazi, or beardie propaganda? I know mine wouldn’t.

So then why did he bring it up?

Uncle Owen was the one who said ‘Marxism’ first, and Pa was just taking the statement to its logical conclusion. Don’t think too much of it.

But did Pa rebuke Uncle Owen because what was being said was wrong? Or was it just because I was attacked?

If Uncle Owen made his language just focused on them gaysexuals, would Pa make the same statement except with the Little Red Book replaced by a rainbow flag? If he did, would that mean he considers being queer as bad as a communist?

I know that I should really be giving my father more credit than that, and there’s a weight in my stomach at the fact that I’d even have doubts. But still…

Pa nudges me. “Something on your mind?”

“Just… thinking about the coming year.” Which is technically the truth.

That gets a nod from him. “It will be interesting. No doubt about that.”

Yeah… interesting. I can just see the attention Bitty will get between him being Jack’s boyfriend and the first out NCAA ice hockey captain. Media may even come to Samwell.

People will know Bitty lives at the Haus. People will know where the Haus is; even if the media doesn’t divulge the location, it’s not like it’s hard to find due to all the damn kegsters.

What if we get paparazzi waiting for Jack to come to Samwell? What if there is paparazzi obsessed with Bitty himself? What if we get assholes who decide that spewing shit in a comment feed won’t cut it?

We don’t even keep the door locked. But even if we get the Haus secure, we have to walk to campus. Even in school, it’s not like they gate off the campus and limit access.

We should put in new locks and give out a limited set of keys. Convince the frats to install a surveillance system along the whole street. Maybe we’ll even have to stop hosting kegsters so often.

We should do something. We need to do something. We need to do something now! We need to try to keep several steps ahead of them even though they’ll keep trying to find a new way. That includes at our games.

The away games. Fuck. I forgot about the away games. FUCK!

Shit. We’re fucked. We’re so f—

“Billy!”

Pa’s voice forces me to stop walking, and it’s then that I see that I’m at least twenty yards ahead. Billy, you fucking idiot. Hell of a son you are.

“Shit,” I blurt out while rushing back. “I-I’m so—”

Pa cuts me off: “Enough of that. Right now, I just need you to breathe.”

It’s only at his request that I realize my breaths come in rapid gasps and that the hand I’m offering shakes violently.

I try to do as I’ve been taught, but I can’t seem to get anything under control. Pressure builds behind my eyes. Oh, now you’re going to cry about it?

A hand firmly clasps my shoulder, and I look up to see Pa heaving deep even breaths for me to focus on. It’s not easy, but eventually I force myself back on track.

Once stability’s restored, Pa tentatively asks, “What’s the matter, Billy?”

This time, I don’t have to make the truth a technicality: “Just wondering how the school’s going to deal with the media and security issues.”

Pa nods and thankfully doesn’t ask me to elaborate. “I’m sure they’ll figure something out.”

I’m also thankful that he leaves it at that and doesn’t try to further any reassurance as we continue walking in silence.

A silence which only lasts for another few minutes. “So… your captains are together.”

When Pa comments like that, without the crowds around, the situation feels even more naked than before.

Maybe I can get something out of it though.

“Ayuh,” I mutter. “What do you think about it?”

Pa looks off at some unspecified point. “Well, I can say that my bombshell doesn’t compare to the one they set off,” he remarks with a wry smile and a waving of his forearm stump around the right side of his face.

Jesus Christ… “Jesus Christ, Pa.” It’s not like he hasn’t made similar jokes before, but I still fail to find them funny.

Pa rolls his eye and thumps me on the back. “To answer your question… I don’t know what to think. Though it’s not like it affects us,” he states with a shrug.

It affects us more than you think. “You do know that a lot of queer folk come Downeast, right?”

“Ayuh, and I know they help keep Mount Desert’s economy afloat. Make great music too. They still just pass through at most.”

So is that how it will be okay? As long as distance is maintained?

“Well one of them is going to be officially leading me.”

Pa creases his brow. “Yeah, he is, isn’t he.”

“The other did lead me, and it’s not like he became magically bi after graduation.”

“Hm…”

My jaw clenches. At least it’s not fucking “huh”.

Our porch light shines into view and guides us inside. Once we get to the kitchen, Pa takes his prescribed painkillers while I watch; I know it’s irrational of me as he hasn’t gotten hooked so far, and it’s not like I’m here all the time, but I can’t help it after a few recent cases.

As he sets his glass down, Pa sighs, “Look, Billy. I know they’re your friends. So maybe I don’t get it. Doesn’t matter. I trust your judgement.”

It does matter. But still… “Thank you.”

“Hell, they’re welcome to stop by.” Pa barely finishes his statement before barking out a laugh and shaking his head. For a brief moment my stomach clenches until he murmurs, “Like a Falconer would come here…”

I hide my relief with a huff: “You never know. You saw how full of surprises they are.”

That gets a much warmer laugh from him. “Ayuh. They really don’t do anything halfway, do they.”

For once, I allow myself to join in on the laughs. Maybe things can be alright. Maybe they will be alright.

Maybe… just maybe… “Pa, I—”

“Though I’m not sure if I can handle any more surprises,” Pa chuckles before looking up at me. “You say something?”

… it will be a disaster. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

I say goodnight, Pa pulls me in for a one-armed hug, and I make the obligatory noises of protest when he kisses my forehead.

Then I walk to my room and shut the door to let darkness envelop me.

“Nothing at all.”

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randomnoteforfuturereference · 6 years

Text

Aftermath: Business Dealings

This has been an idea I’ve been mulling over for some time due to thoughts about Nursey’s family and how they’d react to a potential public coming out for Jack. 1800 words and takes place during episode 3.26. In any case, thanks to my ‘swawesome beta @kleeklutch, and I hope you enjoy.

Now has a companion piece that takes place in Maine.

“Thank you for making time on such short notice and during what must be a busy time for you.”

Mama’s words accompany a slow stirring of her tea as the morning rays reflected by the Financial District skyline bathe her in dappled light.

Opposite us, via projection on the drop-down screen, sits Georgia Martin in what I suppose is her office with Providence Harbor as the backdrop. “Don’t worry about it, Dr. Nurse,” she replies with a grin. “It’s a welcome change in pace from the reporters.”

Mama gives a smile of her own over her cup. “No doubt. In any case let me first congratulate you and your team on an amazing and well-earned victory. That was quite a nail-biter the whole way through.”

“Thanks. I have to say that we’re still running on that high.”

It’s probably all they’re running on. That and coffee. Many probably can’t tell at a first glance, but I’ve been around enough power players to know that she’s probably keeping it all together by sheer will.

“Yes, you could imagine how ecstatic my son was at seeing his old captain make the winning shot. In overtime at that.”

Martin’s eyes aim in my direction. Pretty sure that she’s still wondering what a college kid is doing sitting next to his mother during a meeting of this magnitude. “’Nursey’, right?” she asks. “Number Twenty-eight? That was an impressive slapshot in your last game against Harvard. Amazing synchronization with Twenty-four as well; you two make quite the pair.”

I almost choke on my drink. “Thanks, ma’am.”

“Jack never hesitates to share highlights from Samwell with us.” Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. It would surprise me even less if ninety percent of the highlights involve Bitty.

“We’re quite proud of him,” Mama adds with a smirk. “But you know that just gushing over player performance is not why I called.”

Martin leans back and apprises both of us before putting all of her focus back on Mama. “You’re interested in sponsoring.”

“Or a partnership. Whichever is going to be a more effective use of our resources.”

“Well, I can’t say I’d mind. We’ve had people and companies lining up ever since we went to the playoffs,” she explains before blinking owlishly at us. “But that isn’t the case with your offer, is it.”

“You are correct,” Mama affirms while setting her cup down. “I’m not interested in any offer going into salaries or sports equipment. Overall, it was about the game, I’d have sponsored the Rangers a long time ago. They have history after all.”

“And are the home team,” Martin adds wryly.

That’s dismissed with an airy wave. “Yes, New York is my home and where we are headquartered, but we’re also not bound to a single metropolitan area… or nation for that matter. Some will throw a fuss in regards to us supporting an out-of-town team… but, well, it’s not like this company is a stranger to protests.”

“Hashtag ‘fight the power’…” I mutter under my breath while forcibly keeping my eyes from rolling.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m the first to criticize Mama for her business and r&d practices, but sometimes the vitriol put forward by others are downright ridiculous. That many of those protesters are hyper-privileged white dudes — “kale-munching, latte-guzzling tankies” as a certain ginger loves to say; to his credit, he stopped associating me with them before the end of our first semester — makes their motives all the more suspicious.

If Martin hears me, she shows no sign. “So why are you interested in us?”

Mama simply taps on her tablet to bring a single video up to view. The video is of Jack and Bitty kissing on the center ice; their full attention focused on each other despite being surrounded by strangers and the media.

In the wake of the game’s end, I was infected by the high of the win and dancing with glee. The moment I saw the two embrace however, surprise overtook that elation and—

Well, the details regarding me aren’t important.

What is important was the reaction from my family. Mama and Papa, despite being very hard to shock due to all they’ve witnessed and dealt within the boardroom and courtroom respectively, gaped wide-eyed at the screen. Even Sis, who never ceases to have a sarcastic quip regarding professional sports, was at a complete loss for words.

When they turned their stares towards me, I knew what the unsaid question was. Pretty sure they were legit impressed that we all managed to keep the secret for over half-a-year; not sure if I should be pleased or miffed at that.

In any case, the SMH group chat is still on fire. And it’s not all cheers.

Dex and Chowder, being the rays of sunshine that they are — okay, Chowder is a ray of sunshine a good chunk of the time; though many forget that sunlight burns — have already considered this old news and are now discussing with the older guys strategies to head off those who wish to intrude upon our lives.

Because there is already discussion in the media about the fact that “Zimmermann’s boyfriend” — there is no small amount of entertainment watching some sports commentators struggle saying that — is going to be the first out NCAA ice hockey captain. And with that publicity, there has already been a slew of… opinions.

“The thing is,” Mama continues, “while this is spectacular news, it in itself is not what prompted me to make the call.”

She switches the footage to show statements from Martin and the older Falconers.

As the vids are muted, Mama asks, “Is Zimmermann scheduled to appear yet?”

Martin’s face goes blank. “Jack and Eric are taking well-earned time to recompose themselves.”

Translation: the Falcs have zero clue where the two are, and it’s probably driving management insane.

Well, we’re just as in the dark.

“Completely understandable, and we wish them all the best,” Mama notes. “So, were you serious about what you said in front of the cameras? It is a risky move.”

“Maybe,” concedes Martin. Then her eyes light up with the kind of fiery passion that must have caused opponents to wet themselves while she was in skates. “But this isn’t just PR. When Jack came out to me, I told him the kind of organization that I wanted the Falcs to be. One that went beyond what should be common decency and actually towards raising the bar for the League as a whole.”

A smile graces Mama’s lips. “And that’s why I’ve expressed my interest,” she states before turning to me. “And I will admit that, beyond general morals and principles, I have a personal reason for throwing in my support.

“Derek?”

Shit, it’s my turn already? Granted, I wouldn’t be here if not for the fact that I came willingly.

Still I turn my chill up to maximum in the hope that my jitters don’t show. “I’ll say off the bat that I’m not straight. Bi… Pan… Personally I’m not attached to labels. What matters is that I’ve been out and comfortable for some time now. Helps that Samwell’s welcoming.” A breath. “Hasn’t always been the case, and even if I was interested in going pro — with no disrespect, I’m not — the nature of the League is a major sticky point. Not just about my orientation but also… you know…” I wave my hand around my face for emphasis.

I know Martin gets the point when she lets her composure slip with a grimace and says, “Yeah. I take you’ve read some of the articles focusing on Thirdy. We crack down pretty hard on such behavior at home, but some away venues are more lenient about what’s said on the ice or from the stands unless the media is breathing down their necks.”

“And the media is sometimes the problem,” I add. After Martin gives a weary nod, I get myself back on track: “I have mad respect and support for groups like You Can Play, which I know the Falcs have been active in. However, considering how many times players have been disciplined, it’s clear that speaking out against bigotry reactively can only do so much. So while I do think advocacy groups are important, teams themselves should take the initiative.

“Ever since Jack came out to the Falcs, you and his teammates have shown it’s a real possibility. You’ve been walking the walk; including by making sure his secret was secure until the kiss. And when that happened, all the statements made so far have been matter-of-fact support.

“So while I’m a fan of the Falcs because of Jack, all of this makes me think that the team is a bar setter in all the right ways.”

I might as well been swimming underwater the whole while, considering the way I end my speech with a gasp for air. Mama uses that as a point to enter back in:

“Some may think that just means there is bias affecting my decision. I counter that bias informs a lot of our decisions. In this case, is it a bad thing?” she posits. “Overall, my hope is that our involvement the Falconers isn’t just to promote greater inclusivity in professional sports, but also to start other social programs.

“And while it may be hard to tell, know that I’m not just doing this for PR points.”

If anything, Mama’s taking a risk with this as not all of her clients may approve of her activism.

“Don’t worry about that, Dr. Nurse. If I thought you were just jumping on the publicity bandwagon, I would have told you to wait with the other potential sponsors as we get our bearings straight,” assures Martin. “So let’s just say you’ve had my attention for some time.”

“Excellent! And I must say, it’s not like we don’t already have the perfect symbol for such a partnership.”

To punctuate her statement, Mama pans and zooms the cam to focus in on one of the office’s windows. As if on cue, one of our Peregrines lands on the ledge with a freshly-killed pigeon to feed her fluffy eyasses.

The sight makes Martin bark out a laugh in wide-eyed surprise and delight. “Didn’t expect that. But you’re right; they are quite appropriate. I’m sure Tater would be delighted to incorporate them into FalcTV.”

“Once we finalize this, your team will be welcome here. Which reminds me: Derek, you may go.”

I take the cue to get right up, say my farewells to the two ladies, and make my retreat out of the office. As I close the door behind me, I hear Mama’s next few words before the rest get muffled:

“So… let’s talk business…”

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