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stairre · 2 years

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Hiya! I absolutely adore your writing; I’m horrible with words but it feels so.. alive? Like it feels like I could ask you questions for days about the characters and the world and you’d have an answer for all of it. I mean, it’s probably not true, but I’ve never really felt that way about any kind of story before so naturally I’ve just been reading and rereading your stuff ever since I found ya. Im very normal about it. Very very Normal.

(Your hot rod in particular, oomf. That’s HIM that’s my BOY!!! You Get Him and I am so glad you do because it’s So Hard to find really good roddy content.)

And don’t feel inclined to answer this last part if you don’t want to, but!! Are there any brainworms/headcanons/etc you’d like to ramble about? I’d love to hear about it!

Aw, thanks so much for your kind words, and for coming and letting me know; you've put a right smile on my face :)

Hm... as for headcanons and brainworms... well, first off, I don't tend to have solid headcanons for many characters, simply because I like to take their core personality and reinvent them depending on the situation I've landed them in in any particular fic. I feel that this frees me up from getting too stuck in trying to make a square peg fit a round hole if I don't have the ability to let something that was true about a character in one fic change for another, however there are some personality and interest traits I keep similar.

My version of Hot Rod | Rodimus Prime tends to be quite charismatic. And very uneasy about his own charisma, because when people follow you and you make mistakes, they then tend to blame you even if they chose to follow. This is especially prevalent in IDW versions of him that I write, and is another layer in his insecurity over whether or not he can make good leadership decisions.

My version of Hot Rod | Rodimus Prime also tends to have an interest in people and the ways that they live, which is expressed through interests in history, anthropology, religion, etc. By no means is he an academic, or conducting research, but he likes to hear about different ways of life and how and why people are the way they are.

Neurodivergent Cybertronians! One, they absolutely exist, and two, IDW Minimus Ambus (in my works, at least) is autistic. Or, like, the mechanoid equivalent. I myself am autistic so I feel comfortable writing him as such. And now the obligatory "everyone's experiences are different, it's a wide and varied spectrum so it won't necessarily be reflective of your own personal experiences" sentence. (Addendum: yes, Rodimus gives off ADHD vibes as well and I'm hardly the first to headcanon that.)

Now this one's a bit more controversial, but in the post-IDW "The Lost Light disappears into an alternate universe" ending, Rodimus and Megatron absolutely form a strong bond with each other. There's a lot of canon moments and comments from them about the influence (and the ups and downs, yes) that they've had on each other - Megatron keeping the Rodimus Star close while stuck in the Functionist Universe, and Rodimus saying that they work best together, just to give a couple of examples - to justify the groundwork for a deep connection. Given time and effort on both sides, I believe that they would end up rather close.

Again, more controversy, but I also believe that a lot of the initial Dratchet (Drift/Ratchet) foundations were built upon what they wanted each other to be (to themselves, in their life, etc.), rather than who they really were. Now, this is absolutely not a hate on Dratchet, because the pairing has a lot going for it, and if written well then I like to read it, but I also believe that a lot of honest communication had to go in off-screen for it to work out (which it canonically did!), and that we just didn't get to see that part.

As for brainworms - well, I don't tend to share story ideas on my tumblr, simply because there are just so many that never fully manifest and I don't want anyone to get disappointed by them not becoming fully realised fics.

However, I will share a bit of an old WIP (like, I last worked on it in July 2020) with you. Please note: the likelihood of this story ever being completed and published is very, very low. Please do not think for certain that it's coming, because it's most likely not.

The premise for this WIP was that IDW Rodimus and Drift, before the Overlord incident, decide to become amica endurae. But the Matrix (half of it, at least) interferes with the vows and sends Rodimus and Drift off on a journey through the other's mind in order to fully understand each other. Like, it was meant to be a mindscape fic, full of symbolism and interacting with memories and all that good stuff.

And here's a small snippet:

Deadlock turns away from him, gazing out into the distance across the battlefield of grey corpses, the aftermath of his standard spare no one order. “We wanted better,” he whispers out, voice hoarse and carefully controlled. “We cared so much about people, about how they were in pain, about how we wanted to free them and raise them high.” Deadlock laughs, bitter, glancing back towards Rodimus with wet cheeks and bright red optics. His frame shivers, begins to fade away, like so much artillery smoke dissipating when the cannons stop firing, and he admits, mournfully, like a confession, face twisted in pain, “But compassion did not survive the revolution.” Rodimus’ hand darts forward to grasp Deadlock, to try to comfort him maybe, but his fingers cannot touch him before he wisps away into dust, scattering to join the noxious fumes still lingering above the wasteland.

Hope you enjoyed this little insight! Have a lovely day :)

#transformers #ask #my writing

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whimperwoods · 3 years

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Oswin - The Archdevil

Part 2 of a new series about Oswin Greystone, wizard con man and deeply unfortunate man.

So anyway, yeah, the captain of the guard wants a pet wizard. Things are not looking great for poor Oswin. They’re not looking great in his own series, now, because this is long enough to need a readmore. Let me know if you want to be on a taglist and I’ll start one. I’m not sure how much of this there will be, but he and his creepy captain really grabbed my imagination, so certainly there will be some more after this.

Continuation of this post.

tw: abuse, tw: abuse of authority, tw: fantasy police brutality (though he’s kind of stopped pretending to be acting as a cop at this point), tw: fantasy devil worship, tw: pet whump (working toward it anyway), tw: devil contracts

*****

Oswin’s legs couldn’t hold him, but the whip that had nearly killed him was back in the guard captain’s hand, so he kept dragging himself along beside him, crawling awkwardly forward on his good hand and his knees and nearly tangling himself up in the robes that, with the back sliced open, hung down in his way, barely attached to him anymore.

At the bottom of the steep, winding staircase, Oswin’s limbs were already quaking, and he let out a soft whimper that made his throat ache.

The captain moved around him and squatted down in front of his head, cupping his face in one hand. “First choice, pet. You’re going up two flights of stairs, up to my chambers over the main office. You may crawl, you may be dragged, or you may be carried. I spent too much on that healing potion to hope for dragging, but you’ll need to be a very good boy if I carry you.”

Oswin’s brain couldn’t catch up. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. This wasn’t how people talked. It wasn’t how people were. Except - wasn’t it? He’d been in the courts of petty, tyrannical lords before, on occasion. He’d watched men who could get away with it pinch serving women and belittle servants and - and perhaps that was what this man thought was happening. Perhaps he thought Oswin a servant, or likely to become one. And without Oswin’s books available to him, maybe he was right.

Oswin wanted to look down, to avert his eyes, but his time when he tried, the captain kept a steel grip on his chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. They were dark, a brown that tended toward gray, without any of the warmth of his own, and hard as stones. He swallowed heavily, the pain in his throat insignificant next to the pain still raging across his back, but still easily made worse.

It had been hard enough getting himself to the foot of the stairs, and he couldn’t imagine breathing or moving would be easier on an incline.

“I can be a good boy, Master,” he whispered.

The captain smiled. “Clever. I’ll have to keep my eye on that. But then, I knew you would be. Come on, put your arms around my neck.”

Oswin knew he was a little underfed, but the captain picked him up like it was nothing. The pressure of the captain’s arm across his ruined back felt white-hot, and he cried out hoarsely as he wrapped his arms around the captain’s neck and tried to hold himself up, away from the contact. He wasn’t strong enough, and had to settle back into his new master’s grip, his eyes filling with tears and his breath growing ragged again.

“That doesn’t sound like being a good boy,” the captain whispered into his ear, a low half-growl, “That sounds like complaining when you’re being done a favor.”

Oswin forced himself to breathe through the pain, to catch his breath, to talk. His voice came out strained, and barely above a whisper. “No, Master, please! I’m grateful! I just -” he grunted in pain, in spite of himself, “I just needed to adjust but now I can be - I can be fully grateful, Master, please.”

He wasn’t sure he’d ever begged so much in one day, but this time it seemed to work, or at least, his master didn’t drop him down the stairs. Instead, the captain started climbing, not winded no the stairs even carrying Oswin’s weight. Oswin shivered in the man’s arms. He’d hoped during his whipping, before his mind fully abandoned him, that the beating would stop when the captain grew tired, but he was certain now that that hadn’t been the case.

He’d been in dangerous spots before, but this time - this time he couldn’t afford the sob that threatened to rise up in his throat, so he buried his face in the side of the captain’s neck, clinging more tightly so that the man wouldn’t think he had any thought of trying to get away.

The captain’s pleased little hum made the pressure behind Oswin’s eyes spike, but he couldn’t afford the tears, so he focused instead on his breathing, on keeping it steady, on leaning into the captain’s grip so as not to fall, and then they were at the top of the stairs and his master was still carrying him, his footsteps steady as he walked through a small receiving room, a smaller office, which was little more than a closet with a desk in it, and into a sparsely-decorated bedroom.

The captain set Oswin down on the floor, just inside the door, and Oswin watched as he pulled an old, soft-looking rug to the side and revealed a set of sigils carved into the floor in circles, which he calmly traced over in chalk, reinforcing them.

Oswin’s skin crawled, and his stomach soured, but he knew he had no hope of making it down the stairs, much less out of the building, without being caught and, presumably, tortured to death.

The captain retrieved a set of fine wax candles, more expensive than Oswin would have expected in a room like this, and Oswin thought, passively, that a quick death might have been worth it, but that wasn’t what he’d been promised.

The captain lit most of the candles and then came toward Oswin, manhandling him into the center of the circle without a word, and then arranging him on his knees, barking a single order: “Kneel.”

Oswin’s hands were bound behind his back, and he hung his head, not sure if he was going for deferential, or just for too pathetic to hurt again. Either way, the effort of staying upright soon took all of his attention, so that he hardly noticed the final candle being lit.

An enormous, winged figure stepped into the room, out of nowhere. He seemed to fill the space entirely, then shrunk down to merely looming, a head and a half taller than the guard captain and clearly strong enough to break either of them in half.

Oswin’s master was beside him, and knelt, too, albeit only on one knee, bowing deeply to the archdevil.

As the captain’s back straightened, the devil said, “Rise. Why do you request an audience, my champion?”

The captain got to his feet, but then bowed again, still standing. “I humbly propose an addendum to my contract, Master.”

Oswin’s mouth dried instantly. Power radiated from the archdevil like nothing he’d ever felt before, and his voice dripped with it. Was this fool really going to try to negotiate with it?

The archdevil laughed. “I already own your soul, child. What else is left to offer?”

The captain gestured toward Oswin. “His, for a start.”

Oswin looked up in surprise, and instantly regretted it. It had been one thing to sneak glances at the archdevil through his eyelashes; it was another to look directly up at him, meeting a pair of terrifying eyes that seemed made entirely of fire.

“You think you can make contracts with other people’s souls?”

“I can if you’re willing to agree to my terms - what I want is his soul, but not to keep, of course. I’m happy to cede it back to you the moment he dies. And my original contract stipulated that I was willing to work for you, but not to proselytize. It was a point of contention at the time, if I recall, but I told you I would not be certain enough to promise such a thing, outside myself, for some years. It has been ‘some years,’ Master, and I’m happy to find you new followers, provided that it does not jeopardize the other work I do for you.”

“And your interest in his soul?” the devil asked, still looking Oswin in the eye. Oswin found himself paralyzed, unable to look away. Under that devilish gaze, he felt like his chest was being torn apart, his insides pulled out and studied, even though no one was touching him.

“I’ve always wanted a pet wizard,” the captain said casually, “Call it professional curiosity. I know my magic is yours, of course, Master, but I’d like to study those humans who do it on their own - and I’d like to harness it. I won’t be learning myself, of course. I know where my skills lie, and the purpose you’d have me put them to. But I don’t like the idea of humans with power, and I want this one under my thumb, where I can learn to tear those apart.”

Oswin was shaking, the wounds across his back pulsing again, agonizing, while the devil’s eyes continued to rove over his front. He felt like a bug, pinned to a scientist’s paper, but the paper was burning, too, acidic and deadly.

“And why this one?” The devil’s eyes suddenly left him, turning their full force on the captain, and Oswin sagged forward, gasping for breath.

“This one’s a very interesting case,” the captain said. “No respect for a contract, which I’m hoping to beat out of him, but for once I had a wizard in my sights who wasn’t blatantly dangerous, and I thought I’d make good on the opportunity. He’s been selling counterfeit spell scrolls, and then disappearing to ply his trade somewhere else in town before his victims actually try to read or copy the damned things. The thing is, we know he’s strong enough that he could make the real thing, were he properly - motivated. He’s useful, but in need of - management.”

The archdevil hummed thoughtfully, and the captain added, “In our attempts to capture him, he displayed quite a bit of power and - spunk. I know better than to think I could control him without your direct assistance, my lord. But I hope to use him in your service.” He bowed again, more quickly this time.

The archdevil stepped forward into the circle, which Oswin had really been hoping he couldn’t do, and reached down, raising Oswin’s chin to make him look into those flaming eyes again, and nearly lifting him off the ground by the head as he did it.

“And I suppose it doesn’t hurt that he’s a pretty little thing, hmm?” the devil asked, his flame eyes flicking quickly to the captain and back.

The man chuckled. “No, my lord. It does not. Nor does it hurt that he’s already proven he breaks beautifully. You should have heard him begging earlier.”

“We will negotiate the details without him,” the archdevil said imperiously, “It’s simpler that way. And he can agree or refuse.”

Oswin was nearly hyperventilating in the devil’s grip.

“I’m not sure which I think is more interesting,” the devil added casually, before letting go of Oswin’s face and waving his hand in a pattern too quick for even Oswin’s practiced eyes to follow. A blanket of silence fell over him and he could hear nothing, not even his own breathing, for so long that he found himself collapsed inward before the sound returned, bowed low, with his forehead on the floor and his chest and stomach cushioned against his legs, where he could feel the rise and fall of the breaths he couldn’t hear and know that he was still alive.

He realized he was sobbing in dry, heaving gasps only when sound came rushing back to his ears, but he wasn’t sure how long he had been doing it.

“Very well,” the archdevil said, “Lift his head. I want to look him in the eyes again.”

The captain’s hands forced Oswin upward, tilting his head back to make him look up at the looming devil.

“Oswin the wizard,” the archdevil said, power already crackling in his voice in a way that seemed to bind up the air in Oswin’s lungs. “I assume there’s a surname that goes with that.”

“G-greystone, my lord,” Oswin said, the answer tearing out of him in spite of his dry mouth and aching throat, “My father was a mason, but thought to better himself, or at least our family.”

“Hmm, well, now you’ll be in service of a captain of the city guard - and of me. It seems he’ll be getting his wish.”

Oswin shuddered. The archdevil’s voice was oil-smooth, but so, so dangerous. He nodded wordlessly, knowing better than to disagree.

“Should you agree to cosign this addendum with my champion,” the archdevil continued, “You will be bound, body and soul, to his service. Your soul will be mine, to be delivered upon your permanent death. You will be marked as mine, but you will not receive any of my power, nor will you be allowed to use yours outside of your master’s orders.”

The archdevil’s mouth quirked upward into a smile. “I should warn you, wizard, this is an extremely bad deal for you. But my champion assures me that you are a genuine affront to order, and that whether you sign or not, you will be brought to heel. Or you could choose to be tortured to death. But you should know that your master’s contract with me stipulates that if you do not cooperate, he may kill you up to five times and have you returned to his care to try again. I have never seen a man strong enough to withstand being tortured to death a third time, much less a fourth. I’m afraid a bad deal is the only one you’ve got.”

Oswin’s mind swam. He was trapped again, pinned by those eyes, and he was burning, he was sure of it. His mind felt like it was caught in an earthquake, struggling to run to safety with the land bucking underneath him. Just as he took in a breath to speak, the archdevil interrupted him.

“Do not think you can make a deal of your own with me, instead, Oswin Greystone. This one likes a challenge, and he is a useful servant. I don’t make contracts with the desperate. Not worth the work of keeping an eye on them. Break his hold on you, and I will let the consequences be what they will. But try to take your soul back from me and I will destroy you where you stand. I do not have the patience to shepherd one who is reluctant.”

The captain held up a knife. “This agreement will be sealed in blood, or not at all. What do you choose, submission or death?”

The archdevil’s eyes had not left him. Gods, he was burning up. He knew with complete certainty that death, even drawn out, would mean facing this devil again, would mean those flaming eyes burning into him, that oil-slick voice talking to him, that crackling, unbearable power licking at the edges of his own, and he’d just wind up right back here again, waiting to be tortured.

What escaped his lips was a sob, and not an agreement, but the archdevil looked away, making a soft noise of satisfaction. “He chooses submission. Bring the parchment.”

#whump #fantasy whump #d&d whump #abuse tw #fantasy devil worship tw #fantasy police brutality tw #abuse of authority tw #abuse of power tw #is anything whumpier than contract negotiation?#(I mean... yes. but that's not the point)#the captain will get a name if and when i decide he actually needs one #right now the salient point is evil warlock who figures it's chill because at least he's organized about it #(it isn't)#also this warlock was already in the city guard and already had martial training prior to the warlock gig so not a guy to mess with when #you have no particular physical prowess to speak of and haven't been eating well for a couple of months

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ieattaperecorders · 3 years

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Notes on Causality - Basira

An addendum to Something's Different About You Lately. There are some things that people have asked about that I know the answer to but don't plan to put in the main story (mostly because I think they'd break the momentum.) So I'm adding a few short scenes in a side document.

The events of this scene happen in the same general time period as Chapter 5.

Read on Ao3

It had taken some time, but Jon had managed to find a coin-operated phone booth well outside central London, on a side street without any foot traffic. Even then he hesitated, hanging back until several minutes had passed without anybody walking by. The notebook he'd filled with scribbled-out eyes was still tucked in his pocket, though he didn't know if it was enough to keep Elias from seeing this. He wasn't sure if it even mattered – for once Elias's attention wasn't what concerned him - but he felt better using every resource at his disposal.

He wrapped a thin scarf around the receiver to disguise his voice, and dialed the number from memory.

"Hello?" A familiar voice answered.

"Officer Hussain?"

"What?"

"I need to speak to you about–"

"Can't understand you," she cut him off. "You sound really muffled, can't make out what you're saying."

Jon sighed and took the scarf away. "Better?"

"Oh, yeah. Much better."

"Wonderful," Jon said archly. "Listen, this is probably going to be a very strange call. But given that you're Section 31, I suspect you're not inclined to dismiss something just because it's strange."

There was a brief pause, the silence of a perspective shifting.

". . . All right," Basira said.

"Sometime in the future, you may be called on to carry out a raid involving the People's Church of the Divine Host, likely in connection with a kidnapping case. If that happens, you'll need as many light sources with you as possible. High-powered torches, flares, the more the better."

"Why?"

"Because the thing that will be waiting for you in there does not like the light."

There was another, longer pause.

"Guess you did say it would be a strange call," Basira said. Jon found it painfully easy to imagine the look on her face, eyebrows raised, balanced somewhere between amused and wary.

"If it's any consolation, this is pretty strange for me as well."

"Hmm," he thought he heard the sound of writing, but it may have been his imagination."Who are you, anyway? Are you with the People's Church?"

"I can't explain that. Just think of this as an anonymous tip."

"Fair enough."

"And there's something else you should know. The kidnapping victim, he should be about twelve . . . if you get him out. . . ." Jon hesitated, then continued. "Try to see that he gets help."

"Not sure what you mean. Like, counseling or something?"

"I – yes maybe? Good counseling, though. But just a helpful, sympathetic adult might make a difference."

"You know I'm not –"

"I know," he couldn't keep himself from interrupting, already guessing her response. "You're the police and not a babysitting service, I get it. It's just . . . he's going to be changed by his experiences. And there aren't many people out there who have the kind of experience with the supernatural that you do – who'd even believe what he'd been through, let alone understand the weight of it."

He knew even as he spoke that he was probably getting Callum killed. No matter how he framed it, directing Basira's attention towards him would put him in Daisy's sights as well. And if she saw him as a monster, his age would be no protection. The thought did not sit comfortably at all.

"He's had some behavioral issues already – fighting in school, bullying younger children. I'm sure you've encountered worse from troubled youths."

A soft snort of a laugh. "Sure."

"But he can be better than that. And . . ." he struggled to find the right words. "I think if someone doesn't intervene, he won't have the chance to be."

He didn't know where the desperate note in his voice had come from. Was he pleading with Basira, to reach out to Callum in earnest and not write him off? He wasn't even certain she could pull him away from the path of the Dark, if it was possible at all.

It wasn't just the fate of one child in question. There were the ones who would be Callum's victims. Knowing what he knew, did have a responsibility to them? To keep Callum from becoming something that would feed other children to the Dark, even if the most likely outcome was him dying in pain and fear? Wasn't it unfair to put him in this position – not even because of anything he'd done, but because of what he might do?

And if he had a duty to Callum's victims, what duty did he have to Daisy's?

"Okay. Suppose I'll try talking to him." Basira's voice. "Anything else, mystery man?"

There was nothing he could do about Daisy. He'd thought about it ever since he came back, approached it from a thousand different angles and in the end came up empty. He couldn't make her want to change. Confronting her with her actions now would end with him in an unmarked grave, killed to keep her secrets and feed her god. Trying to stop her by force – or somehow kill her – would end the same way. And he could hardly trap her in the Buried, let alone dive in and pull her out again.

Even if he could, he'd only be killing her indirectly.

Whose sake did he even want to stop her for? Some lost, alternate version of herself? For her victims, perhaps. But there were other avatars out there, including others on the police force. It wasn't as if he was planning to go after them all, play the Hunter himself. This world was full of darkness and pain, and Daisy and Callum were just two terrible pieces of it.

Maybe he wanted to help them for his own sake. Maybe it was just for his own reassurance that he wanted them to be better than their worst selves. Or maybe it wasn't any one reason – these motivations weren't incompatible.

It was academic, he had no way to save or to stop her. Daisy would keep killing, and one day Basira would either join her as a Hunter or die by her hands. And nothing he could do would change any of that.

"You still there?"

A voice came in his ear, snapping him out of his thoughts. Without thinking, he opened his mouth.

"Do you like what your partner is doing?"

The words came without his consent – from brain to voice without pause or filter, and then they couldn't be taken back. Basira's voice remained steady, but he knew her well enough to feel how high her guard had just gone up.

"What do you mean?"

"What she did to Aaron Singh, Noah Thomson, Cloé Espinosa? Do you approve of it, or think it's righteous? Do you think that you're becoming something good?"

". . . Who are you?"

Jon hung the phone up before he could say more, then stood leaning against the side of the phone booth, heart racing. He waited until his breathing returned to normal, and until the phantom ache across his throat began to fade. Had he changed anything? If so, was the change for better or for worse? If he was lucky, he would never know.

He turned and walked back to the train station.

#tma fanfic #police brutality mention #tma time travel au

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brittababbles · 4 years

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So, seeing as you said questions are okay - lisanna and oberyn are in an arranged marriage but when do they actually meet for the second time (1st being when he chose her over cersei)? Is it at the altar or did they get to meet when they were younger. Did they write to each other growing up? Is lisanna ever shown a portrait of her destined husband? What about ellaria? When does lisanna meet her? Is lisanna told about oberyn's reputation?

Questions are magnificent. I need direction terribly.

So the first time they meet is actually the occasion of which Oberyn speaks when he traveled to Casterly Rock with Elia and their father. He was seven. Lisanna was three. Oberyn remembers this vividly; Lisanna, of course, doesn’t recall it at all.

They don’t actually meet again until about a month before their wedding, but I’ll get there in a moment, because the arrangement surrounding their marriage isn’t as long-standing as it might have sounded. After all, this wasn’t Tywin’s first choice - he wanted to marry off his eldest daughter first. Tywin offers Cersei to Oberyn only after Elia and Rheagar Targaryan’s betrothal comes to be, and includes the addendum that, should the Prince of Dorne prefer, Lord Tywin’s younger daughter is also of marriageable age. Oberyn was only involved in the decision because he’s Dornish and was very nearly eighteen at the time and it was felt he ought to have a say in his own marriage. The Dornish court probably wasn’t expecting him to have such a... vehement opinion on the matter. But he did. So his “choice” of Lisanna over Cersei was less about any desire to marry the younger sister than it was about a deep, deep desire not to marry the elder sister. He chose what he hoped was the lesser of two evils and got lucky, I suppose.

Lisanna, for her part, had no memory of ever seeing Oberyn until he arrived in King’s Landing with his sister shortly before Elia’s marriage to Rheagar. Her father had brought her and her sister along for the festivities - they were both such pretty things, after all, and added ornamentation to the Lannister name if nothing else. It was mostly a happy accident, really, as Tywin had gone to no effort to arrange any kind of pre-alter meeting of the two betrothed, and it wasn’t like Sunspear was incredibly convenient a location for a Lannister to visit offhand. She must have seen a portrait, seeing as their marriage arrangements had carried on for nearly a year between their two houses, plus she could identify him on sight, but she’s never put much stock in the truth of portraits and at any rate, no picture could do Oberyn justice.

She saw him ride in with the Dornish contingent when her father lined her up with Cersei to welcome the Princess. He was taller than she’d expected, and stunningly lithe. She was a fifteen year old virgin and had never seen a man who could move like Oberyn, even in the saddle. He immediately sought out Lord Tywin following any formal introductions, and lightly kissed his bride-to-be’s hand, and managed to have enough sense not to grin at the wide eyed expression he received from her in return.

They spent virtually no time together in the intervening month, but when the Dornish party returned to Sunspear, they took a small group of Lannisters with them. Tywin joined them two weeks later at which time Lisanna and Oberyn were married.

Up to this point, their relationship was very formal. They were never alone together until their wedding night; Lisanna was always accompanied by a septa, an older serving lady, or her father. She called him “Prince Oberyn” and he “My Lady Lannister”. The only time he touched her was when he kissed her hand before they parted at the end of each of these - honestly rather stiff and uncomfortable - meetings. Their wedding was an equally formal affair, though she notes that Oberyn smiled through the whole of the ceremony. She tried, but was honestly more focused on keeping her breakfast down and not stepping on her maiden cloak. The feast that followed separated them fairly consistently too; Lisanna ate next to nothing, and played her bride/hostess role well enough. They sat next to each other, but spoke only occasionally to one another. It was a busy occasion, after all.

They left separately for their designated bedchamber - Oberyn’s, obviously. There was no formal bedding ceremony - Lisanna later learned that this was at her husband’s insistence in order to make her more comfortable. Tywin’s last words to Lisanna: Please him, if you can. Her father was on his way back to the Red Keep by dawn the next morning. She didn’t see him again for several years.

Did Lisanna know about Oberyn’s reputation? In a manner, I suppose. She knew he was no innocent, at least. Cersei and Lisanna did not have what I would call a loving sisterly relationship - Cersei is made easily jealous, and did not like sharing Tywin’s affection with a younger sister. This redoubled when the Martells chose her little sister over her to be their princess. As such, every rumor ever whispered about Oberyn got back to Lisanna via her sister prior to their marriage. Again, she was fifteen and a virgin and was inclined to believe her older, more experienced sister, particularly on matters of sex (it wasn’t a well kept secret between the four Lannister siblings, after all, about Cersei and Jaime). So when her sister told her that Oberyn fucked the corpses of men he killed in battle, that he’d fathered four children already (true at the time, though it wound soon be five, and one of the few true things Cersei ever told her about Oberyn), that he went to bed with goats and that he once bit a girl so hard during sex that he severed an artery and she bled to death (this one became, in retrospect, laughable in Lisanna’s eyes, but at the time terrified her completely). So to say that she was terrified going into their wedding night would hardly be an overstatement. Her ladies dressed her in some elaborate nightgown and then sent her into his room. She arrived before he did, sat on the edge of the bed, and sobbed.

It was at roughly that point that Oberyn arrived and realized that he had his work cut out for him. For he had heard all the usual things about his bride; that she was kind and gentle and pure as the untouched Northern snow. He’d anticipated the nerves of a maiden, and the typical shakiness that comes along with deflowering a girl, but he didn’t expect to have to convince her that he had no intention of draining her of all of her blood that night, or any night to come for that matter. My sweet little flower, he muttered, touching her chin gently to get her to look at him, there’s no need for these tears. Do all the women of Casterly Rock cry on their bridal nights?

He’d ordered up a small spread for them, because he’s Oberyn and he noticed that his new wife hadn’t touched her food at the wedding feast, and led her out to the balcony where the servants had placed it alongside a long sort of chaise. They spent the next couple hours there, in the moonlight, and he calmed her fairly easily. He made certain she’d eaten to her satisfaction, and offered her wine as she liked. He was gentle with her and for the first time they just...talked. For hours, they talked and exchanged stories and started to call each other by name, and she giggled into her goblet as he told her a story of some mischief he and Elia had caused as children, and he curled a single finger around her hair as she told him of the two sight-hounds she’d left behind as Casterly Rock. At some point, she drew near enough that he could kiss her.

The rest of the night... he was good to her. He carried her into the bedroom, whispering promises that he would not hurt her, then gently undressed her, disposed of his own clothes, and laid her on the bed. He kissed her everywhere from her forehead to her toes, then pulled her first...second... third orgasms from her with his tongue before slipping inside her and slowly, carefully making love to her. She cried at first, then cried out his name in the end, and he held her through it, spilling inside her and gasping words of praise against her lips.

When he’d finished tending to her, and had wrapped her in the silk sheets and curled himself around her, he whispered to her that the needn’t do this again, if she didn’t wish it. I would never want that she whispered, kissing him.

They spent the next several weeks getting to know one another better, in some ways. The sex became less gentle, and Lisanna became less of a Lannister.

Ellaria, of course, proceeds Lisanna in Oberyn’s life by a year and a few months. Their first daughter had been born before Oberyn’s marriage. Ellaria was hardly ever a secret between the newlyweds - the fact that Oberyn had children by other women was a well known fact - but that he loved another woman did bother Lisanna at first. He hardly loved Lisanna less for Ellaria’s presence, but Lisanna was a northern girl (or so Oberyn teasingly liked to call her. For everything is north of Dorne) and was raised in a deeply monogamous culture. She couldn’t fathom loving two people at once. Not at first.

Ellaria actually entered Lisanna’s life separate from Oberyn, oddly enough.

Lisanna was - and is - prone to difficult menstrual periods. Particularly in her teenage years, she suffered through the intensely painful cramps on the typical monthly rotation. These were compounded by anxiety when Oberyn was away, and as a prince and esteemed warrior of Dorne it was hardly possible for him to be with his bride constantly. Ellaria found Lisanna curled up in her marriage bed, sobbing in both pain and panic. This woman - the most beautiful woman Lisanna had ever seen, simply crawled into bed alongside the princess and held her. All through the day and evening and night, just held her and stroked her hair. In the morning she kissed Lisanna. They spent the next week in bed together. Lisanna was seventeen.

You can imagine Oberyn’s surprise when he comes home to find his two beloveds curled up in his bed without him, and after a slight sulk that this all went on in his absence, he gleefully climbed in alongside them. Very little has changed in this arrangement since. Both women acknowledge that each needs their time alone with the prince. Oberyn, for his part, sees nothing in leaving his two doves alone together. Ellaria delivered - hands on delivered, for Lisanna has no love of maesters considering what happened to her mother - all of Lisanna’s children, and Lisanna was at Ellaria’s side for her three youngest daughters births. Lisanna is Oberyn’s wife, and therefore is legally recognized above his paramour, but it’s hard to say that one outranks the other in his life. They exist in balance with one another.

I hope this clears up a few questions, a maybe sparks a few more. I welcome them whole-heartedly, because I haven’t come up with a format that works well for this character yet. She’s buried in Rumi poems and old crusading songs and since I’m neither Rumi nor a crusader, it’s a bit difficult to get her out on paper. So I welcome all questions or thoughts on this character, because I’m very eager to share her.

#oberyn martell #oberyn martell x oc #lady lisanna lannister #game of answers #game of thrones

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lasttimeonthenegaverse · 4 years

Text

The Life and Times of the Negaverse- part two

Later, when it was just him and Launchpad in bed (it wouldn’t be for long- not only was this the longest Gosalyn’s been kidnapped, it’s also the longest he’s been gone. The brat would appear sooner or later) Negaduck couldn't really sleep. There was something he'd been thinking about for a while now. Though if he was asked to pinpoint when he'd gotten the idea, he wouldn't be able to say.

“Launchpad,” Negaduck elbowed his husband. “ Launchpad .”

“Wha?” Launchpad glared at Negaduck, annoyed to be woken from his first good sleep in weeks.

“I think we should get another caretaker for Gosalyn,” Negaduck said and that woke Launchpad fully.

“What do you mean?” Launchpad asked.

“You can’t spend all your time at home and I’m tired of seeing you moping every time she’s gone for a day,” Negaduck said.

“I don’t mope,” Launchpad said.

“Then I’m tired of seeing you bitch,” Negaduck corrected which earned him a flat look. “We can’t watch Gosalyn twenty four seven. She needs someone who can be around more. Someone who could teach her something she’ll actually learn instead of being a huffy brat. And I happen to have the perfect candidate.”

“Who?” Launchpad was sceptical. Sure, he trusted his husband and the plans he had were usually good. This was their daughter , though. Gosalyn could prove to be as picky as him oftentimes.

“Morgana.”

“Oh hell no,” Launchpad went up on an elbow like he was preparing to fight. “I don't want that bitch in charge of Gos.”

“Neither do I. That's why I'm getting Darkwing’s.” Negaduck smiled at him.

“Didn’t ya say they’re datin’?” Launchpad narrowed his eyes.

Negaduck scoffed. “Puh-lease, it'll be doing them both a favour.”

“Nu-uh,” Launchpad shook his head. There was no way Launchpad would accept Morgana into their house. It didn't matter that she was a different version. His jaw was set, but Negaduck’s was equally set. “No way.”

“You want people to keep kidnapping Gosalyn? How ‘bout I just leave her wherever she ends up next time,” Negaduck said.

“ Morgana ,” Launchpad said with emphasis. “Are ya insane ? I thought ya said the portal broke, anyhow.”

“I did,” Negaduck said. “But I'm sure one of your old friends could help me.”

Launchpad’s eyebrows furrowed as he racked his brain, flipping through every person he'd met that lived. It was a longer list then some might think. Finally, it dawned. “Ya are insane.”

Negaduck smirked. It was clear in the way Launchpad looked at him from the moment he'd mentioned it. From the second Launchpad rose on that elbow to tower slightly above him. He thought this whole thing was a bad idea. Well, too bad. See him come up with something better. Instead of prolonging the argument, Negaduck chose to press a biting kiss to Launchpad’s beak.

“She's sleepin’ in the guest room. I ain't lettin’ someone else in my bed,” Launchpad said, lying back down and turning so his back was to Negaduck. It was a surrender. A begrudging surrender, but a surrender nonetheless.

“Of course.”

Dr. Sara Bellum was in her lab when he got to S.H.U.S.H. Just as he figured she would be. The good doctor was married to her science. Practically literally. She actually wore a green wedding ring to ward off any potentials. One that could produce one long spike for anyone who didn't understand ‘no’. All in all, she was his kinda person. Even if she'd almost killed Launchpad five times.

He cleared his throat and Dr. Bellum startled before she turned to him. “Oh! Negaduck!” She looked around him excitedly, hands clasped. “Did you bring Launchpad? I have an experiment that I'd love to run on a sturdier victim!”

“Not today, Dr. Bellum.” The doctor visibly wilted at that. “I need you to make me a cross-dimensional portal.”

With that she brightened right back up. Immediately she headed over to a doorway he assumed led to a storage closet. There was a box next to it that she began to mess with. “Where would you like to go? 4308-009? No, probably not. I think that one’s all hats. 4308-070?”

He wasn't sure what the numbers were. Right now, he only wanted one thing. “Remember when that Darkdip came over here? I just need one that goes to his universe.”

“Oh! You want to go to universe 4308-052!” Dr. Bellum said.

Of course, if she was gonna keep speaking in code - “What are you blabbering on about?” Negaduck demanded.

“I've been running tests on my own interdimensional portal since you started your dimension hopping,” Dr. Bellum said. “I've only peeked into most of them but I've spent some time in Darkwing’s dimension. I understand the appeal. The Sara from there is very pleasant.”

That didn't really answer his question. Though at this point, he was used to being at least a little lost while talking to her. He certainly didn't like it, but he was used to it. Dr. Bellum had a nasty habit of taking circles around everyone in the room and he wasn't sure if it was because she didn't notice or because she truly didn't care. But her experiments with the portals hadn't been something he'd known about. Not that he ever paid much attention to Dr. Bellum when he didn't need her. And Launchpad tended to give her a wide berth ever since she’d snuck into his room to conduct experiments on him while he slept during his time at S.H.U.S.H. They both felt it best to just let her do her thing. The good doctor had a tendency toward gadgets Negaduck found useful, anyhow. She was more inclined to let him use them this way. “Does either S.H.U.S.H. know about this?”

“Oh, they tend to stay out of our way ever since we made that death ray together!” Dr. Bellum chirped.

Negaduck raised his eyebrows, impressed. That was something he’d have to look into. But not right now. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. “Just show me the damn portal.”

Dr. Bellum looked at him like she didn’t think he was very smart. Then she pressed a singular button on the box. There was a buzz and a rumble and a shake. Orange light poured out under the door.

So it wasn’t a closet.

Something was held up too close to his face. With a grimace he took a step back so he could actually see it. The object was silver metal. A clockface swung in front of his beak. “ This is to bring you back to our universe, 4308-049. Just press this little button,” and she brought it back close to herself, pointing to the button that would set an alarm. “and it’ll zap you right back here.”

“Alright.” He snatched the watch from her, putting it on his wrist. There was a minute of silence as Negaduck waited for a ‘and this is how you’ll die’. Eventually Dr. Bellum seemed to get bored and turned away, back to what she’d been working on before he got there. The death addendum never came. Apparently she’d gotten all the ‘features’ out of this one.

Before he left he pulled out his phone to call Launchpad. He picked up on the second ring.

“She already had a portal,” Negaduck said in lieu of a greeting.

Launchpad grunted in response. “Ya goin’ through?”

“Yep,” Negaduck said.

“Ya sure about this?” Launchpad asked once again, just as he did when they woke up. And after their dry cereal breakfast. (Neither had gotten milk yet. Launchpad was supposed to grab groceries while he was out.) And before he’d left.

Negaduck rolled his eyes, but he didn’t vocally respond. He knew Launchpad would be able to sense it. They both knew he wouldn’t change his mind. As he opened the portal door, he could almost see Launchpad’s responding nod. “I’m heading in.”

“Don't seduce her. Ya got lucky with me, doubt ya will with the witch.” With those parting words, Launchpad hung up.

‘Don’t seduce her.’ Pssh. He was Negaduck. He could have anybody he wanted tripping over themselves to please him. A little seduction wouldn’t go awry.

What did Launchpad know?

A lot. Launchpad knew a lot and he hated him for it. This was something he'd take to his fucking grave.

Negaduck currently had his back plastered against the kitchen wall right next to the doorway to the living room where Morgana was. She hurled spell after spell toward him. Something she'd been doing since she walked in to him sitting in one of her living room chairs. It had been fine until she turned on the light. He probably shouldn't have mentioned the blood of her enemies. Luckily she hadn't managed to hit him yet.

“Morgana, babe, just hear me out!” Negaduck called.

“I don't want to go on a date with you, nor do I want you to paint me like a French girl, I am very happy with my dear Dark!”

Painting like a French girl. He smiled to himself. No loss there. Negaduck couldn't paint, anyhow. Launchpad on the other hand. They had the proof in the tower of just what Launchpad could do with a body, a canvas, and some acrylics.

“Fine,” Negaduck bit out. “No dates.” That’d annoy Launchpad more than this plan already has anyhow. And Launchpad could get pouty when he was annoyed. He didn’t need his husband to poison Morgana the second he was able to drag her back to the Negaverse with him.

Thankfully, that seemed to do the trick. When he risked a look he wasn’t immediately shot at. Instead Morgana just glared at him. It was a good look on her. “What do you want, Negaduck ?”

He frowned pitifully at her. “Why the distrust, Morgana?” There was no vocal answer, but her gaze hardened. “Still bitter about the way our first date ended?”

“That wasn’t a date,” Morgana said. “You tricked me.”

“Ah, potato pahtato, my sweet. Some of my best dates have been through trickery,” Negaduck said. He’d almost forgotten how nice it was to talk with this Morgana. She was more willing to keep up with his repartee than his own, who figured herself too far above it. It was something satisfying.

“You still haven't told me why you're here,” Morgana said.

“Do I need a reason to visit my favourite witch?”

“I doubt you do anything without a reason.” Morgana crossed her arms.

Negaduck smiled at her. “Look at that. You know me so well already.”

“What do you want, Negaduck?”

“I want you to come with me.”

Her face swapped between emotions like a flip book. Never lingering long enough to really read a single one. The final look was multifaceted. The disdain and distrust were plain. Harder to see was the curiosity. On her it looked morbid. Given that it was curiosity in him , he thought it fit. If anything he'd wear it with pride. “Why?” She asked eventually, careful.

That was the million dollar question, wasn’t it. This was the moment to decide. Would he go for broke and just tell her most of the truth or would he spell out a flat-out lie. In this situation it might be better to just go for the truth. She’d be coming with him no matter what, but he’d like it if she came willingly. From what he knew about her a little girl could do that. Oftentimes the truth was more fun, anyway.

“I need you to help raise and keep an eye on my daughter,” Negaduck told her.

Morgana's expression flipped to a full out glare. Apparently the truth hadn't been the right course of action. “Dark told me what you did to that poor little girl.”

‘Poor little girl’. He wanted to scoff. ‘Little terror’ was more like it. Not that Morgana or Darkwing Dipstick knew that. Barely anyone knew that, which was the whole reason he was here in the first place.

“That dumbass doesn't know anything,” Negaduck growled. “He just jumps to conclusions and sometimes he gets lucky.”

“You locked that sweet girl up in your house like a prisoner just because she's different from you!” Morgana said, likely words ripped right from Darkwing.

He couldn't deny that conclusion hit the head pretty square on. Though there were more subtle nuances Darkwing wasn't privy to. Which could be the tagline for his whole career. “That was for her own good.”

“Own good?” Morgana repeated and her stare turned molten. “ Own good ? How ever could locking a child up in a house be for her own good? ” She demanded.

Negaduck felt his hackles raise. He didn't like being told how to take care of his own damn kid . Especially by someone who didn't even know anything. “My brat gets kidnapped constantly ,” he spit out. “What else could I do? My husband took her everywhere with him, but she was sick of that and not everyday can be ‘bring your daughter to work day’.” The monologue helped cool him slightly. He rolled his eyes. He wouldn't mention the way Gosalyn would whine when her dress got a little blood on it. Luckily Agent 22 knew how to get blood out of clothes. If she hadn’t gotten that spot out of Gosalyn’s favourite pink dress she wouldn’t have let them hear the end of it. And St. Canard would’ve felt it. But back on track. “Of course the week I order her to stay in the damn house? That numbskull decides to traipse all over my city and hand my fucking kid over to a bunch of heroes! Do you know how fucking worried my husband was? So I had to get someone else- you . I’d get my universe’s version of you but she has a stick so far up her ass I'd be able to use her as a puppet if I had a death wish.” Was he scared of his universe’s Morgana? No. Was he an idiot? Also no.

There were so many statements there. So much to unpack. Morgana’s mind parsed through them, one after the other. At least one thing was mentioned twice. That’s what she latched onto. “You’re married?”

“For ten bloody years,” Negaduck said proudly before his voice turned dark. “Is that a problem?” It wouldn’t be the first time someone’d given him shit for being married. There was something about Launchpad that rubbed people the wrong way. But he always made sure to rub them and make sure everything was okay again. He always found it much harder for them to complain once their body parts were one with the irrigation system.

“No I just,” Morgana frowned. “You don’t seem the type.”

Negaduck shrugged. Before he’d met Launchpad, he hadn’t considered himself the marrying type either. It’s amazing what a fight to the death can do. “Point is, we need you. Someone needs to be able to help us watch her so this doesn’t happen again.”

Her eyes flicked between him and something behind him. There was hesitation in that gaze. That was something he couldn’t have. “We want you there, Morgana.”

“Darkwing would miss me,” Morgana replied, eyes returning to him in a flash like they were magnetized.

“Please,” Negaduck said, beak curling, “that dunce wouldn't even notice you were gone.”

“Of course he would! He loves me,” Morgana protested.

Negaduck shook his head. “You can't honestly tell me he's dating you for anything more than clout.”

“Clout?” Morgana’s voice was subdued. He'd caught her by surprise.

“A superhero turning a super villain good with the power of love? Then dating that ex-villain?” Negaduck raised an eyebrow and tuttered. “You wouldn't have such a thing done to you in my universe.”

Her eyes were hard, ice inside. But there was something there. Something deep. Uncertainty. Doubt . One of her hands twitched. Magic danced at the fingertips, Negaduck could sense it like electricity. “That’s not true. Dark’s not like that.”

“Then why don’t you know his secret identity?”

“I don’t know yours.”

Negaduck waved a hand. “Don’t have one. Haven’t for years.”

“Why are you so certain he has one, then?”

“He’s my counterpart. Who else would know him better? Other than Launchpad,” Negaduck shrugged nonchalantly, But he spoke firmly. “He has one.”

She scrambled for her landline, dialing a number she knew by heart. It wasn't the first time she'd thought about that. In the beginning, when she asked, he'd avoid it. He always avoided it. By the time she truly went to his tower for the first time, she just figured he didn't have one. Seeing the tower seemed to confirm it. So why did it bother her so much right now? When it hadn't bothered her for a year. Somehow, hearing Darkwing’s mirror image mention it drove a stake into her heart. Exposing the question that had bothered her so much. The one she'd felt she'd buried

The phone rang five times. Just as she thought it’d switch to the answering machine, the line clicked and a voice said ‘hello’. “Dark Darling?” Morgana asked into the receiver.

“ Morgana! ” Darkwing responded, sounding surprised.

“Do you…” Morgana swallowed, suddenly unsure of herself. She’d know if he had a secret identity, right? That’s not something he’d keep from her. It wasn’t and she was being silly.

“ Who is it, DW? ” She could just barely make out the words in the background. They had her taking the plunge.

“Do you have a secret identity?”

“ What! ” Darkwing’s voice screeched in her ear and she winced, holding the receiver away. Though Negaduck hadn’t stepped any closer, from the look he had it was obvious he’d heard that shout. Warily she put the phone back at her ear. “ Morgy, what's brought this back? ”

“I’m,” Morgana hesitated. Did she mention that his double was at her house? That he was asking her to his universe? That her answer felt like it hinged on this very conversation, no matter how silly it might seem. “I’m just curious, is all.”

Darkwing chuckled nervously on his side. “ Morgana, Morgana, Morgana. Don’t concern yourself with something so trivial. ”

But it wasn’t trivial. Not to her. Not right now. “Dark dearest, please.”

“ Morgana, ” Darkwing repeated her name again. And she knew right then she wouldn’t get her answer. She never did. “ That’s a… rather personal question. ”

“Dark, you’ve met my family ,” Morgana said. That was personal. Perhaps the most personal Morgana had ever been with anyone since her highschool days.

“ And you've met mine, ” Darkwing replied.

“You're not answering my question,” Morgana said quietly. He never had before. It hadn't felt important that he did those previous times, though. Not like now. With Negaduck looking at her, eyes surprisingly soft. Understanding in a way she wouldn't expect. Like he could hear both sides of the conversation.

There was a sigh. Something clicked in the receiver, like Darkwing had opened his beak to say something before changing his mind. “ I haven’t had a secret identity in years. ”

For a long time Morgana was quiet. She couldn’t tell how she knew that was a lie, after all Negaduck had said those same exact words. But she knew it was. Just as she knew Negaduck had told the truth when he’d told her that. More words came from the phone, but she couldn’t make them out. They felt like white noise. Shakily, she hung up.

“When can we leave?’

Negaduck smiled at her, shark teeth gleaming. There were only a few steps between them and he crossed them quickly. He took her wrist before pressing a button on his watch. Then the world swirled around them in shades of black and purple. Strangely she felt like crying, but she wouldn’t let herself. There was no reason to. It was easy to tell herself it didn’t matter. But it was a lot harder to believe it.

Once her world stopped spinning she was ambushed by a tall goose. She was skinny with glasses and long black hair. And way too close.

“I see it worked,” she said, not seeming to notice when Negaduck shoved her away.

He didn’t answer her. Just brushed past her, hand still wrapped around Morgana’s wrist. She craned her neck to give the stranger an apologetic look, but she didn’t seem to mind. Like it happened all the time.

The whirlwind didn’t stop as she got in the sidecar on Negaduck’s motorcycle. Everything felt too fast. She didn’t feel capable of processing anything as they passed broken building after broken building. All the emotions that had mounted when she’d agreed to go coalesced together and numbed her from the inside as they rode.

Eventually they stopped in front of a two story house she didn’t recognize. She stared at it for a long time. Did Darkwing live somewhere just like that? Or somewhere else? Somewhere with a big backyard for Gosalyn to play in. It felt weird to imagine. The image clashed with the one she knew of the tower. Of the place with the tall computers and the bed and the kitchen where she’d always thought Darkwing had lived.

A door slamming closed brought her out of her head.

“You get her?” A voice asked. It was rough, but she recognized it. It was still a shock when she looked up. Launchpad. Something weird settled in her gut when she saw him. It wasn’t anything she could name, though. That something settled lower when Negaduck swung off the motorcycle and went right to him, Launchpad- his double - leaning down to kiss him.

“Of course I did. You doubt me?” Negaduck asked, arms crossing petulantly. But Launchpad’s double didn’t respond. His eyes had found her. It felt like they were boring into her and Morgana squirmed without meaning to.

She got out of the sidecar as fast as she could without landing on her face. As she stood, his eyes ran up and down her body. There were no words to describe how disconcerting it felt, having someone who looked not-quite just like someone she already knew looking at her like they’d never seen her before. Or how much it looked like he was calculating just how to kill her. “I’m Morgana.” The introduction came on reflex.

“I know who ya are,” Launchpad’s double said. “He try ta seduce ya?”

Negaduck glared up at Launchpad. Damn him .

“He did,” Morgana confirmed, crossing her arms. “Was that your idea?”

Negaduck’s glare switched to Morgana. Damn her! Fuck it. He'd kill both of them. At least Herb would never be right .

Launchpad nodded at Morgana, then went back inside the house. She wasn’t sure what it meant. But Negaduck was ushering her in before any questions could form. Once she was inside the house, she looked around. There was a staircase that lead to the upper floor. A living room to her right that seemed to lead right into the kitchen. And from the kitchen, a door to the outside. From the front it was hard to tell just how big the backyard was, but it hadn’t looked small. There were no outside toys that she could spot, though. But there were a few toys in the living room. A broken doll hung limp off the ratty couch.

“Miss Morgana?” The voice startled Morgana and she looked down. A girl blinked up at her, head tilted to the side. The resemblance between this little girl and the Gosalyn she knew were uncanny. But they were definitely different children. This girl had her red hair in tightly wound curls, surrounding her head like a halo and a pink dress with enough frills to drop her age a good few years. The eyes didn’t stay on her for long, swapping to Negaduck instead. “Daddy, why'd you bring her over? And why’s she look so different ?”

“She's gonna be your new caretaker,” Negaduck said.

“But Miss Morgana doesn't like me,” the girl who looked like Gosalyn frowned deeply. “And I thought you were gonna stay here with me and Papa.” She brushed the toe of her foot against the ground.

Something in Morgana’s heart bled for her immediately. She crouched down. “I like you.”

The girl looked back at her, eyes a little shiny. “You’re lying.”

“Of course not. I'm not that Morgana,” Morgana said seriously.

“But you’re gonna make it so Daddy can leave me again,” she sniffed.

“Gosalyn,” Morgana said. “I'd never.”

That seemed to shock her out of her tears. “How do you know my name?” She asked suspiciously.

“I’m from Darkwing’s world. That’s the name of the little girl you look like,” she said after floundering for just a second.

The girl sized her up and Morgana felt like she’d suddenly been thrust into a vat of cold water. She didn’t know why. “Alright,” the girl said. Her beak opened like she was gonna say more, but Launchpad’s copy picked her up and it cut off whatever further words she had.

“C’mon, I made dinner,” Launchpad’s copy said.

Morgana stood back up as they made their way into the kitchen, Negaduck following after. It was like she was stuck again, just as she’d been outside the house. And once she’d first stepped inside. She’d agreed to watch this girl. For some reason though, it felt like she’d just agreed to a lot more. It occurred to her that she’d just fallen off the precipice of her life and landed in the unknown. With hardly a backward glance. Alice, thrust into the mirror world. She hadn’t even told Darkwing goodbye.

“You better get in here,” Negaduck called toward her and her feet moved without her consent.

#darkwing duck #darkwing duck fanfic #negaduck #nega launchpad #nega launchpad mcquack #negadrakepad #morgana macawber #nega sara bellum #nega dr sara bellum #jam writes #negaduck x nega launchpad x morgana #manipulation #light manipulation #5k #5k words #nega gosalyn #gosalyn mcquack

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trisshawkeye · 4 years

Text

Heartsong

Mechanisms Tribute Week, Day 3 - High Noon Over Camelot

It was mid-afternoon when the bard walked into town, or so they say. Those on the wall with the binoculars muttered about a banged-up wreck of a motorcycle out there, abandoned by its rider on the scorching rust plain. The rider arrived three hours later, fanning his face with the brim of his hat—his uncovered brow reflected the glow of the sun in sweat, and to those who watched, it was like his face itself shone. He gave but one name to those who asked him for it, or so they say. Taliesin.

Taliesin made his way to the saloon in search of water. The Joyous Guard was still adjusting to its new name, and the patrons looked on this particularly strange newcomer with suspicion.

“Ain’t gonna find much work suited to those delicate little hands of yours,” the bartender growled, pouring out his cup. “This ain’t no place for layabouts, you hear? You’ll need to put them to good use if you want to stay in Camelot.”

Taliesin just gave the winning smile he would soon become known for. “Oh, I can surely put them to good use for you,” he replied. “Tell me, my friend, is there any music to found be in this here saloon?”

A few of the patrons exchanged glances with each other and the bartender, and soon enough a battered old piano was hauled out from where it had been stashed away for the better part of three decades under Sheriff Stone’s rule. She had never much liked the sound of the keys, and the notes they played were bent out of shape from lack of use, but Taliesin still coaxed a merry tune from it, and his voice soaring over it was a fine one, but it was the words that captivated the onlookers. He sang, and those who listened felt hope and pride in their hearts that they were a part of something grand and special here in Camelot.

“Hmph,” said the barman, after the mood of his customers had finally started to leave dolorous behind. “I could hire you. A little time at the bar, a little time on the ivories, and you could make yourself useful.”

Taliesin finished his water and cheerfully shook his head. “Bless you for your kindness, sir, but I plan on going right to the Pendragons themselves.”

The bartender was too surprised to be more than a little put out, and drily wished the bard luck as he left the saloon.

The newcomer didn’t go to the town hall right away, though. First, he stopped off at a sight that had captivated him when he first walked into town. His thirst quenched for the time being, he decided to indulge his curiosity next and visit the Hanged Man. He hovered on the other side of the street for a minute or two, until a passer-by gestured over at the strange, rusting creature.

“He won’t do you no harm, kid,” the passer-by said. Taliesin recognised his face from the Guard, and raised an eyebrow. The stranger shrugged good-naturedly. “They say he’s started speaking prophecy. Go on, ask him your fortune.”

So encouraged, Taliesin approached the figure marked as Merlin. “A pleasure it is to meet you, sir,” he said, tipping his hat politely. “I don’t suppose you’d have a word or two for a travelling bard?”

The metal man creaked as his head turned slightly to regard his visitor. A few moments passed, as if he were considering. Then,

“A life you’ve lived of fear and fleeing, Oh heart of hare, of bird and seedling— Your time has come, stay true to your feelings, And you’ll find a home in this town.”

The stranger gave a soft snort. “Well, don’t mind him. The thing’s inclined to speak in riddles. None of the rest of us have managed to get any sense out of it either.”

For a moment, Taliesin looked haunted. And then he laughed, clear and loud. “Why, it made perfect sense to me!”

Many folks would ask, after that day, what the Hanged Man had told him, and what it meant. He never did tell anyone about it, save perhaps for the Hanged Man himself, or so the story goes. At any rate, seemingly charmed, he sat down at Merlin’s side and took out an old concertina. “I don’t suppose the Hanged Man sings as well?”

As it turned out, he did.

It was the next day, bright and early, that Taliesin entered the town hall and begged an audience with the sheriff. Arthur Pendragon looked up from the strange round table in its centre and narrowed his eyes at the newcomer.

“Well?” The sheriff looked Taliesin up and down. “Struggling to find work that suits you in town, is it?”

Taliesin took no offence at his suspicion, striding up to the table with a winsome laugh. “I’ve been a performer for some years now, enjoying the patronage of the sheriffs of Rheged and later Powys—towns turnwise of here, a few weeks’ travel away. Sadly both towns now have suffered the drying up of their water supplies, but Camelot’s becoming a right sanctuary against the heat, or so I hear. Why, you’ve probably had your share of gunslinging arrivals from them already. So that’s why I came. I feel like I could make a home for myself here. So I’d like your patronage too.”

The woman at Arthur’s side scoffed—Guinevere, Taliesin knew already from the tales he’d heard of the Pendragons while on his travels. “You think we want to employ a full-time musician for the town itself?” she asked, her voice quick as a pistol crack. “Camelot may be an oasis but it ain’t an Eden. Resources are scarce enough without throwing them away on frivolities.”

“Then allow me a chance to prove myself. Arthur, you’re a harsh sheriff but a fair man, or so they say.”

Arthur humoured him and gave a nod. Without further ado, Taliesin launched into an epic poem, a stirring tale of Arthur’s exploits out in the waste with swift Guinevere and sharp Lancelot at his side, woven together from the stories that had passed from town to town, now given new and vivid life in Taliesin’s telling. The day-to-day clamour of conversation in the hall gradually hushed as the onlookers were drawn into the tale, and when the bard finished with a bow and flourish, the room broke out into applause, and Arthur himself cracked a smile.

Guinevere tapped her fingers on the round table impatiently. “You’re a talented man, to be sure, but have you any other skills to offer us?”

Taliesin shrugged, looking a little bashful for a moment. “I have some history as an apothecary, but would really rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It’s not—” Guinevere began, but held her complaint when Arthur raised his hand.

“It’s hard work to survive in this world, and I won’t say it’s not. But if we truly want to restore this place, we don’t just want to survive. Our bodies may need water, but our souls need art. I’m inclined to keep him on, and gladly.” He looked over to man on the other side of the table, and Guinevere did the same.

“What say you, Lancelot?”

The man had been sitting back with his hat down over his eyes, looking for all the world like he was sleeping, though the smoothness with which he sat up and tipped the hat back from his face told otherwise. At his rising, Taliesin recognised him as the stranger from the saloon, who’d advised him regarding the Hanged Man.

Lancelot shared a sly glance with him before turning back to Arthur. “From what I can tell, he’s a good man. And something tells me we’ll need him in the time to come.”

And so Guinevere nodded her head and they were agreed. There in Camelot Taliesin stayed, and for several years wrote songs and poems that become well known amongst the people there, bringing cheer to their hearts and an ever-more shining reputation to Sheriff Pendragon and his posse. But that’s a longer tale for another day, and at any rate, his works are long lost now.

Still, there is an addendum to the tale. Taliesin often went back to visit the Hanged Man, or so they say. Maybe he had a gift for the kind of riddles Merlin liked to give out, or maybe he found a way to strike up a deeper conversation with him. Some folks claimed they heard duets coming from the gallows on the quieter evenings. Some whispered that Taliesin knew more than anyone else about where Merlin had come from, not that he was ever one to reveal his secrets. Others whispered that the Hanged Man knew Taliesin’s real name, though Taliesin himself never gave another. There’s even a rumour that in those final days when Fort Galfridian fell into its fiery end, he died in Merlin’s arms.

Of course, it’s a silly rumour. After all, no one but Arthur himself survived that doomed world.

At least, that’s what I hear.

;-)

#mechs tribute week #the mechanisms #high noon over camelot #taliesin #drumbot brian #my fic

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thedistantstorm · 4 years

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Dawning Delights 03: Secret Santa

Summary: Hawthorne invites her newfound family in the Tower to experience a City-Style Dawning with the family that took her in years ago. The holiday is not without it’s charm, or aggravation, and certainly has plenty of surprises in store. A season-inspired, trope-tastic story about a family forged by something greater than blood, finding reasons to enjoy the season - and cherish each other. Main Post

Pairings: Hawthorne/Zavala, Sloane/Amanda, Devrim/Marc

Updated every Tuesday/Friday & both holiday eve and days for Christmas and New Years.

The bowl sits in the center of the table inconspicuously. The table itself is so large and round that it's impossible for any one of them to reach for it politely. Not that they would. In fact, what lay inside that bowl is far more heinous than any discussion or argument they'll have today on any of the items on the formal agenda.

But it is tradition. An old tradition. The Speaker's tradition. And this is a time of year in which they honor those traditions, even if the man himself is not around to coerce them into it. Besides, with Zavala fully leaning into the season, the Consensus has no choice but to follow along.

Rezoning the Arbor District is not met with nearly as much enthusiasm as whatever texted conversation between Arach Jalal and Lakshmi-2 is. Ikora watches them, almost amused but actually able to focus on what the Executor is saying.

She sees Zavala's pointed gaze and blinks demurely in an unspoken response. They'll never accomplish anything in this state.

"Executor, would you mind explaining that bit about the shipyard once more?" The Warlock Vanguard calls out, mellow and even, commanding the attention of all parties without trying. "I think some of our colleagues were... distracted."

"Shipyard?" Arach Jalaal turns to Hideo interested. "Where?"

"Did I say 'shipyard?'" Hideo clicks his tongue, pretending to sound innocent. "New Monarchy will be adding an addendum to-"

"Pettiness is unbecoming, Executor," Ikora chides, so Zavala doesn't have to. A gift, in its own way. She waves her hand. "Do go on."

Hideo does, resuming his lengthy explanation of his faction's plans. They're eventually drawn and quartered by the other two reps while the Vanguard and Clan Stewardess watch. It will likely be another two sessions before any tentative agreement is reached.

While this is happening, Hawthorne, to Ikora's left, slides her an envelope. Zavala clears his throat and narrows his gaze at Suraya, but she shrugs him off. He knows what she's just given the Warlock.

Zavala takes his role as leader of the Consensus seriously; He does not appreciate outside distractions. Suraya just knows there's no sense in trying to interject while the children - she means Faction Reps - are squabbling amongst themselves. Been there, done that.

Ikora quietly peels open the envelope and scans the contents of the card inside. She tilts her head in surprise before closing it entirely and fixing Hawthorne with a gaze that doesn't seem quite sure how to react.

If Hawthorne knows this, she doesn't act like it. In fact, there's a sheepish pink tint to her cheeks. It's Zavala, to Ikora's right, who leans in and whispers that despite the stationary the event is entirely casual, but they'd like her to attend if she felt so inclined.

Ikora swings her gaze to Zavala. He does not look away. She checks to ensure the conversation is still happening across the table, then looks back to Hawthorne, nodding graciously. "Thank you for thinking of me," She hums softly. “I’ll be there.” There is a lingering melancholy to her these days, but it's softened by her resolve to move forward instead of lingering on things they cannot change.

"Don't thank me yet," Suraya grumbles mildly. For two women who have little in common, they have similar feelings of discomfort when it comes to potentially emotional situations. "I can't promise my father - Marc,” She clarifies quietly, “Won't fawn over you. He's been trying to figure out what color that golden eyeshadow you wear is for ages."

"Really?" It's clear Ikora can't remember the last time she'd done her makeup. Not that she needs it, her complexion has always been stunning. Still, it's food for thought.

The Clan Stewardess nods, a hint of a smile lighting her face. "I've already told him not to call you fierce a million times, but honestly, I don't think he’ll be able to help himself."

"I think I can handle some well-meaning flattery," Ikora supposes, her lips threatening to curl upward.

Her tablet makes a barely noticeable buzz against the tabletop with a message from Zavala.

She's not kidding. He was disappointed when I told him that my 'eyeliner' was just natural coloring.

The tiniest snicker escapes Ikora's usually impenetrable facade. She covers it with a cough, pressing a hand to her lips, and Suraya and Zavala meet each other's gazes around her. A lilting eyebrow responds to a soft pull of lips to the left.

"Are we missing something over there?" Arach Jalaal interrupts, suspicious. "I do hope you're not holding back on our account."

"Not at all," Zavala transitions easily, cool and somehow so guardedly open. "We were simply discussing another matter as you have yet to motion the council with a proposal you can mutually agree on."

"Right, because that's always been your way," Lakshmi imposes, voice crisp and sarcastic.

"There are other items on the agenda," Ikora reminds them, gesturing to the bowl in the middle. She doesn't look particularly enthused about it, though Jalaal and Lakshmi return to their previously animated states. If she were able, Lakshmi's mouth plates would be parted in a wide, cheshire grin.

"Remind me again," Hideo drawls, annoyed, "Why we are exchanging gifts? A dead holiday belonging to a made up religion inspires… what, exactly?"

Zavala ignores their sentiments, keeping to business as usual. It's his 'babysitting' tone. "This is a tradition, and I will expect all of you to keep things polite in your gift giving." He pauses. "And work appropriate." All eyes seem to find Arach Jalaal.

"I seem to recall that we are all adults here, and this event isn't exactly on the record."

"Yes, and while I'm sure the Executor loved your well illustrated guide to the ways of Kamasutra-" The group snickers and sputters but Zavala does not so much as waver around the subject matter, "I do not believe it is appropriate for a work function."

"It's harmless fun. I'm sure the Executor got good use out of it. His-"

"Enough," Zavala booms, not interested in presiding over the ensuing squabble. "Our gathering will be held in two weeks' time and I would expect you all to conduct yourselves appropriately."

"Next you'll be imposing a drink limit," Lakshmi drones to the group, who finds it amusing.

Zavala remains stoic, but his answer is indulgent enough. "As tempting as that sounds, I would imagine alcohol is the only item this group can agree on."

“It’s hardly fair, you know,” Ikora chides, lips twisting into the subtlest of smirks.

Beside her, Zavala walks sedately. He turns his head to the right to regard her and she lifts one singular eyebrow. To that, both of his furrow. “What do you mean?”

“You obviously got Hawthorne,” She tells him, careful not to be too loud and alert anyone who might be listening.

He looks away and back, as if to confirm her level of seriousness. She is. He shakes his head incredulously. “I didn’t,” He tells his partner in arms. “Why would you think that?”

“You looked smug when you picked.”

“How do you know I didn’t get you?”

Ikora almost smiles at him. “My friend, you have a terrible poker face.” She stops when he does. They'll both be returning to their posts for the afternoon. "If you picked me, you wouldn't be able to hold this conversation. You'd change the subject."

Sighing, Zavala intends to see through her motives. "You don't know what to get for yours."

"I do," She assures him. "I just know you have about two hours before Suraya knows who you picked, as well." She crosses her arms. "I thought you could do without the extra scrutiny, considering..." She ends with a well-timed glance, a questioning eyebrow on the rise.

He fishes the folded scrap of paper out of a concealed pocket and hands it to her. In exchange, she extends to him a slip of paper that's flattened but creased. "Ikora," He chides, looking at it.

She grins. "I didn't go first. This is hardly my fault."

"You're supposed to draw again."

"No one ever does."

Zavala huffs. "What are you getting Hawthorne?"

Ikora tilts her head. "The gift of not being embarrassed when she receives a gift from you in front of our colleagues who will tease her mercilessly about you two being together."

"Ikora-"

"Relax. I have some ideas." She pats his forearm as she goes, leaning in to whisper, "Make sure you get me something nice."

"I can't do this," Suraya groans into Amanda's workbench. "It'll be so obvious."

"It's already obvious," The Shipwright replies, waving a wrench. "Just get him something impersonal. He won't be upset or nothin', he knows how it is, and I'm sure he doesn't want some big gesture or anything like that, 'specially not in front of the peanut gallery." She leans over the engine of a sparrow, twisting off pieces like she's making art. "Go with liquor. Bottle ‘a wine is always classy."

“Yeah,” Hawthorne scoffs. "But we swore off exchanging gifts. We just want to spend time together."

"So? It’s not like you’re doing it because you want to, Suraya.”

"So," She rolls her eyes and Amanda sticks her tongue out in response, "I don't want things to get blown out of proportion. They already suspect-”

“Is that really so bad?”

“No!” She blurts, surprised at her own loud staccato outburst. “Us being public hurts him more than it hurts me. I don’t really care.”

Amanda’s eyebrows go up in a question that she doesn’t have to voice, reminiscent of the man in question.

“You’re going to tell me that if he cared, he wouldn’t be in the relationship.”

“No. I’m not.” She wipes her hands on her coveralls and pushes herself up and onto the workbench Suraya is sulking on. “Zavala has always been careful. Taking me on wasn’t exactly his brightest idea, as thankful as I am for it, an’ seein’ you probably wasn’t, either at first.” Suraya turns her head to watch her. “You make him feel younger. A li’l more reckless. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. He’s still the same Zavala, just… a little happier sharin’ his life with you. ‘Bout time the rest of the world learn there’s more to him than crochet hooks, poetry, fancy title ‘n responsibilities.”

Despite her dirty hands, Suraya squeezes one of Amanda’s. She wipes a streak of grease onto her bare arm with a smirk after, and Amanda laughs.

“Sorry to eavesdrop-”

Amanda hops down from the bench with a loud clomp. “Ugh,” She grunts. “Yer not. Whatcha want, Jalaal?”

“I’m here to propose a trade.”

“A trade? I don’ want any of yer scrap unless you’ve somehow managed to find usable spinmetal.”

Dead Orbit’s leader pushes back a shiny black lock of hair that’s fallen into his eyes. “Not with you. I overheard your predicament.”

Both women roll their eyes. “What predicament?” Amanda asks, about ready to bully him back to his tent-like station on the other side of the hangar.

“I’ll trade with you,” He offers Hawthorne, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket.

“Why?” Suraya asks, skeptical. “You’re constantly goading us about things.”

“I was there at the beginning,” Arach Jalaal says, wistful. It's true he'd been there, at the Farm, during the war. He'd seen their first interactions, if only from afar. “You have undeniable chemistry. No one needs to see you exchange gifts to know that.”

“Who did you get?”

He grins. It’s all teeth.

“Oh, hell naw,” Amanda says, seeing the trap for what it is. “Suraya, don’t you dare.”

The Clan Stewardess’ eyes narrow. Skeptically, she asks, “If I do this, are you going to gift him an inappropriate gift?”

“It's tempting, but I'll do my best to refrain.” The Arach admits, smile never faltering. “Though, can you blame me?”

“You don’t tell him this transaction took place.” Suraya swings to regard Amanda. “Both of you.”

“Yer gonna give Hideo a gift instead, then? You know that’s who he’s got.”

“Lakshmi got Hideo, I heard her whining about it after the meeting,” Suraya whispers to her.

Jalaal carries on. “I really just want to give the Commander a copy of the-”

“No.” Both women interrupt him immediately. It was no secret what he’d given the Executor the previous year, even outside of the Consensus hall.

He flicks more hair from his face. “What? Does he already own it?”

Amanda clamps both hands over her ears and makes a noise that’s not quite a screech. “Out. Get out. Both’a ya.”

Deadpan, Suraya responds to the Arach’s commentary, “I don’t think that nice girl at the bookshop down in the Bazaar sells erotic texts.”

“Wow, that escalated quickly.” He doesn’t react to Amanda pushing him out of her space, simply lets her guide him away. “I saw a new poetry compilation for winter. It’s been sold out for a few weeks and I overheard him speaking to the kiosk attendant. I thought I would-”

“Wow,” Amanda interjects, stopping in the middle of the hangar. “That’s surprisingly tame.”

“You’ll recall that I’m a fan of both of you. This City-” He turns around and gestures, “Droll. A deathtrap. This planet-”

“Ah, there’s that good old, trademark Dead Orbit nihilism,” Suraya says, with fake cheeriness.

“-Doomed.” He thrusts his secret santa tag at her. “Doesn’t mean I’m rooting for you any less.”

“Huh,” Amanda remarks, surprised, “That’s awful nice of you.”

Jalaal ignores her. His icy eyes regard Hawthorne. “So?”

She pulls out her drawing for the gift exchange and passes it to him. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Have fun shopping for the Executor.”

Suraya’s face falls, and she hastily uncrumples the paper in her hand. “No, you had-”

Arach Jalaal laughs. “You’re not the only person I traded with.”

The Shipwright thumps her hard on the back. “Told ya, girl.”

Back to Main Fic Post

#Destiny Dawning #Suraya Hawthorne #Commander Zavala #Arach Jalal #Ikora Rey #Executor Hideo #Amanda Holliday #Zavala x Hawthorne #destinydawningfanfic

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cupidmarwani-archive · 5 years

Text

Afterward (7/13)

Chicago, Illinois: The Sexton Baby, Connor Rhodes

??9 January 2019 | ??:?? Local Time

Thankfully one of the nurses gave me my notebook to write things down before they start doing more tests or decide they need to keep me way too long. I don’t know how much time I’ve lost, but I need to talk to someone in charge. Connor is dangerous to everyone in the hospital, and I need to dispel his spirit sooner rather than later. The next time he lashes out, his victim may not be as lucky as I was. If Dr. Halstead hadn’t been right there, I wonder if I would’ve died.

9[Addendum: 18 January 2019 | ??:?? Local Time]

April later informed me it was the eighteenth, and that I missed roughly two and a half days for treatment of two partially collapsed lungs.

For the first hour that Sarah’s awake again, some indeterminate amount of days later, everything is tests and questions and lights in her eyes, all accompanied by a dull ache in her chest from what she’s told is her lungs trying to heal. They have a tube in her side still, draining out into a dish that needs cleaning more often than it gets. She’s still so tired and wheezing, even with the oxygen mask over her face, but she knows she needs to get up and dispel the dangerous grip the thing that took Connor has on this hospital.

But when they start to let her rest again, April comes to visit. She looks exhausted and small, and it makes Sarah’s chest hurt in a completely different way. She reaches out with the hand not filled with needles and tubes. April takes it without hesitation, raises it to her lips to kiss, and that’s the moment when Sarah knows that she has to do everything possible to save April. She’s too good, and she reminds her so much of an angel that it’s unreal.

“How long was I out?” Her voice is scratchy, clearly unused for a long time.

“Three days,” April answers. “It’s the eighteenth. Your lungs collapsed, and we still can’t figure out why. What happened?”

“Like I said earlier, Connor. I tried to talk to Dr. Halstead, and Connor got in. He tried to kill me, but it’s because he was scared. I can’t give up on him. And I really need to be discharged before anyone else gets hurt.”

Sarah struggles to sit upright in spite of the pain, which has her monitor beeping angrily and April immediately trying to stop her. She needs to get out of bed and find a way to help, not be trapped here to listen to the spirits around her and know that everyone in the building is in danger. When she glances around, she can see the mother holding the baby that’s been haunting April. It must be hell for her, especially when she’s paying Sarah to free her from all that.

And isn’t that a painful reminder, that she’s being paid to be here, and she doesn’t really have much of a chance with April. But Sarah can’t focus on that right now- she has work to do. So she insists on sitting up and trying to find her coat because it has a lot of important stuff in it. But she can’t find it, an issue that absolutely doesn’t help her right now. And then she hears footsteps approaching, and it’s Will, with Connor over his shoulder.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” Sarah says immediately, her voice still scratchy and a little breathless. “It’s okay, Connor, I just want to help you.”

April and Will share a look over her head- they must not be able to see him this time. But Sarah is used to that, and she ignores them in favor of watching Connor shift his weight, the blood on his face dripping to his jawline. She doesn’t remember seeing that before, and it means she should take a look at his body. And that could be the key to this all, she suddenly realizes. Connor is the host; if his body can no longer support it, then Connor moves on and everyone will be safe.

Sarah grabs April’s sleeve and pulls her closer. “Where’s Connor’s body? I need to see it.”

“You need to rest. You’re really sick,” Will argues.

No. No, she doesn’t and isn’t, and she needs to help people. That’s all she’s good for. It’s her job. They don’t understand how much danger they’re in right now. Connor, and everyone else who’s died in this hospital recently, are an active threat, to the point that this hospital should be evacuated and shut down until the threat is contained. More people could die. They could get hurt. April especially.

“Maybe we should let her,” April says. “This is her expertise. If she says we’re in danger, I think we should believe her.”

In an instant, Connor is behind her and he has his hands in her chest just like with Sarah, and once again, Will is able to see him.

“Tell him to stop!” Sarah cries, struggling to get up and do something, anything to banish him, but she doesn’t have her supplies. “He cares about you, Will, tell him to stop!”

“Stop!”

At Will’s voice, Connor does. He pulls his hands from April’s chest as she collapses forward, coughing but seemingly faring better than Sarah was when it happened to her. Sarah rubs her back, but her eyes are locked on Connor, who stares at Will like he’s waiting to hear something else.

“Stop hurting people,” Will says, sounding so small and sad. “That’s not you, Connor. That’s not the man you were when you died. You saved people, remember?”

Connor doesn’t say anything, but he has this look on his face. Sad, genuine, hurting. Someone who needs to be helped, not just dismissed from the world of the living so he may find peace in a life beyond this one. To see him squishes any anger that Sarah might have had as a result of his earlier actions. He just needs help, like April does. A different kind of help, maybe, but help nonetheless.

He walks away, leaving the three of them there. Will starts asking April if she’s okay, insisting he listen to her chest in case Connor hurt her like he did Sarah. But already, she’s standing up and regaining her breathing. She’s alright, better off, and now inclined to let Sarah do her job and keep them all safe.

“I can try and discharge you long enough to go see Connor’s body tomorrow morning,” Will says, his voice all crackling autumn leaves and dead tree branches. “Rest tonight. You too, April.”

Then he leaves, and Sarah finds April crawling into the hospital bed beside her. It’s a tight fit, but a reassuring one that makes it impossible to ignore that they’re both alive. This reminds Sarah of what it felt like the last time she had someone to love, way before the accident, and they shared clumsy kisses in her childhood bedroom with curtains drawn tight just in case. This is as peaceful, filled with apprehension, but in a different kind of way. April’s head is a welcome weight on her chest, even if it adds more strain to lungs already complaining of overexertion from her sudden awakening and seeing Connor try to kill someone else.

“We’ll be okay,” Sarah whispers.

She can’t be sure, can’t promise, but it feels like the right thing to say in a moment like this one. There’s nothing else to say. Just as she thinks about that, she registers the silence- the rest of the spirits left when Connor did, providing them this brief respite hold each other and wonder what happens next.

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

“It’s my job, April.”

April gets up, bracing her forearms on either side of Sarah’s chest carefully and leans forward. Their noses touch, and there’s so much to look at, so much to admire, but all Sarah can think about is how soft her lips look. A little glossy with chapstick, but plush and like something out of a magazine, the sort of lips Sarah had seen on makeup ads as a child and wondered what they would feel like to kiss.

Her curiosity is finally settled.

The moment April kisses her, the whole world melts away. It’s all warmth and an emotion Sarah can only describe as sunshine. She lifts her hands to do something, and finds one resting on the nape of April’s neck and the other on her back. More than anything, she wants to kiss her until the day she dies. This is bliss. This is what heaven feels like. For the second they part to breathe, it’s like burning to death. But then April is there again and everything is perfect.

She wants more than she can have, especially when they’re both so fragile. She doesn’t ask, though, merely enjoys what she can at this moment before it’s gone and April probably has a freak out the way Sarah’s last not-quite-girlfriend did the first time they kissed. And the second. Third. Fourth. Last. This is the last thing she wants to think about, but some things, one simply can’t forget.

When April pulls away, though, she’s smiling and licks her swollen lips. “I wanted to make sure I got the chance to do that.”

Struck speechless, all Sarah can do is nod and allow April to settle back down laying on her chest again. She’s quick to drift off, the steady rise and fall of April’s ribs enough to reassure her that she won’t be dying in the night unless Connor, or worse, the thing that killed him, show up to bare bloodthirsty metaphorical teeth.

The thing is, she knows what’s lurking. It doesn’t have a name, that she can find, but she’s encountered it before. Sometimes a place gets so overwhelmed by negative energy that it gets physical. Then it finds a host- someone already in a lot of pain, someone who wouldn’t be able to move on immediately after death anyways. And with something to anchor it, it destroys everything in its path. When Sarah encountered one for the first time in a small Maine town, it had been around for nearly two hundred years and had killed countless people- mostly children, because they were afraid. This energy, it clings to fear and pain and everything that slowly eats a person alive.

And maybe, just maybe, the real Connor is still in there. It’s possible; he’s only been dead a few months, and his spirit listens to someone he loved in his life. There’s hope he can still be saved, rescued from the infestation and allowed to move on without being destroyed in the cleanse. It’s not a guarantee, but it’s a chance, and that’s one Sarah wouldn’t be able to forgive herself for not taking.

When she finally falls asleep, her dreams are a mixture between Connor’s blood stained face and the way it felt to kiss April.

#afterwardfic #fic #mine

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phinnsyreads · 5 years

Audio

Item #: SCP-046

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: The land surrounding SCP-046 has been purchased and surrounded by multiple layers of security, including fencing, barricades, and lethal-effect traps; multiple signs marking the area as private property are to be prominently displayed. The area is to be heavily guarded at all times to prevent access by civilians to SCP-046. All personnel working around or within a 50km radius of SCP-046 are to undergo rigorous medical testing to ensure the absence of any potentially life-threatening illnesses; additionally, increased mental health examinations are to be administered to ensure that no personnel inclined or potentially inclined towards self-harm or self-destructive tendencies are allowed within the 50km radius. Any injured personnel are to be evacuated to a hospital outside of the 50km zone around SCP-046. All vegetation surrounding SCP-046 is to be destroyed and all animals attempting to access SCP-046 are to be terminated and destroyed before reaching its outer perimeter.

Any personnel showing unusual interest either in SCP-046 or in traveling to the region near SCP-046 are to undergo medical examinations as detailed above. Any modification to these containment procedures are to be approved by O5 command before being added to this containment document. Any personnel attempting to modify this document without appropriate authorization are to be demoted and reassigned.

Description: SCP-046 is a predatory botanical mass located in southwestern Kentucky. SCP-046 is composed of two parts. SCP-046-1 is a large mass of vegetative matter, composed largely of plants indigenous to the region, including Quercus alba, Ilex aquifolium, and Lonicera sempervirens, though several offshoots composed of other plant species are also present. SCP-046-2 is the land in the immediate vicinity of SCP-046-1, extending to a roughly circular area twenty meters in radius from its base. This area is SCP-046's primary feeding area. SCP-046 is capable of attracting prey within a 50km radius through hallucinogenic means; all evacuations of personnel should carry them outside of this radius to disable SCP-046's effect.

Animals (including humans) suffering from potentially life-threatening physical injuries or diseases, or who are afflicted by psychological disorders that induce self-destructive tendencies, feel a powerful compulsion to come to SCP-046-2 and lie in a prostrate position facing SCP-046-1. Individuals lying in such a position are rapidly attacked by an unusually powerful combination of saprophytic organisms and opportunistic infections, including several strains of methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA) known to induce necrotizing fasciitis, also known as "flesh-eating bacteria"; a form of fungal spore similar to Stachybotrys chartarum, or "black mold," which poisons prey organisms and induces paralysis; and finally, complete consumption by several heretofore unknown species of insect that emerge from the inside of SCP-046-1 during the final stage of feeding. SCP-046 appears to derive nutrition through the complete digestion of affected individuals, particularly larger mammals such as humans. It is unknown whether SCP-046 is capable of growth; as such, all steps are to be taken to ensure that SCP-046 is deprived of prey until more information is known about its abilities. These efforts are to include terminating individuals prior to their arrival at SCP-046 and disposing of their bodies in a separate location.

Addendum 046-A: Investigation is ongoing into potential memetic effects brought about by knowledge of SCP-046 due to anomalous effects demonstrated by certain personnel in response to SCP-046. Access to Document 046-07 is restricted to Level 4 personnel and above.

---

BY ORDER OF THE OVERSEER COUNCIL THIS FILE IS SUBJECT TO LEVEL 4 CLASSIFICATION

---

Document 046-07

Item #: SCP-046

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: The land surrounding SCP-046 is to be cordoned off, marked as private property, and surrounded by multiple layers of fencing. The area is to be guarded by no less than ten guards, though minimal armaments are required. While knowledge of SCP-046's effects is not to be made widely known, personnel afflicted with life-threatening diseases may be permitted to enter SCP-046-2 after psychological screening for self-destructive tendencies. Likewise, D-class personnel selected for termination may be effectively exposed to SCP-046-2 to facilitate this process. Due to the lack of threat to Foundation security, individuals not employed by the Foundation may be permitted access to SCP-046, though Foundation needs for access take first priority.

Description: SCP-046 is composed of two parts. SCP-046-1 is a cylindrical area 5m in diameter and 30m tall containing several species of plant matter, including Quercus alba (white oak), Ilex aquifolium (European holly bush), and Lonicera sempervirens (Kentucky honeysuckle), though several offshoots composed of other plant species are also present. No anomalous traits have been detected in the molecular composition of the plants. SCP-046-2 is a clearing of grass extending approximately twenty meters around SCP-046-1.

SCP-046's anomalous effects extend principally to animals, including humans, that are threatened by chronic or debilitating illnesses or injuries. SCP-046 is frequently visited by such individuals; humans of this type report having felt a compulsion to travel to SCP-046's location, often reporting that the location "came to them in a dream." Psychological evaluations have consistently shown that such individuals were not previously aware of either the Foundation or SCP-046's specific properties. Individuals feeling this compulsion have all reported having been within a 50km radius of SCP-046 at the time; this is believed to be the outer range of the object's compulsive range.

Individuals who come to SCP-046 consistently describe a dream in which they lie down in the vicinity of SCP-046-1 and rest. Immediately upon entering SCP-046-2, individuals suffering from chronic pain or traumatic mental conditions will describe their symptoms as receding, accompanied by a feeling of calmness, relaxation, and euphoria. Individuals lying down in front of SCP-046-1 will begin to be covered by several vines similar to runners of Cynodon dactylon plants, also known as Bermuda grass, followed by the apparent sprouting of C. dactylon all over the body. SCP-046 has no controlling properties and its effects will only manifest on individuals willing to experience the effects voluntarily.

Individuals exposed to SCP-046 will remain communicative until they are no longer visible beneath the grass growing across their bodies. All individuals exposed to SCP-046's effects describe a feeling of peace and serenity, and a happiness that they were able to die pleasantly. SCP-046 appears to fully decompose individuals exposed to its effects within two hours and may or may not use decomposed tissue as a food source.

Addendum 046-1: SCP-046 to be reclassified as Euclid and primary containment document to be rewritten to demonstrate SCP-046's predatory nature by order of O5 command. Any references to "voluntary individuals" are to be removed. Description to be rewritten to emphasize volatile and lethal nature of SCP-046 and potential threat thereof.

Addendum 046-2: “There is no evidence whatsoever that SCP-046 is ‘predatory’ or has any desire to harm any creature unwilling to expose itself to SCP-046's effects. I suggest original containment procedures be reenacted and voluntary access to SCP-046 be continued. No individuals are capable of breaching Foundation security once exposed to SCP-046; as such, there is no reason to deny afflicted individuals the opportunity for relief. Likewise, there is no reason to make this entity seem more hostile than it actually is, aside from a desire to portray every object in Foundation custody as dangerous. Some things must be contained simply because they are strange.” —Dr. Edward Carter, head researcher, SCP-046

Addendum 046-3: Dr. Carter, principal researcher for SCP-046, is to be removed from his position and reassigned to the SCP-1250 project. Addendum 046-1 stands by order of O5 command.

===

[The voice of Dr. Edward Carter was provided by @navox-the-weary.]

===

[Enjoy the podcast? Consider supporting us on Patreon! Patrons get access to bonus Joke episodes, outtakes, and can even request episodes on specific SCP objects.]

#phinnsy #scp foundation #reading #voiceover #storytelling #podcast #sci-fi #horror #urban legend #folklore #fiction #scp 046 #botany

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polarishq · 4 years

Photo

Meet OLYMPIA EUN. They are THIRTY TWO years old and hail from SOUTHFIELD, MICHIGAN. Ollie embodies the star, TSEEN KE. They use she/her pronouns. Their faceclaim is ADELINE RUDOLPH.

Tseen Ke reminds me of the casual spin of a cleaver knife between nimble fingers, a cupboard full of champagne glasses, the routine of paying tithes, the art of reliving your darkest moments, bare feet tapping a steady rhythm along the ground, a body seized with desire, skirts pressed and prepared for Sunday service, rose petals in the bathtub, Sanjana playing over the speakers, weekend confessionals, that rich-girl-bitch-girl-babydoll type shit.

BIOGRAPHY

If asked, Olympia Ji-Min Eun can describe the rundown Southfield apartment she grew up in. She can tell you how it felt to drag her fingers down the cracks in the wall, take a pencil and draw the amorphous rain stains on the ceiling, tell you how many steps there were between one nail sticking out of the carpet and the next; she could just as easily describe the octave of her neighbor’s voice when he was shouting at his wife, or the exact time of night when the other kids in the building would come inside.

When she wasn’t playing the role of Bishop Gavin and First Lady Dolores Eun’s dutiful daughter, she was committing those details to memory, learning everything about the world around her without ever interacting with it. She could have played a more active role, and maybe she should have. But nothing about life held her attention; everything was dull and predictable, worth learning but not engaging.

It was December 25, 2001, approximately 3:19pm when Tseen Ke appeared, the only Christmas presents the stars ever gave her. Ollie would like to say that her life drastically changed since then, but it was one of the most subtle changes she’s ever lived through. The rules of Tseen Ke came to her slowly, jotted down in her Hello Kitty notebook.

Rule one: I cannot lie. Discovered on August 13, 2002, 11:12am. Even at fourteen years old, Ollie wasn’t much of a liar. So when she attempted it that day, it was one of the few times she’d ever done so. The violent reaction her body had, however, was a firm deterrent from ever trying again. Perhaps it was a leap to assume that her sponsor gave her on-call epilepsy, but the fact spoke for itself: the first time she ever had a seizure was only moments after the first time she tried to lie with her sponsorship. Rather than testing this theory for accuracy, she settled to avoid lying at all costs.

Rule two: I can only see memories if I am allowed. Discovered on December 3, 2002, 9:00am. When Josiah Bland explicitly said, “You cannot see my memories,” she experienced her first block. When she’d seen memories before then, those people had asked her to. She’d never tried to do it non-consensually. While it didn’t hurt for him to say no, it definitively shut her out of his mind.

Rule three: my body reacts to trigger words. Discovered on multiple occasions. It’s always jarring to discover trigger words. In Tseen Ke’s very minimal defense, the words are specific and some of them are quite rare. But there’s a word that makes her collapse, a word that makes her freeze, so on and so forth. The most important of these words, however, is the one that essentially makes her a puppet, ripped of her free will or conscious thought.

On December 31, 2006, 11:55pm, a man approached Ollie at a New Year’s Eve party and told her that he wanted her to play a game. Eighteen and uninterested in any man’s game, Ollie politely told him to fuck off. At 11:56pm, he grabbed her arm and paralyzed her with just one word. He explained exactly what he wanted and why she would do it. By the time the ball dropped to celebrate the new year, Olympia Eun had lost all semblance of choice in her life.

The game was simple enough, though calling it a game is misleading. It was more like one man making an army of assassins and slapping a point system on it. A hundred or so witches from Polaris were dragged into it kicking and screaming, handed knives and guns in place of their wands. They were taught to kill with efficiency and use their gifts in creative ways. With each kill, they received a number of points; the more dangerous your target was, the more points you received; the more points you received, the closer you got to freedom. It was simple enough that people fought back at first. But after witnessing the cruel punishments that came from dissent, everyone fell in line and played the game.

July 3, 2008, a little over a year into the game, pandemonium broke out. Players began to turn on one another, slaughtering each other in hopes of receiving high marks. For their efforts, the dark wizard that started the game adjusted the rules: if you could take out a witch with more points than you, then you had your freedom. Players jumped at the chance and a real life Hunger Games began.

On July 5, 2008, Ollie found herself inducted into a group of four, bound by one common goal: survive to the end of this shit. They teamed up, only calling each other by their elements, and worked to kill every player that came at them first. Eventually, inevitably, they killed the game maker himself.

On July 7, 2008, Light, Earth, Air and Water were the only survivors of a twisted game.

While the others may have struggled to return to their usual lives, Ollie never tried. While the situation had been nothing short of fucked up, she learned a lot from it, enough that she thanked the game maker more than she hated him. For the first time in years, she dug her Hello Kitty notebook out from beneath her mattress and added to her rules.

Addendum to rule one: I cannot lie –– but I can circumvent the truth. Flowery prose and pretty language goes a long way in hiding nasty secrets. Ollie still isn’t much of a liar, even in this day and age, but she could hardly tell the youth group in her church about her murderous activities. So she learned to talk around the truth, dancing around anything she had to hide. It’s a dangerous game and sometimes she has to sacrifice one truth to hide another, but in the end, she knows how to make the little things work for her.

Addendum to rule two: I can only see memories if I am allowed –– but that permission does not have to be explicit. She learned very early on that people didn’t have to know that she was viewing their memories in order for her to get permission. People say the most thoughtless things when they’re drunk; they agree to the silliest things when they’re driven by ecstasy. This is an even trickier game, because she can’t circumvent her way around an outright ‘no,’ but so long as she avoids that word, then the world is at her fingertips.

Addendum to rule three: my body reacts to trigger words –– but no one knows that. Hiding this fact is simple enough. No one ever thinks to ask and she has no reason to tell, so her involuntary reactions didn’t have to affect her life unless she let them.

With these key thoughts in mind, Ollie continued making use of her gifts. Assassins transitioned into being serial killers, all of them too used to the thrill of the kill to give it up. Under Light’s generous leadership, the Lunatics –– as the media knew them –– thrived. Not that Ollie ever cared for that kind of thing; she was every part a member of the group, of course, but she didn’t care to be controlled by anyone, let alone someone so clearly disingenuous as Light. The only obligation Ollie felt was to her star and the cleaver that she used to dismember her victims, when she wasn’t making their memories manifest to hunt them down.

So the years passed by with the four killers working like a well-oiled machine and few problems. Though Ollie much preferred to kill of her own volition, she began to take up hit man jobs, receiving thousands or millions of dollars for her services. She moved her parents out of their rundown apartment and into a mansion, separate from her own, and anonymously paid for the expansion of her church. Though she would never say it out loud, the game she’d been forced to play was the best thing that ever happened to her.

Her life in Polaris continued on as it always was. To all but three people, she was just… Ollie. The girl with the well-kept notebooks and the careful way with words, who floated between groups, knowing everyone but committing to no one, who worked in the library, went to church, and kept her head down. Everything about her way pretty and organized, hiding who she was behind closed doors. No one had any idea what she did in her spare time, aside from the other killers, and nothing she did gave anyone any reason to suspect that she was more than she let on.

When another member joined their little group, an innocent and lucky woman with no connection to their abuse, Ollie thought nothing of it. If anything, the new arrival made things more interesting. Ollie minded her own business, but it would have been impossible not to notice how tension ramped up within the group. They were honey balancing on a knife’s edge, so clearly destined to meet a tragic and unfortunate end. Light was losing her hold over the group and Ollie was finally gaining a vested interest.

Then, on August 25, 2020, at 5:12am, Light’s mangled body was found in the attic of the Lunatics’ hideout. Only five people knew how to find the hideout; only four people could have possibly killed her. In all likeliness, they were the only four people in the world who knew Light well enough to want to kill her. The Lunatics’ leader was dead and one of them was very clearly the culprit.

Upon hearing the news, Ollie had to stifle her laughter. Finally, something had caught her attention.

INCLINATION

Tseen Ke, heaven’s record, only cares for one thing: truth. Once it chooses a sponsee, it expects the same of them, thus rendering its witch the ability to peer into the minds of individuals and see their memories. More than that, sponsees have the ability to interact with memories and use them however they like, whether that means using them as weapons or to reach a decision. However, Tseen Ke also believes heavily in consent. Its sponsee can only access memories with consent. And, in the spirit of fairness, they can no longer lie. Furthermore, Tseen Ke instills certain trigger words within its sponsee, secretly subjecting them to the world’s manipulation ––– a trait which tends to have awful outcomes.

CONNECTIONS

Evolved Perfection: Someone who remembers what Ollie used to be and… honestly, they have a thing for this new version of her. Whether that’s a romantic thing, a physical thing, or just a respect thing, they like who she is now, so they’ve become close to her. She thinks they’re fake as fuck for only caring about her now that she’s rich and beautiful, but she’s not incensed enough to push them away. If anything, she finds them amusing, so she plays along with whatever they have in mind.

Haunted by the Ghost of You: Somewhere, buried in someone’s memory, was a great love and a great heartbreak: this person. Though Ollie had no previous connection to this person, she now lives with the thought of them as someone else once knew them. It hurts to see them, even more so to speak to them, but Ollie does so anyway. It’s bound to hurt her, too, but in the words of Rhett Butler: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

The Knowing: Ollie is fairly young, in witch years, and has had her mark for a little less than twenty years. This person knew the last Tseen Ke very well, so they know all of the rules. On one hand, all of Tseen Ke’s trigger words change when a new sponsee is chosen; on the other, this character is intent on finding Ollie’s words, for whatever reason. Ollie’s aware of what they’re doing and she isn’t impressed. Not going to lie, they have a lot of fun.

Twisted: So –– legally speaking, this person is dead. Why? Because, legally, Ollie killed them. It was a job, she was paid quite a bit, but–– she just didn’t have it in her to kill this person. So she didn’t do it. For whatever reason, she chose them over a job. However, in order to receive the money and ensure that no one else came after them, she faked their death. It was a whole thing, very dramatic. Now, they’re a little dependent on her, considering she singlehandedly uprooted their life. I’m definitely up for discussing this and fleshing it out more, but yeah :P

Filling Comtessa Godfrey’s Student Helper.

Filling Ramona Serrano’s Steady, Steady.

Filling Aliena Ferreira’s Red String of Fate.

Penned by Ricki ★

#ricki.#taken.#water.#student.#tseenke.

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mildinsomnia · 6 years

Text

2017 Personal Oscars

2017 TOP TEN

There is a scene in Reds, Warren Beatty's indulgent epic on the life of journalist John Reed, in which Reed implores Louise (Diane Keaton) to follow him to New York, telling her "You wanna write? Come where the writers are."

So agrees Lady Bird, played with aplomb by Saoirse Ronan, in Greta Gerwig's (probably somewhat) semi-autobiographical (but maybe not really) coming-of-age tale of the same name. She, wasting away in Sacramento, desires a life in New York, or maybe even Connecticut; any place where culture thrives.

This is a sentiment I’ve felt myself since I was at the age that Lady Bird could serve as my onscreen analogue, but one that hadn’t been as present as it was in the past year. 2017 was, in terms of cinema, a grounding force for me, and when I peruse my list of favorites from the year (above) I see a gathering of familiarity. There’s a trait in each of them that I tend to gravitate toward, something there that I look for in every film I watch, and when I find it I latch on, and they end up on lists like this. There’s a special sort of solace found in seeing a new movie from your favorite director, or one starring your favorite actress, both of which 2017 gifted me.

Saoirse Ronan is a revelation. She is by far the greatest actress of her generation, of the current working lot, and has become among the most exciting performers making movies today. This is not hyperbole, just facts of my own volition.

While Lady Bird doesn’t fit the mold of a big-budget actioner lauded with the addendum that it must be seen in theaters, it should garner such a suggestion on the basis of Saoirse Ronan's performance, as anytime she graces the screen is reason enough to venture out for the sole reason to say that you were there. Ronan, who broke out in 2007’s Atonement to the tune of an Oscar nomination at the age of 13, has ostensibly grown up on screen, treating her own adolescence as another role, impressively conflating her own growth as a person with that of an actor. Comparing her initial nod to her most recent could conceivably lead one to believe it was two different actors, a testament to both her natural talent and prodigious development.

To provide such rich material, Greta Gerwig penned a tenderly detailed screenplay (the best of the year), allowing Lady Bird to exist as a movie as much about the world as it is about its characters. Exploring the American economic caste system provides the film with its conflict- this is not solely a movie about teen angst, but rather a larger indictment of the struggles bestowed by times of economic turmoil and the pressure it expends on every branch of every family tree. This socioeconomic strife finds its roots in almost every aspect of the film- the opening, in which Lady Bird pines for a move east toward culture, is indicative of her ridding herself of the “poorness” of Sacramento in favor of embracing New York’s regality. All that Lady Bird desires requires large financial sums, that which her family cannot provide, resulting in her appearing ungrateful and constantly quarreling with her mother.

Here Ronan is tasked with handling a character that is sometimes unlikeable, yet undoubtedly amiable under her tough exterior. She excels in keeping her rootable through tumultuous times, and is in all a joy to watch. Throughout all of her performances, Ronan has demonstrated a keen ability to, within seconds, bring you to care about her character and hope for a happy ending. Lady Bird is no different, despite a shift in genre. Going from a film like Brooklyn to this, where she must rely on her comedic chops in favor of her infallible dramatic tendencies, is further evidence to the evolution of her talents, and it allows her to showcase her innate charm evident in all of her interviews, yet the film retains elements of both. In between the laughs, Lady Bird is a persistently sad movie, and it is this that elevates it above other films of its ilk, is the reason that the film resonates as strongly. It speaks so much to one's concerns about their place in the world, and not just those grand thoughts regarding the future, but rather of the mundane day-to-day variety, when climbing out of bed becomes the biggest struggle. There’s no singular moment to single out, the emotion instead surrounds and suffocates, but before you know it you’re back to laughing along with these characters you’ve come to know. It’s a lot like life.

But there was really only one choice for my favorite film of 2017. The end of the year saw the release of a new Paul Thomas Anderson film, an act I consider the greatest form of inspiration to a budding wannabe such as myself. There is one certainty in life: you are either an Alma or a Hungry Boy. The work of Paul Thomas Anderson is permeated with the formation of makeshift, dysfunctional “families,” that of which in Phantom Thread consists of Alma and said “hungry boy,” Reynolds Woodcock, the avowed swan song of Daniel Day-Lewis, he who has had his fill of acting. This, his second collaboration with Anderson, is an assertion that There Will Be Blood was no aberration, and that the two are perfect partners in cinematic achievements. But Anderson, in his career, has made an ideal duo with many a collaborator, including Jonny Greenwood, who returns to score Phantom Thread in a way that if the film appeared on TCM it would not at all feel out of place. But no matter who he surrounds himself with, Anderson always emerges as the most important element of all of his films.

Anderson is a self-admitted movie fanatic, and that is perhaps none the clearer than in Phantom Thread, wherein his love can be felt emanating from the screen. His camera glides through scenes assuredly, almost as if he’s showing off. And for as good of a director he is, his prowess as a writer seems to go unnoticed. Even in an original film like this, his words come across in a novelistic manner, as if he did adapt this from a Daphne du Maurier or an E. M. Forster novel, when in fact such an inclination is borne out of Anderson’s influence that commands the screen. No matter the genre or even the plot itself, I always find such joy in just watching his characters interact, those of whom are richly realized, performed perfectly, and leave more than a lasting impression. Each of his films has had more than one memorable character, and should this truly be Day-Lewis’ final film, it’s comforting to know he added one more to his and Anderson’s compendium, as it was a hell of a way to go out.

The conflation of Anderson’s adeptness at directing and writing comes in the form of the endings he crafts, and Phantom Thread ably joins the ranks of some of his best. The entire third act of the film can be described as something that needs to be seen to be believed, none more than the final frame. As mentioned, Anderson has a proclivity to make films about damaged people forming provisional families, usually in a zero-sum manner, but I can’t recall when it was as brutal as it is here, given the stakes it takes. Phantom Thread, in many a way, feels like an evolution in filmmaking for Anderson, as his cinematography continues to improve, his writing takes on darker, deeper paths, and as a whole, his films feel more grandiose in every way. And as they should; he’s our most vital filmmaker.

Onto the awards...

BEST PICTURE

Phantom Thread

BEST DIRECTOR

Paul Thomas Anderson for Phantom Thread

BEST ACTRESS

Saoirse Ronan in Lady Bird

BEST ACTOR

Hiroshi Abe in After the Storm

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS

Lesley Manville in Phantom Thread

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR

Willem Dafoe in The Florida Project

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY

Greta Gerwig for Lady Bird

BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY

James Ivory for Call Me By Your Name

BEST SCORE

Jonny Greenwood for Phantom Thread

BEST SONG

“Visions of Gideon“ by Sufjan Stevens (from Call Me By Your Name)

#Academy Awards #Oscars #Personal Oscars #phantom thread #paul thomas anderson #lady bird #saoirse ronan #greta gerwig #laurie metcalf #after the storm #hiroshi abe #the florida project #willem dafoe #james ivory #jonny greenwood #sufjan stevens

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emmetohboy · 4 years

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Favorites 19

Helado Negro. “And we’ll light our lives on fire just to see if anyone will come rescue what left of me.”

LISTEN: Sofi Tukker: Ringless Jamila Woods: Basquiat Big Thief: Century Helado Negro: Please Won’t Please Kota the Friend: Hollywood Joan Shelley: Teal Big Thief: Not Anderson .Paak: Jet Black Twain: Run Wild Dori Freeman: That’s How I Feel Angie McMahon: Slow Mover The New Pornographers: Higher Beams Rob Curly: Faded Sampa the Great: Any Day Cataldo: Ding Dong Scrambled Eggs Lloyd Cole: Violins Mark Mulcahy: Happy Boat Amber Mark: Mixer J. S. Ondara: Saying Goodbye Cuco: Bossa No Sé Tyler Lyle: Marina Karaoke The Japanese House: Follow My Girl

Here we sit between the final holiday of this year and the first holiday of the next one. Again, I am attempting to encapsulate my past 365 days of cultural consumption in a post. It feels more difficult this time around. Not because I enjoyed less. Quite the opposite. I feel the past year brought such varied creative stimuli that I struggled to recall much of it. That said I’ll let this flow and ask permission for an addendum, usually worked back into the overall recap in appropriate places, this year simply attached to the end. But before the beginning of the next one.

I’m going to dive headfirst into the record I easily spun more than any other this year, perhaps several years – Helado Negro’s This is How You Smile. Working creatively under the name Helado Negro, Roberto Carlos Lange is a musician of Ecuadorian decent working across genres and languages. I became aware of his work for the first time in 2011 with his release of Canta Lechuza. Reading reviews and listening to tracks I felt conceptually kindred to the work but for whatever reason the songs themselves did not resonate with me. In 2019 when This is How You Smile was released I curiously read a review that mentioned the title’s referencing a work by Jamaica Kincaid. Kincaid’s story Girl first appeared in the New Yorker in 1978. The work is accessible and brief so I read it before listening to one note of the record. When I finally did, I was transfixed. It is the kind of work I wanted to share with anyone who would listen, even texting friends about it at inappropriately early morning hours as I listened; Justin would love this; This is right in Venessa’s wheelhouse, my sister, old friend from college I hadn’t spoken to since his divorce this is a good reason to reconnect. The funny thing is it’s not a record that is inclined to draw people in right away. It’s not built on irresistible hooks or propolsive beats. It unfolds quietly across simple but lush instrumentation, drifting back and forth between English and Spanish, often in the same song. “Running,” the first single, is as unassuming as a track can be. Languid and gentle it practically intends to lull the listener to sleep.

In June I drove with Mrs. OhBoy across two states to see Lange perform with a stripped-down two-piece band at the always wonderful Grog Shop in Cleveland. Knowing my sister lived within shouting distance I invited her to join us. The band played the new record in its entirety front to back. I’m not usually a fan of this live show format but Lange worked it magically. A lighting issue kept the stage darkener than intended for the first few tracks. When it was finally rectified the band and the audience all decided we preferred the previous illumination and the lights were dimmed again. Sometimes songs ended cleanly and abruptly. Sometimes saxophones or digital loops made it impossible to mark when one song ended and the other was beginning. The room seemed to shimmer with each note and gentle phrasing. When the set wrapped, I asked my fellow attendees their thoughts. Mrs. OhBoy summed up my total experience with the work of Helado Negro beginning with Canta Lucheza through his newest, at first, I wasn’t sure but then I thought ‘oh I get it.’

The second and third records I consumed with voracity this year are the tandem from Big Thief, U.F.O.F. and Two Hands. This quartet is working at the top of their game. And work they do. I had the pleasure of seeing them performed in 2018 at the Voodoo Music Festival in New Orleans. Nearing the end of their set Andrianne Lenker announced it was to be their last live performance of a perpetual two-year tour during which they had released two records. They took only the smallest of respites from touring recording and releasing both U.F.O.F. and Two Hands. They seem to be constanly creating. The Beetles played 292 shows at the Cavern Nightclub in Hamburg – Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000 hours rule – how do you get to Carnegie Hall? - and in July of this year I speculated Big Thief to be the best band in America. Watching the four piece perform you get the sense that they could finish each others sentences but are just as likely to let each other ramble on for hours.

There are countless clips of the band playing live that make my case but I’m fond of this intimate little performance.

Speaking of musical acts improving on themselves with each release, this year brought a new e.p. from the duo Sofi Tukker. Nothing about this infectious act fits with the rest of my musical tastes. But how am I supposed to quit them if they keep putting out records like Dancing on the People. The integration of rock-oriented guitar licks and the multi-cultural cross pollination keep the musical arrangements from falling into rote dance patterns. And on “Ringless” Sophie Hawley-Weld composes lyrical quality akin to Stephin Merritt - “I'm more than the worst thing I've ever done. I’m less than the best thing I've ever won.”

Earlier this month NPR’s Ann Powers published a fascinating piece, Songs That Bend Time. Featured in the article-playlist combination is Chicago’s own Jamila Woods. And rightly so considering her latest release is entitled Legacy! Legacy! and each track pays homage to pioneers that Woods admires. The entire record is astonishing in both composition and performance. “Basquiat” is a great place to start.

It seems I am perennially placing Joan Shelley on my yearly favorites list but truthfully, she was absent last year. 2019 brought Like the River Loves the Sea, another lilting work with her frequent collaborators Nathan Salsburg, James Elkington and Will Oldham. Recorded in Iceland where, as Joan tells it, they were unable to find a banjo anywhere, the record wonderfully utilizes the angelic violin and cello work of Þórdís Gerður Jónsdóttir and Sigrún Kristbjörg Jónsdóttir. Teal and The Fading are true standouts in a solid lineup of Shelley compositions.

“Hollywood” by Kota the Friend was my unofficial song of summer. And two of my long-time heroes, Lloyd Cole and Mark Mulcahy notably had their best records in a turn. Mulcahy brings us The Gus and finds him pushing his story telling prowess to new heights. The track “Late for the Box” treads onto George Saunders level observations. Cole’s Guesswork reunites him with Commotions partner Blair Cowen and effortlessly blends some of Lloyds previous electronic instrumental work with his more noteworthy singer songwriters’ efforts. It feels retro and current at the same time. Similarly, “Higher Beams” from The New Pornographers latest effort, The Morse Code of Brake Lights is as close to a new 70’s-era Genesis song as we may ever hear again.

I was able to carve out a little more time for reading in 2019 than previous years. Not a lot but enough to keep multiple books going at once. I haven’t been able to maintain such a practice before. Maybe I grew into it. Or more likely the specifics books I chose allowed for it. I’ve been making my way through John Berger’s Portraits form nearly two years. Its structure is pefect for picking up, putting down and then picking up again. I cannot imagine another person writing more eloquently on the experience of humans creating and interacting with visual art. His writing is cerebral but not lofty. His language is precise yet textural. In a way I hope never to finish this book.

I haven’t read much George Saunders, only Civilwarland in Bad Decline, but when I finally opened Lincoln in the Bardo I poured through it. It can be a difficult read at first. But like Helado Negro, once I caught on to what the artist was doing (oh, I get it), every word was a joy.

Superheroes and deep mythologies are not my cup of tea, but Watchmen is fantastic. To be honest we have their final episode yet to view. We are cherishing it in a way we had previously with the final episode of Catastrophe. The writing is clever and complex. The performances are so good that one cannot imagine any other actor playing any of the roles – Jean Smart? Wow!

Counter to Watchmen, although there is certainly an aspect of mythology, is Lodge 49. AMC has announced they are not renewing it, so we hope it finds a new home. What is so unique about this set of characters and their tales is how ultimately low the stakes are, yet how much the viewer is compelled to care.

I have not seen Parasite yet although it is on the list for this week. We don’t go to the theater a lot, but we did go to see Knives Out. Pure fun. I wore a broad smile for the final 15 minutes of this caper. A fantastic ensemble and masterfully woven story. Not to the lcomplexitiy of the time-jumping Watchmen, much more immediate with the stakes made clear early. That’s what makes this a fresh take on an old genre.

So, here’s the forewarned addendum. One of the books I’ve juggled since Thanksgiving was recommended to me by a friend upon our adopting a new dog, an English Setter. My friend is an avid outdoorsman and has had two retrievers since I’ve known him. Both of the dogs were impeccably trained and behaved which is always important, but can be especially so for larger and active breeds. He told me he used a book called Water Dog to train his retrievers. It is an old book written by Richard A. Wolters and published in 1964. And the bulk of it, as the title suggests, has to do with teaching a dog to retrieve ducks for hunters. Wolters is wry and no-nonsense from the opening paragraph. He threads scientific data with gut instinct and acknowledges that some of his views may be questionable, but his results speak for themselves. Addressing the theory that you’ll ruin a hunting dog by keeping it inside the house with the family, Wolters proposes it was “thought up by some old house wife who hated dogs.” To be sure I am not recommending this because of the results it has brought us with our new four-legged family member. I have only just begun utilizing the books techniques. And as the largest percentage of them relate to laying in a blind and waiting for fowl to approach, be shot and then retrieved, I will never use most of it. But I have read every word, never thinking that a hunting dog manual would be a book that I joyfully balanced in the mix of everything else I intended to experience this year.

*Update (or addendum 2?): We watched the final episode of Watchmen. Go directly to HBO now. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. It is mind-bendingly entertaining and provocative. And yet I hope they make not another second of it. It’s not possible to match the quality of these nine episodes.

Under the wire musical addendum. The Japanese House: “Follow MY Girl”

I almost forgot about this gem of a record. Good at Falling came our way back in March. Running the last errands of the year (dog treats to keep pups occupied during a pajama clad New Year’s Day) the randomizer in Apple Music reminded me. So glad it did. And that I prepped this space for late entries. Happy New Year. .

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