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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

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Three Strikes [you're out]

It was his fault, really.

Wearing that jersey at Citi Field practically required Nina to hate the mass of muscle sitting in front of her on sight. Plus, he didn't know how to score a baseball game. So, honestly, it made sense. To hate him. Ardently, even. To push buttons, metaphorical or otherwise. A game within the game.

And, if, she found herself having fun, well, that was neither here nor there.

———

Rating: T, with sports and kissing because of who I am as a person Word Count: 9.1 K, also because of who I am as a person AN: I don’t know, guys. I got thoughts. I got feelings. The only way I know how deal with either of those things is to write about them with sports and kissing. Did I suggest that being a Mets fan was a bit like being Grisha? Perhaps! Perhaps, I did! If this is out of character just...don’t tell me.

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll

———

The suggestion that an idea was capable of boiling a person’s blood, even in the most abstract and metaphorical sense, had always appealed to Nina. Not in a particularly violent way, of course. More in regards to the visual.

Conjured up all sorts of possibilities.

Little bubbles beneath her skin, searing emotion through her veins that inevitably led to tufts of smoke pouring out of her ears. Like one of those old cartoon characters, she could now only dimly remember. In moments like this, especially. When she wasn’t quite boiling, but certainly racing toward the vast and admittedly surprising precipice of abject hatred. Directed almost solely toward the mass of muscle who dared to wear a Chase Utley jersey to Citi Field on a Thursday in May.

He needed a haircut, she thought.

The muscle. Not Chase Utley. She couldn’t possibly care less about the state of Chase Utley’s hair. Unless he was choking on it, somewhere. Obviously. Then Nina cared very much. About Chase Utley. And this guy. With too-long strands that she was starting to believe fell almost artfully across the back of a vaguely golden-skinned neck, as if they existed solely to torment her.

On a Thursday in May.

Sitting there, with a seat digging into the middle of her spine and her frustration threatening the enamel on the back of her teeth, Nina was loath to admit, even to herself, that she couldn’t stop staring at him. Partially because of the hair. Which looked very—pushable, really. As far as her finger’s potential went. But mostly because of everything else. Watching the muscle was a bit like watching a statue at the Met, waiting with bated breath for it to actually surge to life because when she was that same kid who watched cartoons on weekend mornings, she rather strongly believed that the statues at the Met were wholly capable of smiling and turning and living. Artwork prone to the mystical and potentially magical.

She blamed Ben Stiller for that, honestly.

Amy Adams to a slightly lesser degree.

Robin Williams would suffer no criticism in this argument, naturally.

The muscle shifted.

Twitched just a hint in his seat. Altered the angle of his, frankly, impressively wide shoulders. Rolled his neck between them. The seat was too small. He was too big. That jersey must have been ancient.

And, really, when it came down to it, Nina hated him most for the pencil. Tucked behind his right ear, it looked comically small whenever he pulled it between his fingers, scratching across a legitimate scorebook because in the thirty-seven minutes or so she’d spent observing this fascinating specimen of humanity, she’d noticed it was, in fact, a scorebook.

Not a piece of paper.

Not a printout.

Not even the one she was only vaguely confident they handed out in the rotunda downstairs.

An actual scorebook.

That he brought with him to Citi Field.

She glanced down to make sure she had not actually burst into literal flames in section 205. Row F. Seat 27. No such luck. Weird.

The pencil was back in his hand. One leg crossed the other, leaving his knee propped in the air, and there was just so much of the muscle that it was a rather small miracle of an exceptionally narrow field of science that it didn’t collide with anyone around him. Instead, it provided a built-in desk, that stupid scorebook propped up against jean-covered skin and even more muscles, pushing against fabric like they were personally offended by the concept of the blue-colored prison.

Nina bit her lip.

Tried to keep breathing. Because fires required oxygen, and there could be no boiling without fire and—

“‘Scuse me, ‘scuse me, ‘scuse me, just trying to—” Blood flooded Nina’s mouth, making it impossible for her to open that same mouth and let out the laugh already pushing against her lips. There were at least four little wrinkles pinched across the small expanse of Jesper’s nose, two boxes of popcorn clutched in either one of his hands and a soda between the slight bend of his elbow. He tiptoed his way around disgruntled fans, glaring at a few red jerseys for good measure. As if he actually wanted to be there. Nina kept biting her lip. “Just trying to get back to my seat,” Jesper finished, “won’t bother you again, rest of the game, absolutely, one-hundred percent guaranteed.”

Nina’s lips tilted up.

Scrambling to her feet, she couldn’t quite balance on the edge of the seat that immediately swung back up. Something sticky stuck to the bottom of her shoe and eventually, she would find herself wondering why she didn’t simply move into Jesper’s seat. For a myriad of reasons, she assumed.

Some of which might have mystical and potentially.

Goddamn, Ben Stiller.

“Accommodating sort of group, isn’t it?” Jesper mumbled, pushing past her and Nina had to applaud his dexterity. Not a kernel lost in the battle.

“Should have waited ‘til the middle of the inning. This is just bad form on your part.” “And miss all—” He waved an imperious hand toward the field. “What am I missing, exactly?”

Opening her mouth, Nina was certain she’d come up with a reasonable explanation for the romantic nature of baseball, only she was a little busy. Keeping her head connected to the rest of her body.

Snapping to the left, her breath caught. In that dramatic sort of way that always seemed like the perfect soundtrack to any great sporting moment. Eyes wide and fingers digging into her palm, hope mixed with the bubbles and the boils, and she barely noticed the awkward angle of her bent knees. Or just how close she was to—

Him.

The muscle.

She heard his pencil drop, she swore.

Oh, Gods, but he had blue eyes. Sharp and staring right at her, Nina resisted the very real urge to let herself melt right there. In section 205. Row F. Seat 27. Well, in front of seat 27, technically.

Pulling her knee back did not do that same knee any favors, muscles almost audibly objecting to the force of Nina’s split-second reaction, but then she forgot about the pain and the concept of depth perception. The yell tore itself out of her lungs, found its way to the rest of the noise circling the stadium, wrapping its way around people until the hope of that one, singular moment settled on the tips of her eyelashes and the backs of her heels and she wasn’t sure if she heard him at first.

No one should be capable of possessing a voice quite so gruff, that’s why.

“Not going to make it.”

Glaring at the monstrous mass of muscle and questionably good hair wasn’t so much as a decision as something far closer to instinct, pulling her brows together and letting her tongue push at the bottom of her teeth, and he—

Looked. Right at her. And her tongue.

Shoulders tensing, a hint of nervous energy appeared in those same ridiculously blue eyes, gone almost before Nina had a chance to realize it was there at all and she didn’t see the play. Heard it, though. The groans and the grunts, complete despair, and the first shreds of desolation drowning out the hope and pulling it from a grip that was always a little tenuous.

No home run. No hit. Just a run-of-the-mill fly ball in center field.

One side of the muscle’s mouth tugged up.

“Told you.” “Oh, fuck off.”

Surprise, she thought, was a very good look on him. Most of them would be, she imagined. But right then, on a Thursday in May, with two outs in the bottom of the fourth, Nina relished the surprise.

And sat back down.

To be a Mets fan, was to believe in the impossible.

The amazing, even.

It was right there in the slogans. The advertising campaigns. On a variety of shirts, both legitimate and those sold at the bottom of the 7-train stairs. To accept the amazing, to wish for it, even, was part and parcel of the history of an organization that relished its underdog status. Thrived in its role, the second team in a city that toed the line between excess and restraint.

Winning with this team was unexpected and unpredictable. Came without much pomp. Certainly no circumstance. Only a few trades that drew national eyes and back page headlines. More often than not, this was a team that discovered amazing when it simply should not exist.

Misfits who created something wonderful. Who sparked something among people who, at least for nine innings, believed orange was a worthwhile color to wear. Who smiled at a mascot with a massive baseball for a head. And his wife, who sported some rather impressive eyelashes, actually.

To be a Mets fan, was to understand heartache.

To accept being the butt of jokes across decades.

Every year, the knowing smiles came. Paying goddamn Bobby Bonilla. Cracks about pyramid schemes and owners who couldn’t find their way out of a money-based paper bag, team antics that occasionally drew those headlines, and players who fell in wayward ditches on their farms, ending their season before it ever really began.

Winning didn’t come often, but it was loud when it did. The crack of a bat and a ball finding the back of a glove, shoulders slamming into the left-field wall with its massive M&Ms ad. Feedback from a microphone as David Wright thanked the Seven Line Army, in all their orange-clad glory, memories of that near-perfect October and what could have been imprinting themselves across a generation.

To be a Mets fan, was to live and die with each pitch. Each hit. To hold your breath and wait for magic that lingered beneath skin and forced its way into bloodstreams.

To be a Mets fan, was to hate anyone wearing a Chase Utley jersey.

“Stew, stew, stewing, a rather hearty beef stew.” Nina narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?” “You are stewing,” Jesper said pointedly, as if it was an obvious affliction and they both hadn’t casually descended into madness caused by extra innings. Putting a runner on second was supposed to help avoid all of this. Runs were meant to be scored in extra innings. Nothing had happened yet. “Any more and that little divot between your eyebrows is never going to disappear. Then what will we do?” Answering would only acknowledge that the divot was more like a rather obvious ravine now, and the little half-moon circles left by her nails were going to be permanently etched into Nina’s palm.

He was still keeping score.

How he hadn’t run out of columns in his scorebook was beyond her, but Nina figured if the muscle was someone willing to purchase a scorebook, he probably made sure it was one that also included, like, fifteen innings on each page.

If they made it to the fifteenth inning, she would cry.

It would be embarrassing.

Jesper probably wouldn’t come back for the rest of the series. If she cried, that was. And she needed him to come back for the rest of the series. Sitting anywhere else wasn’t all that appealing, even if it might have been warmer up there now.

She wrapped her arms around herself. Better to stew with, that way.

“Do games normally last this long?”

Nina shook her head.

Jesper groaned. Loudly, complete with his head thrown back for extra emphasis and even clearer frustration and she didn’t think she imagined the way the muscle tensed. Staring at him was becoming something of a pastime in the middle of a more acceptable one. Light didn’t quite reflect from the hair she was starting to become just a hint obsessed with, but it certainly appeared determined to try, and his ability to hold so much tension in the region directly surrounding his jaw would have been impressive in any other circumstance.

As it was, Nina was a little concerned about the state of the muscle’s back molars.

It was why she didn’t react as quickly as she should have. Or so she would argue for the rest of time.

Once she got the popcorn off her feet.

A waterfall of butter-coasted kernels landed on her shoes, a few bouncing as she did, thrust out of her seat like a canon. Whatever bit of her heart that existed solely to document the ebbs and flows of the New York Mets success flew into her throat, where it immediately took up residence directly in the middle. Wide eyes immediately started to water, which brought her straight back to the entirely metaphorical cliff of her potential embarrassment and the muscle was leaning forward.

With his own brand of emotion.

No obvious tension, just that steady sort of hope born among the din of baseball-type sounds and, even more importantly, baseball-type feelings and Nina was mumbling.

“Turn ‘em, turn ‘em, turn ‘em, two, two, two, two, get the—” Suggesting she screamed made it seem as if she weren’t in complete control of her faculties. And despite the potential of extra innings insanity, Nina was just as lucid as ever and just as capable of throwing her hands in the air, while also screaming.

Undeniably so.

As soon as the ball jumped over the outstretched glove at short, Francisco Lindor’s lanky and overpaid body stretched out across the infield grass. Curses flowed from Nina’s mouth, some of them sharp enough to make even Jesper choke on whatever bits of oxygen he was able to gulp down, and she didn’t stop. Kept screaming and shouting, increasingly mobile hands and dexterous shoulders, miming her own throw home because whoever was playing left field was not moving quickly enough for her.

He didn’t make the throw.

Not in time, at least.

Dirt flew into the air as a leg stretched over home plate and the umpire’s arms were nearly as impressive as Nina’s. Marking the runner safe and giving the Phillies their first and only lead of the night.

Frustration mingled with out-of-place despair, far too early in the series and the season to be feeling quite as desolate as Nina suddenly was and, really, she wasn’t sure why she looked. Something about magnets, or simple curiosity, but her eyes drifted and her head tilted and she felt her jaw drop as his stupid, little pencil scratched out E6 in his scorebook.

“What the hell, man?”

He didn’t turn. Figured. Screaming was becoming her base setting, so Nina wasn’t entirely surprised that the muscle didn’t acknowledge it, but then she was moving and leaning and tapping on a shoulder that somehow seemed sturdier when she had kneed it several innings earlier.

“That’s not an error.” Moving in slow motion only made sense if the man was, in fact, a piece of marble. Strands of hair stuck to his forehead, acting as little paths toward his eyes and they were still blue. Good, that was good. Bad, that was bad.

Jesper wasn’t even trying to contain his laughter.

“Excuse me?” “Not an error,” Nina repeated, careful to pause between each word for emphasis. The muscle didn’t flinch. Stared at her incredulously, though. “Did you not see that hop?” “I saw your multi-million dollar man throw his arm out without much regard to actually making a routine play. Is that what you’re talking about?” “How is that possibly an error?” He lifted a shoulder. She was boiling over. “Should have made the play.” “It was impossible!" “C’mon now,” he chuckled, and the good fought with the bad. A symphony of contradictions blaring between Nina’s ears. Neither of which were steaming, it seemed. “Nothing is impossible in baseball.” “That was!” “Might need to come up with a better argument.” “Home scorer is not going to give Francisco an error on that. He had to dive!” “Maybe he should have been in better position, to begin with.” “The shift was on.” “Well, the shift is ruining baseball, so—” Nina gagged. Let her tongue push between rows of teeth that she couldn’t believe were going to survive the rest of the night if the acid churning in her esophagus was any indication. He looked. Again. Whatever heat lapping at the base of her spine was only marginally distracting. “A baseball purist cannot possibly wear the jersey you are wearing.” “I wasn’t aware of the rules, but, please, go on.” “Fuck. Off.” “Getting less and less creative.” His eyes hadn’t moved. As if he was documenting each twitch of her lips for his own personal posterity. Nina found she didn’t mind the idea as much as she should.

Jesper was going to crack a rib.

“Chase Utley is an asshole who doesn’t know how to slide.” “Ok.” “An asshole!” “I heard you the first time,” he said, losing the war with his lips. Curled up, they cut across the serious mask his face had become in the world’s least serious conversation. It was nice that Jesper ended up crying before Nina, honestly. “And he wasn’t a Phil when he hurt your guy, so I don’t think that should count at all.” Nina did not know what noise she made. Wasn’t human. Hurt a little. “Did you just call him a Phil?” “Guys,” Jesper mumbled, but she couldn’t be bothered with something as menial as the bottom of the inning when the muscle in front of her kept doing that thing with his eyes and his hair and—

Reaching out, she managed to bypass his rather impressive reaction time, grabbing the pencil before he could stop her and the crack of it between her fingers was as loud as any grand slam this slightly ugly ballpark had ever witnessed.

Not that Nina would ever admit she thought Citi Field was slightly to moderately ugly.

It was the color scheme. Way too much green involved.

She gave herself exactly seven seconds to relish the look of pure amazement on the muscle’s face.

“Use a pen,” Nina sneered, “at least stand by your scoring convictions.” “Chase Utley is going to be in the Hall of Fame.” “As a Phil?” “World Series champion.”

His ability to emphasize words with meaningful pauses was far better than Nina’s. “It wasn’t an error.” “You’re paying that guy more than anyone in the world deserves to get paid, if he’s going to lay out for a liner, then he should be able to make the play, don’t you think?” Nina bit her lip. Boiled. Stewed.

Ah, damn.

Her silence was an answer in the middle of a sea made up of equally disheartened fans. Who all suddenly remembered how terrible they looked in orange. Always worse after a loss.

The muscle nodded. Once. Exhaled. Through his nose. As if he’d won, and not just his team, and Nina didn’t offer to replace his pencil.

On a Friday night in May, Nina genuinely believed that he wouldn’t come back. Hoped for it, even. And something else almost akin to the exact opposite.

Both were very strange feelings to feel contained in one human, body. Draped, even as it was, in blue and orange and New York City’s less famous pinstripes. With PIAZZA splashed across her back, Nina felt as if she were obligated to sit a little straighter. As if slumping in her seat — by herself tonight because Genya was not at all interested in sitting in the stands and Zoya would have laughed at the suggestion, and Jesper had to get back to the Crow Club — would somehow tarnish the reputation of a name that didn’t belong to her.

Didn’t it, though? Just a little. Wasn’t that how sports worked? Throwing yourself into the camaraderie with both feet and occasionally flailing arms, willing to sit in an uncomfortable seat that she’d have to mention to Nikolai at some point because these were starting to feel a bit like torture devices masquerading as plastic, and a piece of paper floated onto her lap.

He’d folded the piece of paper.

The muscle. Not Nikolai. Who was sitting in the owner’s box, in fact. Nina assumed those seats weren’t rising up in revolt against him.

The muscle wasn’t wearing a jersey this time. A cup of what smelled like over-brewed coffee, though, was held tightly in his left hand, while the right clutched his scorebook as if it were made of gold. Nina’s tongue swiped her teeth.

He watched.

Documented.

Kept track.

“What the hell is this?” “Is that your favorite curse, you think?” “Why are you throwing paper airplanes at me?” Lifting shoulders appeared to be his default form of response. “Felt just quirky enough not to be overtly threatening.” “Because of the guns generally associated with fighter planes?” “What do you know about fighter planes?” Rolling her whole head did not get her a smile. Or even a hint of such a thing. It did get him a few grumblings of frustration from those whose view he was blocking. Because there was so goddamn much of him. Imposing, that was the word for it. Taking up space and settling into the seat with a near amazing amount of grace, practically folding in on himself, like he was made of smooth lines and crisp edges, capable of soaring through air in a way that belied that flimsy nature of paper airplanes, and there was that word again.

“Always liked the ones that had painted teeth on them,” Nina said, somehow fully prepared for the huff of laughter that fell out of him. He pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket.

To hand to her.

“You would.” “What is that supposed to mean, exactly?” “It means,” he said, nodding at the pen when she kept gaping at it, “that in my limited experience with you, Ms. Met—”

“Thought we covered lack of creativity last night.” He ignored her. Eventually, it might be a good idea to learn his name. Where that might also be the worst idea in the history of the world. Maybe Nikolai could track him down. Like through ticket sales, or something. That seemed like a breach of power, though.

“You do have a rather impressive set of teeth on you, yourself.” “Oh, that’s an insult.” “Should unfold the paper airplane.” Most of her wanted to crumple up the piece of the paper, toss it back in his face and then possibly stab him with his own pen. But Nina also didn’t know the muscle’s name, and cold-blooded murder on a Friday night in May required a certain sense of personalization that they hadn’t quite reached yet. So, there was no crumpling. Her fingers didn’t shake. Her heartbeat held steady in her chest.

Unfolding the paper with his eyes on her, Nina did hold her breath. For eight straight seconds, approximately. Until it all rushed out of her, entirely amazed and perpetually annoyed because the paper airplane left creases between the boxes of what was very clearly her own personal scoresheet.

With provided pen.

“This is a trick.” “That not being a question gives me pause,” he said, but it sounded like an admission. One tinged with regret. Presumably for Chase Utley’s tendency to be a complete and utter asshole. Prone to injuring Mets’ middle infielders.

“Is it not?” He shook his head. And the pen in his hand. “Get to stand by the convictions of your scoring actions.” “Errors occur only on routine plays.” “Yuh-huh.” “You’re here by yourself.” “Also not a question.”

“Or an answer,” Nina pointed out.

“Where’d your friend go?” “What do you put in your coffee?” “Nothing,” he answered, “seriously, where’s the friend?” Something lingered on the edge of the question. Something Nina didn’t want to notice, but couldn’t possibly ignore. Not when it came with concave shoulders, curling toward her like they were preparing themselves to block wind and glares in equal measure. The second of which was really a more pressing problem at the moment.

“Had to work.” “As a stand-up comedian?” “Hardy har har,” Nina grumbled. Leaning back against the force of his ensuing smile was as natural as wearing a Mike Piazza jersey and searching for the prize at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box. What she was less prepared for was the ability of that same smile to twist its way between her ribs, lighting another new and imaginary fire and if her mouth dried just a bit, then that was neither here nor there.

Between her and the baseball gods, fickle as they were.

“You don’t put anything in your coffee?” He shook his head. “Sugar makes me nauseous.” “God, what a depressing way to live life.” “Eh, there are things that make up for it.” “Chase Utley?” “I think you might be obsessed,” he said, dropping into his seat so as to avoid being pelted with cheese fries from Shake Shack. The guy three seats away looked real serious. “Going to write him a letter asking for a game of catch?” “You’re making pop culture references.” “Not a question, either.” “No, a stunned statement of fact.” She wanted that laugh on loop. Wanted it to play as the soundtrack for the rest of the night and the rest of the series and quite possibly the rest of her life, lingering softly in the background of everything she did for the rest of forever.

Matching in perfect rhythm to the predisposed nature of her blood to boil.

“Where are all your friends, then?” Nina asked, almost desperate to change the direction of the conversation and her internal dialogue. The blue evolved. Right there in his eyes. Darkened until it looked like the sky before a storm and that was ten-thousand times worse than any other drivel she’d come up with so far.

Licking her lips was idiotic. Naturally, that’s what she did.

“Not here,” he replied, “but I know the hitting coach.” Strictly speaking, that should not have been quite as awe-inducing as it was. Nina hadn’t paid for her tickets, after all. Had no intention of paying for tickets ever again, if she was being honest. So, really, seeing how caution swept the muscle’s face was kind of a dick move.

On her part, specifically.

“Should I be impressed?” Shoulder lift, right on cue. “I knew him in college. Was, uh—” “—Wait, did you play baseball?” Color didn’t rise on his cheeks. Not in any romantic way. Nothing about it was swepping, which was good because the Phillies had won the night before, meaning any sweeping would also guarantee Mets losses. It arrived in splotches. Bits of pink and nearly-red, tiny pinpricks of unregulated emotion that immediately affected the ability of Nina’s pulse to stay even.

She grinned.

Wide and honest, ignoring the strands of hair that fell in her eyes when she let her head fall.

He didn’t look away.

She’d think that was important, later.

“You contain multitudes, Muscle.” “Insulting,” he grumbled. “Quite possibly the tallest man I’ve ever encountered in the flesh.” “That can’t possibly be true.” “You don’t look like a baseball player.” Back to the correct shade of blue. Just for a moment. Disappearing in the haze of a 90 mile per hour fastball. Right up the middle. But Nina had always been fairly good at tracking pitches, and she might not have been a former baseball player, but picking out the slider amongst a never-ending stream of heaters was like her personal superpower.

“So I’ve heard.” “From scouts?” “Sometimes, yeah.”

“Of the professional variety?” “Every now and then.”

Letting out a low whistle, Nina’s spine relaxed. Tension that had taken root between her shoulder blades loosened, watching the face in front of her and the mask it was so obviously clinging to. Kept slipping, though. While staring directly at her.

It was, she would argue, why she did what she did. Without mumbling.

“You wanna sit?” “With you?” “Rude. You threw paper at me.” “It was a well-constructed airplane,” the muscle argued, “so you could also score the game. This was a nice thing I was doing.” “Past tense.” “Am doing,” he corrected. “Currently.”

“That mean you're going to sit?”

She counted. Seconds. Moments. Breaths. Dug her teeth into her lower lip. Against the side of her tongue. He nodded.

And climbed over the seat.

So, that was only going to marginally mess with her brain.

“Alright then,” Nina said, doing her best to flatten her paper against the bend of her knee, “tell me everything about your baseball tale of woe.”

He didn’t.

At least not at first.

It took until the fourth inning for them to begrudgingly agree that mowing patterns in the outfield was an abstract art form that did not often get the credit it deserved, before deciding, in no uncertain terms, that the NL East boasted some of the better uniform options in all baseball, even if that was mostly because of the Marlins and—

His hand moved to his shoulder.

The right one. More than once. Gently massaged the muscle there, a slight grimace that Nina only noticed because she was sitting squarely in the middle of objectification and she didn’t even know his name. Yet, she reminded herself.

They’d get there.

They didn’t. Not in that game, anyway.

A Saturday afternoon in May didn’t present the same sort of chill that required scalding hot coffee with absolutely nothing else in it, but Nina was playing with hope and resting on her not-so-cautious expectations. Seeing how wide his eyes could get was extra.

Sugar on top, if you will.

They got very wide. Frozen, even. Stuck halfway down the row, still no jersey, just his dropped jaw and slumped, possibly injured shoulders, ignoring the jabs from nearby season ticket holders who were starting to believe this mountain of muscle existed solely to block their sight lines.

Nina figured that’s what it was, at least.

He smiled.

That smile. Her smile. When she’d begun to claim it, she couldn’t begin to pinpoint, but it might have been six and two-thirds innings into last night’s game when his left arm had bumped her right, just enough warmth wafting off him to be noticeable. To leave goosebumps in his awake, too.

“There’s no sugar in it,” she promised, “so you don’t have to worry for the state of your stomach.” “I didn’t once think you were trying to poison me.” “High praise.” “Deservedly so.” She flushed. Ducked her eyes. Tried not to chew her tongue in half, or allow the burning-hot blood racing through every single one of her extremities to burst its way out of her skin. That would be off-putting. And traumatic.

“Here,” he added, tugging another folded piece of paper out of his back pocket, “for you.” “Are you printing these off in the hotel?” “Should be a private investigator, Ms. Met.” “Did your coach make you stay in Queens, Muscle?” The hand that landed on her waist — to move her, just to move her — was warm and blistering and those were two very different words with a pair of very different meanings and even more jarring consequences, and he sat down next to her.

Huh.

“Been taking the train in from Grand Central.” “Ugh, he’s making you stay over there? There’s no good food in that part of the city.” “Quiet, though.” Sticking her tongue out when she gagged continued to be one of Nina’s less impressive traits. “I blew my shoulder out my junior year of college.”

One of Nina’s knees buckled. Only one. The right one, actually. She refused to believe that was a sign. From baseball gods, or otherwise. “Hitting?” “Throwing. Probably because of the hitting, but the blowing out actually happened on what was considered by most in the know to be a pretty routine throw from left field. Hurt like hell.” “Yeah, I bet.” “I don’t remember a ton of what happened right after. Might have yelled? Quite possibly blacked out. Definitely heard something snap, which admittedly terrified me, but then there were a bunch of people talking and walking me down the tunnel and more lights and tests. The phrase never the same again was thrown around with alarming regularity.”

Cold. Nina was cold. Freezing beneath a mid-afternoon sun, one of those May days that tease of summer yet to come. They smell like cotton candy and potential, of a distinct lack of responsibility and SPF 70.

She had sensitive skin.

“Were you by yourself?” Asking questions she somehow already knew the answer to was equal parts cruel and unusual, particularly when asking it of a man whose name never got to back pages. Or her ears, it seemed. She swallowed whatever was sitting in the back of her mouth.

“Brum was there,” he said, but it sounded like an excuse. A practiced line that had started to reek of insincerity. “My—well, my parents had been gone for a while. Same old sob story you always hear, y’know? Kid loses everything, finds salvation in the dogma of sports, gets pretty good at it, and then—” “—Loses it all again?” Nina finished. She thought she did. Whoever was talking didn’t sound like Nina. Sounded like someone who had painstakingly refolded her paper airplane the night before. To keep on the nightstand next to her bed.

“Some of it, yeah. They wanted me to stick around. Stay on staff. Coach. But that was—” He clicked his tongue. Distant eyes stared past that goddamn M&Ms ad, and Nina didn’t think. Wasn’t that how the best athletes were, though? All instinct and lightning-fast reaction times. Responding to a situation before the rest of us mere mortals could even begin to fathom the circumstance.

He didn’t push her hand off his.

The coffee was going to go cold.

“Very maudlin way of approaching things.” She chuckled. Tried not to cry, for entirely new reasons. “Impressive vocabulary for a jock.” “Keep workshop'ing your insults, Ms. Met.”

“Brum, he just got hired by the Phillies, right?” She knew that answer too. “Is this the first game you’ve been to?” His eyes slid to hers. In that same slow motion as before, and that couldn’t possibly have been less than seventy-two hours ago, but life had a tendency to be weird like that and good like that and, well, you can’t predict baseball, Suzyn.

“Why the Mets?” It wasn’t the question she expected. Felt far too big and more than a little terrifying, jumping into the deep end of the pool from the highest diving board. But that same pool was always crystal clear, the sort of blue they wrote songs about. Summertime and the living was easy. That sort of thing.

“Because there’s something wonderful in a team that defies every bit of sports conjecture. That breathes in the chaos and spits out something that, every now and then, is absolutely beautiful. That lets me be bigger than myself for nine innings and a minimum of one-hundred and sixty-two games. That takes all my shortcomings and accepts them because one time this team claimed there was a raccoon fighting with a rat in the dugout tunnel. Because they don’t play The Imperial March during lineup announcements.” Something, something—she needed better sunscreen.

So as to not get burned by the force of his sun-like smile.

“I think a raccoon could probably take a rat, don’t you think?” “I don’t know,” Nina wavered, “I own a fair amount of Staten Island Pizza Rat merch.” His hand flipped. Fingers curled around hers and held on with an ease that settled her acid and cooled her blood, finally finding that middle ground between frigid and fission.

“Explain the single seating.” “I had a friend here on Thursday.” “And he had to go back to work. Where does he work?” “Bar in Jersey.” Curiosity flashed in the blue, but then it was gone and Nina must have imagined it, looking for more common ground and mutual understanding. Her fingers looked minuscule between his.

“If I told you that I know the new owner of the Mets,” Nina started, “because I went to college with his girlfriend, and he’s been listening to me talk about this team for the better part of a decade now, so he decided to spend some of his inherited millions to buy it, and now that same girlfriend is sitting up there perpetually confused why I like to be out here, do you think you’d hate me on principle?” One blink. Two. Head tilt. Jaw clench. His lips popped when they opened.

“No.” “No?” “No,” he echoed, “Nikolai Lantsov shouldn’t have spent so much money on your shortstop’s contract.” “Wasn’t an error.” Both shoulders lifted.

“Nina Zenik,” she said, a tardy greeting that should have happened well before the hand holding. The hand holding continued.

“Matthias Helvar.” “Did you bring a pen?” He pulled another one out of his jacket pocket.

They disagreed on no less than half a dozen calls. Impressive, since they didn’t actually start paying attention to their separate score sheets and books until early in the third inning after Nina had barely cleared the cheese sauce off the corner of her page.

Introducing themselves made it feel as if they’d crested another level in whatever the proper term for this not-quite relationship was.

Jabs weren’t nearly as sharp, but elbows brushed and noses scrunched. Makeshift disdain blurred against subtle infatuation, sunshine in his hair and pressing against the barrier of Nina’s consistently reapplied sunscreen. They talked. Laughed. Shouted and screamed, standing at different times. Much to the chagrin of everyone around them.

She didn’t bother asking about the Chase Utley jersey. Knew that it was as much a part of Matthias’s fandom as the Piazza jersey was to hers. Connecting him to something that was only partially his, because no matter how much this sport might be capable of sweeping over them, of bringing them along with the current, there was a riptide always threatening just below the surface. Capable of drowning and filling lungs, leaving them both taking on water and hastily constructed metaphors.

Plus, they both hated the Yankees. So, they talked about that.

Talked about places in the city they liked to go, Nina’s knowledge of hole-in-the-wall restaurants leaving his eyes as wide as she’d hoped they could be, tiny pools she was more than willing to dive into. With perfect form.

Laughter became the new normal for the pair of them, chancing glances when they thought the other wasn’t looking. They always were. As if those magnets were real and forceful, leaving them both grinning like idiots whenever they were caught in the act.

Once an inning, then.

Matthias didn’t sing during the seventh-inning stretch, but Nina was loud enough for the pair of them. Especially when she was standing on her seat, a hand flat on the small of her back.

“So you don’t fall,” Matthias explained, and the words immediately branded themselves on that corner of her brain where Nina kept good things.

They shared a plastic helmet of swirl ice cream. With rainbow sprinkles.

He called them jimmies.

She made fun of him.

And then—

It was over.

No drama. No walk-off hits. No extra innings. Just a Mets win that didn’t require the bottom of the ninth. And she was happy with that, she was. Less so with the way her stomach dropped as soon as her knees bent and her chin lifted, barely tempered hope and the sort of want that did not require magnets to direct her gaze.

Matthias loomed above her, casting shadows and the desire to finally push her fingers into his hair was nearly too much to ignore. Nina did. In favor of what came next because she knew what came next, and this was not that serious. Sitting on opposing lines of a flimsy at best baseball rivalry did not mean she couldn’t push up on her toes and catch the mouth of someone who no longer felt like a stranger. Until that same mouth inevitably opened and she got to do whatever she wanted with her tongue.

Only—

One of the season tickets started grumbling, and the sea of fans pushed forward and the only way Nina stayed upright was because of the arm around her waist. Matthias’s nose ticked her skin along the back of her neck.

“Told ya,” he mumbled, and if he saw the goosebumps, he didn’t mention them.

That was nice.

He was nice.

She was—

A mess, at best.

Mostly because there was no kissing. Almost like they were nervous of what would happen if they did. Of shattering this tremulous understanding and shaky alliance, but Matthias’s fingers squeezed Nina’s hip before he said, “See you tomorrow.”

She did not see him tomorrow.

When tomorrow was tonight and now and Zoya and Genya kept doing circles around the room.

Sunday Night Baseball on ESPN required a certain amount of protocol and it was the first broadcast with Nikolai in the owner’s box, which meant plenty of shots at the owner’s box, and Nina sat in her very plush, decidedly warm seat, with only minimal argument.

There was champagne, so. That helped.

Plus, she figured she’d— “Is it a guy?” Genya asked without preamble, propping her chin on her hand. “Is that why you don’t want to hang out?” Nina sighed. “You know me better than that.” “Sure, sure, sure, looked real cozy down there, though.” “Are you spying on me?” “Nah, Zoya was.” Frustration clawed at Nina’s consciousness. Surprise did not. This was par for the course and several other out-of-place sports cliches.

Zoya finished her drink before adding, “I didn’t leave this suite all afternoon, yesterday, the security guards that Nikolai knows in that section though…” “That’s splitting hairs,” Nina argued. “And they were just doing their job,” Nikolai added, shouting in a way a multi-millionaire absolutely should not. Zoya rolled her eyes.

“Whatever they were doing,” Nina said, “they didn’t need to be doing it. What if someone got robbed while they were watching me?” “You think people are getting robbed in broad daylight inside this stadium?” “Maybe!” “Were lots of Phillies fans here,” Genya pointed out. Laughter clung to her words, quiet snickers from the rest of the assorted peanut gallery. Before they noticed that Nina wasn’t lacking. Might have paled, if the matching expressions she was met with were any indication. “Oh,” Genya exhaled, “good looking Phillies fan, huh?” Nina grit her teeth. “He knows Brum.” “The bastard,” Nikolai sneered.

“Most people don’t like him.” “Because he’s a bastard, yeah.” “How’d the Phillies fan know Brum?” Zoya asked, and it wasn’t like Nina wanted to tell them. Words poured out of her all the same, excitement carving its way into the conversation because even if she could rationalize the lack of kissing after a three-day conversation and occasional argument, none of her friends could understand how she didn’t get his number.

Neither could she, quite frankly.

“This is either disgustingly romantic,” Nikolai said, “or it’s exceedingly dumb. Of both of you.” Genya clicked her tongue. In agreement, Nina figured. “Second one, for sure. Do we have to go arrest him for something? Bring him up here, nervous and scared—” “Same sentiment,” Nina mumbled. “—Only for him to see you, awash in a sea of moonlight and outfield lights, and then you live happily ever after despite your baseball allegiances?” “He hates the Yankees too.” “Something, at least,” Zoya said, but it was missing the edge. The acid. The anger Nina had almost prepared herself for. “You going to go down there, or….”

Finishing the sentence was pointless when Nina was already standing, Nikolai’s laugh ringing in her ears as she did her best to push her finger straight through the elevator button. She bobbed on the balls of her feet, impatience skittering up her spine and there were too many buttons and too much laughter, but that was likely a good thing, and the security guards didn’t stop her.

From running into the section.

Only to find two sets of empty seats. His and hers. A weird, depressing, matching set.

Nina waited. Stood at the top of the section stairs, waiting for a flash of familiar hair or those eyes that she probably hadn’t dreamed about the night before. Never came. The goosebumps did, for an entirely new and even more depressing reason.

The security guard asked her to leave. Twenty-eight minutes after the last out.

Matthias hadn’t been at the game.

To be a Mets fan, was to wait.

For wins. For David Wright’s body to heal. For that same rush that came in 2015, only this time, it also came up with a World Series championship attached to it.

Nina wasn’t very good at waiting.

Summer crept forward. As it was apt to do. Going back to the ballpark was second nature to Nina, but the Mets were on their West Coast swing, and spending a week and a half with Zoya and Genya touring the greater California coast wasn’t entirely appealing. So, she was in New Jersey.

Leaning against the bar of the Crow Club, Nina watched the crowd. Most of them saturated with fruity alcohol, drinks that never came with those little umbrellas because the thought of such a thing would have set Kaz’s teeth on edge, but this was Atlantic City and that required a certain level of nonsense to be met consistently.

Plus, Nina knew Inej liked those drinks.

And that was that, for Kaz. As they say.

Heads turned at tables while she watched, conversations that only occasionally acknowledged the baseball games on TVs hanging above them, others recounting beach exploits from that afternoon and plans for the rest of the evening, a steady din of noise and humanity that somehow made it easier for Nina to breathe.

It smelled like salt when she did.

“Looking awfully thoughtful,” Inej said, appearing out of nowhere to grin knowingly at Nina. “Give you a nickel for them.” “They’re not worth that much.” “What about one of those tokens from the casino down the boardwalk?” “Does Kaz know Jesper went to play there again?” “Absolutely.” “And?” “And what?” Inej parroted. “Who are you looking for, exactly?” “No one.” It was the wrong answer. A telling answer. An answer Nina didn’t realize she was capable of providing until the very moment those five letters in that specific order passed between lips in desperate need of ChapStick. And kissing. Gods, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t kissed him.

“Our dear, darling Nina is pining,” Jesper explained. Drink in hand, the soft clink of casino tokens was as absurd as it was not, a mix of youth and age and responsibility and not. The perfect blend of summertime status.

Nina took a sip of his drink before he could offer. She assumed he would offer.

“For that,” Jesper hissed, “I’ll tell Inej the rest of the story.” He did. Spared no expense, really. Recounted scorebooks and shouting matches, although some dramatic license was taken at that point, drawing a small crowd that included a guy Nina had never met before, staring openly at Jesper like he’d hung the moon. She’d make fun of him for that. Maybe. After the story. Probably.

Inej was a rapt audience, taking in details and occasionally letting her eyes flit toward Nina. Who never once disputed anything. There was nothing to dispute. The goddamn paper airplane was still sitting on her goddamn nightstand.

“And you just never saw him again?” Inej asked. Nina shook her head. “That’s tragic. Not—maybe not grand scheme, world level, but tragic all the same.” “No kissing either,” Jesper added.

Nina’s heart dropped. Shattered at her feet. Like one of those plates, you could shoot at in the arcade. “How do you know that?” “I didn’t, until right now. Simple assumption, though. Who could pine at your level if there’d been previous making out?” “Two different things,” Inej murmured.

Jesper hummed in agreement. “And Nina wanted both. Fraternizing with the enemy.” “He hated the Yankees, too.” “So, what? The enemy of my enemy is my friend? My good-looking friend?” “He was good-looking, right?” That earned her another hum — and got Jesper a look of passing consternation from the guy at his side. Nina desperately needed to learn names in a more timely fashion. Determined to remedy at least one situation, she took a deep breath and immediately, very nearly died.

It was very dramatic.

Sweeping, even.

Because the door opened and she knew the music didn’t stop and the Earth didn’t pause mid-rotation, but it felt like her center of balance had been inextricably altered and that wasn’t the bad thing it should have been when Matthias Helvar took his first step into the Crow Club.

Not falling over really was a rather monumental miracle.

If she decided to move, Nina did not remember it. Could not bother with something as menial as cognitive reasoning or the ability of the neurons in her brain to properly fire, not when she was twisting around tables and reminding herself of all the very important properties oxygen possessed. In regard to continued consciousness.

He didn’t move. He waited. Watched. Documented her, it felt like.

She wasn’t entirely opposed.

Their shoes nearly brushed.

“Huh,” Matthias breathed, slumping slightly to get into her eye line. Or just closer to her. The specifics didn’t matter. “I was right, then.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “You said your friend worked at a bar in Jersey.” “This is a bar in Jersey.” “Yeah, we might be going in circles, actually.” “What are you doing here?” Nina was dimly aware of Jesper shouting something, but the buzz between her ears was far too loud and even the concept of pulling her gaze away from Matthias’s made her want to grit her teeth together until she ground them down completely.

She licked her lips.

He smiled. “After I got hurt,” Matthias explained, “I didn’t know what way was up. So, I went...up. Best as I could, really, up the Shore.” “Is that a joke?” “No, I thought your friend looked familiar. Was driving me nuts, honestly.” “How?” “Twenty questions, Ms. Met.” “Matthias!”

Her voice cracked. Her foot stomped. Air crackled and the world very likely did shift because the hands on Nina’s cheeks were warm and perfectly sized to pull her that much closer and she was legitimately proud of herself. For not stepping on his feet. He didn’t really give her the chance.

Rocking against each other, there was a joke about tides and current to be made and Nina pushed them back, down or up, and direction didn’t matter and time didn’t matter. Sports allegiance was the least of her worries. Not when Matthias’s arm found her waist and there was something to be said for the stretch of his upper body. Capable, as it was, of lifting her up and he was ten-thousand times better at any tongue thing than she could have possibly imagined.

Tracing her lips and twisting around her own, like he was taking a very personal and detailed inventory. One of his thumbs brushed against Nina’s cheeks, but she honestly couldn’t figure out which one. Everything was sensation and feeling, a bases-clearing double that kept the rally alive and the roar in the background wasn’t the crowd at Citi Field, but Inej perched on the edge of the bar and Jesper balanced on the rungs of a rickety stool, and they only broke apart to fall back together.

Nina closed her eyes.

Better to remember, that way.

To let her breath catch whenever Matthias’s neck dipped again, the sort of angle that sonnets were written for, and epic romances documented. Right side up and cross dimensions and Nina’s eyelashes fluttered. Open, closed. Once, twice.

He was still there.

“You go down the Shore, everybody knows that,” Nina whispered, still somehow sounding like herself. Good, that was good. And only good, that time.

“I think you’re getting paid by the disagreement.” “I liked shouting your name.” His eyes—

Sparkled, maybe.

She didn’t even hate herself for thinking that.

“Probably about as much as I enjoyed hearing it,” Matthias said, “and I’ve been here before. Spent that summer drinking at,” his head jerked toward the corner where Inej waved, “that corner. This was as far away from school and baseball and everything I thought was gone as I could find.” “Ah, the scorebook makes sense now.” “Does it just?” “You know baseball isn’t often predictable nor nearly that organized. That’s the appeal, so people claim.” “They do,” Matthias admitted, “but I—is that demon-looking guy still working here?” “Kaz owns this bar.” “Of course he does. You know everyone, don’t you Ms. Met?” “Impressive like that.” Humming wasn’t really her favorite of the audible, non-word responses, but Nina heard something different in that sound than she ever had before. Almost like hope and something worth waiting for, if only because the waiting found her first.

She kissed the bottom of his chin.

It was all she could reach.

“I really wanted you to be here, Nina,” Matthias said, “and I’m sorry I wasn’t there Sunday. For that game, I—that wasn’t part of the plan, but...well, Brum had set up this whole interview with a college team in the middle of nowhere, thinking I’d be good with that and—” “You weren’t good with that?” His hair shook when his head did. “Not really, no.” “Did he kick you out of your hotel?”

“Smart too.” “Total package.” “Yeah,” Matthias said, a note of awe that made Nina’s skin prickle, “anyway, I’m pretty much in New York full-time now, but trying to find you there seemed impossible.” “So you figured you’d try a bar in the middle of Atlantic City?” “I leave a very strong impression,” Jesper yelled, practically jumping off the stool when Kaz glared. Inej’s smile was hypnotic.

“Something like that,” Matthias agreed, “so this is the part where we actually give each other our phone numbers and then—” His arm tightened again, finding a bit of space that certainly hadn’t been there twelve seconds before. Just enough to make sure Nina heard him mumble I like you before he kissed her. Or she kissed him.

Either or, really.

They went to Yankee Stadium on Labor Day weekend.

Nikolai pulled some strings to get them suite seats with complimentary well drinks and never-ending popcorn and both Matthias and Nina wore wholly out of place jerseys. Supporting neither of the teams on the field. Just each other, maybe. At least without much argument. They had better things to do, anyway. Fingers laced together, Nina shouted at the field and Matthias stared at anyone who dared glance in their direction and it was weird and wonderful and exactly what sports was supposed to be.

Caring about something beyond reason, something bigger and better than any one person was alone.

#matthias x nina #helnik #helnik fanfiction #nina zenik #matthias helvar #soc fanfic #insert shrug emoji here #every now and then i have these like...five hour bursts where i write all these words at once #this is the product of one of those

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gabriel4sam · 4 years

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Seventy-two varieties of root vegetable and other tasty things to discover (now that the Sith are dead); a Gen Obi-Wan story!

Written for theObi-Wan Kenobi Gen exchange and beta-ed by the charming @texasdreamer01

Under the cut, the fic!

It was when he saw Ahsoka eyeing a beetle with keen interest than Obi-Wan decided it was time for an intervention. He had totally failed the culinary education of his own Padawan, he wouldn’t fail it in the same way for his Grandpadawan.

“You didn’t fail my education, Master, seriously-“

“-Shh, Anakin, I’m the one telling the story.”

The war was dying down, for no reasons the Jedi could exactly pinpoint. They were doing exactly the same things they had done for years, but this time the other side was answering their propositions of peace talks and, sector by sectors, the combats were stopping and tentative talks started.

The Senate was busy sending ambassadors left and right, companies were tentatively establishing commercial routes again, employment was going up and even Asajj Ventress was calming down, because after finally killing Dooku the only thing she apparently wanted was to roam the galaxy with a besotted Quinlan Vos trailing behind her like a besotted, if well-armed, puppy.

How sad it was that a previously undiagnosed heart condition had taken Chancellor Palpatine before his time, before he could see the peace and harmony he had so wished for.

“Padmé will laugh so much when she hears you called her blaster an undiagnosed heart condition.”

“The joint investigation between the Judicial officers and the Jedi was thorough, Anakin. Heart condition.”

So, Anakin liked to eat worms, Ahsoka wasn’t far behind, the clones had only eaten rations for all their lives, and once a strange mushroom in Fives’ case. That had prompted hours of talking to the wall and giggling about stuff his foot was telling him, the right because the left was apparently quite rude. After seeing that, and also the way Fives had been ill after, none of the vode had wanted to test anything that wasn’t a ration sealed in vacuum and with the same taste every time, no matter what was written on the package.

Time for an intervention.

Obi-Wan had called his old friend Dex and asked for the permission to borrow his diner during the closing day.

Anakin had whined that it was a little hypocritical of Obi-Wan, who survived on tea, sass and more tea, with sometimes some algae biscuits thrown in it when Bant could corner him long enough, to comment on anyone’s eating habits.

“I didn’t whine!”

“You really did, my dear. And you do on a regular basis.”

Dex had said yes and even offered his diner, and more importantly his kitchen, every closing day when Obi-Wan was on Coruscant.

So, Obi-Wan had chosen his first tasters.

Ahsoka, of course, for who he had started all of that. Worms and beetles and other crawling things were fine in a pitch, he had himself sometimes indulged when Qui-Gon Jinn’s latest nonsense had thrown his Padawan self in the middle of a jungle with no rations. He could also admit that with the stress of the war, he had let his responsibilities erase his body’s normal hunger, but it was no more a time of war. Time to eat like a civilized sentient.

Anakin himself. Young Knight Obi-Wan, struggling with grief and -he could see it now- depression, had let this feral child keep his slave days habits in term of food: Anakin ate everything that couldn’t move away quick enough, in a latent fear there wouldn’t be something to fill his belly later. It was honestly heart-breaking.

It could also be heart-healing: the way the younger Jedi always insisted for Ahsoka to eat first… Obi-Wan will fight for every child in the galaxy to have enough, not like Anakin couldn’t when he was younger and now that the war is finishing, he hoped they could make a difference here.

Padme, because now that the so-called secret marriage was out in the open, he hoped he could spend more time with the young woman and deepen their nascent beginning friendship. The galaxy really could do with more friendship.

And Rex and Cody, the two vode they were closest to. Once those two had come back to the barracks in better shape than Fives after his mushrooms experience, the other vode could probably be convinced to try something else than rations.

Aaylala, who had just taken her first Padawan and would spend a year of Coruscant to better learn each other, had already put herself, the Padawan and Commander Bly on what she called jokingly “Master Kenobi’s dinner waiting list”. She wanted to explore with them the food of her home planet and reconnect with her culture. Boil and Waxer could probably be convinced, too.

It meant the first experience had to be a success.

After his morning session with the Council, Obi-Wan had taken his afternoon off, that too being a new event in the Jedi Order. Most of the time, Bant or Anakin had too threaten to sit on him just for him going to bed. Everybody had sworn to never talk again about that time it had been so bad Master Windu himself really did have to sit on him for Obi-Wan just to take a nap.

“Speaking for yourself, Master, me, I’m never ever going to let you forget that one.”

He had slowly explored the closest market, feeling slightly nostalgic. Qui-Gon always had insisted food should be a fuel, not a passion. He had also said that taking pleasure in the taste, the smell, the hundreds of wonderful vegetables, fruits, meats, grains, offered by nature, that it was celebrating the joy of life, of the Force...

Obi-Wan realized he had forgotten that, in the despair of the war. Now, he took pleasure in choosing fresh produce for the people he loved. Around him, the market was bustling with life. People laughing, speaking, tasting, vendors celebrating their products… It was the season for one of the biggest food import of Coruscant. It was some citrus fruit which had the very rare peculiarity, a very rare one, to be edible for all known sentients. The smell was everywhere in the market, fresh and cleansing and Obi-Wan had taken a bite of one with a groan of pleasure the moment he had purchased them, the juice sweet and slightly acidic at the same time.

When he got to the dinner, he cooked with the same deep happiness of preparing something easy, nutritious and tasty for his family. He had decided to make it simple for the first time, not wanting to push the boundaries of Cody and Rex. Going from rations to a nine-course meal would probably be overkill.

Obi-Wan himself tended to a vegetarian diet, like Qui-Gon had, but he hadn’t always had a choice, and Ahsoka’s body needed an animal based died in a way human didn’t, so he had dismissed his all-time favourite recipe, a creamy vegetable pie a young Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi had learned from a young senatorial aid Bail Organa.

He prepared a stew which he had learned from Kit Fisto, with a lot of root vegetables and some river fish, aromatic bark from the Gold system and just a little touch of black salt. Soon, the entire diner smelled of Obi-Wan’s teenage years, when he and Bant did their homework and Kit Fisto prepared dinner.

Obi-Wan had a smile on his face, a nostalgic glint in his eyes. He should call Bant, soon. Perhaps she and some of their other childhood friends could come the next time….For dessert, he cleaned yellow, purple and red berries from Naboo, to honour Padmé, to be eaten with fresh cheese.

Nothing very complicated. Just simple food, to share and to rejoice in the new chance of the galaxy.

“To the peace?” Padmé proposed for toast at the beginning of the meal and all, they raised their glasses.

“To the peace,” they repeated in answer.

Seated between Cody and Rex, Obi-Wan explained sotto voce what exactly they were eating. He explained the planet of origin of every vegetable –

“Because everything has to be an occasion for a lecture.”

“Anakin, if you don’t stop, you will be in charge of the washing-up. And I used a lot of saucepans.”

Rex was very, very cautious with his first taste. He had been there when Fives had vomited everything he had ever eaten, and had been slightly alarmed once Obi-Wan had explained what a root vegetable was.

“Doesn’t seem very hygienic.” Was his opinion.

It changed after first taste and his plate was quickly cleaner than a ship before the admiral’s inspection.

Cody was more curious about why different sorts of vegetables had been designed.

“Waste of resources,” he decided, “one per species of sentient who wanted to eat them would have been sufficient.”

Obi-Wan hadn’t laughed. How could Cody, raised in the sterile environment of Kamino, know better about the extraordinary abundance of nature? In his own plate, he had picked a small section of one of the root vegetables he had chosen.

“This is a red stachys”, he explained, “the species comes from a planet all the way in the Outer Rim. It was only present on one of their landmasses, but as it isn’t attacked by fungus or insect pests, it’s now cultivated on all the planets and a lot of other agricultural worlds.”

Anakin made a face. He hated agricultural worlds, mostly for the smell. The desert boy loved his cities.

Obi-Wan smiled at his former Padawan’s face but continued:”Today, you can easily find seven, sometimes ten subspecies in Coruscant markets, but on the original world, where the people had centuries to select cultivars, you can find seventy-two cultivars. And it is only one of the vegetables you can find there.”

“Seventy-two!!”

Cody looked a little more at Obi-Wan’s spoon and the innocent little selection of vegetables swimming in the rich-tasting sauce.

“And every world…”

“Every world has its own food. Every ancient country, you could say. Every area. Sometimes every town has its own speciality.”

It was Cody’s turn to make a face. Not surprising: after years of ration, the abundance of possibilities seemed strange to his mind.

“It tends to be a little standardized today,” Obi-Wan admitted, “but a lot of people are working hard on preserving heirloom varieties and culinary traditions…”

Cody stabbed a bit of fish with his own cutlery and tasted it, chewing cautiously.

On the other side of the table, Padmé and Anakin were flirting. Anakin’s lines were terrible but Padmé’s own use of Naboo flowery poetry wasn’t exactly better.

Next to Cody, Rex and Ahsoka were whispering something about putting joy back in the Senate and something very suspicious about dye that Obi-Wan and Cody definitely weren’t hearing, because that one would be Commander Fox’s problem.

Cody tasted a yellow stachys, stolen directly from Obi-Wan’s plate because there were only red in his own plate. Then he tried again a red, pairing it with a green kidney-shaped pod.

“And that?” He asked, poking another pod.

“Magnolens. Seldom grown today, originated from the world of Glee Anselm.”

Cody seemed lost in thought, so Obi-Wan let him chew in peace, instead discussing literature with Padmé. They had all sworn they wouldn’t speak of work tonight, so every time they drifted to politics, Anakin interrupted them by stealing a kiss from Padmé.

It was a rousing and pleasant success.

“Master?” Ahsoka asked later, when she was helping with cleaning Dex’s kitchen. It would probably be neater than before their arrival.

“Yes, my dear?”

“Can I come to the market with you next time? And I think Rex would like it too.”

“Of course you can.” She gave him a sudden hug, surprising him.

From the kitchen, Obi-Wan could see the rest of them, Padmé and Cody lost in debate, Anakin just finishing his third helping of dessert. Rex had taken apart his own dessert, testing the berries one by one.

His former Padwan sensed their gazes and turned to them, a smile on his face. His eyes were clearer than they had been in years, and Obi-Wan felt pride and happiness swell in him.

“You would be very welcome, my dear,” He answered his Grandpadawan.

#star wars #obi wan kenobi #Anakin Skywalker #ahsoka tano #the clone wars #commander cody #padme amidala #Captain Rex #my fics

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linssikeittomies · 3 years

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The Place Between Here And There - Chapter 10: ...And Happiness In Private Life(cont'd)

Masterpost AO3 Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 9(cont'd)

I've finally updated the status of the fic to ABANDONED, I was going to do that way earlier but I didn't want to admit defeat, and then I just kind of forgot... Time really starts flying by as you get older, it totally doesn't feel like 2 years passed by^^' I'm still writing scenes for later on in the fic, and I've had the general outline of the story planned for a long time, but I haven't been able to write complete chapters for any of my projects for over a year now, it's very annoying. Anyway, this is the rest of chapter 9, not my best work but at least I like the part with Toris. He's noticed Ivan's small efforts of being nicer and wants to encourage them. Thanks for everyone who read this story and sorry for not being able to bring it to conclusion for all of you who were invested!

Ivan sent Fredya home until Wednesday – claiming it was so he could concentrate on work, but he was sure Fredya could tell he was just fretting about the upcoming meeting. Ivan was terrified Katyushka would get carried away, and that was closer to certainty rather than possibility, and then Fredya would walk out of his life. He had known from the start that the time would come sooner or later, but he had much hoped it would fall on the later end of the spectrum. This was a wholly different case from that of his first girlfriend - the one he had been with all of three days before Katyusha started talking about weddings. She had left him the next day, not surprisingly, and he hadn’t really cared one way or the other - she had been far too practical to occupy his thoughts when she wasn’t in sight. But if Fredya left as suddenly, and he was certainly impulsive enough to do so on the spot, then... Obviously it still wouldn’t be the end of the world,of course it wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, losing a home for example would be far worse than losing a companion, it really wasn’t that big of an issue when you thought about it – there was no reason to lose what little will to live Ivan had left over something that insignificant. No reason.

So Ivan would not worry about it – he slammed the door on the thought, and worked hard to put all his concentration on his notes. He had not yet studied Rogers enough, his files on the computer had sat abandoned for too long. Opening his folder, going over the routes again, verifying time codes, Ivan fell to a comfortable, familiar routine, cup of tea beside him growing cold. Rogers didn’t have much of a routine, which made observing him a challenge and data collecting a thrill. At least this was an activity that Ivan could still lose himself in despite whatever non-turmoil was boiling in his gut. Comparing coordinates, discovering overlaps, identifying patterns, data was something Ivan was good at. Data had no emotions, so it was easy to handle. Data didn’t mind his extracurriculars, didn’t judge him for his jealousy, didn’t snoop into his past. Though it also didn’t text him at 3 am to tell him about a silly dream it had. Even less it cared about whether he was coming home for the night or not. It not wanting to watch brainless, cliched superhero should have been a positive, but in the dark, the brain gets sentimental. Ivan suddenly wished he had a file on Fredya. Ivan certainly had enough data on him, though so far it was all in his brain and a few lines in his notebooks. One photo on his phone, a selfie Fredya had sent some weeks ago. It was taken with one of those filter things, Ivan wasn’t familiar with the apps so he couldn’t tell if it was instagram or snappychat or whatever others there were. Fredya had cartoon glasses on his nose, on top of his real-life glasses. He was doing a victory sign, and there was a badly drawn pink heart floating in the lower left corner, not anchored into anything. The composition of the photo was bad. A large dead space occupied the top left, a pile of dirty clothes was poking into the frame from the bottom right. The lighting was scarcely better, the only diffuser was the dust inside the light fixture. Fredya’s artistic ability was nil, though he did make for an attractive subject, harsh shadows and all. It would be nice to have proper photo of him, before he got out of reach. With a reference to guide him, it might be possible. Ivan quickly scanned his bedroom for inspiration.

Perhaps it was too much effort for 2 a.m., but Ivan rather liked the end result. The handful of stars drawn on the wall to form a suggestion of a halo – however wrong it looked on Ivan – and hands posed to form a heart on the chest, and some minor lighting adjustments on photoshop, he thought it near perfectly captured how Ivan saw Fredya. Bright, innocent, center of the universe, unashamed of his affections. Fredya wouldn’t put as much effort in to it, even if he did take his own version of the photo as Ivan had requested, but that was also good. It wasn’t in Fredya’s nature to try too hard at something he didn’t feel like understanding - such as art other than of the moving pictures variety. Together, the photos formed a piece – the fantasy and the reality. It was a commentary on expectations. Fredya may or may not look at the photo when he inevitably got up to go the bathroom sometime soon, but he wouldn’t take his own until afternoon if ever, so Ivan finally went to bed. He only had a few hours before his shift started.

-_-_-_-_-

Fredya had sent an emoji Ivan didn’t understand the meaning as response to the photo, followed by hearts and something that seemed to be an abbreviation, Ivan didn’t research the meaning. It likely wasn’t important. Ivan got coffees for everyone again, and Amanda gave him a incredulous look. It was getting suspicious, Ivan acting nice. He should dial down on the social interactions for the next few days. It would be good practice for when Fredya left him, anyway. “Oh, thank you for going through the trouble”, Toris commented smiling. Ivan studied the smile, trying to map out proportions and gauge timings, but again he failed to replicate the gesture. It kept coming out as sarcastic. He would prefer if both would just shut up and their coffees without scrutinizing his intentions. Let a man act civil to fellow humans beings in peace. “If everyone is done sitting around, we need someone to go interview Fowler’s parishioners.” Predictably, Amanda volunteered for the task. That left Ivan and Toris at the office, reading through statements, comparing alibis and viewing security footage, the same draining and pointless sinkhole of never-ending choppy black-and-white footage that glared a print of the screen in your soul, so that in the end when you lost everything else to dementia and cataracts, you would still see that stinging bright rectangle staring you in the eye, smirking gleefully, taking pleasure in removing everything one used to take joy in, and replacing itself in place of loved ones. That metaphor ran a little wild at the end, there. In all fairness, it could be intriguing work when results could reasonably be expected, but everyone and their mother knew the only thing learned from these particular ones would be just how much time were wasting on them. Even Toris, being his professional self, couldn’t resist glancing at the clock every few minutes. He would of course try to make it inconspicuous, just letting his eyes dart to his wrist and back again, but it was noticeable enough when one was more concentrated on the coworker than the work. It came to Ivan’s mind that perhaps this was another aspect of Toris he should try to simulate, rather than keep studying, his work ethic was excellent. Surely that was something most people would approve of. And Fredya did often complain Ivan was rather lackadaisical about his work, he would appreciate the effort. “How do stay so focused?” he asked sincerely. It was admirable, really, how Toris could throw himself at something so tedious. Toris blinked at him in confusion, probably surprised to see his colleague who was supposed to working beside him blatantly ignoring said work. “I’ve practiced it for years, there’s really no easy trick for it.” “Ah. Shame.” “I find that meditating regularly helps. And a good diet.” Well, that was already two things Ivan would not be trying out. “I could send you some articles if you’d like.” “You should spend your free time on yourself. You work too much.” Ivan went idly back to his files, not really feeling like working, but deciding to at least give it a shot, but feeling Toris’ curious eyes still fixed on him was too much of a distraction. After several seconds of silence he couldn’t take it anymore. “Yes?” “Thank you. That was considerate of you.” Ivan didn’t know how to answer that. It had been such a banal thing to say. Not warranting any response, really. Just a stock phrase, however true of some people and situations - such as this particular specimen. Toris must have heard the exact same statement hundreds of times in his life, knowing that he had an actual social circle who cared for him. Ivan was outside that circle, and people rarely care for the things outsiders say in matters like these - surely Toris should feel nothing particular about anything Ivan said. There was no need for him to smile like that, it was just embarrassing for a grown man to get so giddy about faint praise. Ivan scoffed and went back to his work.

-_-_-_-_-

U maek a habot of drawning on walls huh Outside of his brief childhood, Ivan had only ever drawn on walls three times - once in a drunk, misguided bout of creative frenzy, once to write his number on an intriguing man’s wall to annoy him, and once in an attempt to save a relic of happier times for the future. Mostly when you are involved, it seems. Perhaps you are my muse for wall-related artistry It had been a while since Ivan had drawn a portrait, but now might be the time to dust off that skill set. Ivan considered himself more of a photographer, but there was also something appealing about creating from scratch. Although... he would need to keep the portrait hidden, it would raise questions and pity later on. Ivan wished he was better at abstraction, that way it wouldn’t look like Fredya to anyone else, but his mind seemed to be too observational for it. It could only make sense of things that connected together in realistic ways, it couldn’t create anything out of feelings alone. Perhaps he simply didn’t have enough of them for that kind of art. The dinner with Fredya and his sisters was a few hours away, but Ivan was already nervously ironing his clothes. He once again pleaded Katyusha to control her romantic impulses, and of course she promised, but Ivan knew that meant little. She had very bad self-control. Tasha’s picking me up, we’ll meet you there Natasha was coming? Nataliya was coming?! Fuck - what was she - this was bad news - why hadn’t she said - oh god, forget about Katyusha ruining everything if Nataliya Grigorova was coming! She never mentioned wanting to come along That sneaky little girl, she told me you said it was okay, haha He would not survive this night sober. He wanted to make a good impression. He did not want to be drunk when the only three people who mattered to him were all in the same room. He wanted to be fully conscious, to enjoy an outing with his family while being fully genuine, not just sedated into calmness. But lord knew he would not survive the night sober.

-_-_-_-_-

Remembering the fit Fredya had thrown the last time Ivan had driven not-strictly-drunk-but-also-not-sober, he was glad that they had arranged beforehand for Fredya to pick him up. Because he was observant in the most inconvenient ways, Ivan had been sure Fredya would notice something was off, maybe a smell or the slow movements to counteract the unsteady hand-to-eye-coordination, but fortunately he was too stoked about meeting Ivan’s sisters again, officially, to notice Ivan’s oddly calm demeanor. He babbled excitedly the whole way there, and was halfway across the street before Ivan had even fully exited the car. “Come on you snail! They’re gonna think we ditched them!” “It’s only a few minutes away, you can afford to slow down”, Ivan chuckled. Fredya was so adorably excited, he resembled a puppy on a walk. “Being overeager is as bad as being late.” “Beg to disagree! Pick up the pace slowpoke!” Fredya sped up ahead, Ivan kept his leisurely pace. He missed the re-introductions, but it seemed like he hadn’t been needed for those at all - Fredya and Katyushka already looked like old friends, while Tasha regarded him with a haughty look, but nary a nasty word. She raised an eyebrow at Ivan, as if saying really, you chose this clown over me?, and he simply smiled pleasantly at her. As they waited for their food to arrive, Fredya and Katyushka were unsurprisingly the only ones to hold up conversation. They had found a common ground in Star Trek - in that Katyusha had heard a lot about it, but had never watched an episode and was interested, and Fredya was an expert in all the series and films and liked talking about them. They went through the pacifistic ideas on the original series and how it sometimes contradicted itself on it, analyzing the casting choices for the remakes, some more things that Ivan had no interest in. When their plates were brought, the were in the midst of trying to speak klingon - the attempts of both of them were saddeningly hilarious. Or perhaps they were both surprisingly accurate. Ivan had no way of knowing, the franchise being something he had never taken an interest in. Of course he liked space, but he was more fact-oriented than a fan of fanciful fiction. “You seem so young, it’s almost like you’re still in college”, Katyusha giggled, and Ivan could not agree more. The youthful energy Fredya exuded was refreshing, at least most of the time. “Never went to college, I went straight to work from high school”, Fredya explained, crumbs flying. That was the one habit that Ivan never found charming in Fredya, it was just plain disgusting. Tasha made a small chortle of contempt that passed Fredya by. “Our brother is a very intelligent man”, Tasha commented sharply, and Ivan knew exactly what she was going for – he had come to the same conclusion, himself. And truthfully, neither of them had been wrong - Fredya really was stupid. “Oh, tell me about it”, the insulted man chuckled, not understanding what was being implied. Ivan would have liked being able to defend Fredya, but the thing was that Fredya was not intelligent – intellectually or socially, and attempting to claim otherwise would have been pointless. He might have been considered smart in some useless areas, such as entertainment trivia, but faint praise is just as damning as admitting faults. Trivia! There was the opening Fredya needed to impress Tasha! “He has a master’s degree in movie trivia and celebrity gossip, if nothing else. Just give an actor’s name and he will tell you every movie they have ever been in.” “And not just that! I can also tell which year each movie came out!” Fredya exclaimed proudly. Ivan started with an easy one - Tom Cruise. Tasha did look reluctantly impressed as the titles and dates kept on coming, but refused to admit defeat. She tried her favorite actor, someone much more obscure. “Ken Foree?” “Hmm… The midnight man, 2017… Rift, dark side of the moon 2016, Cut slash pri- no wait, I think he was in Divine tragedies, 2015, Cut slash print 2012 –“ However, since

Tasha’s obsession with her brother refused to give way to respect for her perceived enemy, she realized that to claim victory she could simply ask about any non-American film star. “Anastasia Zavorotnyuk.” “Anastasia who?” Of course he pronounced the name the American way, but Ivan was still mildly impressed he could tell Анастасия and Anastasia were the same name. “Zavorotnyuk.” Tasha allowed herself a malevolent smirk as Fredya racked his brain for the name in vain. “A true expert wouldn’t limit himself only to Hollywood”, Tasha hmphed in triumphant malice, believing to have proved her superiority over him once and for all, despite not showing an ability to counter his. It seemed the point had only been to prove Fredya was not omniscient. In Ivan’s eyes, it was enough to be merely well-versed. “He does hate subtitles to the point where I thought he might be illiterate”, Ivan joked. “Hey, at least I speak the language of the country I live in!” “Verily, my darling, thou speakest with the most biting of tongues. Shakespeare himself would envy your prowess.” “The guy lived like hundreds of years ago, who gives a shit? Ivan Drago was famous in the 80’s.” “Ivan can sound almost native when he tries”, Katyusha said, trying to diffuse the argument, not knowing the workings of their relationship well enough to tell it was all said in jest. “I haven’t tried in years, I doubt I could anymore”, Ivan thought. He had tried training his accent away in high school, so he would sound less foreign in job interviews. Having a foreign name was bad enough in an application. He had never achieved a smooth, natural accent, he had to concentrate very hard which caused the words to come out very slowly and robotically, and still there was always a hint of foreign phonemes. Combined with his attempts to deepen his voice – an incredibly embarrassing failure on its own – had made him cringe, even back then. Tasha had encouraged him, of course, because in her mind anything and everything her dear brother did was the right decision. Excluding taking romantic interest in someone other than her, of course.

The rest of the evening went by in much the same fashion. Fredya and Katyusha got along swimmingly, Tasha made snide remarks about Fredya, Ivan defended him in mean ways, Fredya played along. It was all very pleasant. Finally the staff started dropping hints that it was time to vacate the table, so they got up and parted ways. Katyusya was enchanted enough to not wait long enough to be out of earshot before starting to gush about her baby brother’s relationship, which made for a perfect opening for eavesdropping. “Don’t you think Vanechka looks so much happier than usual?” Katyusya said, nearly clapping her hands in excitement. “Idiocy might be contagious”, Tashenka grumbled in response. “I never imagined he’d go for that type, but I guess it goes to show opposites really do attract!” Katyushka squeed. “It’s only for the moment. That American moron will start getting on Vanya’s nerves soon”, Tashenka claimed, not sounding too confident herself. Ivan had expected that to happen as well, in the beginning. “I hope he won’t, I think Alfred is good for Vanechka. He’s come out of his shell.” What did she mean by that? As far as Ivan was aware, he had never been shy around his sisters. Or other people, for that matter. “What’re you frowning about?” Fredya asked. “I’m eavesdropping. Katyusha likes you, and Natasha doesn’t despise you.” “Well that’s good news isn’t it?” Fredya smiled, and tried to hear the women. “Man, you got great hearing. I can’t hear them at all.” Yes, it did take some practice to achieve Ivan’s level of spying on other people’s conversations. And by then they had gotten far enough that Ivan couldn’t hear then anymore either, actually. “Your eardrums must be damaged from the all screeching you do.” “You’re walking home, asshole.”

Tasha + Katyushka = affectionate nicknames for Nataliya and Yekaterina. Tashenka + Katyusya = one level more intimate. Ivan is being drunk and sentimental so at the end of the evening, the way he feels about his sisters is something like most people do when seeing tiny kittens. Thanks again for reading! Maybe in like 10 years so I'll add a final "chapter" describing the rest of the plot, but I know myself and won't make any promises. I have some more snippets on the masterpost if anyone wants to frustrate themselves with a story that will never be finished.

#hereandthere #fan fiction #hetalia #RusAme #AmeRus #russiaxamerica #linssifanfiction #WIPtale

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leolamin97 · 5 years

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INVADER PINK

Invader Zim x Steven Universe Pitch

INVADER PINK

Synopsis:

Takes place in Modern Day. Pink is yet to get her colony and there was no Gem War. Pink has yet to be given any chance to prove herself as a Diamond, due to her childish antics, and a few other quirks that tend to lead to destruction (Interest in organics, insistence on doing things by herself, and constant denial of ever being wrong about anything). Yellow, Blue, and White still baby her which annoys her to no end and threw gas on the fire of her shenanigans. Yellow thinks she’s a nuisance, while Blue thinks she needs constant care and protection. This only intensified after Pink’s biggest screw up that leveled a section of the HW Capital.

It finally reached a boiling point with Pink Demanding to be treated with respect and given something to do that proves she is just as capable and important as the others. Enter White who gives Pink her wish, telling her that she will take a small entourage to a secret sector to investigate and discover new planets for the empire to conquer. Pink is excited unaware that the sector she was given was a bit of nowhere space the gems couldn’t care less about. White giving her a non-assignment to appease her tantrum and to get her off world for a bit.

Pink is given a ship a Pearl, a squad of Rubies, a Peridot, and a Sapphire. She takes off to the galaxy and they begin scanning a bunch of lifeless planets. Until they find Earth, Pearl suggests calling the Diamonds but Pink belays that order seeing a chance. She will conquer the planet by herself and prove the others that she is a capable ruler. Due to a fault the ship ends up crashing near Beach City and specifically close to the home of Steven Demayo Universe.

The 12 year old boy finds the ruler and helps her out, quickly befriending her despite her occasional insults. The other gems find her and attack Steven, but stop on Pink’s orders saying he could be a useful source of information. With Steven’s instruction Pink buries her ship underground and takes residence in the house next to his. She then disguises herself (rather badly) as a 12 year old as well and starts attending school with Steven in order to learn more about humanity. This catches the attention of another new girl in School Connie Maheswaren who quickly sees through Pink’s disguise and calls her an alien despite no one believing her, and she also turns out to be another new neighbor for Steven.

Thus we follow Pink’s continuous attempts to take over the world and prepare for the Gem invasion. The only thing standing in her way is Connie’s persistence, Steven’s kindness, the beauty of Earth, learning from her mistakes and growing as a person, and her own incompetence.

Characters:

Pink Diamond- The Wannabe Ruler. Not totally stupid, but definitely not evil dictator material. She lives in a bubble of her own self-delusions believing herself to be the greatest thing to grace the universe and constantly spouting Gem superiority. But she knows there a difference between saying your great and actually being it, which she wants to be. She has both an inferiority and Napoleon Complex, trying her hardest to come off as a terror from beyond the stars mostly coming off as adorable, hilarious, or ignorable. She clearly is intelligent able to come up with complex plans for her take overs, but either flubs it at the end or the point of the plan was for something super petty. In her Human disguise she’s as short as Steven keeping her Large Hair, pink skin, and Diamond eyes (She has a skin and eye condition), she wears a Pink T-shirt with a upside down Diamond on it, a skirt, and her little poof shoes.

Steven Demayo Universe- As always he’s our cheery and optimist who see’s the best in everyone even if they aren’t human. Upon seeing Pink he quickly realized she wasn’t the brightest or most capable and thus decides to help her. Even when she declared her plan to take over the world, he didn’t fully buy it thinking she just needed a friend (which she does). Steven became her teacher to being Human (even if every lesson doesn’t fully click). He helps with a lot of her schemes because 1) It always fun doing stuff with her, 2) He knows it’s either gonna fail or be for something dumb, 3) SHE NEEDS A FRIEND!!! Steven isn’t afraid to call her out when she’s being selfish or dumb to the point of hurting someone, and even he has his limits to her antics usually resulting in Steven saying ‘You Jerk’. Steven’s family is divorced, he lives with his father Greg and is constantly being visited by his mom the Brilliant Scientist Rosabella ‘Rose’ Quartzite.

Connie Maheswaran- A nerdy and socially awkward girl who has trouble making friends due to her interests. She believes in everything paranormal and wants to expose it to the world, mostly resulting in her schoolmates calling her a Crazy Girl and bullying. She is smarter than most kids her age able to do science and work with a variety of machines due to her mother working with Rose Quartz. She is the only one who sees Pink is an alien and thus takes it upon herself to stop her evil schemes, becoming her mortal enemy. She tends to be a little over dramatic and can get a little to “In” to what she’s doing from time to time. She befriends Steven (unaware of how he’s involved with Pink), he’s being her first true friend and goes to him with a lot of her Paranormal theories which he also believes and enjoys.

Pearl- The Lone doctor in this Pink Insane Asylum. She is desperately trying to stay on task despite Pink’s antics, and seems to constantly be on the verge of snapping. But despite that she cares for Pink after a close heart to heart moment the two had before leaving HW. She knows that she is hurting and her attitude is her way of covering it up and hoping to seem bigger than she is. Upon coming to Earth, seeing Pink befriend Steven, and her conquering attempts despite failing have done Pink a lot of good mentally the Diamond being very happy. Thus Pearl plays along and hides their true doings from the Diamonds. Pearl in her human form became a scientist and works with Rose Quartz.

The Ruby Squad- The barest minimum of protection. This squad of Rubies was sent to protect Pink, though they are not the best at it. They follow her orders to a T (only one questioning it, but relents everytime). Though they are mostly left at home and just kinda do whatever until Pink arrives with orders. The Rubies take the form of small dogs whenever they go out with Pink and others.

Random Ideas:

Pink hates School Food, the tastes causes her physical pain. But she loves other Earth food, especially anything Steven cooks

The Gems are vulnerable to certain sound waves, the waves able to disrupt their forms and have different physical effects. Pink while on Earth has been introduced to a Dog Whistle, whenever it’s blown to Pink and other gems it starts feels like they are burning alive.

Pearl pretends to be Pink’s mother and they also created advanced robonoid to act as her father. It mostly opens the door and interacts with humans to keep them from entering the house. Though it can be a little glitchy from time to time.

Peridot mostly stays in the ship to create whatever tech is needed for Pink’s plans and has no interests interacting with humans and just wants to do her job. Though she will be forced to and thus has to take the form of a 12 year old child as well, saying she’s Pink sister (adopted).

Sapphire tries her best to send Pink down the right path even though she doesn’t always listen. Sapphire then spends her time looking down different paths in the future, intrigued by how many there are on this planet. One path that interests her deeply is the visage of a three eyed figure looking at her. She needs to know who or what that is. When going out she takes the form of a 7 year old saying she’s Pink’s sister (also adopted).

Amethyst is a human who likes to be called Amy. She’s Steven’s closest friend in school a year older than him and a whizz at video games and loves Pizza. Almost to an obsessive degree. With a ‘Go with the flow’ attitude she takes everything in stride even more insane space stuff starts going down. She figured out Pink is an alien, but doesn't tell anyone, cause she know Pink ain’t gonna take over anything. She defends Connie one time and befriends her as well, Connie drafting her into her war against Pink though she doesn’t really care, but will step in if things get dangerous for her showing surprisingly capable.

This world is a mesh of Zim and SU, leaning more to the SU side. It’s brighter and a little less cynical and insane. Though it does have its moments and that edge needed for anything Zim related.

Rose and Greg are divorced due to personal reasons, but it was pretty clean and they both love Steven very much. Despite having custody of Steven Greg knows that his son and Rose are close and allows lots of visits wanting Rose to still be apart of Steven’s life. Rose is the greatest scientist on Earth and is constantly busy, but will take any chance and any free time to be with Steven. She can be very eccentric, right on the edge of crazy when talking about science. But has a more calm, emotional, and loving side which she shows to Steven and Greg. She’s terrible at giving advice though usually recounting Steven with stories of her younger more ‘Rebellious’ days as a child, they usually come off as ramblings but Steven after hearing so many can discern the moral of the story.

Possible Episodes:

(This idea is from @bbb35) Pink Diamond believes that boy bands are hypnotic messages by earth government to control the humans, and wants to create a hit song that will be capable of culling the masses.

Pink tries to prepare her Father-Noid for a parent teacher night, thinking she would need both a Mother and Father to appear as normal as possible. But the Father-Noid starts to malfunction.

A field trip to Crystal Labs gives Pink the chance to steal an important piece of tech for her plans. But she has to get through Steven’s eccentric mother who is way into Steven’s new little friend.

When the class gets a bunny for a class pet, Pink thinks it’s cute but also sees a chance to make an adorable army to overrun the humans with. Injecting the Bunny with a special mutagen that causes it to multiply, but it may have gotten out of hand.

Pink attempts to blast Connie and all the other students she doesn’t like into space and towards an abandoned Gem Colony home to an unworldly terror. Can Connie save the day?

It’s Steven’s Birthday and both Pink and Connie are invited, the two determined to prove to the other they are Steven’s best friend and give him the best birthday ever.

(If you like this leave a comment, share your own ideas for expanding this, and maybe this could become a thing in the future. ^^

#steven universe #pink diamond #connie maheswaran #crossover #story pitch #pitch #fanfiction #steven universe au #su au #invader zim #invader zim au #invader zim enter the florpus #invader zim fanfiction

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damn-daemon · 6 years

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Healing and Heartache - Part 5 Nick Jakoby x Female Reader

See Part 1 here. See Part 2 here. See Part 3 here. See Part 4 here.

A/N: Hello my pretties! I am back! Oh gosh I hope you guys like this one. Feels of all varieties up in here!

Warnings - no smut, slight angst, nose abuse

Sometimes, affection is not so hard to believe in.

Dating an orc hadn’t been something you’d considered growing up. Like every other girl in town, your far-flung preteen fantasies had consisted of cute, human boys. There had been the occasional elf, but the stuck-up personalities most seemed to possess quickly killed that affixation. But there were never orcs. Apart from your father’s farmhands, who were more family than anything, you hadn’t known any growing up. The orcs in your town kept to themselves, and were homeschooled.

Maybe, you wonder, things might have been different if they went to school with you.

Then again, maybe not.

You don’t know why you’re thinking about this. It’s just another random thought in a series of thoughts that have been flooding your nerve-wracked brain since you woke up.

After a couple weeks of sorting, shifting, and bending over backwards, you and Nick finally found a decent amount of time off to allow your proper date to happen. Honestly, you can’t remember the last time a date caused you so much trouble or emotional response, albeit the last legitimate one was somewhere after college graduation. Since then, it had been a series of single serve meals and one night stands to get you through the real tough weeks. Which was fine. You never thought of yourself as lonely. Just tired as hell mostly.

Now Nick was making you question everything.

You kinda want to hate him for it, but you know you can’t.

“C’mon, (Y/N), you already bore your soul to him once,” you whisper to yourself, tilting your head. “More than once. Dinner should be nothing.”

And it might have been if your nose wasn’t completely bruised and bandaged.

Honestly, the fact that you had hoped nothing physically damaging was going to happen to you in the ER before a major personal event proved you were still, in some respects, utterly naïve.

You take a breath, through your mouth of course, and move to open the door of your truck. A broken body had never stopped you before, and it wasn’t going to stop you now.

Dinner is at Nick’s. He insisted. Obviously, he meant that he would be cooking a meal, but somehow you’re still surprised to see a clearly flustered orc with oven mitts on when the front door opens.

When his gaze immediately fixates on your new facial feature, you shrug. “Like I said before, relatively good condition.”

“You weren’t kidding,” he says.

“No, I was not,” you reply with a smile. You give Nick a once over. Oven mitts aside, he’s dressed rather stylishly in well pressed slacks and a light blue button up shirt. Oddly, it doesn’t clash with the markings on his skin. It compliments them, in fact.

The silence becomes a bit too drawn out for your taste. “May I come in?”

Nick snaps out of his reverie. “Oh, yes, yes, sorry, come right on in. Make yourself at home.”

He had been mesmerized by you; he couldn’t help himself. You’re absolutely stunning in your lacy red dress. It shows off your figure better than anything else he has seen you in, a lot better. Your hair is beautiful, framing your face perfectly. And even with your nose all wrapped up, which he has no problem with – it reminds him of the things you do and how far you’re willing to go for strangers, your face is still the loveliest thing he’s ever seen. Your eyes are bright, filled with joy despite whatever pain you might be in, and your smile is all for him.

It makes him feel horribly self-conscious. You’re an incredibly attractive human, and you’re here, with him, an unblooded, universally hated orc.

How fair is that to you?

His gaze trails after you as you enter his home, gazing around with great interest. He catches the way your hips sway and has to take a breath and look away.

“I know I was here once before,” you start, gazing over the furnishings in his home. Everything is incredibly well kept, neat, orderly, a far cry from the mess hiding in your apartment. The furniture is older, but sturdy, classy, family pieces perhaps. “But I, uh…I didn’t really get the chance to actually look. It’s a lovely place.”

Nick chuckles, standing beside you as you gaze up at a small painting on the wall. “Now, I can’t take credit for any of this, really. My mother hunted down everything in this house, wanted to make it feel just right. My dad and I never had the heart to change anything after she passed.”

The tug returns, and you turn to say something, but Nick has already ducked back into the kitchen. You hear pots and pans being shuffled, and him muttering under his breath. Suddenly you wish you could smell through your nose without feeling the urge to cry.

You move over to his bookcase, hand gently running along the spines of his books. He has quite the collection, most of it nonfiction. History, botany, and quite a bit on magic, theories, practices, how it’s influenced the modern age. And then your fingers come across a small collection of worn westerns.

You smile. Cops and robbers to the very end.

“I want to thank you…for earlier,” you call out, glancing over old photographs of a happy family. Nick could not have been very old, five or six maybe. His dad was dressed in classic workman’s clothes and his mom was nothing but style in a sundress. The next picture had an older Nick, preteens, but only his dad was there. The smiles were much less enthusiastic. “I know it couldn’t have been very easy.”

“There’s no need,” Nick starts, his gaze fixated on the boiling water in the pot before him. “There’s no need to thank me.”

He looks over all the food he’s prepared, wondering if everything is ready to go, and then he hears you approach, your heels clicking against the wood floor. That’s a sound he hasn’t heard in a long time. It almost saddens him.

You’re leaning on the doorway for the dining room and kitchen, watching him work. He’s made quite a bit, and it all looks incredibly good. Though you suppose anything is better than hospital food and lean cuisine.

“Of course there is,” you say, surprised he would say such a thing. Well, maybe not surprised, just saddened. “I have friends who wouldn’t do what you did, and I’ve known them a lot longer.”

“They don’t sound like very good friends,” he says, not turning your way.

You shrug. “Different friends for different circumstances. I wouldn’t take you lingerie shopping.”

His ears twitch, and he stumbles ever so slightly. You smile.

“The point is,” you continue, sitting at the table. It’s more of a breakfast nook, lit with two candles. You’d never had a dinner by candlelight. “You deserve to be thanked. Some days, it feels like there aren’t enough good people in this world. Let me recognize you for that.”

There is a strange look in his eyes when Nick looks at you. You can’t quite decipher it, but you know it’s something deep, personal.

It sends a chill up your spine.

An alarm goes off. Nick jumps, fingers fumbling to shut the oven off. He curses in orcish before remembering one very important fact about you.

Sheepishly, he glances over his shoulder. “Sorry.”

“Hey, you should hear me when I stub my toe at night,” you reply, watching him balance multiple tasks at once. “I’d offer to help, but I still have to cross my fingers and hope nothing gets set on fire when I preheat my oven.”

Nick chuckles, finishing a few things. “I don’t have much left anyway. Just a few spices to put in, nothing you could do much damage with.”

“Don’t challenge me. I’ll win.”

He laughs again and sits down to the meal.

Dinner is amazing. The company is even better.

The two of you talked for hours, even after the food was finished and the leftovers grew cold. Eventually, you helped Nick clean up the dishes before taking the conversation outside.

It’s a warm, clear night, and though the light pollution keeps you from seeing the stars, you still gaze up at the sky in wonder.

You’re on the porch steps, beer in hand, heels discarded somewhere behind you. Nick is right beside you. Despite how comfortable the evening had been, he still sat with a respectable amount of distance between the two of you. You almost instantly closed the gap. Your arms are pushed against one another now, knees brushing. He tensed at first but quickly relaxed into the closeness.

“What made you want to become a cop?” you ask during one of the lulls in conversation.

Nick blinks, and then thinks. He’d been asked some version of that question a thousand times before, but under far less agreeable conditions. He has to stop himself from saying the automatic response he has trained himself to say, monotone, without a hint of hesitation. He’s not out to prove himself anymore. This is only a curious question that deserves an honest answer.

But how does he go about it?

He shrugs. “I just always wanted to be one.”

You shake your head. “That’s not good enough. Everyone has a reason.”

“And what was yours?”

“Easy.” You take a drink from your beer. “When I was about eight, my friend wrecked her bike, split her chin clean open. There was blood everywhere and she was crying, and I couldn’t calm her down. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. And ever since that day, I never wanted to feel so helpless or useless ever again. I wanted to be able to look at any injured person and say ‘I can do something about that.’”

“You practice that in the mirror?”

You smile, taking another drink. “Every night before I go to bed. Your turn.”

Nick turns to his own bottle, watching the beer slosh around inside. “I don’t know. I just…always had this idea in my head. The police are supposed to protect people, be what separates right from wrong, and that appealed to me. Always has.”

He pauses. “You, uh…see a lot of things growing up around here, things that might have turned out differently if someone had just done something. And for me, becoming a cop is the best way of doing just that.”

You watch the emotions play out across his face and wonder to yourself what it must have been like growing up for him. It was clear his parents had done the best they could to shelter him from the worst of it, but eventually reality hits everyone.

But you don’t want to focus on that.

“I saw those westerns of yours.”

He chuckles, slightly embarrassed but also touched that you noticed. “Yeah, that might be what started it. Bedtime stories weren’t kid’s books for me. It was about outlaws and bandits and that lone cowboy saving the helpless travelers. Dad always told me that if I was ever in a position to help something, then I best do something about it.”

“He sounds like a good man.”

Nick nods, remembering a strong, proud orc who didn’t need a clan to find his place in the world.

“My father worked construction. He did it all his life. It was in his blood, and he was good at it too. It was hard work, but it kept him busy and kept food on the table. Jirak didn’t need to be blooded, so neither did he.

“And the humans that worked there, they respected him too. They were all close. Some even had dinner in our home. And they made him foreman too.

“Then things changed. Someone bought out the company he worked at, and the first thing they did was fire him. Didn’t matter what anyone else said. No orc was going to be working for them. And no one else wanted him either. All of his skill and knowhow didn’t matter. All they saw was a freak with tusks. It broke him.”

Was there ever going to be a conversation where Nick didn’t completely break your heart?

You just stare at him, at a loss for words, and he turns to you, and you see this deep, unending sadness in his eyes. It’s the kind of pain that never goes away. It dulls, only to sharpen again when you least expect it.

“He’d be proud of you, Nick.”

He turns away, unable to handle the honesty in your eyes. “That’s…nice of you to say.”

And there he goes again. All the self-doubt and lack of confidence tearing apart everything encouraging you say. It’s not going to happen. Not tonight. Not ever again.

You place your hand on his cheek, turning him back toward you. He tenses under your touch, but you hold him firmly in place.

“They’ve got you all twisted up inside, don’t they? You can’t even see your own value.”

How do you know him so well? He can’t fathom it.

Nick can’t hold your gaze. It’s too much. The adoration and care, and dare he say something more than that? Can he even hope for such a thing? You long ago stopped being a human who happened to be nice, but what he’s thinking of is so much more. It almost scares him, the possibility alone.

You sigh softly, placing your free hand under his chin. Nick doesn’t fight the movement, as he meets your eyes again.

Your hands burn where you touch him, but it isn’t a painful sensation. It just leaves him wanting more, a consuming desire that blows through him like a wildfire. You’re so close to him. All he has to do is reach out ever so slightly…

You smile. “You think too much.”

Then your lips meet his, slowly, carefully, afraid you might scare him away with anything more. You’re almost convinced you have when he doesn’t initially respond, but then you feel it, the relaxing of his shoulders, the happy sigh that blows past his lips to yours.

One of his hands grabs your hip, holding you steady as the other gently grasps your cheek. It shakes at first, but calms as you deepen the kiss, dispelling that doubt that lingers in his mind so much.

He tastes like dinner and the beer, and honestly it’s the greatest thing that’s ever met your lips. Distantly, you wonder how this could have happened had his teeth not been filed, but you push the thought aside, preferring the comfort of a mind adrift in pure bliss.

At some point, you break apart. It could have been seconds or an hour; it didn’t matter. What did was that dazed look on Nick’s face as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings again. You bite your lip as you watch him, ego enjoying a small boost.

“That was…” Nick trails off. How could he describe it? There was no possible way to describe it. He’d kissed before. He had, but it wasn’t…that. It wasn’t tender or soft or intoxicating; it had been awkward and something he’d wanted to end as soon as it started. But this, this was something he could have done for all eternity and been completely content with. Yet he can’t bring himself to say those words. “That was good.”

You laugh, and for a brief moment Nick wonders if he hasn’t offended you, but the look on your face tells him otherwise. Then you touch your nose gently and he has to wonder. He must have bumped it several times.

“Did…did that hurt?”

You’re laughing harder now. You lay your head on his shoulder. The laughter shakes his body.

“So much.”

As you continue to laugh until tears form in your eyes, Nick wraps his arm around you. No hesitation, no tenseness. Just comfort, and the need to hold you closer.

“So, I take it that’s a yes for a second date?” he asks, and you can’t help but notice he sounds more confident as he says it.

“That is a definite yes, Officer Jakoby.”

A/N: Alright guys, just a couple parts left. And I think a special edition type one where we follow the reader through certain events during the movie. It’s been a fun ride!

Tags! @xxdarkdarlingxx @homra-the-red-clan @frankie2902 @littlemessyjessi @ivannesque @isisnicole @notaliteraltoad @the-great-irene @beenerdish @cheshagirl @kitsu-hime @annwoods91 @ever-hungry-aria @robotic-loser @sullybot @uknwwhttheysayboutthecrzy1s @fireflyloki28 @tentacles-and-coffee @j-watsonia Did I miss you? Do you want to be added? Do you hate my guts? Let me know!

#still love these dorks #bright fanfiction #bright netflix #nick jakoby #jakoby x reader #nick jakoby x reader #nick jakoby fanfiction

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tillerman1 · 3 years

Text

TORMENT (pt.1) [to the page]

BAITING

Torment: A knife on a boil

The summer after my graduation, I was sick and suddenly TORMENT appeared. It was made in one stretch in an old "Latin writing exercises" which had begun at one end, the whole course of events just came, it was like a compulsion. When I finished writing, I read through everything, felt relieved and buried this first, only and as I hoped last writing in the spacious darkness of an old drawer.

How then TORMENT re-emerged from oblivion, was produced, reviewed, made into a screenplay and finally into a film is admittedly a remarkable but completely different story.

For this film, I had three hopes and I'm glad to talk about them.

1.) I wish that TORMENT became a knife on a boil, that it had something liberating to bring while I hope that the spectator would find it worth the entrance ticket.

2.) I wish CALIGULA could be exposed, cleansed, rendered harmless. Namely, there are many varieties of Caligulas, larger and smaller, rather harmless varieties or disgusting monsters, obvious or insidious. But in one thing, Caligula is always recognizable. He creates hatred, strife, destruction among people. He is a stranger to all community, lacks contact opportunities and natural compassion.

3.) I wish you could feel sorry for Caligula, as he is not the perpetrator of his situation. He is like the poisonous snake, the bacterium, a combated pest who by no means understands the evil he will accomplish, but who is always alone, always unhappily chased by raging furies, his own fear and drive to evil. If you look up the word Caligula in a conversation dictionary, it says the following:

CALIGULA: (LATIN = "LITTLE BOOT") B. 12. D. 41 ROMAN EMPEROR, SON OF GERMANICUS. C's BLOODLUST AND ABNORMAL INCLINATIONS SOON MADE HIM SO HATED THAT HE WAS MURDERED.

TORMENT

Film script by Ingmar Bergman.

This film is dedicated to Caligula and all his peers in both dead and living languages, Christianity, geography and history…

QUIDQUID ID IS TIMEO DANAOS ET DONA FERENTES. [Whatever it is, I fear the Greeks bearing gifts.]

(Caligula's first words to his class, significant to his character.)

Caligula is a man of just over fifty years. His appearance is by no means spectacular. He is dark, a little white-haired. The face is mainly occupied by a pair of rather strong glasses with large black frames. When he takes off his glasses, his face suddenly changes and becomes a little insignificant, almost frightened.

It is the case with Caligula, that he has a facade towards the outside world, a facade that he makes every effort to maintain. "Cat history" is significant for his human type. "If I do not bite, you bite and therefore I bite first." This has created an attitude of anger that has developed a strong aptitude: the stiletto-sharp sadism, the desire to see people tormented, to feel the power over them. Within this sadism, of course, is a white spot: "I'm not a criminal, I can not make a craziness for that." He himself is not fully conscious, he is one of those many people, who live half their lives, in a kind of semi-consciousness, where the external events only reach the soul indirectly and thereby loses its original hurtful and consuming effect but also the positive edifying and healing one.

The reason for this violent meadow attitude is based on a given feeling of helplessness which in Caligula has reached a strong (let alone pathological) development. Admittedly, it is dangerous to scold everything pathologically. Things that are based on undisciplined operational satisfaction of one kind or another do not have to be, but Caligula's steps show attachment, his intentional perverted desire to acknowledge his fear and expose himself, his disgrace to fellow human suffering is probably pathological. And if you try to see ahead, what will happen to him, he will definitely end up in a mental hospital or he will be admitted to an alcoholic institution. That he would take his own life is unlikely. People like him do not (they are too suspicious of the possibilities in the next life).

His relationship with the girl Bertha is by no means a Mr Hyde madness, but is precisely because of its simple, almost everyday facility so insanely eerie. From the beginning, the girl is afraid of him, mostly because her limited understanding and intuition cannot comprehend him. This intimidation gives him an advantage which he uses according to the thesis "if you do not eat me, I will eat you."

The "murder", which is not really a murder in the ordinary sense, comes to him as a deep, unusually direct shock, which also re-furnishes terribly in his bedroom of perversity. The relationship with the boy is similar. Sandman, for example, he would never dare. But he chooses this righteous, sensitive boy with instinctive certainty for his victim. It is precisely the category of boys in the class that he plays on and which suggests the horror in the whole class. The insane paralyzing fear that can only (according to my experience) break out in a school class under the guidance of an experienced schoolboy.

Finally, I would like to make a personal confession regarding Caligula and people like him.

I think they arose from a mistake of nature. Their sole task is to suffer themselves and to inflict other sufferings. There perhaps is some meaning with that.

But as human beings, they are unsuccessful, without development opportunities, without happiness opportunities, without real life. The most radical thing would of course be to kill them. Perhaps also the most merciful. "Feeling sorry" is impossible when it comes to Caligula. What you feel is reluctance, disgust, a shiver of discomfort, which introduces the small insects that wedge back and forth and disappear into earth holes under a newly rolled stone.

Jan-Erik Widgren is a boy of eighteen years. He is not unusual in any way. He is a high school student simply with all that entails.

Psychologically, Jan-Erik undergoes a development during the film. When it starts he is a bit swarming, writes poetry, plays the piano, thinks of a pure woman who will be his wife and in between he has a good time keeping track of the "lusts" that force him to do things that he views with antipathy and some resignation.

Through the course of events, he changes.

First, he is confronted with a woman, who provides him with a break in his nicely set principles. He is not in love with her, but at least goes to bed with her and gets up (to his surprise) without too much remorse. Like all high school students with a bit of Sturm- und Drang attraction, he is quite isolated, alone. He finds in Bertha someone who cares about him and needs him in such a way that it does not have to interfere with his own ordinary and very fragile puberty deals with himself. Therefore, he accepts her and becomes attached to her with a tenderness that she responds to, and which gives him a calmed body and thereby a certain freedom in the soul.

But little by little, this good relationship breaks down quite quickly. It is Caligula who breaks it unconsciously, piece by piece. When Bertha lies there snotty, drunk and howling, stands he with even company for her. He was never in love with her, loved her not and this new stress is their relationship not mighty to bear. It's breaking.

Slowly but surely he is driven towards desperation. The first rash is when he beats Caligula, the second is when Jan-Erik in wild despair rushes away from home. It is fully erupted when he takes his home on Bertha's floor where he hides like a wounded animal.

But the knot is not so tight. He is a normal, slightly hypersensitive, law-conscious but largely balanced boy and he lets the principal help him. He returns home, not longer collegian but something bitter, something sensible, with a feeling of how lives probably are damned, indeed sometimes run "on clean sophistication," but also is a good life with obvious meaning in the most as done. The final image shows him lying on the floor, crying, it may seem depressing, but is really the opposite. It would be worse if he kept quiet and bit himself.

He treats his parents like most boys of his category: armed neutrality.

There is nothing wrong with Jan-Erik, he will be a good man.

Bertha, the poor little life! There is not really much to say about her. She is kind to nature, does not really look slutty, but has started to ride a carousel due to the force of circumstances: "You want to be part of it, you want to live". In the end, she has lost count and with her slightly indolent temperament, she has not cared so much about it.

So she has become acquainted with Caligula in the same way as with many other gentlemen, through the tobacco business and its possibilities. Caligula has looked nice and so suddenly she is stuck in a yarn, which she can not get out of. Besides, she does not understand her new lover and what he asks of her and it scares her more than anything else. The fear escalates to the immoderate, mainly suggested by herself and she willingly allows herself to be mentally abused by Caligula.

The company with Jan-Erik gives her some breathing space and shows her who she is: a kind girl, who asks for nothing more than to have someone to like, to have a living person next to her in bed, to avoid being alone.

She suppers death itself. Drinks on Caligula's initiative, allows herself tortured, suffers from malnutrition. Her will to live kind of runs away and she dies almost at her own request.

I feel very sorry for her and wish that she had married some kind man and that she had had many children and a small decent home. Maybe it was her little adventurousness, inability to take care of herself, that led her downhill. In any case, she is a victim and I am now, if possible, even more convinced that Caligula should be shot.

The huge schoolyard outside the school. It is deserted and empty. A little boy comes rushing far from behind. He runs at high speed across the yard on the diagonal.

Towards the stairs up to the main entrance. The little boy rushes up the stairs. Stumbles, gets up, rushes on. Gets with difficulty and difficulty up the door that is big, big. Throws in.

Inside the door.

The large vestibule with the doors to the prayer hall. From inside, Bull-Jesus' monotonously echoing voice is heard. The boy (12 years old) looks at the wall clock that shows 10 minutes past eight. The boy swallows a few times. His bad conscience is unequivocal. He slips quietly up the next stairs and - the next. He tries to make himself as small as possible. A teacher walks in the corridors, opens the doors to the classrooms, and peeks in, opens to storage rooms, map rooms and toilets. Snooping everywhere. Moves on.

The boy hears echoing footsteps. He slips in through a door. It is the chemistry room, with a long row of large tables. He dives behind one.

The teacher opens the door to the chemistry room, walks quickly through it. Out again. The boy, crouching, gets up, sneaks up to the door and listens. Opens and slides out.

Long corridor.

The boy is contagious. Sneaks past a cross corridor. Stays like nailed to the ground.

The teacher comes in the cross corridor. He sees the boy, stops.

The boy leaves, rushing like a shot through the corridor.

The teacher turns, slips around a corner.

The boy turns around another corner and rushes straight into the teacher's arms. The boy finds it too good to start howling. The teacher takes him by the scruff of the neck and removes the offender.

A classroom.

The boy, still held in the nape of the neck, howling, is thrown down on a bench. The teacher produces the class book. Staring gloomily at the lad. Turns up the book, writes.

The stairs and the corridor.

Pippi comes walking pretty fast. The hat on the neck. The rock flutters. The white hair tests stand out. He walks past the "boy's" classroom, but stops, turns around and peeks inside. Pippi rattles off -

PIPPI: Good morning assistant professor.

The young, gloomy and zealous teacher turns his head and looks at Pippi -

THE ADJUNCT: Good morning lecturer.

Pippi steps in, looks at the howling boy -

PIPPI: What a crime this sad young man has committed now.

THE ADJUNCT: He's late! Arrived too late for morning prayer!!

The assistant professor closes his class book and prepares to leave.

PIPPI: Well, I did too.

The assistant professor turns around in a flash as if to say something, but is speechless. The boy stops howling and looks up. An explained grin slowly erupts on his snotty little gangster physiognomy.

Bull-Jesus fishes with his tongue for the loose man, who is about to leave, bending his head deep down where he stands in the prayer hall chairs.

BULL - JESUS: Aameen!

The organ breathes, sighs. A tall boy with nervous hands and eyes in the notes intones bluntly "Alone God…"

The school's 856 students plus teacher and principal get up like a man and sing with ho and hi and a certain hug -

SCHOOL: Only God in heaven, our grace and praise belong…

Grönstrand stands dumbfounded, stares at the hymnbook, then he pushes Jan-Erik -

GREEN BEACH: Devils in it. I do not know any Latin today… You'll see if you go there. I had premonitions this morning.

JAN - ERIK: Where are they?

GREEN BEACH: In the stomach. Boy! vikken diarrhea.

SCHOOL: For all the grace he has lovingly done with us.

BROBERG (sings in falsetto): Do not you think it sounds appropriate when another sings soprano?

Östergren stands with the Latin grammar in full swing -

ÖSTERGREN: Shut up. I'm studying. Do not bother me! Volo, nolo, malo, cupio, juvo, studeo…

SCHOOL: He gave the earth - great joy and peace…

Bergman and Krefler.

BERGMAN: Tira on the little home sadist Caligula.

Caligula treads up and down. Cranks a little with his left arm as if he had rheumatism in it.

BERGMAN: He has rheumatism today.

KREFLER: Does he get cool. Jojo!

BERGMAN: Cool… He becomes sublime.

SCHOOL: And man may well rejoice at -

Sandman, bald, burning eyes, strange revelation, lying with rapture.

SANDMAN: You see, another became quite familiar when the donna said that she had fallen on a dumpling.

Göterström, small, glasses, impressed -

GÖTERSTRÖM: Oh, oh you.

SANDMAN: You know… stabbe, you have not intended to be… yet…

Sång-Pelle stands with closed eyes, hands on his stomach, happy. Singing so it thumps -

SCHOOL + SONG - PELLE: God's eternally good viiljaaaaaa…

The prayer hall.

Everyone's heads are bowed at Bull-Jesus' initiative. Dead quiet.

Two schoolboys lean together and pretend to sleep. Panorama. One stuffs the textbook into his pants. Another stops carving on the bench with his penknife. A third wakes up to where he has been standing and dropped the hymnal on the floor.

There will be a break-up signal.

Long lines of trains now, row after bench, row after bench, out of the prayer hall.

At the door are two teachers.

Each student who passes by shows their book of psalms. Then comes one - no hymnal -

TEACHER I: No hymnal.

STUDENT: Mine is stolen.

TEACHER 2: At least do not lie. Watched.

The student is joined to a small cluster of other individuals -

STUDENT 1: Will it stick?

Student 1. does not answer. Just make a very ugly and very grimace.

The train of students.

Faces in long lines. Characteristic, intense. Lots of faces. The huge stairwell. Lots of boys outside the classrooms. The bells are ringing. The stairwell quickly becomes empty. There will be teachers. They enter the classrooms, whose door closes. It's getting quieter and quieter.

Shoots and noise, whistles and screams. Neck.

It is quiet and empty everywhere.

The classroom.

It's pretty quiet. All 25 students sit still, waiting. The ceiling lights are on. The day is gray outside, the rain is pouring down along the three large windows. Panorama. Caligula in the chair.

He gets up. Goes quietly and easily. Gets the stylus. Goes through class. Speaks so slowly and low -

CALIGULA: I do not intend to put my fingers in between. Do you disregard me so - disregard - I - you. (pause) Do you want it un-nice-so so happy for me.

Up with the stylus straight into the view of the pimple and hart when horror hypnotized Grönstrand. Poke with the stick against his larynx -

CALIGULA: Maybe Mr Grönstrand would like to continue.

Green beach sighs. He bends his pimpled and constantly worried face over the text and reads with a high and low voice -

GREEN BEACH: After Fabius Maximums had thus broken up, the army marched for ten days, after which it encamped on the river Igas. The non-commissioned officers were called to the consul's tent, where he appointed them… where he appointed them… with att unless the campaign plan would and then, however, it would not be incompatible… that they… that they ida unless…

Grönstrand bends his face, his eyes are confused, scared, he has a shiny face.

Caligula stands still and then he starts pulling his fingers, one after the other, slowly -

GRÖNSTRAND: I could not get this sentence out of the lecturer.

CALIGULA: Well.

Caligula pulls at his fingers. The class is tense, quiet. The rain rushes against the windows -

CALIGULA: Then maybe Mr Grönstrand wants to start on the next sentence?

Grönstrand makes a valiant attempt to bluff. He's starting healthy -

GRÖNSTRAND: This seemed to be the legacies… and then… individually… among themselves… but this in spite of if not…

Dead quiet. Mot Caligula.

He takes his hand to his glasses, straightens them. Sits in the chair, leans forward, puts his hands under his chin -

CALIGULA: Grönstrand has not opened the books until today. (pause) (chops hard) At least not where the lesson was. (smiles)

Around Grönstrand.

Some strained giggles from the surrounding -

CALIGULA: I will give Grönstrand an opportunity for reflection. - Mr Widgren continues.

Jan-Erik jerks, starts looking among the lines, finds, starts a little choppy -

JAN - ERIK: This seemed to the legacies to be a good task.

CALIGULA (breaks off): It says so… Karling?

Karling sits just behind Jan-Erik -

MAN: Prediction.

CALIGULA: Continue.

JAN - ERIK: A good prediction. And after they had consulted among themselves, they agreed that a great gift should be given to…

Caligula breaks off. Rappt -

CALIGULA: Can Mr Jan-Erik Widgren not speak Swedish.

Jan-Erik looks up, licks his mouth, tiger -

CALIGULA: It's not called giving a gift… It's bad Swedish (fast). What's the name, Mr. Widgren?

Jan-Erik stares in front of him. Staring and thinking. The brain has locked up. Dead quiet.

Caligula gets up from the chair, with the stylus in hand, and walks quietly and slowly down the room towards Jan-Erik. He pokes with the stick on Jan-Erik's neck -

CALIGULA: It's to be thought of quickly.

Turns around in a flash -

CALIGULA: Power!

Ström, a round boy with mild, melancholy eyes, takes his finger out of his nose, terrified -

POWER: Hand over a gift!

Caligula again. He smiles a little wickedly, cheerfully -

CALIGULA: Has Mr Widgren heard that before?

Widgren. He grins silly -

WIDGREN: Yes, yes.

CALIGULA (suddenly scornful): Yes, of course yes. Continue.

WIDGREN: They appeared before Caesar and assured that they were ready.

CALIGULA: Thank you. That was where we had.

The class sighs in relief. Jan-Erik corrects himself. But the deadline will be short.

Caligula begins to go up and down between the benches quite quickly.

Questions and answers come like machine gun mats -

CALIGULA: Prepare some joy, Widgren!

Jan-Erik -

JAN - ERIK: Afficere aliquem laetitia.

CALIGULA: Give someone fear.

JAN - ERIK: In iqu aliquem timore.

Caligula. He stops -

CALIGULA: Submit.

Jan-Erik can not speak -

JAN - ERIK: In…

CALIGULA: Now!

JAN - ERIK: Inject.

Caligula swings the stylus around so it whistles in the air.

CALIGULA: Someone was whispering. Genitive in impersonal verbs. Example.

Cross. Kreutz, calm, turns his head. Easy going, straightforward.

KREUTZ: Miser, penis girl, pillow, taedet.

Caligula. Kreutz's way teases him -

CALIGULA: Skona, Karlsson.

Karlsson -

KARLSSON: Parco, pepper, parsum, parcere.

Caligula. He now lets the pointer wiggle around in a chorus -

CALIGULA: Skin, Bokstedt.

Bokstedt is taken by surprise -

BOKSTEDT: Plango, plantisi.

CALIGULA: Wrong. Bergström.

BERGSTRÖM: Plano, planxi, planctum, plangere.

Caligula walks up to Widgren, stands behind him -

CALIGULA: Caesar hostem agressus devicit. Widgren.

He puts the stick between the shoulder blades of Widgren -

WIDGREN: Caesar attacked and defeated the enemy.

Responds without turning his head. Holds the desk tightly -

CALIGULA: Example of what.

WIDGREN: Participal construction.

CALIGULA: Which of them.

WIDGREN: Participium conjunctum. It is a predicative attribute.

CALIGULA: To what.

JAN - ERIK (stonewalls).

Caligula turns around and sits down on the desk right in front of Jan-Erik -

CALIGULA: Didn't Mr Widgren read his homework?

Jan-Erik stares Caligula straight in the eye -

JAN - ERIK: Yes, I have.

CALIGULA: I think (whisper) I think Mr Widgren - lying!

JAN - ERIK: No, I do not!

CALIGULA: Not that.

Caligula.

He stares at Jan-Erik with his eyes enlarged by glasses.

Silence.

Jan-Erik.

He stares back. Excessively tense, but not really scared.

JAN - ERIK: No!

Caligula gets up. He goes one stroke upwards towards the board -

CALIGULA: Well. Yes.

Turns around. Throws out -

CALIGULA: At which verbs is the genitive?

Jan-Erik is, as it were, gripped by an icy fear. But he sticks together.

JAN - ERIK: By verbs that mean remind, remember, forget, accuse, convince, judge, acquit. In business verbs.

CALIGULA: Example.

JAN - ERIK: Aestimo.

Caligula looks at Jan-Erik. Nods interested -

CALIGULA: Well!

JAN - ERIK: Facio, duco, puto.

Caligula as above -

CALIGULA: Well!

JAN - ERIK: Camo. Mercor (tries) dono.

Everyone follows the course of events under silent tension. Caligula is slowly approaching Jan-Erik. Dead quiet.

CALIGULA: Mr Widgren still believes that Mr Widgren knows his lesson.

JAN - ERIK: I knew it then yesterday.

CALIGULA: Mr Widgren is lazy. Mr. Widgren ignores me and my homework.

JAN - ERIK: No, I do not.

Caligula has now passed Widgren. And is at the bottom of the classroom.

CALIGULA: Well! Not. Look up the book. Start with today's lesson.

Suddenly slams with the stylus into an empty desk with all its might -

CALIGULA: FAST. FAST!

Jan-Erik and Caligula in the background.

JAN - ERIK: For three days the battle raged. Finally, the Romans made a storm attack…

Caligula sneaks silently on his toes behind Jan-Erik and leans over him and squints in his book -

JAN - ERIK:… and chased Hannibal's troops on the run. A large number of soldiers were captured…

Caligula bends down at lightning speed, slams his hand over the book, picks it up. Raises it in the air. Long silence.

Jan-Erik's face.

It kind of pulls together. His eyes crawl into his skull.

Sandman. Stare, dumb.

Grönstrand narrows his eyebrows in a childishly desperate grimace.

Caligula and Jan-Erik.

Caligula speaks softly -

CALIGULA: What is this!

Caligula looks around the class in silence. So -

CALIGULA: Mr Widgren uses unauthorized aids.

JAN - ERIK (low): Forgot to erase.

Caligula raises his eyebrows, as if he were very surprised by the enlightenment. Plays a bit -

CALIGULA: Forgot to erase.

Speaking mildly -

CALIGULA: Yes. Of course. Forgot to erase.

It's done. Turns over, furious -

CALIGULA: Cheat my lord!

Throws down the book -

CALIGULA (continued): CHEAT!!

Caligula slowly ascends to the chair. Fixes the glasses, stares sadly in front of him -

CALIGULA: Sad to be forced to punish a student for this criminal act two months before the student, fourteen days before the writing.

Turns up the classbook -

CALIGULA: It's very sad. Very.

Jan-Erik.

There is hot despair in his eyes. It's quiet. The only thing that can be heard is the rasp of the pen in the class book.

Caligula.

He hits the book again. Corrects the glasses -

CALIGULA: I'll talk to the principal (pause). We probably get to do a lot with each other, Jan-Erik Widgren.

It's ringing -

CALIGULA: Good dinner.

Caligula slips out.

There is violent excitement in the class -

SANDMAN: Such a potty.

GREEN BEACH: You would snap the ace alive.

Students start packing their books. And walk to the door. They are still occupied by Caligula.

Sandman throws himself backwards -

BERGSTRÖM (throws out - his eyes glow in his skull): Sadist.

SANDMAN: It's damn good for me when you get this misery. Then you should slag. Oh what to slag and crib and live the roll and give shiny it in this facility. Come Widgren, we'll go and buy crackers.

They go out.

Widgren and Sandman.

Göterström sits and digs with his spindly hands in his hair. Speaks low to himself -

GÖTERSTRÖM: I will get a life-size picture of him and then I will stick my eyes out at him and then I will shoot at him. Latingrammatics…

He produces it -

GÖTERSTRÖM: I will have Latingrammatics as dass paper if it is suitable for it.

The tobacco business.

Jan-Erik and Sandman come in.

A newspaper-reading gentleman is standing in front of the shop -

SANDMAN: Hello my sweet Carmen.

Bertha turns around, laughs -

BERTHA: What should it be. A coal. You know I'm not allowed to sell tobacco to schoolboys.

SANDMAN: Will buy for dad.

BERTHA: What did he say!

SANDMAN: Bäh.

Sandman extends a courtesy hand and fingers on Bertha (properly treated) -

BERTHA: Wow. Do not.

Jan-Erik is noticeably embarrassed -

JAN - ERIK: Sandman. Can't we go, huh!

Bertha and Sandman laugh.

The door opens and Caligula enters.

Sandman speaks a little forced -

SANDMAN: It was an Allers yes, miss.

BERTHA: Go ahead.

SANDMAN: Thank you. Good afternoon.

Both boys greet measuredly and disappear out of the store.

Caligula looks after them.

It's quiet for a while. Caligula looks annoyed at the newspaper-reading gentleman -

CALIGULA: Havana II.

Bertha brings out the requested -

CALIGULA: And then a little box of Virginia.

Bertha brings it out. She seems nervous -

CALIGULA: Do you want to be kind and cut it up. I have such bad hands, so clumsy.

BERTHA: Yes, of course. Certainly.

She cuts. Cut a small scratch in the hand -

CALIGULA: Oh, let's see. Did nine is bad.

He takes her hand. Squeezes out little blood. Hold it, look at it. Pause. Then Bertha suddenly shakes her hand. Pale.

BERTHA: Uh, that was nothing. Nothing at all. Was it something else like the senior lecturer…

Caligula. He shakes his head, staring a little silly. Then he collects his boxes and pays. Going. Light his cigarette.

At Caligula's home.

He pushes the cigarette into the ashtray with an energetic movement. He is sitting at his desk with his back to the room. Piles of exercise books. He pretends to read. Aunt Elisabet appears behind him. She is small, thin, dull, pale face, cold eyes with a spark of passion. She stands silent for a moment. So:

Aunt ELISABET: Why do you not answer?

His face bears traces of horror-mixed anger. He's silent.

AUNT ELISABET: You should not, should not be like this to me. It's still not right of you… I just want you well… Answer then… Say something… You have been ill, you know what the doctor said! … I love you so much… It's so empty, I'm so lonely. You are also alone… Not at all homely here.

The room bears sight of the legends. Aunt Elisabet is standing in the middle of the floor.

A handkerchief creeps wildly out of the sleeve.

AUNT ELISABET: You have never had another home... We had such a good time… Then answer something. My dear boy.

Caligula flashes. Furious.

CALIGULA : GO!

Aunt Elisabet closes her eyes, clasps her hands over the handkerchief -

AUNT ELISABET: That you CAN, that you only CAN!

Caligula curls up in the chair. He is furious, scared, furious…

CALIGULA: I do not want to see you. You. Go, go, go.

Now the first tears fall along Aunt Elizabeth's pale cheeks.

AUNT ELISABET: You are evil… evil. When you were a little boy, you came and said: Dear little aunt Elizabeth.

She sinks into a chair and buries her face in her hands.

Caligula rises pitiful, angry, humiliated, angry.

CALIGULA: Please. Do not cry for God's sake.

He stands handcuffed.

CALIGULA: I WANT to be by myself. I do not want to continue that monkey game with mother and son… It's disgusting, disgusting.

Aunt Elisabet shakes her head back and forth, tears flow and she sobs -

AUNT ELISABET: You lived in your little room inside the hall and every night I had to come in with tea for you and I had to stop you before you fell asleep. I still got to be like… like your mother.

Moved to the breaking point over her own voice, she falls into tears again -

AUNT ELISABET: Why do not you want to come back. I'm so lonely… You're so lonely too…

Now everything happens very fast. Caligula takes Aunt Elizabeth in her arms, pulls her out of the chair. She screams, turns around in a flash. But he gets hold of her again. Gets the door open and tries to push her out. Aunt Elisabet suddenly becomes another. Cold, bitter -

AUNT ELISABET: Beware. Look out.

CALIGULA: Get going!

AUNT ELISABET: You'll get this back. Look out.

CALIGULA (laughing): That's good. Then you can go now.

She twists out the front door, which closes again with a bang.

Caligula stands still for a moment. Then he walks around. Gradually collapses after tension. Stops in front of the bookshelf. Takes down a photograph. It represents Aunt Elisabet somewhat youthful and a little boy in a feminine suit. She leans her head against his.

Caligula's hands break the photograph in half so that the pieces of glass swirl around. Then the broken card goes in the trash.

The dining room at Widgrens.

At the dinner table sit bureau director Widgren, Mrs. Widgren and the little boy Bror and Jan-Erik, who is gloomy, very gloomy. It is eaten in silence.

Brother puts down his spoon and licks his mouth and looks under Jan's hair.

BROTHER: Hörru Janne. Why do you look so withered?

MOTHER: Little brother, mother has not said a hundred times that you must not rock the chair.

BROTHER: Janne looks just as withered anyway.

Jan-Erik does not look up from the soup -

JAN - ERIK: You should give seventeen in that.

MOTHER (mildly reproachful): Should you say so when Brother wants to be kind.

JAN - ERIK: Little boys would hold the nap when they crib.

Silence descends again over the congregation. So the bureau director looks up from his plate, wipes his mouth and speaks -

FATHER: How has it been at school today?

Jan-Erik is not looking there -

JAN - ERIK (nonchalantly): Good, I guess.

FATHER: Is that true?

It's quiet for a moment. Jan-Erik gives his father a quick glance -

JAN - ERIK: No.

The mother immediately suspects that something terrible has happened. She sets a compassionate, slightly complaining tone -

MOTHER: Something sad has happened. Say, what's happened?

JAN - ERIK: Got a stick.

FATHER: For cheating.

JAN - ERIK: How does father know?

FATHER: Your Latin teacher called me. The remark seems to have been justified.

Jan-Erik. He lowers his head.

MOTHER: Jan-Erik, how can you make us so sad.

JAN - ERIK: It was not cheating. I could not see for myself what was written there. I wrote it there during the italics translation, then I forgot to erase it…

FATHER: It's terribly uncomfortable, now just before the student.

The father looks upset. He has a wrinkle in the middle of his forehead -

JAN - ERIK: It's not that damn dangerous. (despair in the voice).

The father is silent for a moment -

FATHER: It depends on how you take it. You seem to take it relatively lightly. But mother and I are very sad. My opinion is that you got a stain on you. A tingling. Shall we get up.

The father folds his napkin.

The family leaves the table. Jan-Erik walks to the window.

Brother enters the hall again, where a servant is just about to set the table. He approaches Jan-Erik.

Jan-Erik has a hard time keeping his lip away. But he masters himself male -

JAN - ERIK: Well, it's not criminal either.

BROTHER: And you should not get bored of what the staff talk about. You know what he's like… You… Sandman is on the phone wondering if you can go to the movies.

Jan-Erik and Sandman sit at a café. Sandman smokes greedily.

It's evening. Sandman yawns -

SANDMAN: Really sleepy man. You would have, like the guy in the film, a nice, big and wide snark - such a paulun or whatever it's called, on the other hand, a nice jack.

Sandman smacks. Jan-Erik laughs a little, shakes his head -

JAN - ERIK: You say that.

SANDMAN: Gosse! And a smorgasbord and burnt and distilled drinks a lot. And the jack and the snoring.

Jan-Erik looks at his partner with a certain admiration -

SANDMAN: You would not get up in 14 days. Just slag and crib and crib and slag and use the jack. Feathers in it.

Jan-Erik pours tea for himself. Sandman lights a new cigarette on the old one with a used hand gesture -

JAN - ERIK: You're all a seven-part materialist.

SANDMAN: Yeah.

He stretches, yawns once again loudly and voluptuously.

Around Jan-Erik. He looks a little beyond Sandman. Am really a little embarrassed -

JAN - ERIK: No, you see, I see everything in a different way. I intend to write as much as I want and play as much violin as I want - when this whole thing is over.

Jan-Erik becomes thoughtful. Drinks from his cup and turns and twists it -

JAN - ERIK: Then with ladies and stuff like that… I'm just going to have one and her I'm going to be in love with

SANDMAN (interested): So you have nothing now. But that bean Lena or whatever her name was…

JAN - ERIK: Well, I'm not in love with her at all. Should…

SANDMAN: Love! You're crazy. Ladies are used.

JAN - ERIK: Do it. Not me anyway.

Sandman blows clouds of smoke and rings. Staring at the ceiling -

SANDMAN: No, because the one you should have should be clean and untouched and stuff like that. Va!

JAN - ERIK (embarrassed, but determined): Yes.

SANDMAN: Such animals do not exist.

JAN - ERIK: You say that.

Sandman teaches. High school student cross-safe -

SANDMAN: All ladies' hours are whores. And if they are not, then they want to be. Both Nietzsche and Strindberg say so. Miss, we have to pay.

The two boys are walking down the street. Then they stop outside a gate -

SANDMAN: If you come up.

JAN - ERIK: No, go home and read Latin.

SANDMAN: Caligula is an ace.

JAN - ERIK: I do not know. I mostly think it's a weird jeep.

Sandman takes out his keys and opens them. He turns around -

SANDMAN: You know, when you turn rocks, you find nasty animals. Caligula is not a really real pig, he is a nasty, poisonous insect.

JAN - ERIK: I do not think a human being can be just evil.

Sandman lights the candle on the stairs, they have a hard time separating -

SANDMAN: You're in high school. Wait boy. Wait, you'll see how devilish it is, everything. It encounters pure sophistication. Good night brother.

Sandman extends his hand. Jan-Erik tackles it -

JAN - ERIK: You think I'm very larval.

SANDMAN: You're crazy. You're the only person you can talk to. You can not help that you stick to ideals and talk about innocent women. Hi.

JAN - ERIK: Servant.

Sandman disappears at the gate. Jan-Erik turns and drives down the street. He walks strenuously with his hands deep into his pockets. He looks very thoughtful.

Another street.

Jan-Erik goes as before. Suddenly he raises his head and fixes someone in front of him.

A girl walks in front of Jan-Erik on the street. She sways heavily here and there. Swaying more and more. Suddenly she walks with one foot in the street and the other in the sidewalk. Jan-Erik stays. He looks at her unexpectedly.

The girl now stops and leans against a house wall. She emits strange squeaking sounds. Then she kneels down.

Stands on all fours, leaning against the wall.

Jan-Erik thinks for a moment. So he approaches the girl.

Touch her -

JAN - ERIK: How is it going?

It's Bertha in the tobacco shop.

She turns her face to Jan-Erik. It's swollen and she's panting -

BERTHA: I feel so damn good, so that's not true.

Jan-Erik can not camouflage his surprise -

JAN - ERIK: Miss Olsson!

The girl laughs, but does not answer.

JAN - ERIK: Can I help you?

BERTHA: Uh, shut up.

She returns to the starting position, tries to get up, but sinks back again, unable to move.

BERTHA (angrily): Do not stand there staring. Come and harass a lady. (furiously) Give yourself away.

Jan-Erik bends down over her and takes her by the shoulder -

JAN - ERIK: You're not smart. You can not handle yourself.

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sanchezashton1992 · 4 years

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effloresceawe · 4 years

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Post 6. A Ludological analysis of El Shaddai: Ascension of the Metatron.

Introduction:

El Shaddai: ascension of the Metatron is a single player hack and slash game unlike any other. Its gameplay style is the classic third person hack slash location based game that follows a linear path. But it also has 2D platform and rail shooter elements.

Narrative.

The story of el Shaddai Is based on the dogmatic texts called “The Book of Enoch”.

It tells the story of Enoch, a human so righteous and kind that god gave him a place amongst the angels. Which was unprecedented. One day Enoch is working as a clerk in heavens great library, and is approached by Lucifel (who is obviously Lucifer before his fall, giving the player an idea of the timeline without having to specify it) with a request (not command, showing gods respect for Enoch), 7 angels have fled from heaven taking some of God’s knowledge with them and god asks Enoch to go get it and them back. Also God will grant Enoch immortality on earth to defeat the angels.

Enoch doesn’t even have to think about this, he immediately gets going.

This gives the player an idea of Enoch’s character from the very start. He is a true hero, he knows people are in troubles, asks no questions and acts immediately. Ibrave yes, but maybe also a bit stupid?

He takes a kind of celestial elevator down to earth. When he arrives he has to make a start as time moves differently in heaven than it does earth. So it’s been about 100 years since then angels fell, an in that time they have had a lot of time to hide themselves from even god’s gaze. They have also shared god’s knowledge with the humans and technology has disrupted the natural evolution of mankind.

Enoch searches for their whereabouts for a very long time as the angels have hidden themselves very well. The game goes into a sort of montage at this point letting the player control Enoch as he runs along the bottom of the screen. Telling the story of Enoch’s journey to find them over around 200 years in a very sort amount of time.

Enoch eventually finds a tower the angels have erected in behind a hidden veil, he then starts to ascend the tower, he is greeted at the very beginning of the tower by Beliel, the head angel, and is quickly trounced by him, this is a clear indicator of the angels vanity, belief in the own power and that they are still out of gods reach.

Enoch recover from the beating and continues up the tower through each of the fallen angels separate worlds, each reflecting their own desires for a life on earth, i.e. a nursery, a nightclub, a futuristic landscape that humans had created with the knowledge that the angels had stolen from god. Enoch then climbs the tower defeating angel after angel, every now and checking in with Lucifel and eventually meeting up with the child reincarnation of the Istar.

I will say this about the games narrative though, that it kind of just gives you the story expecting the player to know it already. It’s very broken and the miss a lot of back story, which they constantly reference. So the player doesn’t really know what is going on. What element of the backstory the player get given in the form of the freeman note, which come in poetically vague verse that the player must decipher, thus, not really giving a back story at all.

The narrative is an age old hero’s journey trope, he given a quest by an unseen entity, given incredibly powers by this unseen force and then must do whatever he has be asked of, much to his own detriment.

Information:

The player is given all the information at the beginning of the game, In a 4th wall breaking tutorial. A tutorial that treats itself AS a tutorial.

I narrative information through the game is provided exclusively via characters and collectables.

The environment itself give the plater information too. The linear paths tell the player where to go with no deviation.

There’s definitly a lore component to the narrative, but its comes across more thought dialogue, which comes mostly from lucifer, home oddly enough act’s as sort of a virgirl to you dante in this game.

Components:

All in all, el Shaddai has very little components. There is one playable character, a variety of enemies and collectables. That is all.

The game is an exercise in design by subtraction. In the attempt to make something pure. Fitting being that it’s a game about angels. Nice little aesthetic tie in there, honestly the whole game is a masterpiece of theme, using an concept as ethereal as “grace” and then building a game around it. Where every component of the machine feeds back into the spirit of the thing. Inspired is what it is. Truly breath-taking design.

Collectables:

Red orbs = Fill up “hyper mode”

Hearts = health (Obviously)

Freemen notes = Notes of the corpses of the freemen resistance group, telling the story of the fall of Istar

Istar shards = Shards of Istar’s armour littered throughout gameplay, Unlocks a “invincible armour” on next play through.

Weapons = Arch, veil, and gale. (Sword, shield and gun)

Ruleset:

The games ruleset I also incredibly simple. Gameplay is 80% combat and 20% platforming. So it’s safe to say that the core gameplay aspect is combat.

All aspects of the combat can be boiled to a basic rock, paper, and scissor formula.

Enemies and bosses follow have three styles of combat based on the weapon the have (in the enemies case) or what type of attacks they use (in the bosses case), The weapons create the ruleset, and players ability is the what affects the outcome.

Enemies/weapon outline:

Knight/Arch (sword): quick and agile, weak to gale as sword is to gun. Strong against shield, as it is quick and able to “get round” the shields defences.

Archer/gale (projectile): swift, graceful and with over powered tidal wave like attacks that simply over power a player equipped with an arch. Weak against veil.

Tanks/veil (Shield/gauntlet fists): slow, but incredibly powerful, three hit kill enemy. Strong against projectiles as its shield can deflect the projectiles and get in close to enemy and overpower. Weak against archs as they are too fast for them.

Enoch cannot die either. Given the power of immortality by god. The player can press the back two buttons in a rhythmic pattern to revive Enoch in battle, but if you are unable to do this in time, Enoch will miraculously turn up at the beginning of the area in which he died in.

The basic, stripped down, main goal rule of el Shaddai is simply: fight your way to the top of the tower.

Goal hierarchy:

El Shaddai goals system is a purely narrative driven as opposed to a token/point/prize/score goal system game mechanic.

As I said before the main goal of el Shaddai is to get to the top of the tower and kill the angels. There are no other goals. The player can collect collectables along the way, but there is basically no deviation from the narrative.

You are given a quest from god and you do what he asks of you. But as the game progress the narrative changes from just simply kill the angels to something more empathic as the narrative develops.

Interface:

The interface is minimal to the point of non-existent. There is no HUD, so no health bar, score or gauge indicating “hyper mode”. The player can only tell the characters health by the amount of armour that hasn’t been beaten off him and by the edge of the screen becoming red and cracked.

This is an emersion tool. Making the games seem more like a movie than a game.

It is worth mentioning that if you play through the game again, after the first time, you are given an option to have a HUD display. Showing health, HYPER bar and even a score. The reason for this seems more like humour than placating a certain type of player.

It also indicates that on the first play that the director did this so you would play it the way he intended it to be played, as a work of art.

It also goes along with the games sort of self-referential surreal humour that japan is famous for.

Players:

There is only one player. The player moves the character through levels fighting enemies as they come to the top of the tower.

The player’s motivation at the beginning of the game is simple, because Lucifel and the archangels have told Enoch (or rather the player) what his motivation is. Stop the angels from messing up earth. The player’s motivation changes due to the narrative changes. Basically, as other characters are introduced the game/players motivation elements become more varied.

Game mechanics:

In regards to game mechanics, el Shaddai is unusual compared to other hack and slash games. In which there would normally be a light attack and heavy attack. El Shaddai gives the player very little controls, you can block, steal/purify, jump and attack.

It’s the player ability to time button presses that affects the outcome of combat. Mere button bashing in el Shaddai will not do. The player must be graceful as an angel in his button combos.

In combat the player cannot “lock on” to enemies. But rather is controlled by the player pointing the character in the direction of the enemy and then the character will lock on automatically.

As I said before the combat mechanic is a rock, paper, and scissor formula.

If Enoch has no weapon equipped he can beat an enemy with his bare hands till the enemy is stunned, and then can proceed to steal said enemies weapon. You will need to do this during battle, but fortunately in every battle there will be enemies with corresponding weapons that the player can steal. Weapons of enemies are “impure” and must be purified by Enoch, the weapons also get impure as you use them on enemies. The less pure the weapon is the less damage it can do and the more likely it is to shatter.

Environments:

In regards to environment compared to other hack and slash games, el Shaddai is unique. Theme and boss architypes are directly connected to the environment. The look and style of each level is related to the currently chapters “Boss”, Thus making the environment and narrative basically two sides of the same coin, telling the story through environment.

Each environment that the players finds himself is also incredibly beautiful, Using perspective, screen filters and illusion to create unique style.

Theme:

The theme of el Shaddai is evident. The whole game is dripping in dogmatic Christian myth. There’s a weird extra layer to it though, Its almost like a romanisation of the thing, maybe because Christianity is so prevalent here in the west, whereas compare to Japan, Christianity is treated more like a mythology.

A game so steeped in angels mean its very gameplay is graceful. The gameplay mirrors the theme and vice versa. The story theme is simple also, it’s about doing the right thing even if it’ll kills you, and from the antagonist point of view, it’s also about free will. (As it always is with angels).

The game also has a lot of humour, it’s fairly self-referential in the special kind of surrealism that only japan does, there are lots of moments when the game is very self-aware.

Personal Opinion:

It’s is an absolute shame that El Shaddai remains a relatively hidden gem. It’s a absolute work of art. The voice acting is amazing- It’s just so raw and perfectly realistically delivered. The art style is unlike anything ever, It’s like a journey through different eras of art at some points. The gameplay is akin to games like Neir Automator (even thought it was its predecessor), in so much like Nier Automator it absolutely defies genreization. It’s not one thing, its many, all working together in perfect harmony. It’s not trying to fit to many opposing and messy ideas into one thing, to be gorged on like an all you can eat buffet. It’s a journey instead. Taking the player on one hell of a ride.

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sokrovennyi · 7 years

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1-12

42 QUESTIONS, accepting.

1. How do they move and carry themselves? Pace, rhythm, gestures, energy?

Ivan carries himself with pride and confidence. His very presence exudes power and importance; he is the type of man who you know there is something far more than what meets the eye and because of that, he isn’t the easiest man to approach. Giving him some distance may be for the best. Every step he makes is done with certainty; certainty and a grace that seems to be ages old. He rarely falters and appears completely in control even if on the inside he’s far less confident about what will happen. Every step he makes, every move, has a rhyme and reason

2. How much physical space do they use, active and at rest?

Already answered.

3. How do they position themselves in a group? Do they like to be the center of attention, or do they hang back at the edges of a crowd?

Ivan hates being the centre of attention. People should be consciously aware of his presence when he needs them to be but otherwise he prefers to be left alone; he hates socialisation just for the sake of it and prefers staying off to the side, watching and listening to everyone. He has no real difficulty being the centre of attention, but it’s a feeling he’s not very enthusiastic about when everybody stares solely at him. But he wouldn’t make any of that obvious.

4. What is their size and build? How does it influence how they use their body, if it does?

Ivan is 6′4, and if you peel away the clothing he’s wearing, he’s a very fit, muscular man. Couple that with his enhanced strength due to being the personification of Russia itself and he has to be very careful when dealing with day-to-day things and when dealing with humans in general. He has to be mindful of his strength. He also has to be mindful of low ceilings, doorways, hanging chandeliers, etc. Other than that, his body doesn’t give him much trouble in day-to-day life.

5. How do they dress? What styles, colors, accessories, and other possessions do they favor? Why?

Ivan’s everyday style falls under smart casual. He enjoys being comfortable yet it is also very important to him to look presentable. Most of his clothes are form fitting, never baggy. He likes bright colours but not on clothing; the amount of brightly coloured clothing is limited to a few shirts or a scarf here or there. He prefers cooler, darker colours. Blues, greys, black, purples, and so on. At home alone is when you’ll find him wearing something more comfortable; a large baggy sweater or t-shirt and sweatpants if he knows he isn’t having company or isn’t going out. It’s also great for playing with the dogs. At work, however, it’s strictly business formal with suits, ties of various colours, and even cufflinks. Mostly black suits, though he has a few others if needed.

6. What are they like in motion–in different environments, and in different activities? What causes the differences between these?

Much like I stated earlier for how he carries himself, he’s always very sure of himself. This can really be felt by his partner when ballroom dancing; he’s a leader, and a good one at that. His follower will always know what he’s planning to do if they’re skilled enough in a dance. Ice skating, he looks as if he’s gliding; he makes these tasks look easier than they actually are due to years upon years of practice. Yet when it comes to more creative, artistic tasks ( playing piano, woodworking, and so on ) that don’t require full-body movement, he can work more slowly and carefully, showing off the dexterity of his hands people don’t expect from him at first glance.

7. How do they physically engage with other people, inanimate objects, and their environment? What causes the differences between these?

Ivan maintains his distance when speaking with other people and to the trained eye, there’s always this rigidity to his form when he’s speaking with others and he doesn’t want to be in this conversation. Of course, he’s very polite to the person if they give him the same, and won’t be so rude to instantly shut down a conversation simply because he isn’t a social creature if the other person is trying. He endures it.

With inanimate objects he’s very hands-on if the nature of the object allows him to be so. He usually doesn’t have any reservations when it comes to them, but he is careful so as not to destroy it with his strength.

He feels very at home outside in the environment. He ‘makes himself a part of it’ without actively doing so; he loves to watch and feel the energy and the atmosphere of everything going on around him. When he’s able, he loves to be out and about to people watch; he’s lived these experiences so many times, but it’s the differences of generations ( whether bad or good ) that keep him going; their subtle differences from their parents before them and their grandparents and so on. Studying his environment is how he maintains his connection to society when he already feels worlds away personally.

8. Where and when do they seem most and least at ease? Why? How can you tell?

Ivan is most at ease at home surrounded by his dogs. His posture is more relaxed and overall he seems far less intense and intimidating. He takes things slower, easier, and generally seems to be in better spirits. Time around a significant other can also make him feel incredibly at ease. When there’s absolute trust and Ivan feels safe around a person, he allows himself to unwind and show more of his personality that he keeps hidden away from the rest of the world.

He is least at ease at work or at formal banquets where his presence is required through obligation, not a desire for people to see him. At work where, like many of the people, his voice only has so much say and he bears no real power, he feels constantly stuck and questions why he even tries when not even he can bring about changes he wants. He loathes the feelings of subservience and this is evident in his harsh and rigid posture and occasionally curt replies to those around him that aren’t his boss. He makes little to no effort to involve himself with most of his colleagues. This is his job for the rest of his days——he isn’t just allowed to abandon it.

9. How do they manifest energy, exhaustion, tension, or other strong emotions?

Anger/violence. Ivan keeps a very tight lid on all of his emotions for a variety of reasons and if somebody manages to wind him up to the point where that becomes impossible, he loses that control and will respond with sharp biting words or outright violence depending on the situation. Everything forced down boils over to the surface and it’s completely personal now; he will finish it.

Exhaustion can be seen in his eyes; he seems distant and far away and if you watch his body, it seems as if he’s on autopilot. Moving, but not quite fully conscious of what he’s doing. There will be dark circles after he’s gone days without sleeping and he becomes more irritable; he has much less tolerance for anything annoying that doesn’t go his way. He can also be less reasonable.

10. What energizes and drains them most?

Work/social situations drain him the most, alongside with being forced to endure obnoxious people for far too long.

Any of his hobbies or physical tasks energise him; he rarely has time to spend for himself these days and getting to take a day to do whatever it is he wants energises him.

11. How are they vocally expressive? What kind of voice, accent, tones, inflections, volume, phrases and slang, and manner of speaking do they use?

Ivan maintains a very even tone when he’s speaking. His voice isn’t soft or timid by any means; it’s loud and it holds enough power to command attention, but it’s rarely influenced by emotion ( meaning he doesn’t raise his voice out of anger or start speaking incredibly fast because of his emotional state, etc. ) unless the situation calls for it or if he’s comfortable enough to shrug away part of that outer shell. When he gets particularly angry, his voice deepens and it sounds like he’s growling out some of his words; compared to his usual tone it’s very intimidating and fits his overall appearance. When speaking Russian, he sounds much more blunt and almost annoyed and many foreigners mistake that for him being angry with them or for him being generally rude; it’s the nature of how he speaks, similar to many others. He does use a rising tone for questions and emphasises certain words to really get his point across if he needs to. When speaking English he maintains that same calm, even tone but has to make a more conscious effort to convey what he means.

12. How are they bodily expressive? How do they use nonverbal cues such as their posture, stance, eyes, eyebrows, mouths, and hands?

Furrowing/narrowing of his brows is one of his most common expressions to show his scepticism or that he’s truly studying something. If he finds something strange or even somewhat surprising, he’ll raise a brow to show it even if he never comments on it. The rigidity or tension in his posture reveals that he’s very alert and doesn’t trust anything in his immediate surroundings. He’ll occasionally wave people along with a flourish and expect them to understand that he wants them to follow or he taps his fingers against the nearest hard surface to express boredom or disinterest. He clenches his fist and sets his jaw when he’s getting genuinely annoyed or angry. He also sometimes nods toward a particular direction; this also means he expects a person to move that way.

His eyes are easily the most expressive part of him and a lot of things that go unspoken can be seen in his eyes. Flashes of anger, a distant and unfocused look when he’s feeling nostalgic or particularly sad, his eyes brighten and sparkle when he’s genuinely happy, and so on.

#quietlystrong #♛ ⁞ Я кричу в пустоту и не жду ответа ( ooc )#♛ ⁞ Против судьбы восстать ни шагу назад ( Headcanons )#god damn it man

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shadowsong26fic · 7 years

Text

The Rabbit Hole AU

So, I babbled at my wonderful roommate nightlightflame (who is so much fun to bounce ideas off of omg) and decided I had to write this one up.

This is, essentially, an exercise in the Greek mythological concept of fate/destiny. Some things are Meant To Be.

...but how we get there, and what shape it takes when we arrive, well, that’s a different story.

And so, I present to you: the Rabbit Hole AU, aka Temple-Raised Palpatine.

So, Palpatine is identified as Force-sensitive as a tiny. (Which, how this was avoided in canon, IDK; his explanation in Plagueis makes little sense to me. As nightlightflame pointed out, the Son was probably involved)

Which means this is probably the Father going “hey, you see this kid over there? The kid who is clearly meant to be a Sith Lord? Let’s give him to the other guys and watch what happens.”

Anyway, Palps is identified and his father does the Right and Proper Thing and signs custody over to the Jedi Order.

For the purposes of this fic, I’m adjusting a couple things. Namely, Palpatine is five years older than his probable canon/Legends age, and Qui-Gon is approximately five years younger than his probable age.

They grow up together.

They’re friends.

(or, well, as close as Sheev can get to such things. He is still Palpatine, after all. But more on that later)

I’m going to skip over the next few years for the purposes of this outline, because they mostly deal with Qui-Gon and Palps being friends, and Qui-Gon occasionally functioning as Sheev’s external conscience, and Sheev occasionally poking at Qui-Gon until he at least acknowledges that the bigger picture exists.

And then they’re old enough to be taken as Padawans.

(this is where the fun begins)

How ‘bout some role-reversal? :D

This is the main reason why I fudged the ages.

Because given canon ages, it’s vanishingly unlikely that Dooku would take Palpatine on, particularly since this would have to happen IMMEDIATELY after Qui-Gon’s trials.

So, they’re the same age.

I’m not entirely sure who would train Qui-Gon.

Maybe Yoda?

Probably Yoda.

The only other timeline-appropriate Jedi I can think of is Jocasta Nu maybe? How old is she?

Or, wait, isn’t Plo Koon a long-lived species?

...I don’t think I want Plo Koon though, for reasons that will probably become clear later.

Dooku ably shepherds Palps through what is bound to be a fairly volatile adolescence. Palpatine develops into a shrewd, silver-tongued, and occasionally somewhat ruthless Knight. He takes his Trials at about 20/22, does remarkably well. Dooku is very proud.

Qui-Gon probably graduates around the same time, and they occasionally work together and maintain their friendship.

And then Xanatos happens.

Qui-Gon may, sadly, be backed into a corner where he has to straight-up kill Xanatos right at this point. I haven’t decided yet.

Qui-Gon, I think, straight-up leaves the Order afterwards.

MEANWHILE

Plagueis finds himself lacking in apprentice/partner candidates. He’s working to build up to the Clone Wars, because that was always the plan.

He focuses on the actual broad logistics for the time being, building the armies, etc., all while keeping an eye on several up-and-coming politicians on a variety of worlds, spinning his web.

(This will be important later.)

Some years later, Palpatine is in the Temple between missions, and idly observing a class of senior Initiates.

He sees one boy at the end of a row and deep from the bottom of his ice-cold heart comes a resounding cry of mine.

He is slightly concerned by this. Partly because he’s not overly fond of children and hasn’t ever really liked the idea of raising one (especially after what happened to poor Qui-Gon and Xanatos), but partly because...uh...

Look, Sheev knows he’s not like the others--he’s cold, calculating, finds it extremely difficult to find the empathy and compassion expected of a Jedi.

He can fake it well enough, and he’s built himself a rigid set of rules for his own behavior with Dooku’s help (which mostly but not entirely line up with the official Code), but he knows that there’s something atypical with his approach. Especially among the Jedi.

He goes to his former Master with his concerns.

Dooku’s advice boils down to, “it’s probably a very strong signal from the Force. The way it was phrased/the way you perceived it does cause some concern. Meditate for a while, speak with the boy, speak with his other instructors. Don’t rush this decision, but don’t discount the idea because of your initial reaction.”

This is very wise advice and Palpatine follows it.

Long story short, Palpatine takes Obi-Wan as his apprentice.

They are an incredible team, guys. Seriously, just think of the possibilities.

I don’t want to say much about the actual adventures they have, because that takes work I haven’t yet put into this AU, but I do need to mention Mandalore. And Satine.

Palpatine was going to recommend Obi-Wan for his Trials at that point. Then he decided “....I’ll give him a year or two to restabilize and then recommend him.”

When the time is right, he tells Obi-Wan, “when we get back to the Temple, I’m recommending you for your Trials.”

Obi-Wan: thank you, Master. I won’t fail or let you down.

Palpatine: I know. If I thought you would, I wouldn’t recommend you.

then they smile at each other because this is How They Do.

Obi-Wan, of course, passes with flying colors.

They continue getting teamed up, much like Obi-Wan and Anakin do in canon, because they work so well together.

(Also, Obi-Wan is pretty good at helping Sheev supplement his rules with Actual Decent Humanity)

Side note: Palps butts heads with the Council just as much as Qui-Gon does. But where Qui-Gon hears them out and then goes and does whatever the hell he wants to do anyway, Sheev, on the other hand, tends to hear the Council out, patiently discuss the issue, and then politely accept their judgment and withdraw. Five minutes later, the Council realizes that he just talked them into authorizing the EXACT OPPOSITE of what they wanted him to do.

Ten years later, Obi-Wan starts utilizing that same skill.

Yoda has several drinks and deeply, deeply regrets authorizing this partnership.

But doesn’t split them up because, again, super-effective and they make up for each other’s emotional weaknesses.

Qui-Gon, meanwhile, has somehow come in contact with Plagueis.

Exactly how, I’m not sure.

Now, he’s not a good candidate for the political face Plagueis needs, but he would make a decent Sith Lord.

So, he becomes the Apprentice.

He needs a Sith Name.

Any ideas?

We are now up to approximately the point where Episode I happens.

Plaugeis, as mentioned above, has been keeping an eye on several up-and-coming politicians. And his puppet King on Naboo, Veruna, is beginning to try and cut his strings.

We can’t have that.

But there is this bright, charming, idealistic, ambitious young girl.

(If only, Plagueis thinks, she were Force-sensitive)

As it is, he can split those responsibilities--this young lady, in time, can be the public face of things on the Republic side of the coming War, and Qui-Gon can assist him with those parts of his plan that require Force use.

He has another candidate in mind to run the political wing of the Separatist movement--a certain brilliant, passionate, stubborn, idealistic Duchess...

But more on her later. Let us return to Naboo.

Plaguis makes contact with the young Padme Naberrie, and encourages her to put herself forward as an alternative to Veruna’s corruption.

(From here, in time, it will be child’s play to get her into the Senate and persuade her that his way is the best to counteract the corruption in the Republic as a whole).

The planet is blockaded.

Master Palpatine and Knight Kenobi are sent to negotiate.

This first part goes much as in canon, only with Plagueis, rather than Sidious, pulling the strings.

They are still forced to take refuge on Tatooine for repairs.

Palpatine identifies the boy immediately of course. And promptly claims him for the Order. He can work out the logistics later.

Of course, he doesn’t want to lose the child. But he also doesn’t really relish the thought of raising another one.

So, naturally, he goes to Obi-Wan. “This boy is powerful, and this boy is fragile. The Sith are extinct, but the Jedi are not the only power in this universe. We cannot allow him to be manipulated by the wrong people.”

“So, instead, we manipulate him ourselves?”

“Precisely.”

Obi-Wan agrees in principle, but is a little hesitant about taking the child as an apprentice. “Master, I’m still relatively inexperienced. I’m not sure I’m ready to take on any Padawan, let alone one who will need special attention.”

Palpatine gives Obi-Wan the same advice Dooku gave him--sit with the boy, speak with him, don’t make this decision lightly or in haste. And, if Obi-Wan says no, resolves to train the boy himself. Because without one of them advocating for him--insisting--the Council will never admit him into the Order. He’s too old.

Obi-Wan follows his Master’s advice. And deep from the bottom of his warm, kind heart comes a resounding cry of mine.

Maul is probably still involved here, because I don’t think I want to drop the Qui-bomb this early. He probably gets very dead (like, for real, actual, permadead this time) because Palps and Obi-Wan together? Ahahahaha, good luck.

Qui-Gon is keenly distressed by the death of his apprentice. (Especially after Xanatos. Who he has personally killed by now, if not when things first went wrong). And then to learn it was at the hands of his one-time best friend?

Ten years pass.

Anakin trains as a Jedi. Obi-Wan and Palpatine still frequently work together, now with their tiny tagalong.

Padme finishes her term as Queen of Naboo and enters the Senate, still receiving counsel and training from Plagueis.

Finis Valorum’s term ends as scheduled. Bail Antilles is elected to replace him, replaced in his seat by Bail Organa.

And then, under the charismatic leadership of the Duchess of Mandalore, a secessionist movement begins to take shape.

Obi-Wan feels slightly conflicted. They have a reasonable point, and he can’t help but remember Satine--but his loyalty is to the Republic, to his Order, to his Master and to his Padawan. Mostly to those last.

He discusses his concerns with Palpatine, who agrees, but maintains that the chaos of factioning would be worse than the corruption Satine and her Separatists are protesting.

Anakin has no opinion. Anakin, much to his Masters’ despair, has a tin ear for politics, and will simply follow wherever they lead him.

(he’s a little better than in canon, because Palpatine, rather than aggravating his issues, is trying to ameliorate them, but some things can’t be helped.)

And then comes an attempt on Senator Amidala’s life.

(”You may need the sympathy vote to help you become Chancellor after we remove Antilles. Even your unimpeachable reputation as the Steel Flower of Naboo might not outweigh your youth and inexperience.”)

Anakin and Obi-Wan are assigned to protect her, as in canon.

Padme: ‘oh no he’s hot’

Padme: ‘kriffing hell.’

Padme: ‘my Plans for the Republic do not allow for pretty, dumb, pretty Jedi boys.’

Anakin: ::awkward attempts at flirting::

Padme: ‘WHY IS THAT ENDEARING.’

Padme: ‘kriffing hell.’

Obi-Wan: ::headwalls::

I’m not sure where Palpatine is. Possibly involved with some other investigation--while he and Obi-Wan mostly work together, sometimes only one of them is called for, and if he was on a solo mission he probably wouldn’t have been recalled.

Anyway, a poison dart still leads Obi-Wan to Kamino, and Geonosis.

Padme and Anakin still go to rescue him.

(They still make a detour to Tatooine.)

(Palpatine doesn’t really care about Shmi, sadly, so would make no efforts to free her. Obi-Wan and Anakin would probably handle it about the same as they do in canon, until it’s too late.)

(Palpatine senses what’s going on and extracts himself from his other mission immediately to go see to his flailing child, and guide him back from the brink. Because he knows what that’s like; who better to help?)

(But by the time he arrives, they’ve already left the planet.)

(He reaches Geonosis around the same time Mace’s team does.)

Geonosis is probably where I drop the Qui-bomb, actually. Mostly as muscle backing Satine--an ex-Jedi supports the Separatists!

Obi-Wan is Very Conflicted on seeing his former lover.

Satine has a Moment herself. Not enough to challenge her convictions--nothing short of actually exposing her patrons for what they are will do that--but it gives her pause.

Satine is taken out of the arena to safety.

Qui-Gon leaves as well.

Anakin and Obi-Wan pursue.

Anakin still rushes in. Anakin still loses his arm.

Palpatine is caught up in the thick of the battle, not there for his children when they need him.

(He regrets this intensely later. Not nearly so much as Qui-Gon will, of course. Friends they may have been, once upon a time, but no one harms Sheev Palpatine’s children. No. One.)

Padme requests that Anakin escort her back to Naboo. He is all too eager to agree.

His masters, who are neither stupid nor blind, meet each other’s eyes and sigh.

Palpatine: well, this is probably for the best. They’ll spend a week or so in bed, and he’ll get this infatuation out of his system.

Obi-Wan: I’m...I’m not so sure it’ll work that way, Master.

Palpatine: Five credits says I’m right.

Anakin returns to his Masters some days later and, having a different relationship with them than in canon, immediately confesses all.

(Obi-Wan discreetly holds out a hand for his credits. Palpatine, equally discreet, passes them over.)

Padme returns to the Senate and gives a stirring and passionate speech about what she witnessed at Geonosis.

Another of Plagueis’ patsies follows up by accusing Antilles of underestimating and mishandling the Separatist threat, and proceeds to call for a no-confidence vote.

The newly minted wartime Chancellor Amidala hides her smile and promises to guide them safely and surely through these troubled times.

The War begins, with Plagueis pulling strings behind both Padme and Satine.

Anakin is quickly Knighted.

Obi-Wan, while still recommending him, does see that Anakin still has trouble letting go. Especially after what happened to his mother. He consults with Palpatine, who agrees.

The Battle of Christophsis happens.

A tiny teenaged Togruta turns up, announcing she’s been assigned to Anakin.

(Some time later, deep from the bottom of his wildfire heart comes a resounding cry of mine.)

The War continues. Padme gradually accumulates power.

Palpatine begins investigating some things that don’t quite add up--it starts with tracking his obsession with Qui-Gon (he knows it’s not Jedilike, he knows it violates the Code, it comes perilously close to violating his internal rules, but that was his child.)

Things come to a head...I’m not sure exactly when.

Possible point #1: The Second Battle of Geonosis, where Anakin nearly loses Ahsoka.

Possible point #2: After the children get back from Mortis, and tell Palpatine what happened.

(This would, of course, be slightly different than in canon, but I haven’t quite worked out the details)

Possible point #3: After Umbara.

Possible point #4: After Kadavo.

(This one is less likely, because while Palpatine strenuously objects to the idea of sending his younger son there, he would acknowledge that time is a factor and there was no other team close enough.)

Anyway, at one of those four points, Palpatine is completely Done with the situation. He is taking his children and his clones and they are leaving. They are taking a third option. They are not Sith, but they are not Jedi anymore, either--what they are is a family, with an army, and a singular goal: to see peace restored to the galaxy and protect what is theirs.

Padme: what

Satine: what

Plagueis: WHAT

Palpatine, his children, and their armies form a third faction in the War. Their intent is to basically make both the Separatists and the Republic sit down, shut up, and stabilize.

They go to Padme, and lay out everything they think they know. Mostly at Anakin’s insistance, because he can’t leave his wife.

Padme hears them out, thinks back over everything she’s done with Plagueis, everything he’s asked her to do, every word he’s whispered in her ear, and says, “I’ll help you.”

They try to reach out to Satine, too, but they have no real ties in Separatist space, so it’s taking them longer.

With their generation’s most brilliant tactical mind running their offenses, they quickly make strides and gain ground. Which is nice, because it gives Padme cover to communicate with them--it’s only proper, after all, that the Chancellor should attempt to negotiate, now that the war has grown infinitely more complicated.

(She plays her part with Plagueis perfectly, of course.)

I admit, the ‘how’ of the next part is a liiiiiittle shaky, but it all basically ends with Palpatine murdering Qui-Gon in the face (with extreme prejudice), Anakin (probably with Obi-Wan’s help) killing Plagueis (this may or may not result in Anakin losing another limb or three on Mustafar because why not), and Ahsoka (with help from the clones; she’s their favorite) ending Grievous. Their faction has now won the Clone War.

The Separatists may need some mopping up, I need to work out exactly what would happen with Satine and all.

Padme graciously steps down, and Palpatine is installed as Chancellor for Life.

He does not take the title of Emperor, but that is in effect what he is now.

His sons, his daughter-in-law, and his granddaughter are at his side.

Obi-Wan does most of the day-to-day running of things--he’s very good at it, after all, and Palpatine would rather concentrate on larger problems. Handling any lingering issues with the Separatists, and one never knows what one might find outside the Republic’s borders...

Padme assists--her political acumen and strength of will are a terrible thing to waste, after all.

Anakin is happy and stable; a loving husband and father, and, together with Ahsoka, ensures that justice and stability actually exist in Palpatine’s realm.

So, to make a (very) long story short...remember what I said at the beginning, about Greek concepts of Fate?

The Clone War still ends with Palpatine ruling the Galaxy.

Anakin is still his right hand; his enforcer.

But how we got there...well, that’s the story, isn’t it?

#shadowsong26fic #shadowsong writes star wars #things shadowsong will never actually write #au outlines for the win

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stripestheboar · 7 years

Text

Stagnant Decay Chapter 1

Well, here comes my first Undertale chapter series.

Synopsis: Sans and Papyrus live a happy life on the surface and everything seems to be going fairly well for them. However, Sans is having a bit of trouble keeping his name clean when something that looks, walks, and talks like him keeps getting him into trouble with frequent killings around town. Meanwhile, Papyrus begins to keep secrets when he finds something he really shouldn’t have. Something that could get the both of them killed at any moment. But you know Papyrus. He could never deliberately get rid of something that needs his help.

This chapter and later chapters may contain: Undertale, Dusttale, Sans, Papyrus, the main cast making some minor appearances, fight scenes, tears, a really creepy Murder!Sans, tender moments, crazy moments, and completely SFW brotherly love.

This is mostly just a chapter to getchya settled in.

Next ->

Every so often, Sans would forget something. It was occasional, but it still happened. It wasn't that he never want to remember anything; in fact, he would prefer to not to remember anything at all. But with that all too familiar cloudiness swarming his skull, he couldn't help the way he was.

Luckily for him, Papyrus was always there to help him remember. No matter what it was or the time of day, even when he thought he was alone, Paps seemed to be just a couple steps away to shake him back into reality. Sometimes he would forget where the house was. Papyrus always showed him the way. His brother was always so helpful. Sometimes he would forget what section of the Underground he was in. Papyrus would pointed out the noticeable features of the landscape, such as the snow or lava. His brother was always there for him. Sometimes he would forget to eat. Papyrus would make sure he didn't fall. How did deserve his brother? Sometimes he would forget what happened. Papyrus didn't let him forget. He never let Sans forget. But that was okay. He still loved his brother will all his soul.

And yet, sometimes, he just forgot. He blamed it on the stagnant state of the world around him. Papyrus never blamed anyone.

"Sans! Can you lend a hand to me?" Papyrus called from the kitchen, heaving a few bags of groceries onto the kitchen table, a few dastardly cans slipping out to hit the floor. A quick sigh rocked his frame as he surveyed the bagged foods before getting to picking up some of the fallen goods. On cue to his question, he heard something shift around in the living room on the couch his brother could usually be found at. "Sure thing, bro," came the deeper, slower drawl Sans was known for. "Just be sure you give it back." There was a faint pop sound as Papyrus began to process Sans' words, only to be interrupted when something flew from the other room and clattered onto the floor beside him. He blinked in surprise and gazed down at the detached hand that had landed; it was smaller than his own and slightly thicker in each individual bone. His sockets widened some in surprise and he was quickly developing that familiar flustered feeling whenever Sans did something asinine. "Sans!" he scolded. "That's not what I meant, you lazybones! Get in here and reattach your hand! That's not good for our joints!" Moments later, the lazy skeleton sauntered in, amusement clearly placed over his skull as he bent down and picked up his severed hand. "Sorry, bro," Sans chuckled, "I was just trying to be handy." Papyrus gave his smaller brother an impatient look, but a sigh was really his only response. While his jokes were painfully unfunny and immature, the self proclaimed 'mature one' of the two had learned to just live with them. After about a year of living on the surface, he sort of had to bear with it ever since such a wide array of jokes had been opened up. The very first week of being free, Sans went on a pun-filled rampage (don't talk to the human like that; it wouldn't be humane. Sans fit the hand back onto his ulna and radius, the carpals seeming to just snap back into place upon making contact with the two larger bones. With a flex of his metacarpals, he looked over at the bags of food. "Gee, Paps. Did ya bring all this in with one go?" he asked, looking up at Papyrus as the two began to put away the food. The taller skeleton immediately welled up in pride that needed to be boasted. "Why, of course! The Great Papyrus does not need to make two trips! I cannot split my efforts in half!" he boasted. He saw Sans give an amused roll of his eyelights, but he just ignored it. As Papyrus was putting away a few boxes of pasta, a phone rang from the living room. From the loud goat noise that emitted from the device; the phone was obviously Sans'. His older brother dropped the groceries he was holding and rushed off at an astounding speed of 2 mph (a new record for him), snatching the phone off the arm of the couch. After a quick glance at the caller ID, he went out the backdoor to have the conversation. Despite Papyrus' respect for his brother's privacy, personal calls were a rarity with him. Usually when it rang, it was just Miss Toriel with a few more awful jokes ready to be told, and Sans would always make sure Papyrus stayed within earshot to listen to just how painful they were. Calls had not been kept private since his brother started becoming the lazy slob he is now. That was years and years ago. When all the groceries had been put away and the bags were stored for later use, Sans was still outside, presumably having a talk with whoever had decided to call. It was longer than last time, Papyrus noted. While it wasn't a particularly bad thing, it still had his curiosity itching. 'Perhaps it is just Frisk needing some help with their homework or their royal duties,' he reasoned with himself. After all, with all the business the human had to go through with King Asgore, there were bound to be stories to tell or advice that was needed. 'But Sans of all monsters?' he thought for a second. 'That sure is a bit odd.' Sure, he was smart, but his brother hadn't the slightest inkling of how to be regal. It was around that time of being lost in his thoughts that Sans had finally come back in, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket as usual. The urge to ask Sans who the caller was floated up to the forefront of his skull, but Papyrus quickly brushed it off in favor of respecting his brother's privacy as Sans had done so many times with him. Or, at least he hoped he did. Sans' little adventures in bending the laws of time and space always did make him a bit weary, especially after the treadmill prank a few years back. Yet, even still, he kept his mandible locked tight as he watched Sans walk up the stairs. Papyrus checked the time and took a quick look out the window as he usually did around this time of day. Just as predicted, the sun was beginning to set as it did every day. He dropped what he was doing to rest his arms on the windowsill and just watch the sun fall behind the horizon. Unsurprising to those who knew him, Papyrus always watched the sun rise at dawn and fall at dusk. How could he not? With it's bright orange and magenta colors and it's slow transitions of the times of day, he was truly fascinated by it. There was something about watching the sun come and go that was always so special to him. Having been born in the Underground, he knew that the sun wasn't just something to be taken for granted, unlike Sans, the lazybones. It had been an entire year since Frisk had freed them from the Underground, and everyday at dawn and dusk, Papyrus was always there to watch the sunrise. In fact, he had never missed any of them once, as hard as it may be for some to believe. He didn't plan on missing any in the future, either. That would surely be a tragedy. Once the tall skeleton was satisfied that enough light had left the sky, he immediately got out two boxes of noodles, the angel haired variety to be exact. Thinner noodles mean room for more pasta, after all. Sans tried to to reason once that two boxes was an awful lot for just two skeletons, maybe even a bit too much, but blasphemy wasn't tolerated in this household, so he dropped it. As he began to boil the water, he couldn't help but have his mind wander to Sans again. He had been so secretive over the past week. Hiding calls, going out during the later hours of the day, and being tight-teethed about his actions were just some of the things that hinted his brother was hiding something. He hadn't been this way since around the time he had first met Flowey. In fact, that particular secret still remained just that: a secret. Was something wrong?

After a quick shortcut to Alphys' lab, Sans took a minute to prepare himself. He took a few swigs of the ketchup he brought with him, he made sure his nerves were in check, and he reminisced over all the times Papyrus had scolded him. It was a strange ritual for sure, and he just hoped he wouldn't have to do it anymore after this session. However, no matter how much he had prepared himself, every time he walked through those doors to greet his favorite cold-blooded couple, he always found himself needing some alone time afterwards. A lot of alone time.

After a another quick drink, he took in a ribcageful of air and casually opened the door to the lab. Alphys and Undyne immediately looked up at him from the island counter they had been talking over. "Sans! D-do come in," Alphys said, quickly shuffling over to her bag to grab, and fumble with, a blue folder. He watched her and her nervous scamper to the table and sat down on a stool, scooting closer to the island. It seemed that it had been cleared off for this occasion. His eyelights flicked up to Undyne to evaluate how bad this situation was. Upon seeing the gears turning within the fish's head and hard at work, he knew this one was particularly bad.

"So, lay it on me," he sighed, folding his arms onto the table. "Another one?" Undyne shook her head. "Three this time. Two monsters. One human." That was surprising. After a week of murders happening around town and at the most random of places, never once had a human been attacked and killed. "A human? Geeze, that takes some guts," he murmured, before looking at folder Alphys had brought with her as she sat down. "I'm going to guess that's whatever's in that won't clear me off the list." Alphys gave a sort of apologetic nod as she opened up the folder, revealing a few non-confidential reports and photos inside. "We were never sure, at first," she said, fingers diligently moving the photos around so they would be spread out. "But that's only because monsters dust when they die. With this, it's absolute." Steeling himself, Sans brought his gaze over the numerous photos. They weren't pretty.

He was immediately sickened to see the different positions of a dead human body, this one being a male. While none of them were of the crime scene (that would get Undyne in deep trouble), they seemed to be from a coroner's table. It appeared that Alphys put in a request to get them specifically for him, which was surprising seeing how she couldn't take death very well. The most noticeable feature of the body was the giant hole in the middle on the abdomen. Geez, it's like this guy was impaled on a tree. Upon further inspection, he eventually saw the various broken bones and caved in parts of his body. It looked like someone took a baseball bat to this guy. Whoever did this clearly did not like humans one bit.

"The fatal wound as well as the other bruises and breaks were caused by something large and blunt," Alphys explained, turned away from the folder so she wouldn't have to see it. "It took a while, but it was eventually figured out that the marks and indentations within the body directly match a large bone. A femur to be exact. The residue left over confirms the bone was made of magic, and the only monsters that can conjure bones are skeletons. As far as we know, there are only two."

'Three,' Sans corrected in his mind, though his thoughts should be elsewhere right now.

"That's four times now," Undyne sighed, laying the side of her hand against her brow as she sighed. "Three sightings near the crime scenes and one body of physical proof. All in one week. Sans, the station's been urging me to bring something in. If this keeps up, I may have to actually do something." Sans grimaced the best he could through that permanent grin of his. Who could have been doing this? And why? There were no other skeletons (the feasible of them anyways) that would do something like this. Just the thought of another possible skeleton reeking havoc on the town shivered his bones. His LOVE remained at the basic one, so unless Papyrus was secretly a stealthy serial killer that was able to make himself look short and round, he was completely stumped on this one.

The three were completely silent for a minute or two. Finally, Undyne spoke up. "I think you should tell Pap-"

"No."

And so that topic was settled.

"Okay, listen. I'll put out team to find out whoever this guy is," the fish said finally. "But, we're running out of options here. If we don't find this asshole, the entire kingdom's going to be raging for my to bring you and Paps in." Sans felt his soul drop like a sack of rocks. This whole situation was bad enough since it was happening to only him, but it would be a cold day in hell when he'd drag Papyrus into it. "Over my dead body," he nearly snapped, his sockets void of light for the moment. It would take a lot more than that to intimidate Undyne, though. She just seemed to brush his sudden change in behavior off. "Well it just might be," she responded in a similar snappy fashion. "There's nothing you can really do, Sans." Her lone visible eye softened some in sympathy when she saw Sans look down at the ground, seemingly at a loss for what to do. She gave a sigh. "If I were you, I'd go home and spend some time with Pap. The way this is headin', it ain't lookin' good for you."

Sans thought the situation over. While it was easy to prove that he was innocent, he didn't think it would be so easy with the rest of the monsters. Eventually, even the humans would climb into the bandwagon, and knowing how prominent they were around here, he wouldn't stand a chance. There were still tensions between monsters and humans, after all, and there have already been a few unsavory acts committed by the groups onto the other.

Sans finally let out a small huff of frustration, though on the inside he felt like screaming at the stars. It's not every day he was being accused of murder. He's have to do a bit of investigating on his own, wouldn't he? He just hoped it wouldn't get him into more trouble. He grumbled, but begrudgingly stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Hey Undyne," he snapped, looking over at Papyrus' best friend. "Make sure you catch this bastard, okay?" Undyne smirked some and gave a nod. "Can do, ya bag of bones. Say hi to Paps for me. We still have that cooking lesson tomorrow, alright? And make sure he's pumped up! I won't tolerate rookie level cooking, got that?" Sans looked back at Undyne, unable to help but chuckle. "You got it, fish lips."

And with that, he left the lab.

Undyne watched the door for a bit, as if expecting him to come back in. She then gathered the photos up in the folder, gave Alphys a quick kiss, and left as well.

She had a killer to catch.

#Undertale #Sans #Papyrus #Undyne #Alphys #Murder!Sans #Dust!Sans #Stagnant Decay #Dusttale #Everybody haaaaates Saaaaans #Fanfiction #Coonfics

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veliseraptor · 7 years

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Worst Roommates question! What was Odin's plan/thought process throughout all this? I'm guessing he wasn't quite as uncaring as Clint eventually assumed (and Loki certainly thought).

I was wondering if anyone was going to ask me this one.

I think it was complicated. Odin didn’t want to kill Loki - he cares too much about him still for that, no matter hos angry he is. Imprisoning him, he thought, would just a) make him go more insane and b) just let him stew in his hate and anger and further justify his actions to himself, because Odin knows that is often a response Loki has. I don’t think Loki ever would react well to “time-outs” in general. He just digs in his heels and gets even more determined that he is right.

So that didn’t leave him with a lot of options, except the same one he had with Thor: exile. But I think figuring out a way for Loki to come back was something he didn’t really know how to do. He wasn’t sure that Loki ever could come back - or that he should.

Of course Loki needed to be human and stripped of his powers, because a) otherwise that would totally defeat the purpose and b) that way he wouldn’t be a danger to other people. The suicide clause was, I think obviously, well intended: protect Loki from himself, rather than (as Loki sees it) another way of trapping him. Odin figured - or hoped - that given some time Loki could find his way. He’s resourceful, and smart, and charming when he wants to be - if he bent his neck and was willing to humble himself a little (which would be to the good) then he would be fine.

He couldn’t - or didn’t - lay in an escape clause the same as Thor’s, because he was afraid Loki would deliberately try to invoke it to find a way around his punishment, and figuring out something precise enough that Loki couldn’t find a way around it seemed risky. But the resurrection clause was intended as a last ditch option: if Loki couldn’t recover, couldn’t heal, then he could get a fresh start.

Odin miscalculated on a few key points, though: how bad Loki’s state of mind was being one of them. I think, unfortunately, that his anger blinded him a little to just how much of a wreck Loki was - how desperate and how miserable. He also overestimated Loki’s safety: he didn’t know about the Chitauri (because Loki didn’t say anything, for a variety of reasons that mostly boiled down to ‘because nobody asked after Thor that one time, they were happy to assume it was all me’).

I think there was some vague idea in Odin’s mind that at some point when Loki had calmed down and figured stuff out and was doing better he would bring him back home. But it wasn’t a definite plan, and it was kind of a “distant future” thing - he couldn’t be seen to be too merciful to Loki for political reasons. Bringing him back into the fold too quickly would look bad.

As for why he didn’t tell Thor where Loki was, that was actually really out of consideration for Loki. He thought it would be better to give Loki a chance to establish himself on his own, and having his brother - fully empowered - around to a) rub in his punishment and b) cause friction by his very presence, as it seems clear that Thor and Loki can’t interact positively at the moment, would have a negative effect on any possibility of rehabilitation.

I suspect even as Loki deteriorated, Odin knew what was happening. But his hope was that this would be a moment of epiphany where Loki would start to turn his life around.

#odin's mediocre parenting #aggressively headcanons #wnfwswm #loki's a goddamn mess #thelightofthingshopedfor #conversating

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imagineironfalcon · 7 years

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Imagine if Sam is the Tower's designated chef because he's the only one who knows how to make food that is both good and nutritious (honestly Steve you can't just boil everything). While everyone has been eating his cooking enthusiastically, he can't help but notice that Tony doesn't eat much if at all. He started being concerned about Tony and try to find something that Tony would enjoy eating. Somewhere along the way he realized why he cares so much about Tony.

(Watch out for the cut)

You Are What You Eat Part 1

Tony knewit was a bad thing to do.

Jarvis hadalways reprimanded him for feeding like this, but it wasn’t like there was alot of love for Tony around. Feeding off the love for others was sometimes theonly thing he could do, especially if Rhodey was not around.

So Tony hadlearned to compromise where he could.

He thoughtthe whole ‘feeding off love’ thing was stupid enough, but given his childhoodand general life, it only made things harder for him.

Sure, hecould survive for a very long time without love, the furthest he had pushed ithad been over half a year but they didn’t talk about that anymore, and so itwasn’t really necessary that he fed off Sam when Rhodey wasn’t around.

It wasjust, the guy had so much love to spare, for everyone. And now add in the factthat he was also romantically in love with Steve and/or Bucky, Tony was not oneto judge, it just became really hard resisting it.

So he wentto the team dinners, even though he didn’t really need to eat any real humanfood. It was just the easiest to get close to Sam and leech off whatever he hadto spare. It wasn’t like he actually diminished Sam’s love, he just soaked itall up and put it to some good use.

And baskingin that much love at dinner was certainly worth sitting through it andpretending to eat. Even if it got him some very concerned glances from Sam andNatasha.

Tony hadtried to make it clear that he always snacked in the workshop, that he usuallynever was that hungry to begin with, but still. The glances continued.

And as faras Tony could tell it was a damn shame that he couldn’t really enjoy Sam’scooking, because it looked and smelled amazing and going by the way the otherswolfed it down it was also delicious.

The glancesonly continued when he darted away after dinner, filled up with love andgetting tired, so he could ‘digest’ it all.

He hadnever found a really good way to describe what he was doing with the love hesoaked up, it fueled him like food fueled normal people, but Rhodey had oncecompared him to a succubus and after some mostly bad fantasy novels Tony had toadmit that he had a point.

Tony hadmostly accepted that he was like that, different, and since Rhodey loved himwith a ferocity that sometimes surprised him, it wasn’t usually that difficultto get the food he needed.

But nowRhodey was on a long term deployment with the army and Tony was left withJarvis love, which never felt quite right, and so he had no other choice but touse other sources if he didn’t want to make anyone suspicious or worried abouthim.

And really,Sam had so much love, it would be harder for Tony to not feed off it, or so he told himself so that he could keep hisbad conscience in check.

It wasjust, ever since the team had begun to really come together, and team dinnershad started, Sam’s love had grown and grown and then finally, some of it tippedover into the romantic part.

Tony couldsee that happening, Steve didn’t only have the perfect body, he also was Captain America and Bucky, well, hecertainly had come around once they worked on his triggers. He was charming ifhe wanted to be and otherwise a pretty hilarious, sarcastic guy and Tony wasn’tsurprised at all that Sam would fall for them. Hurt maybe, but not surprised.

Becausewhile Steve and Bucky certainly where a catch everyone would be happy to make,Sam was even more so, at least in Tony’s eyes. The guy was compassionate,funny, outright adorable, still packed a healthy dose of sarcasm and he wasjust overall perfect. Just not for Tony.

~*~*~

Sam didn’tknow how he ended up being the designated cook of the Avengers but that didn’thelp the fact that he was cooking almost every evening. He was pretty sure hehad never eaten that regularly or that healthy before.

But feedingsomeone else than him had inspired him to do better with his food and noweverything was very well balanced and almost healthy to the point where Clintwouldn’t eat it anymore.

Sam wasdoing this long enough to know at least one favourite dish of each of his teammates. Except Tony Stark.

The guy hadshown up to almost all the meals, but he always pushed his food around, takingvery few bites here and there, and when he left, it looked like nothing evenleft the plate.

Sam hadtried to figure out what he might like, he went through pasta and rice,potatoes and vegetarian meals but nothing seemed to stick. He had even tried tolure him out with desserts but even those Tony barely touched.

Sam wasn’tonly hurt in his pride; he was also starting to get really concerned aboutTony.

Sure, healways claimed that he ate in the workshop, snacks all over the place andbullshit like that, but the truth was, Sam had never seen him eat somethingwith gusto. Or even seen him eat at all, if one didn’t count the team dinners.

Sam wantedto bring it up, he really did, but Tony didn’t look unhealthy, or underweight,and so he always held his tongue. Tony could be telling the truth about thesnacks after all. Maybe it was just one of his many quirks, that he didn’t eatin front of anyone.

Though whythat might be the case, opened up a whole new can of worry for Sam so he optedto not think about it too much.

What he didinstead was cooking like always. He still had hope that one day he would dishout Tony’s favourite meal and Tony would finally eat like a normal person.

Another fewweeks passed, without Sam getting lucky and in the end he was man enough toadmit that he was defeated. There were no new dishes he could think of thatweren’t another variety of something he already made and so there were no morechances to find out if there was something he missed.

He circledthrough another set of favourite dishes for the others and he watched Tonyclosely, but while he pushed around his food like always, he also seemed happyand very engaged in a conversation with Bucky, so Sam figured it wasn’t becausehe was unhappy with being there.

In the end,curiosity won out and Sam asked.

He went tothe workshop and watched Tony working on hammering a few kinks out of thearmour before he cleared his throat and stepped into his sight.

“Tony,hey,” he awkwardly started and cursed himself.

He and Tonywere friends, he came down to the workshop more regularly than anyone else did,and there was absolutely no need to feel this awkward about a justifiedquestion.

“Sam,” Tonypanted and put the hammer down. “What can I do for you?” he asked and turnedhis whole concentration on Sam.

Sam reallyliked that about Tony; when he was with him, he always felt like he was themost important thing Tony could spend his time on right now and it made a guyfeel hella special.

“I’ve beenwondering,” Sam started and Tony’s shoulders immediately came up.

“It’snothing bad, Tony, I promise,” Sam was quick to reassure him but Tony eyed himsuspiciously.

“Okay,shoot,” Tony said, arms crossed in front of his chest now.

“I havejust been wondering… You always come to team dinner but you never eat anything.Is it my cooking? Do you want me to make you something else?” Sam quicklyasked, because he was honestly afraid he would lose his nerve if he beat aroundthe bush with this.

Sam hadhoped, expected honestly, that the questions would put Tony at ease, that hewould laugh and dish out some very mundane explanation for it, but instead Tonyretreated even further. And wasn’t that reason enough to worry, Sam thought.

“I don’tmean to make you uncomfortable,” Sam rushed out, “I just worry, you know?”

“I know,”Tony said and he sounded very closed off right now. “But it’s none of yourbusiness.”

“Fairenough,” Sam agreed, though he couldn’t help the sting of disappointment. “I’llleave you to it then.”

Tony noddedcourtly at him and then turned around, clearly dismissing Sam and Sam sighed.That was not the outcome he had expected and it also just fueled his worry.

The nexttime team dinner rolled around Tony didn’t attend. Sam was torn betweenberating himself for ruining a perfectly good situation and worrying aboutTony. But when he brought the latter up with the team, no one else seemedconcerned.

Teamdinners continued to take place without Tony and after two weeks, Sam was fedup.

He marcheddown to the workshop again, openly glaring at Jarvis when he wouldn’t open thedamn door for him and in the end it was Tony who came out to him.

“What?” heroughly asked and Sam couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under his eyes,or the unhealthy colour of his skin.

“Pleasecome back to team dinners,” Sam told him and Tony narrowed his eyes.

“What, soyou can watch my eating habits?”

“No! I amsorry I brought it up, I shouldn’t have asked, it’s none of my business, but Iwas worried. And I am even more worried now, so please come back. I know youenjoyed them, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I never meant to takethat from you.”

Tony eyedhim suspiciously but in the end his shoulders slumped.

“Okayfine,” he gave in and if Sam wasn’t so worried he would have thought there wasa note of relieve in Tony’s voice.

“I’ll cometo the next one again.”

“Thank you,Tony,” Sam said sincerely and Tony gave him a little smile.

“No promiseon the food eating though,” he said and Sam laughed.

“If you aremore comfortable with having no food in front of you, I am totally willing todo that too if it only brings you back,” Sam honestly said and Tony’s eyeswidened in surprise.

“Nah,” hesaid after a few seconds of stunned silence. “It’s fine.”

“Okay.Tomorrow evening then,” Sam told him and Tony nodded.

“I’ll bethere.”

Tony showedup the next day as promised.

Sam gavehim some food, like Tony had wanted, but he kept the portion small, and Tonyshot him a quick glance.

He didn’treally eat anything that night, but Sam could swear that Tony was alreadylooking better, healthier again, as if being with the team somehow refueled hisenergy.

Sam hadn’treally thought about the amount of feelings he had for Tony, but when Tonylaughed out loud, obviously happy and very amused, it was like a punch to thegut, robbing Sam of all breath and it was also the moment Sam thought ‘Oh,fuck’. He had not counted on being in love with Tony Stark.

Sam neededa second to recollect himself after that revelation, but luckily everyone wastoo engaged in conversation to notice anything strange.

That night,Sam revalued every interaction he had with Tony so far, and now it wasblatantly obvious that he was in love. He honestly questioned how he could havemissed it until now.

When Samgot up the next morning, he hadn’t really slept, he was determined to not letit change anything between him and Tony, mostly because Tony was probably notfeeling the same and also they were friends and Tony deserved better.

But whenSam ran into Tony it was like nothing had even changed. Tony was still hisfriends and the fact that Sam was now aware of his feelings didn’t changeanything.

Ifanything, his love had dictated his every move so far, only without Sam beingaware of it. It would probably be more suspicious to pull back now, and so Samdidn’t.

He stillvisited Tony in the workshop, he still dragged him up for team dinners whenTony forgot and through it all he became more aware of his love for Tony withevery day. So much so, that he questioned how he could ever have missed it.

#prompts #ironfalcon #sam wilson #tony stark #samxtony #cooking #angst #hurt/comfort #rhodey is a good bro #magical creature!tony #syriala #bloody-bee-tea #anonymous #you are what you eat part 1 #you are what you eat

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ruffsficstuffplace · 7 years

Text

The Keeper of the Grove (Part 22)

“Day 7 of my imprisonment:

“From what little news of the outside world I've been allowed, the expeditions in the Valley have officially stopped. Regardless of if the people thought that Ruby was real, or she was just a new terrorist group using the monicker, no one is planning on returning any time soon, for superstitious beliefs, or the massive damage my father has caused to the SCP's coffers and the company's already poor reputation.

“Speaking of whom, the official story is that his removal as CEO of the Schnee Power Company and the corporate boards he sat on is temporary, that the vacation he's taking to some far-off, isolated resort is to give him time to mourn and relax, escape the stress and the ugly aftermath of my 'death.'

“But I'm pretty sure anyone can read the writing on the wall, know that his thrones won't be waiting for him when gets back, if ever.

“There's already rumours of plans to buy Manor Schnee via eminent domain and renovate it into a proper military base—the personnel and the equipment are already well-established there, the location is very secure and has numerous important facilities already constructed, and the troops rather enjoy the horde of servant drones, and are more than willing to put up a fund to keep them around.

“Meanwhile, here in the Bastion, the Eldan Council are still busy discussing what exactly to do now—apparently all the equipment they'd salvaged, and the information they gotten from their numerous 'interrogations' into the survivors from previous expeditions has created a gigantic backlog of paperwork, unforeseen issues, and new research projects.

“And though it pains me to admit it, I am very, very low on their list of priorities.”

She heard footsteps from outside her cell; she paused and sat up, until they passed by and faded away. She laid back down, shifted a while to get comfortable again on her cot, then continued to speak.

“No one had expected that I would make it impossible—or at least, very, very difficult—to return to human society, least of all myself. No one wants me around, and those that do are either Ruby, or 'Makers' who are far too eager to study me for mysterious, undisclosed reasons. And no one has the heart to throw me out out of the walls and leave me to the wildlife, as befitting the Fae's rather humane and charitable philosophy towards governance.

“Hope is fading ever faster, but I'm slowing down its decay by looking at the bright side of things:

“I have a very nice prison cell!

“It's high up in one of the tallest trees of the Bastion, a window to let sunshine and fresh air in, a curtain I can pull down at any time, a comfortable cot, bright light for when it gets dark, even indoor plumbing! Though it's limited to a sink, a toilet, and a bucket with a dipper in it, the nigh unlimited supply of hot water makes up for it.

“Whatever minerals are in the hot springs, they are doing wonders for my feet, skin, and sanity.

“The Watchers were nice enough to let me keep Eluna, treat me with respect and never use more force than is strictly necessary, and feed me regularly with a decent variety of food—nothing gourmet, for sure, but a far cry from the nutriblocks and protein paste some jails in Avalon use!

“I tasted one when Winter got it mixed up with her luggage. It was terrible, and I doubt they've gotten any better over the years.

“Ruby has even been kind enough to use her influence in Fae society to get me this very recorder I'm using, and some copies of books in Nivian to occupy myself with, the originals used by the thriving black market of unofficial Actaeon translations.

“They're mostly incredibly trashy romance novels or painfully predictable and simplistic 'adventure' stories, and reading them makes me feel like my brain cells are slowly committing suicide, one by one, but the thought is much appreciated.”

A voice echoed from her cell’s PA system—a series of hollowed out wooden tubes. “Schnee, you’ve got a visitor,” one of the watchers said.

Weiss turned on her other side, to the receiver beside her bed. “Let her in,” she said.

To the recorder, she quietly added, “I actually have no control about who enters my cell and when, but it's nice to feel like I have some control over my life, after my attempt to be free of external influences went horribly, horribly wrong.”

She stopped recording and sat up as the door opened. One bulky Fae guard walked in, her giant axe clearly on display as came over and cuffed Weiss’ hands. She was a political prisoner and no one thought for a moment that she could be dangerous, but the Fae liked to err on the side of caution.

A second guard came in, ushering in a familiar guest.

Ruby waved with her free hand, the other carrying a small sack. “Hi Weiss!”

“Did the Eldan Council decide already?” Weiss asked, feeling Hope stir in her chest.

Ruby's smile turned uneasy. “Uh, yeah, no. They’re still talking, and it doesn't look like they're going to be done soon.”

Weiss felt Hope get brutally crushed once more. “Oh.”

“I’m sure they’ll finish soon! It’s been like, what, a week? They’ve got to be reaching a decision about you soon!”

Weiss decided not point out that this was almost exactly what she’d said the other six visits.

“Anyway, I've got great news: Uncle Qrow finally got permission to try and contact your sister!”

Weiss blinked, then beamed. “Really?!”

“Yup! He knows some people who owe him big favours! You, uh, owe him a 'fuck-ton of favours’ now, however many that is.”

Weiss nodded. “Fine with me! I can’t believe he actually managed to find an in with the Queensguard!”

Silence.

Weiss smile slowly faded. “… He’s just going to call the Anonymous Tip Line, isn’t he?”

“Yeeep… BUT!” Ruby pulled out a data-stick—human design, not Fae, complete with an adapter. “He can pass on a message from you. The Watchers will have to approve it for sending, and you’ll have to be careful not to mention anything like where you are, exactly, or that our cities are totally a thing, but they agreed to let you tell her that your death was totally fake, so long as the details never reach your dad!”

Weiss snorted. “That won’t be a problem.”

“Great! So, you want to go think up something, or just go full improper with this?”

“'Impromptu,' you mean?”

“Yeah!” Ruby paused. “What did I say?”

Weiss shook her head. “Just ask Penny. Hand me my recorder, please?”

She made her message. It took a few tries, from either the Watchers telling her she put in too much info, or her bursting into tears and spilling everything, but eventually, they got something that both parties were happy with.

“Can he make sure it’s going to make it to her?” Weiss asked as her guard kindly mopped up her tears and snot for her with a tissue.

Ruby shrugged. “We’re shamans, craftsmen, and scientists, Weiss, not miracle workers.” She smiled. “But knowing my Uncle Qrow, he’ll find a way—he always does.”

They stuck around for some idle chatter—it was impromptu hunting season again, as the wild animals were getting too populous, too daring, and too close to the walls for comfort—until Ruby's visiting hours were over.

“See you, Weiss!” she said as she waved goodbye as she dropped off the sack.

“Bye Ruby,” Weiss replied.

The Watchers were obliged to check thoroughly check it again—like humans, smuggling contraband in new and interesting ways was nothing new to them. It had contained the same thing as always, though:

Chocolate chip cookies, and a big container of milk from the local “cows.”

The trick was to go in a crowd.

Face recognition technology had advanced so much that they could pick out individual faces in a densely packed sea of people spanning several miles, but that was only if you knew the exact face you were looking for, and Qrow took great pains to make sure that the ones he put on was one wanted to remember and would avoid recognizing in a high-definition holograph.

It helped that it was easy to switch out his prostheses—new pair of fake ears, different nose, all new made-up skin condition, “alternative gene-modification,” or horrific lab accident to tell anyone who bothered to ask.

But in the end, it all boiled down to merging into the right groups of people, taking care to never be caught alone in the middle of the street, leaving some other guy to catch the Peackeeper's attention—“just like a herd animal,” he thought, smiling to himself.

Eventually, he dropped off a bus and to his destination—the “Dark Side” of Candela, home of the people that had been left behind, wanted to be left the fuck alone, or were on the left side of the tracks. He sighed happily as he could finally walk down the streets freely; no one was going to bother remembering his face, and he would do the same for them.

All the gaudy neon signs and chintzy advertising made it difficult to see anything properly, anyway.

He continued onto the Null Set—an illegal bar, didn’t officially exist in the city records, with an owner that had a love for programming humour. It wasn't his scene—too many hackers, “modding” enthusiasts, and would-be revolutionaries for his taste—but it was the best place for discrete exchanges of information, legal or otherwise, business or pleasure.

Qrow headed up to the bar, ordered a drink that was a far too colourful and named weird, tried to enjoy it for a while until he finally found an opportunity to talk to the tall, lithe cyborg beside him. “Hey, Fish, I got a question: why is it that every single one of you I meet is fucked up in the head in some way?” he asked.

“We are forged in strife./ Broken. Fixed. Broken again./ Powerful, but scarred.” Kajiki replied.

“Huh. That explains a whole lot actually.”

“Indeed.”

Qrow discretely passed on the data stick with Weiss’ message. “Sure it’s going to make it to her?”

Kajiki loooked at him disdainfully. “If you can’t trust me/ The shady ‘borg at the bar/ Then who can you trust…?” they said as they downloaded the info, before they crushed the stick in their hand.

Qrow smirked. “Ain’t that always the million Uroch question...?”

They sat there for a while, Qrow drinking and Kajiki “trancing” for a while, before Qrow left the bar and rented one of the heavily encrypted lines on the side.

“Queensguard Anonymous Tip Line,” a curt, professional female voice said, slightly distorted and broken up.

“Got a message for one Winter Schnee: your little sister says you shouldn't do anything drastic. If you do, she's going to be real pissed, believe me,” he said, before he hung up.

He left and went to find a much better bar to spend the Urochs he'd been lent as he'd called the Queensguard Tip Line, just like he told the other Watchers.

Elsewhere, in a section of the Bastion few knew about, and even fewer could access, the Eldan Council continued their meeting, Glynda sitting alone at a table with projections of her fellows before her.

<… Well, I think we’ve discussed this matter to death—shall we all take a vote on it, or give it another day of reflection?> Ozpin asked.

<My decision is as firm as the day I made it: she stays!> Port cried. <There’s no question she can prove herself a very valuable asset indeed. After all, one does not slaughter the pups of a killer wolf, one takes them in, raises them with love and care, so they may grow up to lend you their power, their majesty, brothers in tooth and claw!

<I concur!> Oobleck added. <There’s simply too much valuable data at stake, and many future opportunities that would be lost without her—no to mention the leverage she can provide us with, ahem, certain individuals.>

Glynda sighed. <And for what it’s worth, I still vote 'No.' There’s too many unknowns in this decision, much potential for catastrophe, not to mention the eerie parallels...>

Ozpin nodded gravely. <Indeed.> He smiled. <All the more reason to monitor her very carefully. Second thoughts, anyone?>

There were none.

Ozpin hummed. <Then it’s settled: Weiss Schnee will be released to the Viridian Valley on parole, and trained accordingly under Glynda’s guidance.>

<May I speak freely, Archon?> Glynda asked, keeping her voice level.

<Oh, come now, Glynda; we both know that there’s no joy in any endeavour without a bit of challenge and uncertainty!> Port cried.

<Maybe you’ll even find a valuable ally in her—stranger things have happened.> Oobleck added.

<Maybe,> Glynda said. <But for the moment, she’s just a load that most everyone would rather see locked up than walking the streets as a fellow citizen.>

<And that’s where care and nurture comes in. The Valley was once just a patch of fertile land, rife with potential, was it not?> Ozpin asked, smiling.

Glynda's nose twitched. <I’ll begin drafting the terms of her release immediately.>

Ozpin smiled. <Excellent. Meeting dismissed, back to the day to day grind, everyone.>

Glynda watched the projections of her fellow council members disappear, finally letting her lips curl into a scowl. She sat there brooding for a few moments, before she magicked a scroll into her hand and started thinking.

There was going to be a lot of precaution to make it work this time, and the precedents were not encouraging in the slightest...

#rwby #fanfic #the keeper of the grove #white rose

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kristie-rp · 5 years

Text

[2016] If This Ain’t Love Then How Do We Get Out?

Prompt: Person A is immortal, person B is not. Yet for some reason, B keeps appearing at different points across A’s existence.

One.

The year is 398. He’s a predator, a nymphomaniac in a time where the very act is almost considered a crime – and the fact disgusts him and always will. He sees her, for the first time, a young woman. She’s maybe 16 years old, her curled brown locks are pinned out of a filthy face, hands covered in dirt. They are pressed to her side, though there’s so much grime that it takes a second glance for him to realize it’s a wound, pouring blood.

He comes to her side, because he’s a monster but he can still do the odd good deed. She flinches from his touch, the act tired, resigned. He ignores it. After affirming that the injury is more than painful, but also fatal, he lifts her clean off her feet, cradling her to his chest, heedless of the blood pooling on his skin. He talks for what feels like not long enough, though by the time he stops his voice is hoarse and she has long been still in his arms.

He puts the event out of his mind. Mortals die, after all. It’s not his fault he’ll outlive more strangers than he cares to count.

Two.

The year is 471. He’s seen so many people die that he thinks nothing of causing them a moment of suffering, and when the mood takes him, he’ll do exactly that. This time the victim is an extortionist, a thief who demands a take of the profits of a hundred different starving people. He screams as he dies, and no one comes running.

The body turns cold as he examines what remains, running his hands through jewellery that can be traded for goods that’ll actually be useful. He pockets them when a knock sounds at the door, an obvious code; tap-tap-pause-tap-tap. He opens the door to a girl who cannot be older than 15, her gender evident even with her hair hacked short. Her face is bruised, her clothes torn, and her eyes keep darting behind him as she asks after the so-called ‘master’.

“Master’s gone, kid,” he says, because it’s technically true. “I am all that remains.”

They brush past each other as she struggles to make it as a petty thief, every encounter with her seeming thinner and thinner. He is reluctant to share his food until she takes ill, him finding her vomiting up whatever insubstantial meal she last ate. By then it’s too late, and for every morsel she manages to swallow, she spends far too many long minutes choking it back up.

She lasts a week like this. Eventually he can’t take her hacking any more, and he trades the last ring he’s saved from the master thief for an herbal remedy, guaranteed to end any ailment.

It turns out to be a strong poison; she slips away in her sleep. He feels a little guilty for that, but mostly he’s just pleased to finally get some sleep.

Six.

The year is 626. He barely glances at the little girl as she runs out into the street, screaming for someone he cannot see. It’s instinct when he reaches out to grab her out of the way of a parade of horses only instants away from panic, but the panic isn’t abated at all when she suddenly screams something that he realizes sounds surprisingly like mâmân.

The word, he knows, means mother – the child is yelling for whoever cares for her. A glance across the road and, right there, beneath the hooves of the horses marching through is a woman who looks both like the child that he has in his grip, but also familiar – and, oh, he knows this woman, doesn’t he? Every time he has met her before, she has met her end with surprising speed. It seems she has collapsed in the road, and no one sought to stop the horses from trampling her, too stressed themselves from the Roman invasion of Persia, better men seeking to trample the empire of the older civilization. Their civilization.

By the time the horses pass, they and their riders answering the call of a war horn – the Romans are nearing the city, it means – the woman is definitely dead. Felix keeps the child in hand as he cautiously approaches, somewhat afraid of what he might see.

Being crushed is never a nice way to go, but he now knows for sure that this is the woman. He hesitates, bites his lip, because his is hardly a life fit for a child, and yet – “Do you have a father?” He asks, speaking stuttering Persian.

The girl looks up with wide, wet eyes, shakes her head wildly. “To the fight,” she explains, her voice shaking. “And never home.”

Felix sighs, cursing his essentially good heart. Looks like he’s going to take in the child of the most recent version of Talia, in spite of – or perhaps because of – all the trouble her blood will cause.

Seven.

The year is 694, and the first time he meets her, he immediately tells her that no matter how fortune-deprived she seems to be, her children will always be great.

She squints at him and then kicks his leg. “Thanks,” she says immediately, “but no thanks.”

He realizes as she turns to go back into the crowd that it sounds like he thinks she’s a prostitute. Of course, she could be, she looks maybe ten years younger than last time – early twenties, perhaps – and this particular culture isn’t exactly picky of the ages, but she’s obviously a pickpocket. Again. At least she looks healthy this time.

He finds her later, him leaning against a wall where he guesses she’ll make her escape. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Quit following me,” she tells him, pushing past him. He catches her arm to stop her.

“Hear me out, Talia.”

She looks ready to hit him now. “Who told you my name?”

He stops, pauses. He actually hasn’t had to have this conversation before. Talia is typically friendly or near dead when they meet. He’s not sure if this is a string of bizarre coincidences, his bad luck, or hers. Or maybe good luck. Who knows? “You did – and I know it sounds insane, but – just, hear me out.”

He explains about being a sex demon. He explains about past lives and reincarnation. He neglects to mention the whole you are typically brutally killed in a variety of different ways part of her lives.

At the end of it, she calls him insane, but doesn’t call any officials to take him away. She isn’t even trying to get out of his reach any more. Shakes her head, tells him he’s the best storyteller she’s heard – but he thinks she knows it’s more than just a story.

He hopes so, anyway. It would explain her letting him in, next, letting them grow close.

When she dies this time, he has known her for fifteen years. She is the clumsiest, least coordinated person he’s ever met, tripping through doorways and frequently breaking dishes. The death is caused by a fire that he thinks started from the fire she lit in their fireplace. He mourns, a little bit. He did marry her, after all – he definitely feels something.

Eighteen.

The year is 1352, and they almost have a – well, not a cure, but definitely something, so – a solution to the Black Death. Five years of panic, of terror, of higher and higher numbers of shut-ins and bodies in the gutter and corpse-eaters plaguing the streets, and it’s almost over.

Until of course it isn’t.

Talia falls ill. He knows her this time, knows her well, marries her, even, when it becomes clear that this is the best way to get her away from an abusive brother who has nearly killed her more times than he can count. And by now, he knows enough about her condition, knows her luck is seemingly cursed, to know she’ll come down with the disease.

And she does.

Ugly growths, black boils, high fever, vomiting blood, wheezing breath – she’ll be dead in a week. He thanks whatever force decided all those years ago that he should be demonic in nature – probably Satan, he thinks rather cynically – because it means he’s able to hold Talia while she still breathes, for once. If he has only a week left with her this time, he’s going to make the most of it.

Twenty-two.

The year is 1587 and Felix has decided that he detests sailing, ships, and everything associated with the two, from the ocean to the wind itself. If not for Talia, currently his wife, clutching his arm and shivering, determined to see the new world appear on the horizon, he might have dived straight off the ship before it left port in England. Of course, now she’s ill – isn’t she always, in some way or other, always so unfortunate? – and the only protection he can find for her is a threadbare blanket that had been hers for the decade he’s known her, this time.

Roanoke sounds like a simultaneously terrible and blessed idea to Felix, and on his arrival he’s not surprised to observe more problems than he cares to count. For a start, this is the second incarnation in as many years – never a good sign. War breaks out between the English and the Spanish, and while both probably have a point, he begrudges their general for leaving them without the guard they deserved. There are only 115 of them, after all, many hailing from the city of London – of course the nobility and the wealthy had the first seats on the voyage. He certainly has no farming skills to speak of, though he’s regretting depending on Talia for energy, especially as she is still weak, even for a human. Even for her.

Not even a year in and the first settler disappears, no ships on the horizon. They go in the night, quietly, and it’s the next day when they realize that the head builder is gone. Felix bites his lip and elects to keep Talia close, closer than ever – she’s still so weak and fragile, after all. But he stays silent. She’s the one who did this for him, after all – she didn’t need the fresh start. Not this time. It was him the English were becoming suspicious of, him and his immortality, his unchanging face.

He’s cursing it three weeks later when there are only sixteen colonists, plus the infant Virginia, remaining. He’s the only one any good in a fight, everyone else is too shaky or weak – twelve of them are women, and three of the men have the illness that seems to shake Talia to the bone.

When they attack, they come in force. There is blood and dirt covering their skin, and he can smell it on them – the other colonists. He doesn’t know what they did, but the natives, the humans from the island to the south, clearly have had a key role in tearing apart their colony.

He tries to protect Talia, he does – but an arrow is a deadly thing, even against a demon, especially when well-aimed. It pierces her shoulder and he still doesn’t know how to help her. He resolves to learn, clutching her form to him in a perverse moment of déjà vu, physically snarling at the natives coming too close, letting his less human form show through, all sharp teeth and taloned hands and unnatural skin –

In the end, they take the other fourteen colonists and the infant Virginia, and he is left alone to apologise to a ghost for the umpteenth time. He doesn’t know why this keeps happening, why he lets it keep happening, keeps getting close to Talia despite the inevitable bad end.

He carves the word Croatoan into a post before he leaves the town, claiming one of their stupid little boats and taking Talia’s body away from the island, somewhere on the mainland to put her to rest.

Twenty-three.

The year is 1624. He is reading a letter from December, addressed to him – how she tracked him down, he will never know – and is distracted from doing so by something included in the parcel. It is a miniature portrait, tiny and not at all clear to the eye. It’s definitely Talia.

There’s an aside in this letter, and he can just imagine December saying this over a cup of tea; This woman looks familiar, don’t you think? She was killed by a rogue Inferno. The villain is dead now, of course, but it was too late for the girl.

He frowns down at the letter, pens a reply in an instant, writes I shall have you know I have married that ‘girl’ no less than six times.

He doesn’t send that letter, of course. It mentions Talia. It’s probably unlucky.

Ha.

He knows it’s not that simple.

Twenty-four.

The year is 1749 and Port Lyndon is little more than an idea. Well, we say that – we mean it has a grand total of one hundred and twelve permanent buildings and a population of roughly 2,200, most of whom lived in impermanent structures, in hobbled together shacks and tents.

Dante rises out of nowhere. He, it, a demon King, terrorizes the city. In eight years the population drops to four hundred, including new arrivals, people driven away by fear or murdered in the catastrophes Dante creates to entertain himself. Through this, Talia lives with Felix, who lives with December – when it becomes apparent that Port Lyndon is the worst place in the world to be right now, he guesses that she’ll be on the next ship in, and he’s right. She’s safe for – for not long at all, really, because she hasn’t been there for three years before Dante, in a moment of being, well, him, catches her when she is somewhere it’s simply not to safe, and because he’s – well, needless to say, the result is that she is pregnant.

Felix tries to be everything she needs. They hide it from December at the request of Talia, who idolizes the woman and doesn’t want her to think less of her. He’s always half in love with her when the opportunity arises, no matter how hopeless a gesture it happens to be, it’s been like this for more of her lifetimes than he likes to think. It causes things like Roanoke and the Black Death, when she could have been safely out of harms way. When December asks, Talia tells her that Felix is the father. Felix doesn’t correct her or try to argue. The way he sees it, this is safer for everyone.

December learns of the situation sooner than they had hoped. She ends up being part of the five-person group that perform the ritual that tears Dante down off his barbed throne, less than two weeks before Talia has estimated she is due – one of the five die, and the remaining four vow to eliminate any of his potential heirs. That is all anyone knows when December and two other women, neither of whom he recognizes but both of whom seem intent on their purpose, show up at the door a week later.

He bars them from entry, frowning when December and the darker woman look on him with pity. “I’m sorry, old friend,” December murmurs, “but she has to die. That thing she’s carrying cannot be allowed to live.”

“We’ll make it quick,” says the Asian one, and Felix tenses. He can take them. He’s a demon, for crying out loud, and maybe he’s a little deprived of sexual energy – what he gets from kissing Talia is nothing next to the energy of a sexually active couple – but these are still humans and a mere vampire, nothing more. Besides, he’s not convinced December will attack him, she has long been prone to sentiment.

Whatever he was planning to do to prevent them from entering becomes nothing but a memory as Talia calls out, a thud sounding as she finds somewhere to rest. Felix is quick to conclude that she is going into labor a week earlier than expected, and slams the door in the face of the three women, rushing to her side.

He barely notices that there is too much blood, running through what December had reluctantly taught him, tending to both the baby and to Talia. He wishes he could hold her hand but has to settle for placing a hand on her leg, tracing delicate patterns and waiting.

It’s the waiting that kills him. She keeps whimpering and crying out, and it must be the most painful thing she’s ever experienced, but at the end of it she gets to hold the baby girl, with the dark hair that can’t come from Talia, and the pale eyes. The infant could pass for his, if they weren’t already sold out.

Talia frowns up at him, demands an explanation. He just smiles and goes to make her tea, worrying quietly alone. Those three promised death, and it isn’t like December to go back on a promise. He doubts she’d associate with any other women who did. When he returns, she’s dozing. He wakes her to coerce her into taking a sip, quietly taking the baby from her arms for just a moment.

“It’s cold,” Talia says, almost contemplatively. He grabs her a blanket, then as many more as she requires. He’s almost relieved when she seems to fall asleep, cleaning up the mess quietly. It’s when the baby starts crying that he realizes they haven’t named the thing.

Shaking Talia isn’t enough to get her to wake up, and she’s cold to the touch. Freezing, even. He didn’t think she was this cold when she mentioned it earlier – hadn’t imagined this. He starts calling to her, worried now – how long as it been? How long has she been asleep? Is she asleep?

She’s not. He’s not stupid, he can tell when she’s asleep – and the fact that she’s not breathing is a dead giveaway.

It’s Felix that names the infant Victoria, but he can’t deal with babies, he doesn’t know how. But he knows how to hide things in plain sight, and just like that – like that, Victoria is safe from December and her cohort.

Twenty-five.

The year is 1802 and he doesn’t intentionally resolve to find the girl, Talia. Despite this, he meets her before she is twenty years of age and is completely taken aback by her bleeding arms, mostly because it is immediately obvious that these weren’t the result of attacks, but of her own actions – the blade in her pocket is still bloody, staining the mens clothing she has donned – and, even more surprisingly, they don’t appear likely to cause immediate fatality.

A stroke of luck for her, apparently, as when he clutches her wrist to stop her from fleeing she doesn’t so much as whimper, instead looking him dead in the eye and demanding, as though he somehow has the answers, “What’s wrong with me?”

He doesn’t have any answers for her then, nor in the next six years they become and remain close. Quietly he researches her, because once is common, twice is a coincidence, but twenty-five encounters with the same woman, always distressed for one reason or other, always meeting a traumatic end – yes, he thinks this warrants research. He reaches out to a researcher he hears of, a woman who keeps multiple slaves and famously keeps them well. It turns out the researcher is December, who traded her papers for travelling to Roanoke two and a half centuries earlier to him for some ambrosia and demonic herbs. He still doesn’t know what she did with them, but now she claims she owes him – for who hasn’t heard of the disaster at Roanoke? – and her and what seems to be her favored slave, a lithe black girl with unnaturally coloured hair and bad eyesight, begin to hunt for the information he wants.

Talia takes her own life by hanging, a feat he is convinced was encouraged and even aided by a third party that both he and the guardsmen cannot guess at. It’s two weeks later that December contacts him with news from Intella, the slave, who has reached out to her contacts. “Some humans are cursed,” Intella tells him in perfect English, catching him off guard only because he expected an African dialect he’d have to translate. “And your Talia seems to bear one of the worst. A curse of misfortune – a serious one, powerful, to carry across lifetimes.”

Intella doesn’t seem too surprised by the idea of reincarnation, seeming to see it as a given. He supposes this simplifies the process of his understanding what has become of Talia. A curse of misfortune, indeed. A powerful witch likely cursed her in a fit of impassioned rage, according to Intella. “I don’t suppose you know what she did?”

He shakes his head numbly. The Talia he knows is unfailingly sweet, to varying degrees and despite the challenges she faces each lifetime – challenges he now attributes to a faceless curse. “Is there a way to end this?”

Intella raises an eyebrow at him. “Unless your witch is immortal or happened to describe a cure, I know no way you may end this.”

He supposes the bad news isn’t her fault. Even if it was, well – this version of Talia is dead already. There’s no sense in obsessing over it.

Twenty-six.

The year is 1893 and he’s known for far too long what’s wrong with Talia. First time he sees her this time, he’s immediately at her side, becoming her ally, even her friend, and later her lover. She’s young this time, younger than he expected. There was a civil war, he supposes. Knowing her curse, she met an untimely end thirty years earlier. December is unerring in her support of their relationship.

His attention slips at an opportune moment. December, almost as old as he is though she hasn’t known him for longer than the time he’s known Talia, is left alone, her husband dead and gone from the world. She does everything in her power to bring back the dead, but the path she chooses requires a sacrifice.

Predictably, Talia’s cursed luck makes her the chosen target. Her life for Garett’s. As far as December sees, it’s a fair trade.

Felix, though, has always been the exception. He’s the one who stands up for Talia when she cannot stand up for herself instead of joining the line of people and circumstances that plot against her, and he’s the one who always tells December when her ideas are flawed. He stands between them, and December tells him in no uncertain tone, “If you don’t move, it’ll just be you instead of her.”

He bets on his immortality and refuses to give even an inch, ignoring Talia as she insists that she’s not worth this nobility. December uses the would-be fatal thing against him as she promised, a dagger prepared specifically for this ritual.

When awareness comes, his shirt is soaked in blood. Above him, a woman with a shaking voice is clutching an ornamental blade of the likes he cannot imagine being easy to wield, screaming, “It’s your fault, this is all your fault, you selfish bitch!”

He thinks she’d be quite pretty, if she wasn’t obviously furious and sad, all at once.

The screaming stops abruptly, and just like that there’s even more blood. He sits up in alarmed surprise, pale hands flailing towards her as she collapses, her own hands at her throat. This is when he notices the other woman in the room, all darkness and fury, a scythe in her hand dripping blood as if magically forced to be clean. He doesn’t know how she did it, but he’s certain that she’s the one who cut the other one’s throat.

She leaves, pausing only to sneer at him. He cannot imagine the cause of this kind of anger; he is far too preoccupied with the pretty young woman, bleeding out in his arms, and the sense of familiarity niggling at the edge of his vacant memory.

Twenty-seven.

The year is 2022. He’s been alone for a long time – for too long. His memories are still absent; he only experiences them in dreams that he does not remember when he wakes. So instead, he drowns himself in alcohol, and yes, sometimes he’ll have a casual hookup. He does not remember that he needs this to live, does not make the connection that he always feels better afterwards, because mostly he’s just depressed and lonely and he writes the whole thing off as being caused by human touch.

He meets her this time on a park bench. She approaches him, intent in her gaze, sits beside him – and swipes the crappy beer he’d been nursing. “You’ve had enough,” she says, and promptly downs more than can be healthy for someone who doesn’t look like she should legally be drinking. Not in America, anyway. She must notice him looking, because she lowers the bottle and shoots him a look that’s a challenge in itself. “Before you get all uppity and nagging; I’m twenty-three.”

He doesn’t believe her, but then again, something feels familiar about her and he’s half-way to drunk and shouldn’t be making decisions of any sort. And besides, if he looks, he can see that her eyes hold something older than that.

He pointedly doesn’t look. Not that time.

Time passes – not years, but days, weeks. They become – he doesn’t want to say it, but it’s the best word for it – something like friends. She introduces herself as Talia, says she’s got terrible luck. “Y’know Fry on Futurama? Take ‘is ‘luck’ and square it, and that’s maybe a good day for me,” is how she describes it when he asks if he should be worried for his health, helping her limb down some stairs that she’s already tripped up that very day.

And then she ends up as his sort of – butler, maybe, screening anyone who seeks him out. It becomes a poorly kept secret that the best way to find Felix is to ask Talia, which leads, of course, to December. And the box.

The box is tiny. Well, comparatively – considering what’s inside could change everything. Photographs of a forgotten past, a note full of promises and half-truths, because December knows, after everything, that if her opening line is this is my fault she will get nothing out of either of the people she is interested in catching the trust of. It leads to the matching colds, to the hotel room, to the two staring at a box, to Felix showing just how much he trusts Talia now, to asking her just what she thinks he should do. Should he open the box? Should he let it lie?

Talia shakes her head. “’M apparently prone to bad decisions,” she says, “but I’d open it. Worse comes to worse and what happens? Death? That’s nothin’ compared to some things.”

He eyes her warily, because since when is Talia philosophical, the phrases from Decembers note swimming in his mind. I cannot make this decision for you, in the most aged handwriting he can remember.

Perhaps this is the answer after all.

#kristie writes #kristie's writing #kwrites #kwriting #ft. felix #ft. talia #ft. december

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