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partywithponies · 4 years

Note

hi! i've only ever seen the bbc version of father brown and i've never read the books (i know, i'm so sorry), but i'm super curious about the different versions of father brown and you seem like an expert on each adaptation, so i was wondering if you'd be willing to give me a rundown of sorts on each version/series? i know it's a lot to ask and i may be opening the floodgates here, but there's not a ton of info online elsewhere and i'd love to learn more! thanks either way. ciao!

OH BOY YOU’VE COME TO THE RIGHT PLACE ANON

OKAY SO

As briefly as possible:

The books:

Proof people who complain about the BBC show being “too political” don’t actually know the books at all

Father Brown straight up calls capitalism “evil” and “heresy”

Chesterton says that millionaires dying isn’t a tragedy

Inspector Valentin betrayed us and broke my heart, ACAB I guess

Since every police officer he befriends lets him down in some way, Father Brown’s only real friend is Flambeau, who he goes absolutely everywhere with. They only go on holiday with each other. They’ve been all over the world with each other. I love they

Book Father Brown pretty much never does his goddamn job. We literally never in all the books see him giving mass or taking confession. The closest we get is when he gives an impromptu sermon after seemingly coming back from the dead, where he literally only says "You silly, silly people. God bless you all and give you more sense." then runs away to send a telegram. Useless priest. I love him.

Book Flambeau is. Incredible. Amazing. Iconic. None of the adaptations have been able to fully capture book Flambeau’s true energy, for he is a walking contradiction who contains multitudes. If all the onscreen Flambeaus fused into one being, THEN you’d have something vaguely resembling book Flambeau.

Book Flambeau is MASSIVE. He’s at least 6′4, he’s broad shouldered, has huge hands, and his super buff. He can just. Pick people up and throw them. He can knock people unconscious with one punch. He fills doorways when he stands in them. He terrifies most people just by drawing himself up to his full height. He also has a very short temper and a very short patience.

He’s very agile and athletic and can move silently, despite his size. He’s also a master of disguise, somehow. (Explain, Chesterton. Explain. Is everyone in this universe apart from Father Brown, Flambeau, and arguably Valentin massively stupid? Actually don’t answer that I’ve read these books)

Book Flambeau has a habit of flinging people full-bodily down flights of stairs when they anger him or threaten him or Father Brown. Book Flambeau also carries a walking cane with him literally everywhere that has a sword concealed in the handle, plus book Flambeau insists on taking pistols on holiday with him, even when he was just going for a peaceful fishing holiday in the Norfolk Broads. King.

(Which all makes it so iconic that Father Brown, described as tiny and meek and sensitive, saw this man when he was still a hardened criminal on top of all this and said “THIS ONE I LIKE THIS ONE. I JUST THINK HE’S NEAT” and went off on a jolly through London with him.)

Flambeau’s past is extremely mysterious. We no nothing about his family or his childhood or where he’s from or why he turned to crime. We know he used to be a soldier, and a part of him misses it. We know he used to fight duels semi-regularly, and liked them to be fought the very next morning after they were organised. We know he always used to make sure to visit the dentist on time, even when he was a hardened criminal. (King of good teeth.) We know he was in a gang at some point. We know he was a student at some point. We don’t know what he studied, but we know he knew Leonard Quinton in “wild student days in Paris” ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). This is literally all we know about his past before he met Father Brown. The man is a riddle wrapped in an enigma. (That’s why Flambeau is so big. He’s full of secrets)

(Fun fact: in the book universe Flambeau is famous and popular in America, so you could say that in universe Flambeau is America’s Favourite Fighting Frenchman.)

Flambeau also loves cats and children, believes in fairies, likes pointing out rocks that look like dragons, and likes giggling and mucking about on the beach with Father Brown. A baby.

One time Father Brown called Flambeau “full of good and pure thoughts”, but I don’t think that’s quite true, Father. I think Father Brown just has endless faith in Flambeau.

Another thing I think is really neat is that it would’ve been so easy to have Father Brown be the genius and Flambeau his dumb muscle sidekick but that’s not the case at all! They’re both geniuses and they’re both each other’s sidekick, and in fact it’s Flambeau who’s the famous professional private detective, Father Brown is just an amateur. Father Brown is often defined by his connection to Flambeau rather than vice versa, both in the text (the text will frequently refer to them as something along the lines of “Flambeau and his friend the priest”, and on two separate occasions a long list of Flambeau’s possessions is ended with “and a priest”), and in universe (Father Brown himself is massively famous in America in universe largely because of “his long connection to Flambeau). I don’t know I just think it’s neat.

One time a man threatened Father Brown with a gun and Flambeau just beat him unconscious and then Father Brown and Flambeau just drove away and left him unconscious on the path. It was awesome.

(I’m sorry I rambled about Flambeau for so many words I just. Really really like Flambeau you guys. Father Brown and Flambeau are like two separate crime drama character tropes, the hard boiled cynical P.I. and the cosy eccentric amateur detective, but together as a double act, and I just think that’s really cool.)

Father Brown himself is if anything even more mysterious. He’s just “Father J. Brown, formerly of Cobhole in Essex, currently London”, and he’s “Flambeau’s friend”, and that’s all. That’s all he needs to be.

I also really really love Father Brown himself. I love that he’s allowed to be cheerful and optimistic and childish without any of this making him less clever, and in fact he’s shown time and time again to be cleverer than grumpy cynics who are scornful of childish things. Like, the whole giggling childlike thing isn’t even some kind of act, he’s a genius who understands true human nature, and he also really really likes puppet shows and building sandcastles who telling fairy stories, he really does get a “childish pleasure” from seeing Flambeau swing his sword-stick, and he really does have “strong personal interest in tomfoolery”. I love him.

I must share my favourite book quote about Father Brown himself: “But neither of them is very like the real Father Brown, who is not broken at all; but goes stumping with his stout umbrella through life, liking most of the people in it; accepting the world as his companion, but never as his judge.” uwu uwu uwu I’m cry.

Chesterton just subverts all the expectations character wise, the cheerful bumbling priest is a genius, the violent criminal is a true hero, the noble police officer is a corrupt self-serving murderer. It’s great. We stan. 10000000/10

(I’m not very good at being brief, am I?)

Father Brown, Detective (1934):

The first movie! It’s completely ridiculous. I love it a lot.

It was released just at the start of Hays Code, which, among other things, stated that crime and immorality should not be glorified or glamourised, and all crime and immorality must be seen to be punished by the end of the film. In practice in the case of this film, this means two things:

Paul Lukas!Flambeau is the only Flambeau to actually go to prison (and stay there).

He’s by far the Flambeau who deserves it the least. Lukas!Flambeau never hurt a soul. He just wanted to be loved. #FreeMyBoyHercule

Okay but in all seriousness. There’s a reason I call Paul Lukas!Flambeau “Himbo Flambeau”. Where other Flambeaus are violent or dangerous or geniuses, Lukas!Flambeau is just a big dumb idiot who respects women and has a great sense of humour and writes all his letters in the third person like Elmo for some reason. I would die for him.

At one point Flambeau in disguise is talking to the police, and when the police criticise Flambeau, disguised Flambeau says “Oh but I assure! I have read many things about this Flambeau! He is a fearless, handsome fellow!” The absolute idiot. I adore him with my whole heart.

The film is set in London, like the books, but an idealised Hollywood version of London, i.e., almost entirely unlike London.

Walter Connolly!Father Brown is also entirely lacking in braincells. Look at these two idiot men:

I love them.

Oh oh! And the most important thing, the thing that carries over into most other adaptations? NEW ORIGINAL CHARACTERS!!

This movie invents a few characters that weren’t in the books, but the most important ones are Mrs Boggs:

She doesn’t really add much to the plot but she’s funny and I love her so I’ll forgive it.

She’s Father Brown’s housekeeper, she’s basically just the fussing maternal female character archetype who fusses around in the background, but she does it well and plays it with charm so I’ll allow it.

(Honestly this whole film is just. Not *technically* good or original, but just so charming and with so much heart that I unironically adore it.)

She tries to make Father Brown drink his milk because it’s good for him even though he doesn’t like it, and keeps checking back in on him to make sure he’s drunk it, it’s literally like a mother and her small child.

She objects to policemen in the presbytery because of their “big muddy boots on the carpet” but is fine with just letting Flambeau in whenever despite the prevailing rumour in London being that Flambeau killed a man. We stan a queen of having priorities.

When Inspector Valentine summons Father Brown to the station, Mrs Boggs pops up in the background, assumes Father Brown’s being arrested, and says “Oh dear, I knew it!” and it makes me giggle like an idiot every time.

The other, more important original character invented for this movie is my girl Evelyn Fischer:

I love her, I would die for her, she’s flawless.

She’s basically your typical bored and rebellious young aristocrat, but she has a chaotic streak that I adore.

She sneaks out of her family’s mansion to go to a seedy underground club/illegal gambling ring in Soho (I mean I assume it’s Soho, a seedy part of London in that general vicinity, at least. I’m not about to get bogged down trying to understand the geography of London according to Hollywood), flirts with a bunch of strangers for fun, then when the police raid the place and everyone else is panicking she stands stock still, cheerfully says “Oh goody, I shall probably get my name in the papers!” and has to be physically dragged out of the building by Flambeau.

Later on Flambeau breaks into her bedroom in the middle of the night and she’s just very calmly like “What are you doing?”, and even when she finds out it’s Flambeau, a man widely believed to be dangerous and violent, instead of being scared, she calls him an idiot right to his face.

She forms the third part of the main trio of the movie with Father Brown and Flambeau (RIP to Valentine, demoted to tertiary character in a loose adaptation of the one (1) story where he was the main character lol) and together the three of them share a single braincell and have to take turns with it, while Mrs Boggs fusses in the background at the trio’s increasingly bonkers decisions.

The movie ends with Father Brown and Evelyn sharing an emotional farewell with Flambeau through the window of a police car and promising to look after each other until Flambeau’s released, wow poly rights.

The Adventures of Father Brown (1945):

The adaptation there’s the least amount of information about, but I’ve done my best to find everything I can find on it.

An American radio show made towards the end of wartime, it’s a bit of an odd one, and believe me Father Brown adaptations have gone some odd places.

Only two episodes survive, or at least if more do survive then whoever has them is being very selfish and hoarding them to themselves because only two episodes are publicly available anywhere, and the audio quality of those is a bit dodge. (Though that is to be expected, they do appear to be home recordings, from 1945. Honestly we should be grateful to even have two full episodes.)

If the actors I’ve found are the right people, this show featured by far the youngest Father Brown and Flambeau, at the start of the show the actor playing Father Brown was only 36 and the actor playing Flambeau was only 27. They’re BABIES. (Honestly I’d like to see more age variation in Father Brown adaptations, as I have extensively rambled about before, the characters have literally no canon ages in the books, I think people ought to be a little more imaginative instead of always building on the adaptations that came before, even if it is really cool to see traces of all the previous adaptations in each new one that comes along. It’s something I haven’t noticed as much in adaptations of other golden age detective novels, but the Father Brown adaptations do seem to be stuck in some kind of game of “yes, AND” with each other. I would REALLY like to see an adaptation where Flambeau is older than Father Brown though, it's just something we've never had before despite there being literally nothing in the books to suggest this can't be the case, and I just think it'd be neat.)

This show is really really painfully American, in a real old fashioned "golly gee whizz mister" kind of way, to the point it almost feels like a parody, and I honestly find it kind of endearing.

Even Flambeau frequently slips into a very American accent to the point that my affectionate nickname for him is "The All-American Flambeau", and it's great. He's great.

Honestly I could accept the accents and the slang, for some reason the only thing that really threw me was Father Brown referring to money in cents and nickels.

Needless to say, this adaptation is not set in London. It is instead set in Generic Unspecified Smalltown USA. It's fine. This is fine. I already have so many films and shows set in London, I can swallow my London pride and let America have this.

It's hard to get a real grasp on characters from just two episodes, but I like this Father Brown and Flambeau, even if they are a little overly serious, and even if Flambeau doesn't really do much. He may be a bit serious and a bit useless but All-American Flambeau stays up late anxiously waiting for Father Brown to get home safely and it's very sweet. What a good boy.

All-American Flambeau also carries handcuffs around with him for some reason? But no weapons? Why is All-American Flambeau one of the few Flambeaus not to have a gun? Oh well, he's still sweet.

The 1945 radio show also gives us some original characters, but they're very much side characters and not part of the main plot and it's very hard to get a good grasp on a character from just a few minutes of audio from just two episodes but here's what I could gather:

Nora is another fussing housekeeper! She seems younger and less maternal than Mrs Boggs, but I don't know if that's just because the whole cast was on the younger side. (Could the radio station not find anyone over the age of 40? Were they in short supply in 1945 or something? Ah well.) She seems dedicated to helping Father Brown get some peace and quiet that he never goddamn gets because someone always goes and gets themselves murdered. In both surviving episodes a knock at the door disturbs Father Brown’s rest, Nora opens it professionally, sees it's Flambeau, and immediately drops the professionalism and is immediately like "oh it's only you", so I can only assume every episode started this way. I do hope so.

Father Peter is a junior priest who answers to Father Brown and takes over his duties on his days off. He's implied by the dialogue to be considerably younger than Father Brown, Nora, and Flambeau, but if their actors are anything to go by then they're not that old themselves, and though Father Brown seems to talk to Father Peter like he's a literal child, he is still a priest so I very much doubt that's the case. He seems sweet and harmless, but he's only in one of the surviving episodes and only in that towards the end and mentioned briefly at the start, so it's hard to judge completely. It's highly unlikely that the reason he's not even mentioned in the later surviving episode is because he turned out to secretly be an evil murderer, but, this being a Father Brown adaptation, not entirely unfounded. (But no, he's probably just a sweet boy who exists to have exposition delivered to him.)

Father Brown/The Detective (1954):

The Alec Guinness movie! The one haters of any of the other adaptations complain that adaptation isn't more like, but in my humble opinion, actually the worst adaptation.

Like, I don't hate it! The cast is mostly stellar actors and if I just saw it as a movie on its own, it'd probably be fine. But as a Father Brown adaptation watched in context of the books and the other adaptations, it has a few issues imo.

Most glaringly it has Tone Issues. This film cannot decide if it's a comedy or not. The original posters certainly marketed it as one (see above) and half the cast are noted comic actors who were famous at the time for comedy, goddamn SID JAMES is in it, but the entire third act is played painfully straight, half the cast is mugging for the camera and trying way too hard to be funny while the other cast is giving extremely serious and subtle performances, like. I have no problem with a Father Brown adaptation being played for laughs, and I have no problem with a Father Brown adaptation being played for drama, both can work beautifully, but just PICK ONE, PLEASE

All of my other gripes with the film are very petty and nitpicky, this film calls Father Brown and Flambeau "Ignatius Brown" and "Gustav Flambeau" even though Father Brown has the canon first initial "J" and Flambeau has the canon first name "Hercule", and I hate it a lot. "Ignatius and Gustav" is the second worst thing any Father Brown adaptation has ever done to me.

My other petty nitpick with the movie is that it makes Flambeau literal nobility. The man is a duke. In my opinion Flambeau should always either have a completely mysterious past or be a nobody who came from nothing, someone who grew up with land and title and many servants and a family coat of arms, living in a whole entire castle with his family name and coat of arms engraved into the side of it, growing up and stealing from people, is a whole lot less sympathetic in my opinion. Like to be fair his parents are dead which is sad I guess and his castle has seen better days, but dude. You still own a castle. People who live in castles do not get to lecture other people about materialism.

THAT SAID, Peter Finch is still the best thing about the movie. I love all Flambeaus dearly, even the ones that are little bitches. He’s a bit of an emo “oh woe is me” sadboy, but he’s very charming, and actually good at disguises and being undercover, get dunked on Lukas!Flambeau.

Guinness!Brown likes to feed ducks and Flambeau calls him “the angel with the flaming umbrella”, which makes my inner Good Omens fan who loves finding parallels between Aziraphale & Crowley and Father Brown & Flambeau go 👀

There is one really good scene, in the Paris Catacombs. And by “good” I mean “really really bafflingly gay”:

I truly, truly do not understand how this scene was written, directed, acted, filmed, and edited without ANYONE saying “hey lads does this seem a bit gay to you?”

Father Brown, literally lying on top of Flambeau and pinning him to the ground, whispering: “I would like to set you free.” Flambeau, softly, gently smiling while his face is literal inches away from Father Brown, who is still pinning him to the ground: “Ah, now I begin to understand what you are.”

What the fuck, you guys. What the entire fuck. This scene keeps me up at night.

ANYWAY

This film is also not set in London. It is instead mostly set in a rural English village, and partially in Paris and partially in rural France. Paris is fun but I miss London.

This film also has some original characters. I should probably talk about them.

This is Lady Warren:

She’s Father Brown’s friend, and she’s a Lady, and that’s all I can really tell you.

She’s very well-mannered and dignified and sophisticated.

She gives me the vibe that she exists solely because the writers decided they needed a female character but then remembered at the last minute they had no idea how to write women, so as a result she is almost entirely irrelevant to the plot. I don’t want to say I don’t like her, because she’s done nothing wrong and it’s not her fault, but like. Why is she here? Poor thing, she deserved to be plot-relevant, really.

She lives in a big mansion and owns some very nice things, and she gets annoyed when she invites Father Brown to lunch but he just stares blankly into space thinking about Flambeau the whole time. (Mood honestly FB. Me too.)

She flirts a bit with Flambeau in one very pointless scene that came the hell out of nowhere, went nowhere, and was never mentioned again. It was like the writers realised how gay the previous Flambeau scene was and suddenly tried to convince me this man is a hetero. Nice try, writers. You can’t fool me that easily.

The other main original character is Bert:

Alright, own up, whose bright idea was it to put Sid James in a Father Brown movie?

Bert is a smalltime criminal who’s a friend of Father Brown, who Father Brown protects from the police, but tries to convince to get on the straight and narrow by getting him as a job as Lady Warren’s chauffer.

This is would be fine, were it not for the fact he’s played by Sid James, who only knows how to play Sid James, and is just Sid Jamesing it up in every scene. I don’t have anything against Sid James. I like my fair share of Carry On films. But Sid James does not belong in Father Brown and I want to fight whoever decided he did.

Father Brown (1974):

LADS LADS LADS! It’s time for the first TV show, and it’s time for my favourite boys:

Oh! OH! How I love Kenneth More!Brown and Dennis Burgess!Flambeau. They’re just. So cute. My two special boys.

Not only that, but LADS! We’re finally back in London!

A gritty, dirty, London in the 1930s no less, with cool London buses and political unrest and grimy pubs and the constant threat of world war. Alexa this is so cool play London Calling.

In one episode Flambeau gets verbally abused by an anti-immigration right-wing zealot. :( My poor boy. :(

(But it’s okay, shortly after Father Brown witnesses this, the racist shows up dead in exactly the place Father Brown earlier said would be a good place to commit a murder. Now I’m not accusing Father Brown of murder, BUT)

This show made the bold but valid decision to skip Flambeau’s redemption arc and start the show when Flambeau is already a seasoned and respected private detective who’s lived in London and been Father Brown’s closest friend for many years. As a result this Father Brown and Flambeau are ridiculously domestic with each other. Look at this peak Old Married Couple energy:

Oh! I just love them.

I would love to know how Burgess!Flambeau’s redemption went down though, because Burgess!Flambeau is BY FAR the least repentant of all the reformed Flambeaus. He proudly boasts about his crimes, he still believes he “deserved to succeed”, he still proudly talks about how “daring and outrageous” he was, which begs the question of why did he stop at all? Literally the only explanation I can think of is that he’s literally only doing this for Father Brown’s sake, which. uwu

Oh GOD I love Burgess!Flambeau. Obviously I love all Flambeaus a lot, and choosing a favourite feels like choosing a favourite child, but let’s just say: if the Flambeaus WERE my children, Burgess!Flambeau would be quite spoilt. My ~ Daring And Outrageous ~ boy.

More!Brown and Burgess!Flambeau are both really really socially awkward, uncomfortable in crowds, and nervously say “oh dear” a lot. They really are ridiculously cute.

They also only giggle and joke and act silly when they’re together, when they’re apart they’re both sort of sad and quiet and withdrawn. (This makes episodes Flambeau isn’t in a bit harder to watch because Father Brown is just kind of lost and lonely without his emotional support Frenchman, with three notable exceptions: that time Father Brown infodumped about the mating habits of whales at the Father Superior for a solid minute, that time Father Brown met a dog and reacted with unrestrained delight, and that time someone mentioned former criminals in passing and Father Brown’s whole face lit up and he started gushing about how Flambeau was living in London now and doing very well as a private detective, completely unprompted.)

This show also brought back book!Brown and Flambeau’s habit of always going on holiday together! Wonderful! We love to see it!

This show is also the first time in the entire Father Brown franchise where gay people are overtly acknowledged to exist! And Father Brown is non-judgemental! A roman catholic priest written in the 1970s and living in the 1930s who canonically isn’t homophobic! I have no choice but to stan forever!

You remember what I said about liking to point out Good Omens parallels? WELL

Kenneth More!Father Brown and Dennis Burgess!Flambeau both live in London

Burgess!Flambeau lives in a brightly lit, pale walled, airy and spacious, modern (for the time) London apartment, while More!Brown prefers gothic architecture and lives in an old, grey, cramped, stone building absolutely full floor to ceiling with books

They go out for intimate candlelit dinners for two at very fancy London restaurants

Desperate people come to Flambeau because he “knows the game on both sides of the fence”

Father Brown responds with a quiet and miserable “oh dear” when asked to actually do his job instead of just watching plays and drinking wine

Father Brown calls Flambeau “my dear” at times and it personally kills me

I mean. I’m just saying. 👀

Now, isn’t there a third important character in the books?

Oh yes of course:

HIM! THE BASTARD MAN! INSPECTOR VALENTIN HIMSELF!

(Nobody understands him! IT’S NOT! EVIL!)

This show is the literally only adaptation to include the Valentin betrayal and I’m not gonna lie. It’s a very difficult episode to sit through, it’s far darker and grimmer and more depressing than you would ever expect from Father Brown, but my god it’s done so well. Especially considering the teeny tiny budget they clearly had, only four sets are used the entire episode and the whole thing takes place inside Valentin’s house, but even that adds a certain claustrophobic atmosphere and just. It’s done so well.

I think the entire budget went on gore effects because the decapitated heads in this episode are disturbingly realistic for the time the show was made and genuinely grim to look at. Not to mention the intense downer ending. Not to mention this was THE FINAL EPISODE OF THE SHOW

THE INTENSE DOWNER ENDING OF THIS EPISODE IS HOW THE WHOLE SHOW ENDED

God it hurts so much but I lowkey love it.

Father Brown Stories (1984):

The second radio series, and the first BBC adaptation!

Thrilling times for fans of actors being the right nationality for their characters, because after previously being played by a Hungarian, an American, an Englishman, and a Welshman, Flambeau is finally being played by a Frenchman, Olivier Pierre!

Father Brown himself is played by Andrew Sachs, Manuel himself.

Not gonna lie. It’s kind of hard to figure out how to explain the radio show.

We’re? Maybe back in London? Honestly it’s really unclear.

Pierre!Flambeau is kind of adorable. He’s described as looking like book!Flambeau physically, huge and buff and terrifying, but he has literally none of the temper or predisposition to violence.

Pierre!Flambeau doesn’t speak very good English at all, and oftentimes will react with “...What?” when he hears a strange English idiom or turn of phrase.

One time he says “Perhaps we should.. push on? SEE HOW I AM MASTERING YOUR ENGLISH IDIOMS” and it’s the cutest thing that’s ever happened.

To try and get better at understanding both the English language and the English people, Flambeau starts obsessively reading Alice in Wonderland and Through The Looking Glass, massive giant adorable boy.

One time Father Brown gets complimented of being academically minded and well read, and then asked if Flambeau is also a keen reader, and when Flambeau tries to say no, Father Brown interrupts and proudly and earnestly says “Oh yes! Monsieur Flambeau is one of our top Lewis Carroll scholars!”, it’s honestly adorable.

This adaptation finally uses “John” as Father Brown’s first name, as it should always have been! I love it!

This series said FUCK Father Brown having a mysterious past and no former friends or relatives! Now he has siblings, and friends who knew him before he was a priest who still call him “John”!

Father Brown himself speaks in a very sweet and soft and wavering way that makes my heart melt.

Sadly and unfortunately, I have to acknowledge the final episode of the show, which is the top worst thing any Father Brown adaptation has ever done to me.

It’s. It’s a crossover. With Sherlock Holmes. Actual goddamn Sherlock Holmes is in it. I hate it. I hate it so much. “Elementary, my dear Flambeau” shut the hell up, if this Flambeau won’t fling you down a flight of stairs then I will.

I deliberately avoided all Holmes-related media for THREE YEARS only for the awful man to spring up on me in Father Brown?? How could you do this to me???

I’m going to yeet myself into the sun, bye everyone.

(On the plus side, the Sherlock Holmes episode does have one of Father Brown’s parishioners recognise Flambeau as “a close friend of Father Brown and a frequent visitor to his room” ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), so that’s nice I suppose. I’ll still never forgive the writers of this show for putting me through this.)

Father Brown (2013):

YOU ARE HERE.

I kind of see the current TV series as a culmination of all the adaptations that’ve come before? I can definitely see echoes of all of them in it.

And it’s great! I really really love it. I love it a lot.

I think about it daily.

My one and only complaint I would have is that Flambeau isn’t in it enough. Not just because he’s my favourite, though I’d obviously not be fooling anyone who’s read all this if I said he isn’t.

And it’s not that I don’t love the show as it is, and find the one Flambeau episode a series always something really special, so I don’t know what I’d have the writers do, exactly.

But it’s just. In literally every other version of Father Brown, Flambeau is the second most important character and the second main protagonist, and to have him in this show so little that some fans or reviewers call him a “minor character” and others call him a “recurring villain”, though I myself don’t see him either of those ways of course because he’s still Flambeau, it’s just kinda sad and painful, y’know?

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being silly.

Hopefully he’s a regular in at least the final season of the show. If I don’t get my favourite partners in crime solving I’m rioting.

Anyway that’s my “””brief””” rundown on all the main versions of Father Brown!! I hope you liked it!!

#Anonymous #father brown #hercule flambeau #flambrown

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sorathemasterofmasters · 4 years

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If you could say one thing to your friends after all these years, what would it be?

How bold of you to assume he was only going to say one thing.

The following related excerpt is from the Master Reports Fic which I think I’ll just post bits and pieces that apply to Kingstagram posts.

“So he was recently in Daybreak Town Clocktower, we know that at least, where else could he go?” Asked Riku aloud as the group ascended the stairs of Yen Sid’s Tower. “The guy is thousands of years old he could be anywhere, he's probably on the other end of the galaxy sipping mojitos on a tropical island and laughing at us” Lea snarked as he opened the door to Yen Sid’s office. "Or I could be right where fate dictates I should be." The voice came suddenly out of nowhere, lounged carelessly on Yen Sid’s own seat idly flipping through an old book with his black booted feet propped nonchalantly on the desk. The Master of Masters familiar spiky brown hair peeking out of the hood, grinned shamelessly one eye closed over an empty socket the right eye blue slit and gazing over the group in amusement. Lea lunged forward before he could think keyblade drawn, yet the Master of Masters merely rolled his remain eye and sighed disappointedly “Haa, attacking me with the keyblade I forged? Sooo stupid.” “What!” Lea exclaimed as his keyblade dispelled mid-strike into sparkles then grunted as he was slammed backward into the wall with stunning force by an invisible wave. Powerful magic bore down on everyone in the room preventing any movement. “Now now” Sora- no- the Master of Masters, tutted with a sunny smile in a condescending tone momentarily taking his single eye off the page he was reading. "I'll get to you in a moment" he went back to reading one of Yen Sid’s books Riku noted, totally disregarding their presence as if they weren't a threat, how strong was this version of Sora? The Master of Masters sighed tiredly evidently having found what he was looking for. Nonchalantly taking his feet off the desk and placing the book open on the table before him, his single blue slit eye trailed over the group. "I'll admit, I hadn't intended for us to meet quite like this, but I suppose sentiment was stronger than destiny in this case." “Sora?” Riku breathed shock at seeing this older version of his friend in the flesh pinning him in place and at a complete loss as to what to say. Ventus on the other hand had plenty to say or rather shout “Why are you acting like this?!” For a moment the Master of Masters looked puzzled “Like what, Oh Wait! Are you talking about all those Kingstagram Entries I forgot to delete?” The Master of Masters coughed, embarrassed and scratched the back of his head in a familiar Sora-esque mannerism “Yeah.. my bad. I’ve been using it as a diary for the last few thousand years as you know by now. Forgetting to turn off its network capabilities is probably the first mistake I’ve made in hundreds of years, to be honest!” The older Sora’s laughter was almost the same his voice different, almost manic. Riku spoke up cautiously looking with his eyes and his heart for any trace of his friend “Do you hold a grudge against us or something? We didn't know we were hurting you Sora. And once we did we’ve been trying to fix things-” The Master of Masters waved Riku off with a gesture mid apology “I know, and it's nice and all but this really has nothing to do with that or you, In fact, if I hadn't messed up then we’d have never met and I could have spared you the heartache I know you’re feeling” The expression on the Master of Master's face was inscrutable his thoughts hidden in that instance. Mickey wasn't so sure though and in his heart doubted this version of Sora had let go of something so fundamental “Surely something remains in your heart!” The Master of Master's gaze rested on Mickey a reassuring smile out of place on this version of their friend inadvertently sending shivers down the spines of Guardians of Light. “Oh Mickey, I have nothing but respect for you, unfortunately those bound by fate must follow it regardless of personal feelings. So how is the other me? Actually happy? Less suicidal ideation disguised as self-sacrifice?” The Master of Masters nodded to himself “I can see it in your expressions, that's good I suppose his death is no longer necessary so we can skip that bit of teenage drama” The Master of Masters tilted his head childishly examining the group in front of him “well I can't say I don't like this change to the Guardian of Light roster!” The Master of Master's gaze trailed over the group.

“Kairi, The only Princess of Heart capable of wielding a keyblade.

Riku, Wielder of both Light and Darkness in equal measure.

Ventus formerly of Aced’s Ursa Union the least bloodthirsty one in fact, the one I hand-picked to help Ephemer lead the Dandelions exodus to escape the shattering of the Realm of Light and ensure the Keyblade wielders did not go extinct.

King Mickey Mouse, Wielder of the Kingdom Key D that I dropped in the Realm of Darkness during my escape from the shattering.

Aqua, left to languish in the Realm of Darkness for ten years, an amazing feat of survival.

The absent wielders, Roxas, the Nobody that developed his own heart out of sheer stubbornness.

Xion, a replica puppet that also developed her own heart by the strength of her own memories and the bonds she herself formed.

Lauriam the wielder who’s actions alerted me to the intruder in the Dandelions Sanctuary, slain by Maleficent as she inadvertently damaged the dataworld and forced them to evacuate before the worlds were safe to traverse.

Elrena, perished in the evacuation but possessing such a strong heart that she re-manifested in real world. My younger self who can connect with hearts on a level unheard of in recorded history.”

The Master of Masters paused his eye resting contemplatively on Lea “..and then there's you” a brief silence engulfed the room. “Honestly” The Master of Masters sighed “bequeathing, a last resort for when none are worthy of the actual honor.” “You take that back” Lea growled the other Guardians also raising their hackles at the Master of Masters insinuation. “Hmmm? No I don't think I will.” The Master of Masters spoke measuredly and shrugged “I designed every keyblade to exist, they were made to be very choosy when it comes to their wielders, not be passed down to the unworthy like trinkets on a whim.” the word trinkets spat like an expletive full of scorn enough to make the room flinch. “Where's Master Yen Sid?” asked Mickey warily keeping an eye on the intimidating Lost Master before them. The Master of Masters tilted his head as if confused “Hmm? Oh that old coot? He's around.” The Master gave a half-hearted gesture with an off-hand a grin slowly creeping along his face “I had a lot of fun stripping him of his mastery through” The Master of Masters grinned like a cat and Mickey yelped as his own hastily summoned Keyblade vanished against his will in a blaze of light. The Master of Masters tutted once again waggling a finger. “Come on now, You seriously didn't think The Master of Master title was an empty one did you? Right now? None of you are a match for me as you are, you can't even stand without shaking!” The shaking, a sign of the group trying to escape their confinement and failing miserably. “What do you want?” shouted Riku irritated beyond belief despite himself, the Master of Masters smiled oddly for a second then gave a barking laugh taking them all aback wiping an imaginary tear from his eye “I’ll admit I honestly forgot you had such an angry base expression. Well, what I want? I want a lot of things, some transitory and some more permanent. All things I can get without your input, permission or interference. I mean I could put you down for the duration, but, where would be the fun in that?” The group flinched as the Master of Masters sunny tone and how at odds it was with the very real dark threat in his gaze. “So anyway...” The Master of Masters snapped his fingers once causing everyone in the room to stagger still paralyzed under his magical might as a strange sensation tingled throughout their bodies. “I'll settle for delaying you a little bit” “What did you do to us?!” grunted Ven peculiar weakness running through his limbs. “Hmm, oh nothing that hasn't been done before to one of your numbers, you’re going to have to earn those Keyblade’s this time just like he did, just like I did. I'll even throw in a power boost if you do it the right way. Won't that surprise the Norts?” The Master of Masters laughed at their furious gazes. “Are you on his side?” Asked Kairi warily. The Master of Masters snorted “Xehanort? Not in this life or any other and don't worry he won't come after you for a long while yet, which should give you plenty of time to get stronger.” The Master of Masters perked up abruptly, whiplashing between moods fast enough to give the group a headache “Soooo.. anyway if you want to retrieve those keyblades of yours then you should probably find those replacement Darknesses Xehanort was harping on and on and on about.” “Why are you helping us!” demanded Aqua “I doubt it's from the goodness of your heart.” The Master of Masters chuckled “Nope, You’d be right there but you see, cornered rats can cause a lot of damage and Xehanort? He’s just lost how many of his Darknesses now?” That made the group pause as the Master of Masters continued to point out something they hadn't considered yet “He'll be anxious to replace them and Xehanort never functioned well when it comes to improvisation. He might inadvertently cause a lot of damage to the worlds and I do kinda need them more or less intact” The Master of Masters shrugged considering and amending his statement ominously “Well, the people at least.” The Master of Masters got up from Yen Sid’s seat and stretched walking past the paralyzed group before pausing snapping the air as though in realization "By the way that book on the desk? Your gonna want to read it before Yen Sid gets back, just saying." With that parting bit of advice, the Master of Masters darted leisurely out the door. It was five minutes before the lingering power of the Master of Masters dissipated enough for anyone to move, signaling his exit from the world. Silence reigned in the tower for a long time after that.

This little bit of MoM!Sora insanity came to me in the middle of the night in a dream, I think I got MoM!Sora’s character about right and I now think the best strategy for writing this lovable lunatic is to throw a dart at a D&D alignment chart and write him like that for that chapter. ... Is it working? I think its working. Also sorry about any bad spelling or grammar.

Anyway, everyone else not present at The Mysterious Tower panicked at the new Kingstagram post but couldn't do anything as MoM!Sora posted it after this confrontation.

This Post is also in part a answer to another post that asked for a star wars style confrontation, Unfortunately that post went missing due to Tumblr UI being the burning glitch of a trashfire baby we all know and loathe. So, Sorry whoever asked that.

#AskMoM!Sora #MoM!Sora #Sora As the Master of Masters #sora!master of masters #master of masters #TheMasterReportsAU #sora kh #kingdom hearts

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ordinaryschmuck · 3 years

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Top 20 BEST Animated Series of the 2010s-15th Place

The fifteenth place is a tie, primarily because both of these shows are equally good, in my opinion. Some of you might disagree with me, but to that I say-

ALL ABOARD THE HATE TRAIN!

CHOO CHOO!

#15-We Bare Bears (2015-2020)/Big City Greens (2018-)

The Plot(s): Both shows involve an unorthodox family trying to fit in with what’s considered normal. In We Bare Bears, it’s three brother bears (Grizz, Panda, and Ice Bear) trying to fit in with modern society. And in Big City Greens, it’s a family of farmers (Cricket, Tilly, Bill, and Gramma) trying to adjust to city life after the family farm got sold due to low profits. In both shows, these characters make new friends, go on wacky adventures, and learn that they’ll always be okay as long as they’re together.

Aside from that brief description, I can sum up these shows in two words: Charmingly simplistic. There’s no intense continuity, no ongoing story arcs, or even an evilly evil villain hoping to take over the world...for the most part. These are just two different shows, with two types of families trying to get by in life. And honestly, it’s those families that make these shows work.

The dynamic between the bears in We Bare Bears is what makes the show so charming to watch. These three actually act like brothers (from what I’ve been told. I, unfortunately, don’t have brothers), and seeing their brotherly bond does nothing less than putting a smile on my face. Plus, the loyalty they have for each other is downright heartwarming, especially when the series flashes back to when they were kids.

And while I can’t entirely say that the Green family has the same amount of charm to them, there is one thing that I love. And that’s the fact that (kinda spoiler warning) they are an almost complete family in a Disney cartoon, with both parents being a prominent role in the series. Yes, Bill and Nancy are divorced, but that doesn’t mean Nancy isn’t around for her kids. She shows up frequently after her introduction and even gives off an impression that she’s a semi-good mom. In fact, Bill and Nancy seem to still have a level of respect for each other despite missing their old spark. It’s almost as if the writers are trying to say that not all divorces mean the destruction of a family, which I can respect. Because it can teach kids to not be afraid of the “D” word (kinda spoilers over).

But it’s not just the main characters that shine in these shows. The members of the supporting cast in We Bare Bears have a level of likability and depth. Chloe is often outgoing and laid back when she’s with the bears, who fails to make any other connections due to being a child prodigy. Ranger Tabes is often audacious and enjoyably energetic while also taking pride in her work and feels hurt when she thinks she’s not taken seriously. Then there are Charlie and Nom Nom, who have a level of charm to them. Despite being intended to come off as annoying and unlikable. Even the background characters are impressive due to the diversity of cultures and races that a viewer can see in each episode.

As for Big City Greens, the characters do not really have any depth outside of the main cast. What you see is pretty much what you get with most of these characters, aside from maybe Gloria, but even then, it’s only on occasion. Big City Greens also dodges showing diversity by having everyone be a shade of bright pastel colors. But I give credit to the show for having the first gay couple in a Disney cartoon...even though they get dropped by season two and are never fully confirmed as gay. Which pales in comparison to Luz and Amity from The Owl House, but it was at least a start! Sometimes, you gotta take baby steps before taking leaps ahead of the game. And don’t get me wrong, while I still prefer characters who have depth, that doesn’t mean I hate the characters in Big City Greens. Everyone does their job of adding to the story and making audiences laugh. In fact, making audiences laugh is what I would say Big City Greens does better than We Bare Bears.

Now in fairness. We Bare Bears is pretty funny from time to time. However, when it comes to which series makes me laugh the most, I have to pick Big City Greens. The first few episodes alone had me laughing much more than most of We Bare Bears' first season. It also helps that the show has a very random sense of humor elevated by the show’s energy. But I'll give it to you that comedy is subjective, and there are a couple of jokes that don’t work in Big City Greens. The best example is when the show lingers too long on a joke that didn’t really work as much as the writers thought it did. But that does not change the fact that Big City Greens is still a pretty funny show.

However, while We Bare Bears lacks comedy, it more than enough makes up for it with charm. This show is downright delightful to watch in almost every episode. Rarely do I feel anger when watching this series (which I wish I could say about previous/future entrees), and it has everything to do with the cast. I wasn’t kidding when I said that even intentionally annoying characters have a level of charm and likeability to them. In fact, the only bad episodes are when they begin to act uncharacteristically cruel and selfish. Mostly because those words could not be farther from a definition of We Bare Bears.

However, if I had to pick out the major fault that We Bare Bears have, it’s the fact that the show plays things a little too safe. For instance, whenever the show tries to go dark, it is pretty tame compared to other shows. The best example is how nearly every dangerous predator in this series somehow looks adorable. Wolfs, snakes, and even cougars (the big cats, not the middle-aged women) are somehow drawn to be cute and cuddly. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want a show to make kids think that dangerous woodland creatures like these are something you could just give a belly rub. I understand that this is a kids' show, but Big City Greens not only has the same rating, but it’s on the Disney Channel. And yet, it feels like that show has bigger cajones than the series formerly on the same network as Regular Show. That is not a good thing.

Going back to Big City Greens, I can sum up every problem I have with this show with one character: Cricket Green. Now I don’t entirely hate Cricket...but I’m willing to bet other people will. I can tell that the show is trying to make him a lovable little rascal that’s sort of a mix of Bart Simpson and Timmy Turner. But in the end, I think he causes more damage than either of those characters have in their entire lives. Cricket claims how sorry he is at the end of every episode, but I doubt he learns his lesson. We Bare Bears has a similar problem with Panda, but even when Panda is at his most selfish, he doesn’t do anything harmful to anyone but himself (except in the episode “Braces," but we don’t need to talk about that). Plus, even when he does go a tad too far, Panda’s voice actor (Bobby Moynihan) does a great job at making Panda seem sincere when he’s apologizing for his actions. Not to mention that Bobby gives a sense of realism and relatability with most of Panda’s lines. Then there is Cricket’s voice actor, Chris Houghton, an adult man trying to voice a child. I understand the logic behind using an adult over a kid (this happens more times than you think), but I feel like I would get the impression that Cricket is an innocent kid who doesn’t know better if he actually sounded like a kid.

In the end, neither of these shows are really that impressive compared to others. Thankfully with good comedy, charm, and great characters, they still manage to be really good for all ages. So while We Bare Bears and Big City Greens may not be as big as any other show in the last decade, they’re still good enough that you might just bear it!

(Two for one! I told you I would make up the embarrassment that was Dan Vs.!)

#top 20 of 2010s #we bare bears #big city greens #what i thought about

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psychopersonified · 4 years

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Tea and Soju

Bridging piece between “Are we ever going to talk about this?” and “KIdnapped!Q”. The events here feed into the plot but can be read as a series of drabbles.

Tags: Established relationship, but open secret. Intimacy in plain sight. Bond feeling his age. Mostly fluff with plot points. Tiny bit of angst. Q-Branch being weird.

-------------

Christ, he feels like a teacher on a school trip. “Might I remind the class that the french police are notoriously speed adverse and do not take well to British nationals breaking the law on their home soil?”

--------------------------------------------------

SIS HQ, M’s Office - 12th Floor

Eve hands him his next mission dossier without preamble when he enters the antechamber to M’s office.

“He doesn’t want to see me today?”

Eve shakes her head. “Crisis in Hong Kong. He’s tied up with the station chief all morning. Besides your next assignment is a more or less a straightforward reconnaissance.”

There is no such thing as a straightforward in their world, Bond disagrees in his mind. He flips open the file and takes a seat on the edge of her desk, ”What is it?”

Eve comes around to stand next to him:

“MI6 Persons of interest: First is Marco Sciarra. Formerly linked to Silva on the periphery and several other possible terrorist links. Word has it, he’s meeting with an entrepreneur by the name of Kim Min Jun in Geneva next week. Which brings us to the second person: Mr Kim is connected to one of the Korean Chaebols - grandson to the Chairman,” Eve points to his picture in the file.

Kim Min Jun is a handsome man in his mid thirties. Perfectly coiffed and flawless skinned. The photo looks to be a media shot; designer clothes and posture befitting a princeling from a privileged background. His expression in the picture is cold and slightly imperious.

“You know how it is, the chaebols control nearly all aspects of the Korean economy including politics. So what he’s doing talking to someone like Sciarra piques our interest.”

Curious indeed. “What do we know about Sciarra and the princeling? And why Geneva?”

“Sciarra we know very little except he’s a fixer of sorts. Procuring equipment and expertise for his clients. You’re going to have to fill in the blanks for us when you track him,” Eve is apologetic on behalf of the research team.

“Kim we know more about. He’s dabbling in cryptocurrency at the moment. The Korean government has banned ICOs so many crypto start-ups are registering in friendlier countries. Switzerland has one of the friendliest regulations for fintech startups. Kim is unveiling his ICO (Initial Coin Offering) to investors next week. His new cryptocurrency is called- $PECTRE.”

Considering the concerns around cryptocurrencies and their use, I suppose that’s fitting. Is it really spelled that way?” Bond points at the name on the printed page. -Classy-. He thinks sardonically. Eve chuckles.

The next page his is cover brief. He reads it out loud, “Cover story… CEO Private Security Contractor. Should be easy enough to fill out.” He likes the ‘private security’ covers, its the easiest for him to slip into considering it is essentially the same skillset.

“The timing coincides with the Geneva Motor Show and the EBACE (European Business Aviation Conference & Exhibition) so there will be influx of fat cat corporate and private executives around the city with their private security teams - seems like a good reason to explain you and your Walther’s presence.”

“Hmm… What’s this?” he reads the next paragraph. They have teamed him up with the freshly minted 008. Logical - considering Agent Park is speaks Korean, he can work the Chaebol angle while 007 tracks Sciarra.

Then Bond sees it, the two other cover names belonging to people he knows well - Mr. Collin Mitchel and Mr. Nishant Chowdhary will be joining them on the trip.

Eve can see Bond’s hesitation, “Well, your cover will look rather silly without a ‘fat cat’ of your own to secure won’t it? … M approved their request to attend the auto and aviation show yesterday afternoon, so it’s a happy coincidence. Besides, they can help run your Ops.”

Q will be pleased about his shopping trip getting approved. All that engineering in one place, it was all Q could talk about for days. This mission will take almost three weeks just looking at the timeline, bookended by the two exhibitions. Mr Kim’s ICO launch will happen in between that, but intel has him arriving early for preparations.

Altogether, the mission parameters seem perfect and spending a so much time with Q in picturesque Geneva is something he can only dream of - but it does mean he is weighed down with the task of ensuring security for both the boffins.

It would not have mattered in his younger days; what with his cavalier attitude towards the lives of people he crossed paths with on his missions - to the point that even the previous M rebuked him for it (e.g. Strawberry Fields). This older and wiser 007 can feel the creep of responsibility and the extra precautions he will need to take.

Eve the omniscient seems to sense his emotions, smiles kindly at him - and despite being a decade younger, she tells him, “Time to grow up James.”

——————————

SIS HQ - Cafeteria

Friday afternoon 12:30pm

“So, we finally finished the analysis on Hayden’s phone... I know, its been over a month. There’s been so much going on with the spike in ransomware attacks on UK targets and Hayden hasn’t been the most cooperative.” Mark is sitting opposite Q on the crowded communal cafeteria bench, chewing on his pesto pasta salad.

It is peak lunch hour and the place is chock a block full. Q is still waiting for his lunch, “Anything of interest?”

“It looks like a rooting malware was downloaded into his phone at one point and then removed to avoid detection. We’ve gone though the logs of each app to find what might have been compromised but we still can’t find anything…”

At that moment, Agent 007 appears from behind Q. He drops a brown envelope and an armful of packaged food onto the long table. He then picks out a sandwich and a bottle of iced tea and wordlessly slides it in front of Q. The agent then squeezes himself into the small opening on the bench between Q and the next occupant. He has to sit straddling the bench, perpendicular to the table and angled towards Q in order to fit.

Mark notices that Q doesn’t even flinch at the sudden invasion of his personal space, his attention still on Mark even as he unscrews the top off the bottle and begins to unwrap his sandwich without so much as an acknowledgement of 007.

Taking his cue, Mark continues, “The likeliest target was his email, but they’re mostly administrative, we don’t send classified information through emails. We’re combing the logs to see what could have interested the hackers.”

“Is this about Hayden?” 007 asks, catching up to the conversation while inhaling his massive panini sandwich.

Mark nods, “It’s going to take more time to figure out if the hackers got anything useful out of the whole thing.”

007 considers, “They went though all the trouble of setting up a trap like that - it would have taken months. No one expends resources like that unless they know what they want out of it...”

He shifts the sandwich in his hands, stuffing a piece of chicken that escaped back into the bread before he continues, “They would have known MI6 wouldn’t be so callous with classified information. So perhaps Hayden wasn’t the actual target - he might have just been a vector. A way to get into the system.”

Q finally turns to 007, “But it is unlikely that they would spend time rooting around our systems for information they might find relevant, it would take too long. Not to mention the navigating layers of security. The longer they stay inside the system, the higher chances of being found out.”

“Precisely. If it were me, I’d use the access to engineer it so that my target -gives- me what I’m looking for. Then bugger the hell out of there before they realise it.” Bond emphasises the word ‘gives’ by tapping a forefinger on the table top.

“She managed to slip away, but as I understand, DEF CON was her opportunity to break things off with Hayden - even he mentioned as much. I’m willing to bet their final rendezvous was to allow her to remove the malware from his phone. Think a bout it, why remove the malware unless you’ve already got what you need and you’re covering your tracks?” Bond takes a swig from Q’s iced tea.

“Bond, if it were you, what would you do with the access?” Q asks prompting him further.

“It would depend on what I’m looking for. If we take it that Hayden was not a random target, then consider what his position and clearance will give him access to. I could use social engineering to pose as Hayden and requisition seemingly innocuous information that might point me in a direction or to confirm intel,” Bond takes them thorough his thought process.

Mark thinks out loud, “His emails just contain administrative stuff. Meeting schedules, budgets, department rosters, project timelines… hiring and resignation notices—“

Bond cuts him off before he misses the point, “Put motive aside for the moment and look at the behaviour. If we work on the premise that the information was given to the hacker, try checking his inbox - though it’s likely the hacker would have deleted it. So check his deleted email logs, even if they emptied the bin, I’m sure you have ways around that don’t you?”

The two boffins stare at him for a moment. The type of work they do meant that they are naturally wired as detail oriented and deep technical thinkers, but can sometimes miss the forest for the trees.

Mark swallows the last of his mouthful, expression excited. He picks up his trash and water bottle and starts to extricate himself from the bench, “Good chat 007. I’m going to—,” he makes a flailing gesture in the direction of the lift banks, indicating he was going to get right on it. “I’ll update the both of you later!” he calls back to them almost as an afterthought.

—

Moment later, another SIS employee slides into the vacated seat, grateful to have found an opening. But once she realises who is sitting across from her, she seems to hesitate before nodding politely to Bond and Q who return the gesture.

The general population in SIS are a little wary around the Double-0 agents. Something about knowing definitively that the person you’re facing has taken a life possibly with their bare hands - even if it is in the service of the nation that makes most people uncomfortable.

It is exactly how 007 likes it anyway; keeps the small talk at bay. Bond turns his attention to Q, his voice dropping lower now that it is only two of them in the conversation, mouth inches from Q’s ear, “What are you doing after lunch? Do you have time to talk about Geneva?” he taps the official looking brown envelope on the table.

“Ah, I have a meeting with the people from Aston Martin at Tintagel House. Shouldn’t take long. We can discuss after that?” Q suggests.

Bond perks up like a child trying to guess his Christmas present. “Oh? Am I getting a new car?”

“You realise that there are twelve other agents we have to outfit besides yourself…” Q gives him a pointed look, reclaiming his iced tea that Bond stole.

“Besides, it might end up being an electric car; and we know how you feel about any vehicle we issue you that has anything short of a V8 inside.”

007 at least had the temerity to look sheepish. He recalls the heated argument several years ago with Q-Branch the last time they attempted to send him out with a hybrid car. An argument he may live to regret, now that the technology has progressed so rapidly.

“Can I come with?” Bond asks, trying not to sound too needy by concentrating on wiping his fingers with a paper napkin. It has been over month ago that they agreed to share living arrangements, but he’s been away on mission for half of it so realistically speaking, his wardrobe has spent more time in Q’s bedroom than his person.

“You can wait in the lab. Or… you might even try locating that mythical office of yours. Legend has it you were given one, even if it might be a hot desk.” Q teases him.

—————

Tintagel House, Albert Embankment

In the end, Q relents and lets Bond walk him the short distance to Tintagel House and the rented co-working space that Q-Branch employees use when they need to meet external vendors.

The two representatives from Aston Martin are waiting when they arrive. Q introduces himself as Collin Mitchel from MTech R&D Consulting. Bond’s presence is explained away as ‘private security’ a convenient excuse when he wants to be ‘seen but not heard’.

To the outside world, the four of them - Q (Collin Mitchel), R (Jenny Khoo), S (Nishant Chowdhary), and P (Mark Trent) are Senior Project Managers of MTech, a private engineering R&D firm specialising in IT security and customised equipment solutions.

The little exclusive R&D company is the front that allows Q-Branch to procure components and equipment without being directly involved. Their role as Senior Managers is carefully crafted to position them high enough to have clout when dealing with external contractors but not high enough to warrant any further interest in them personally. A careful balancing act.

This is their cover story for most of their day-to-day lives outside the walls of SIS. The first and most superficial layer of their identities. It is their public persona - the names on their takeaway coffee cups and the names the world would call them.

As for the car, it is not a production car at all. ‘Mr Mitchel’ is custom designing a car to very exacting specifications. They have the chassis pinned down based on the Vantage. And the body will be a custom designed beauty, if the concept drawings are anything to go by - but the engine and other mechanicals have yet to be finalised. Collin is leaning towards electric as the small motors leave more room inside for ‘modifications’. The auto show will give him inspiration for how he can implement the vision.

Bond still doesn’t know who the car is for; Q refuses to say. Aside from the travesty of the electric motor, the renderings of the car seem exactly his style. Surely he is due for a replacement. His poor track record keeping cars in one piece not withstanding, the older V8 Vantage he is usually assigned is looking frankly anaemic at this point.

The meeting ends an hour later. As Q walks them out of the building, the senior rep who’s known Collin for a while now asks a curious question. “Hey Mitchel, seeing that your office is so close the the SIS building, have you ever met an MI6 agent?”

Q is unperturbed by her question. It is a question that comes up often in various forms during small talk. “Well, they’d be shit spies if I can spot them,” is his practiced reply. He takes a peek over her shoulder at Bond who is standing to the side - listening to everything.

“Ha! True… Imagine though, you could be having lunch at the place across the street and sitting next to someone like Jason Bourne.” The rep seems to find the idea titillating.

“Nevermind the spies, imagine the kind of tech they have in there. I read somewhere that they’ve got submersible cars and portable jet-packs..,” the second rep, an engineer, chimes in. “Being the Quartermaster must be the coolest job.”

Again Q unconcerned. The codename has been around for decades, since even before Major Boothroyd. Q himself had heard the name thrown around in engineering school, used to reference the more ridiculous solutions that students came up with.

“Yes, I suppose it would…” Q agrees with the assessment and leaves it at that.

———

SIS HQ, Q-Branch - Lower Ground Floor 1

Agent Marcus Park does not know the ‘rules’ yet. The newly minted Double-0 replaces the outgoing 008 who has miraculously survived to see retirement. Park is of Korean descent, mid 30s, former Captain in the Royal Army…… Tall and lean, at home in street fashion and cleans up well when needed. Tech and social media savvy, he’s the new generation agent - as long as he stays alive long enough.

He’s been measured, photographed, scanned, sampled, pinched, poked and prodded all day in Medical and Q-Branch as they collect the the information they need to customise all the bits that will go into his kit. Marcus thinks the Q-Branch minions know more about him by now than he knows himself. They even know his bone density and which side of his molars he prefers to chew on.

Thankfully by mid afternoon, Nish releases him temporarily to let him have a break. He has taken the opportunity to make himself a cup of tea and have some biscuits. He returns to Nish’s workspace to wait for further instructions carrying his tea in a borrowed novelty Q10 mug.

Nish is typing on his workstation, reviewing Park’s results but seems distracted - stealing surreptitious looks his way. A few other minions slow down as they walk by as well. As the new agent, Marcus is expecting some sort of hazing. Though he’s expecting it to come from the senior Double-0s.

He thinks it is better to get it done with. “I get the feeling something’s up? Is the tea spiked?”

Nish tries to find his words, without making Q-Branch seem like weird people, but just ends up gulping air like a goldfish.

“Earl grey? In the fancy tin?” Marcus prompts.

“No. No… It’s not spiked. That’s the Quartermaster’s tin.”

“Ah, he’s particular about that sort of thing is he?” Mischief. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” he taps the side of his nose.

Josh, the minion occupying the next table waves his arms frantically at Nish from behind 008. He points repeatedly at the CCTV monitor mounted on the column above his workstation. On it, they can see feeds from all levels of Q-Branch, including the lift lobby and main doors of each floor - it is as much for security as well as work safety.

Nish takes a quick peek at the monitor and starts to worry. “Not exactly…. It’s not the tea, and Its not the Quartermaster you should be worried about.“

Okaay… Marcus is starting to think Q-Branch are a weird bunch. He had only been officially introduced to Q in the morning. Marcus has been an agent for several years but stationed overseas. As a field agent, he normally collected his tech from his handlers so never expected that the skinny, floppy haired man-child he’d crossed paths with maybe twice in the SIS bulling was THE Quartermaster. He seemed normal enough from the brief encounter, perhaps bordering on patronising - but that could be just the formality that made it seem so.

“Josh will make you a fresh cup!” Nish snaps his fingers urgently at the other man. Josh rushes up to Marcus to retrieve the mug.

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself. This one is fine.” Marcus waves him away still holding on to the mug. Josh is paralysed, not knowing what to do. He can’t very well wrestle it out of the agent’s hands.

Too late.

”Ah 008. Nish. How is the fitting going?” Q’s voice carries from behind Nish. Nish does not have to turn around to know that 007 is with him. Josh slinks away quickly.

“Quartermaster. It’s going very well. Taking a break, just replenishing the sugar levels,” 008 lifts the mug of tea and the plate of biscuits. If the Quartermaster is that particular about his tea he’s going to try and get a rise out of him.

But Q does not react. Instead it is the man next to him that stills ever so slightly - no that’s not accurate, it was more like an almost imperceptible shift in body language. The body loosing that casual ease, control sliding into place.

A fellow double agent Marcus is sure. Predators know other predators. They study each other for a moment.

Q realises they haven’t been introduced. “Ah 008, have you met 007?”

Both men extend a hand out for a polite shake. Introductions ensue.

Nish uses the opportunity to signal to Josh to check his chat program.

:: Make a fresh pot and get back here with 3 mugs ASAP! ::

Josh flees to the pantry just in time, as the introductions finish. Nish then draws everyones’ attention to the data they have collected so far in the day. And when he runs out of interesting things to say about the data, he tries to shift the conversation to the new car for 008.

“Ah, about 008’s car - how did the meeting with Aston Martin go?” Which was apparently the wrong thing to say.

There is no mistaking the hurt and affront as 007’s eyes go wide and the set of his mouth goes slack.

Q grimaces at Nish and squeezes his eyes shut a moment before turning to face 007. The lowered tilt of his head and the apologetic smile up at 007 tells Nish that there might have been a misunderstanding about it. Oops?

What follows is an uncomfortable summary of the meeting with Aston Martin. With Q trying to convey his excitement about the project without offending 007 further.

Marcus listens attentively, leaning casually on Nish’s worktable, asking appropriate questions and offering his input about the design and potential modifications - all the while taking sips from the mug cupped in his hands. With each consecutive sip, he notices 007’s stare get more intense, eyes like blue chips of ice - Bond seemed to be watching him drink.

Curious. Marcus is confident of his own charms, but he hasn’t even tried anything yet. Surely 007 would be much more discrete than this if he were interested. The senior agent is not conventionally handsome but he has a rugged charm - if you like that sort of thing. Still, it might be an enlightening experience. He catches Bond’s stare and flicks the tip of his tongue against the lip of the mug before taking the next sip.

Bond is not happy. He is still smarting from the disappointment, then he has to listen to 008 ingratiatingly espouse the benefits of going electric with the new car and tolerate his drinking out of Q’s mug. And to top it off, 008 is now -taunting- him??

He doesn’t know when it happened, but Q is so attuned to Bond’s breathing by now he can feel the irritation radiating off the man standing next him. He thinks it is a rather disproportionate response to not getting a new company car for an agent his age - especially when he was never promised one in the first place.

Nish thinks this afternoon is headed straight for a disaster. Why is Marcus molesting the mug - it is like waving a red cape in front of an angry bull. Bond is so still it it is foreboding. Where the hell is Josh??!

Josh finally appears with a tray of mismatched mugs filled with tea. He nudges his way in between 007 and 008 using the tea tray as a wedge.

“Oh! Thank you Josh. You didn’t have to…” Q is bewildered; his minions don’t usually make tea for their visitors with the exception of Mallory. It is not encouraged to prevent the double-0s from feeling further entitled.

Josh deliberately picks a spot on the table, right on the small strip of clear space in front of 008 to set the tray down. This forces Marcus to put down the Q10 mug somewhere else and help Josh clear a bigger area to fit and unload the tray.

Nish swipes the mug in the ensuing distraction and sets it on the far end of the worktable away from 008. Bond catches the action and cotton’s on; then decides to take matters into his own hands.

In a bizarre turn of events, 007 proceeds to pick up each fresh mug of tea and offers it to Nish first; then to Josh - who accepts it out of pure shock. And then finally to Marcus - who looks bemused as he accepts it.

Then he leans very close to Q, a hand on the small of his back - voice intimate, “I’ll go get your tea.” Then he leaves for the pantry; collecting the Q10 mug when he rounds the table.

This leaves the four of them (Q, Nish, Josh and Marcus) standing around the worktable in awkward silence. Q just shrugs and smiles tightly, not sure what has gotten into Bond today.

Marcus can tell something happened, and it had to do with tea - but is still not sure exactly what. He has to revise his assessment of Q-Branch and perhaps 007; they are DEFINITELY a weird bunch.

—————————————————————

London to Geneva

The twelve hour drive included several refuel and recharge stops. With 007 in his old V8 Vantage and 008 in a hand me down Audi R8 formerly assigned to 003. Q and Nish on the other hand were enjoying the brand new modified Tesla Model X.

The Tesla was meant to be a support vehicle for handlers or other members of the support team that needed to be closer onsite - a mobile Ops centre of sorts. The large central screen was perfect for video conferencing and the software that controlled most of the car’s functions made it easy to add specialised ‘apps’ that increased its capabilities. The ‘summon’ mode that came stock with the car had been hacked to near true autonomous levels - turning it into a bulletproof infiltration or escape pod that could be summoned remotely if needed.

To top it off, the boot space was now fitted with hot-swappable modules that could contain anything from an armoury, a medical lab, a mini workshop, a surveillance drone launchpad etc. depending on mission parameters. The teams could even use its batteries as a power generator for a limited time.

All in all, another technological marvel courtesy of Q-Branch. But the best thing about it was also the simplest. The fact that the electric motors had enough punch to allow support teams to catch up to, or flee from hot situations.

A fact not lost on the boffins during their test drive to Geneva. While the sport cars that 007 & 008 drove had higher top speeds, the Model X’s acceleration was as advertised - ludicrous.

“Oh my God. This thing is insane! Check the accelerometer, how many Gs did we pull?”

At motorway legal speeds, they were unmatched. Something the boffins took plenty of pleasure doing on the open road - overtaking the agents whenever they had the chance.

Q tuts smugly at them as he pushes the car performance, “Oh hello 007, 008. Mind picking up the pace? We haven’t got all day…”. The dark grey Tesla pulls out from behind the convoy and shoots smoothly past the stunned agents.

Over the 3-way call and the roar of his noisy V8 engine, Bond can hear Nish and Q hooting and cackling like teenagers. Drunk on instant torque - Nish even tried to egg the agents into a race.

“Come on! Last one to Saint Quentin buys dinner!” Nish called out over the connection.

“Where are they? Did we loose them?” Q ribs the agents.

A testament to his growing maturity, 007 refused to take the bait. He could out manoeuvre them easily even with the handicap; but as senior agent on this mission, he’s not about to encourage dangerous driving that will attract the attention the french police and get them pulled over for no good reason.

Agent 008 however, did take the bait - turning the section from Beaune to Saint Quentin into a light game of tag all the while quibbling with the boffins good naturedly.

“Dinner is a broad term. Are we talking Maccies or the Ritz?” Marcus wants clarification. His Audi R8 pulling out into the overtaking lane and closing the distance.

“Ah, there you are 008.” Q catches him in the rearview mirror.

“Mate, the Ritz of course! Risotto with Grana Padano cheese and truffle oil and a bottle of the best Chasselas in the house,” Nish is surfing the menu on his tablet.

“… wet blanket…” someone mutters over the line.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with 007 having the slowest car of the lot does it?” Marcus goads.

The roar of Bond’s V8 engine barely drowns out their laughter.

By the time they arrived at the next rest stop, Bond had reached the end of his patience. He is not about to let the inexperienced boffins attempt to race a young impetuous double-0 through the twisty alpine roads with its sharp drops up to Geneva.

He forces Nish to switch cars with him. As for Q, he pinned with a strong hand behind the neck like you would a naughty cat by the scruff - and fixed him with a disapproving glare.

That effectively put an end to the game. Bond’s sports car was far less intuitive to drive - unaided by fancy tech and electronics, the performance machine required skill and experience to control. Nish has not much of either with the car, so had to treat it with respect.

Which left Bond driving the Model X with Q as passenger. It is essentially a glorified minivan in his eyes.

“Since when were you the sensible one?” Q grouses, tapping on the navigation screen to check their arrival time.

“Haven’t you been in my ear nagging about it for years?”

“And you chose now to listen to me?”

“We can’t both be irresponsible at the same time.” Now there’s a sobering thought, the havoc the both of them can wreck on the world… maybe that’s why interpersonal relationships are frowned upon, “The world isn’t ready for it.”

Q looks over at Bond and taps some options on the screen. Suddenly the car feels different, just as they are about to merge back onto the motorway. The instant torque that throws him into his seat when he puts his foot on the accelerator catches him by surprise.

Twenty minutes into the drive and Bond has to grudgingly admit that the acceleration was addictive, and the silence a relief to his ears. The seats and suspension far less a strain on his back and the large screen is easier to read. 007 has to face the terrifying possibility that he might be getting… SOFT.

“Admit it, it’s not as bad as you thought it would be.”

“Yes fine, I’m starting to see what all the fuss is about. Can you drift in it?”

“Not quite yet…. We have figured out how to bypass the stability control and add it as a shortcut tile onscreen—,“ Q points to the red ‘Chase Mode’ button on the corner of the main screen.

“—but its a heavy car and no one in Q-branch has managed to get the tail to spin out without nearly killing themselves in the process.” Q grins at him, “You up to the challenge?”

Bond quirks a smile as he puts his foot down on the accelerator to effortlessly and silently overtake a lumbering lorry.

“Sure, when we get home… But what happens if I need to turn the car OFF and ON again in the middle of a chase?” He’s not quite ready to surrender his internal combustion engine for a mobile phone on wheels.

————-------

Geneva Motor Show - Palexpo, Grand-Saconnex

Aston Martin Exhibition Stand

“Bond, if you stand like that next to the Vantage any longer, the press is going to think you’re a hired model.”

The agent is doing his patented man-in-suit ‘pose’ - that blend of deliberate insouciance he’s perfected over the years, feet right distance apart, one hand in his pocket. Hell, his suit is probably more expensive than what some of the actual models here are wearing. If Q was being honest, Bond makes the car look even better.

Q knows what Bond is doing. He’d basically herded Q over to the massive Aston Martin stand and refused to let him leave. Dragging him back to draw his attention to one thing or another whenever Q tried to move on. The bastard is fishing for a new car and not so subtly hinting which one he wants.

“Come over here,” he uses his free hand to gesture to Q, cajoling and demanding at the same time.

Q has to roll his eyes. He comes to stand in front of the information sign next to the car. He knows it already, the recently updated Vantage now has a 4.0 litre twin turbo V8 engine pushing out 503hp, 0-62mph in 3.6 seconds with a price tag that does not even bear thinking.

Q does a bit of mental math, “At that price, not to mention the cost of the additional modifications, we usually want to get more than a single use out of it…” a direct jibe at 007’s track record.

Bond just smiles cheekily and leans in close, “But surely if it meant the difference between if I get home in one piece or… several pieces, it’d be worth it. Consider it safeguarding Her Majesty’s assets.”

-Oh low blow-. That’s emotional blackmail. If they weren’t in public, Q would have smacked him soundly with the stack of glossy brochures he’d been collecting all day.

“Or we could write you off as depreciated assets and be done with it,” that was extra mean, and Q knows it. So he softens the blow by handing Bond the stack of brochures to free his hands and starts to inspect the car - making a show that he is ‘considering’ the request.

He pops open the bonnet to examine the engine setup, walks around checks the tyres and breaks, checks the boot space before climbing in to examine the interior and driver’s setup and controls.

Q is surprised when an Aston Martin executive lands in the passenger seat all of a sudden and introduces himself as the Deputy head of Engineering before drawing Q into a conversation about the car’s performance and clever electronic bits.

In his peripheral vision, Q sees Bond round the car to stand just outside the driver’s door - trapping Q in the driver’s seat. Bond braces and arm on the hood of the car and leans into the cabin, ostensibly to listen to the explanations from the executive.

Lecture completed, Bond finally allows Q to climb back out. Q grudgingly accepts a brochure from one of the marketing reps circling the stand and when he turns to regard Bond, silently asking -Happy now?-.

The man is standing close - he picks the brochure out of Q’s hands, placing it on the very top of Q’s growing collection before handing the entire stack back to the quartermaster. A satisfied smile on his face that conveys -I want one-.

Nish appears just then interrupting their silent repartee, “Q!— I mean Collin.” Nish hisses his name in a not quite whisper. 007 has to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. The boffins keep forgetting to use their cover names.

“Have you seen the concept Lagonda? That thing is ‘effing bonkers!” Nish is holding a champagne flute. “They’ve got drinks too yeah!”

Their priority passes as well as MTech’s connections score them invitations to exclusive launches by select manufacturers. For the boffins, it is Disneyland but with free alcohol. 007 can only hope that they will manage not to get too drunk on ‘gratis’ bubbly by the end of the day.

———

It was not all play and no work for the agents though. The day proved to be a fruitful outing for all of them.

At the Bugatti concept unveiling, 008 spots his mark. Kim Min Jun is watching the event together with the other VIPs. Marcus makes his move, insinuating himself into his small entourage of young, rich, social climbers. He scores an invite to drinks and party that evening at the Mambo in the city.

007 too finds his mark walking the show floor with a stunning woman presumably his wife. He watches as Don Marco and Kim meet briefly upstairs in the invitation only pavilion of the Bugatti stand. 007 takes his opportunity, swiping an unattended marketing pass from a table and goes up to the woman whom he later learns is Donna Lucia Sciarra. From her, he finagles their hotel name and duration of stay whilst giving her a tour of the cars on display.

———----------------------

The Ritz-Carlton, Hotel De la Paix - 2:00am

Bond gets back to the Ritz at 2am. He’d spent the evening with Donna Lucia while her husband was away attending to business. While Lucia wasn’t averse to physical dalliances of her own, she was loyal to her husband and his chosen profession. She had enough understanding of economics to know that her own position and lifestyle depended on it.

Which meant that 007 despite his charms could not get much information out of her other than a hint that Sciarra’s activities revolved around a client (presumably Kim). However the evening did present him with the opportunity to plant trackers and upload a virus into Sciarra’s laptop.

Now back at the Ritz, his room is oddly empty - Q is not in the room nor the connecting one. Neither bed has been slept in, nor was there a note of explanation. He checks his phone in case he missed a message - nothing.

Bond searches his jacket for his earpiece and puts it back in, “Q? Are you there?” No answer, but a moment later a sleepy Nish answers.

“Yes 007? I thought you’d finished with your objective tonight? The virus will continue to monitor and transmit data, but it will take time for HQ to shift through to find anything of interest. Did you need anything else?”

“Where’s Q?” voice carefully neutral.

“Uhh… in his room? He said he had a headache and had me standby on comms tonight. Why?” Nish is starting to sound concerned.

Bond stamps down his rising unease. He’s about to request Nish to check Q’s location when the room lock beeps and the man himself enters, dressed as he was during dinner. Q is swaying on his feet a little, that and the flushed skin indicated that he might be slightly inebriated.

Eyes locked on each other. “Nevermind. False alarm,” he tells Nish and removes the earpiece.

“Where the -hell- were you?” Bond is relived, but can’t keep the irritation out of his voice.

Q is a little taken aback by it. “I…uh… 008 called, needing assistance. It seems Kim Min Jun has few topics of interest outside of the serial partying expected of a socialite. Financial investments is one and the other, engineering. He’s a software engineer by education though his actual coding experience is limited, however he does retain an -intense-“ head tilt to emphasise the world “—interest in the field.”

He’s rambling. Bond knows Q does that when he’s stalling. “What happened?” he asks, more gently this time.

“008 was having difficulty maintaining Kim’s interest, so requested my help. We met up with him at his rented residence for a private party. Sciarra was present as well. Marcus did the requisite drinking, including most of my share, while I did the talking. Mostly about IT security, a little bit about encryption - fundamentals for the most part.”

Q elaborates while walking further into the room. He starts to empty his pockets and removes his jacket. When he’s done, he leans against the hallway wall - clearly tired.

“After a while, Sciarra who hadn’t spoken much the entire night brings out a tablet. He had a game on it, some sort of storm the castle type strategy puzzle. The game is adaptive - machine learning adjusts the game’s response to the skill level of the player in real time. It does not have preset levels or preset game paths like traditional games.”

“I can’t imagine it would be something for commercial release, it’s terrible as a game - it felt more like a simulation. But to the right people, it would be entertaining I suppose. He asked if I could help him solve the game. He’d been struggling for weeks apparently.”

Then more quietly he adds, “Park and I were concerned that if we did not indulge him, Sciarra would leave early… and that would put you in a precarious situation.”

Q braces for Bond’s exasperation, “Q… we’ve discussed this. You are not to put yourself in danger for my sake.” Sleeping with a colleague had its complications.

“At no point this evening was Sciarra or Kim aggressive nor did I feel any immediate danger.. just a general unease.” Q tries to defend himself.

And quickly continues, “We spent close to an hour on it, trying multiple strategies before making significant headway. I wanted to leave after that, so made an excuse about being too drunk for anymore strenuous thinking. Sciarra did not seem inclined, wanting my help to finish it. Kim was more accommodating and let us leave. He seemed pleased though, enough to invite us to the launch of his ICO.”

Bond has a sinking feeling in his stomach. So that’s what Lucia alluded to, when she said her husband was out scouting for opportunities. What was 008 thinking? He’d tossed an unprepared boffin into shark infested seas and chummed the water.

“Invite YOU, you mean… I think their interests rest solely in you at this point.” Despite the disapproval roiling off him, Bond can sense how uncomfortable Q is and steps in close, hands wrapping around his ribcage. Q melts into the comforting touch, resting his hands on the lapels of Bond’s jacket.

“I suppose… James, I’m going confess - I’m feeling somewhat out of my depth in this. Sciarra makes me nervous. And the personal manipulation feels… distasteful. Intellectually I understand the need for it, but it’s so different when you’re in the thick of it, that constant anxiety about being found out.”

“I’m guessing you felt a connection with Kim? The manipulation works best if there is a connection but also feels the worst.” Bond hopes the explanation would help.

Q nods in agreement. “Kim is a good conversationalist, we have overlapping interests, in any other situation we could very well be friends. How do you do this?” It is a rhetorical question. He is beginning to understand what 007 has to do in the line of duty; how this line of work can alter your perception of the world. He recalls Bond’s file and the trauma of Vesper Lynd.

In a moment of drunken paranoia and insecurity of his own, Q’s internal commentary goes into a wild tangent - what if Bond with his training and psychopathic tendencies is toying with him? How would he even begin to tell? Cold creep of horror constricts his chest. What if one day James tells him that he’s done playing house? Itch scratched?

He tries to distract himself by picking at a loose thread sticking out of Bond’s shirt where a button should be, the next one down is missing as well. How unlike Bond, he’s usually so fastidious with his wardrobe— ohh!

“Did she… pop your buttons??” The mental image is not helping his insecurities at the moment. This is nothing, just a couple of buttons - nothing compared to the cuts and bruises Bond comes home wearing all too often. But it is enough to remind Q that as recent as half an hour ago, Bond was in the embrace of someone else. There is even a lingering hint of her perfume.

His expectations in this regard has not changed just because of their as of yet undisclosed relationship. Q can maintain a clinical detachment while reading about and even on occasion listening to 007’s amorous encounters in the line of duty. But he is usually spared the physical aftermath. James always return to him carefully put back and scrubbed clean of evidence so to speak. So to be confronted with it for the first time is jarring, especially in his current state of mind.

Bond feels Q stiffen in the embrace. The gentle idling hands on his chest suddenly ceasing their movements - recoiling slowly into loosely balled fists. He grabs Q’s hands before they slip off his chest.

The action snaps Q out of his spiral of paranoid thoughts, anchoring him. The cold tightness around his chest eases - the warm reality he chooses to believe in edging out the insecurities.

Bond sighs heavily, he is going to have a talk with with 008 in the morning. Park should have checked with him before involving Q in this. The Quartermaster for all his eager willingness to help any agent in need; is not trained psychologically to handle up close deception nor does he have the right personality traits for this type of field work.

“I need a shower.”

“I could use a shower.”

They both declare at the same time. This makes the both of them smile, lifting the dark mood.

“Care to join me? You scratch mine and I’ll scratch yours?” Bond starts to go in for a kiss but stops in time when realises that the taste the Lucia’s lipstick is probably still on his skin.

“I’ll join you, but they’ll be no scratching involved.” Q is already starting to undress him, pulling his shirttails out of his trousers. “Shower, then sleep,” is as detailed a plan he can muster at the moment.

“Oh, thank goodness.” Bond exhales, visibly deflating - the bravado bleeding out of him. He is no longer as indefatigable as his reputation suggests.

“By the way, fair warning: I will likely be quite the tosser in the morning. I can already feel the beginnings of a hangover. Do you think throwing up now would help?”

“How much did you have to drink?”

A less than attractive burp escapes him. “No idea. Several rounds, at least, of what they call Poktan-ju. It’s some sort of bomb-shot. Soju mixed with beer? Christ, those things are potent.”

Bond kisses his temple and guides him to the bathroom, “Come on, I’ll hold your hair.”

—————————————

Ritz-Carlton - Breakfast

“You’re shagging the Quartermaster.” Park concludes after the lecture.

Not quite the response Bond was looking for after his talk about not putting untrained personnel in harm’s way; but one has to admire his cheek.

“The bed in his room is always made. No personal items on the bedside table. The adjoining door is always open. There are no used clothing anywhere in his room or bathroom, only fresh ones the hotel laundry returns in the wardrobe. And even those have his jumpers mixed in with your suits…” Marcus checks Bond’s reaction, just to make sure he wasn’t going to need to avoid an impending punch.

“The clincher though, is he leaves his phone charging in your room on the bedside table next to what I’m assuming is his side… I peeked. If you’re trying to keep it a secret, you’re doing a pretty shit job,” he finishes with considerable smugness.

Bond wonders if the previous M hired the next generation based solely on the measure of their precocious impertinence. The four of them have been using the Quartermaster’s room as a meeting room every morning for sitrep before they got on with the day’s agenda. So he supposes it is only expected for an agent of Park’s calibre to catch on sooner rather than later.

“Congratulations, you’ve figured out something every boffin in Q-Branch would have been able to tell you,” Bond deadpans.

A congenial chuckle escapes Marcus, “I have to say though, I’m somewhat embarrassed at how long it took for me to notice. For a short while I mistook your territorial displays as invitation. I was about to proposition you at one point… even if you aren’t exactly my type.”

Now that, genuinely was surprising. The amusing confession is an olive branch, and Bond accepts it by not punching Marcus in the face to underscore the message of his lecture.

And in regards to the lesson, Marcus concedes, “Fine! I’ll take your suggestion into consideration… for future reference.”

“Instruction—”

“—Advice.”

“Direction.“

“Counsel.”

“Order.” Bond is beginning to understand Mallory’s accelerated hair loss over the last two years.

“How about we settle at strong recommendation?” Marcus suggests affably, some measure of contrition in his cheeky smile.

Bond just blinks slowly and sighs. Agent 009 must be certifiable to want to one day succeed Mallory into a leadership position.

He looks over Marcus again. Despite the rebellious backtalk, the younger agent looks like shit warmed over. He is nearly slumped over the breakfast table.

“Should we have your stomach pumped?” The pathetic sight pulls a shred of pity out of him. Q isn’t even awake yet and if Marcus drank most of his share for him; it is no small feat that the agent managed to get out of bed this morning. Bond is aware of the ‘fellowship’ drinking required in other cultures, so spares Park a second lecture.

Marcus just waves the comment away. “Nnngh. Put a bullet in me and be done with it.”

—

Bond’s buzzing phone signals the end of the conversation. No caller ID, number withheld. He answers but says nothing.

“You boys at MI6 just can’t resist a challenge can you?” a familiar voice says without preamble.

Now this is interesting. “Felix. How are you? To what do I owe this call?”

“The puzzle box. The dammed game. It’s a test. Sciarra has been toting that thing around for months. We’re not sure for what yet. But it seems your new boy and the computer nerd he brought along made quite an impression last night.”

-Ah shit…- “And how do you know this?”

“Standard stuff, you know better than to ask. What I can tell you is Sciarra’s been seen poking around Silicone Valley. Word is, his next stop was going to be Russia but seems you boys have given him reason to delay that.”

“What do you know about Kim Min Jun? Your guys have better access to South Korea than we do.”

“Not as much as we’d like. The boy is a princeling, but only on the periphery - he’s a bit of an outcast. His connection to the family is through his mother who is the youngest of four. She was sent to the Europe for her education, where she met a man - a fellow student. She had a child by him outside of her family’s approval.”

“They married for the sake of appearances, but her family never warmed to him. He had some means, but nothing compared to her family. So eventually they split and she returned to Korea with their young son. Kim’s full name is Ferdinand Oberhauser-Kim Min Jun. Though he dropped the use of his father’s family name in favour of his mother’s surname Kim.“

“Alright so that’s his past, what about his current?” 007 continues to fish for information.

“Kim might not be a central figure or direct heir but he is still considered family, so there are… sensitivities involved. If it leaks that the we have interest in a family member of a powerful Chaebol, the political and public fallout could jeopardise international relations.” Leiter is being unusually forthcoming this morning.

“I see… so is this a courtesy call or do you need something?” the bored tone belying the interest underneath.

Felix clears his throat. -Here it comes- Bond thinks, “It seems your side has had better luck getting close to Kim. We’d like to know what he’s up to with the ICO. In return, we’ll tail Sciarra and let you know what he’s looking for in Silicone Valley and Russia.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, milking it for all its worth. It is not everyday that the CIA admits to being one step behind.

Eventually he answers, “Well, no point doubling up on the same job.” He doesn’t tell Felix that, MI6 already has a virus in Sciarra’s laptop. Anyway, Leiter might have more information and a partnership might be useful in the future. If the CIA is also interested in Kim, there might be something larger at play.

There is a hint of relief in Felix’s voice, “Always a pleasure doing business with you James. Oh and, wherever you found that computer nerd, I hope he’s insured. We don’t know how far this goes. We’ll be in touch.”

—————————————————

Note: If you liked this fic, there’s more like it on the blog. Enjoy!

#00Q #00Q fan #Q #quartermaster #00q fic

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kathyprior4200 · 4 years

Text

HAZBINUVA BOSS

A meeting was in progress at the Hazbin Hotel. Five demons were seated around a large wooden rectangular table near where the bar was. The window and door that Sir Pentious’ machine had blown up were now repaired thanks to Alastor. (The door now had an elaborate skull with antlers hanging above the door frame.) The group sat in high-backed leather chairs with spikes on the rims. A pentagram was in the center of the table, drawn in white. Charlie, the blonde haired princess was standing up and writing words down on a whiteboard. Vaggie sat in a chair close by, glaring at everyone else with her gray hands clasped together on the table. Angel had his long legs propped up on the table off to the right. Alastor sat in-between Husk and Niffty. Husk moved further away from them and then stopped when Angel inched closer with his chair. In front of everyone were bowls of fresh Jambalaya, almost finished.

“Thank you so much for making your meal for us,” Charlie said with a smile, turning from the board.

“Anytime, dear!” Alastor replied. “I had used up a lot of my magic and I figured all of us would be hungry. Figured it’d be a great way to celebrate the start of your Haz…Happy Hotel!”

“Wow Al!” Angel exclaimed. “That was some delicious grub!”

Everyone nodded and hummed in agreement. Even Vaggie had to admit it was delicious.

“Thank you,” Alastor said with a smile. “It’s my mother’s special recipe…I even put in gunpowder for an explosive effect!” He laughed. “That was what almost killed her. She had too much Southern Comfort and decided to pour gunpowder while the jambalaya was in the pan…it blew up in her face! I tried it and the kick was straight outta Hell!”

“Oh my,” Niffty said with a brief gasp. “You really should be more careful next time. It could leave a big mess.”

“I try my hardest, dear,” he said to Niffty, which caused the small cyclops demon to blush.

Alastor continued. “Did you know that hunters in Louisiana would often add game meat to their dishes? Deer, duck, and other animals they hunted. I did it all the time. Venison was my favorite…but human flesh gave it that extra flavor that was simply divine!”

Vaggie, Angel, and Charlie made disgusted faces. “Can we please not bring that up?” Charlie asked, coming to sit down.

“But I just did,” he replied nonchalantly.

Vaggie stared hard at her bowl, eye twitching, fearful of finding any part that may have looked vaguely human. Niffty had licked her bowl clean…literally. Husk was busy drinking another bottle of booze.

“What the flying, fuck, Alastor?!” Angel stated. “I love your looks and all, but try and tone down on the cannibalism.”

Alastor leaned in slightly closer to Angel. “I read somewhere that some people on Earth consume insects in their diet. Including spiders.”

Angel’s eyes widened in fear, but soon, his pink pupils dilated. “You would…try and eat me?” he asked with a grin, pink gloved hand moving just a hair toward his dick.

Alastor deciphered what he was implying and replied with a haughty “No. Not in that way.”

“Your loss,” Angel called as the Radio Demon moved away from the white feminine dressed spider.

Vaggie narrowed her eyes a Husk. “Can we at least not drink during a meeting?”

“Hasn’t started yet,” Husk replied, not even looking at her.

Vaggie mentioned to the bar with her spear. “That bar shouldn’t even be here!”

“I think it’s a necessary thing to have,” Angel replied. “Gotta have some liquor to enjoy between the pole dancing performances and stripping and…”

“The hotel is not a strip club, Angel!” Vaggie pressed on.

Alastor conjured a glass of Cornac in his hand with dark red magic and began to drink.

Angel grinned widely, one of his top sharp teeth golden. “See? The strawberry pimp agrees, too!”

A growl rumbled in Alastor’s throat as he glanced in Angel’s direction.

“What the…” Husk gasped. “No fair!” He clenched his claws. “I’ve had it with your fucking games and showing off.” He looked like a cat ready to pounce.

“What’d you plan to do, Husker? Fight me and lose your job?”

The Radio Demon’s tone was laced with warning. A grumbling Husk got the message and sank back in his chair.

“That’s what I thought.”

Charlie banged her fist on the table, getting everyone’s attention. “Alright then! If you all are done with your meals…”

Alastor snapped his fingers and the bowls vanished. Husk glanced at where his bowl was before. “I wasn’t done yet!”

“…let’s get down to business with our first group meeting.”

Charlie in her white tuxedo with a black bow tie, stood up and walked over to the white board. She held a wooden pointer in her hands.

On the board, the words “Happy Hotel” were written in rainbow letters. Random drawings of unicorns, puppies, flowers, and smiling stick figures of demons decorated the board off to the side.

“First and foremost, welcome to the Happy Hotel! I’m Charlie and I’m the founder of this place. How about we introduce ourselves?”

“Babe, we ain’t kids ya know,” Angel remarked. “Besides, I already know the names of you guys.”

“And frankly, I could care less,” Husk added.

“I am Alastor, the Radio Demon! Pleasure to meet all of you!”

“That radio voice of yours is getting on my nerves,” Vaggie muttered under her breath. “That wasn’t even necessary.”

“What was that?” Alastor asked with a tilt of his head. “Speak up. Say it a bit louder for the people in the back.”

Charlie looked at Vaggie who pointed to something on the board. The look in her eyes was telling Charlie to move on.

“O-okay then,” Charlie said. “With the introductions over…ground rules!”

Vaggie nodded and gave her a thumbs up.

“Rule number one: Treat each other the way you want to be treated. Be kind to each other or at least tolerant.”

Angel smirked. “Easier said than done.”

Alastor rolled his eyes and laughed.

Charlie put her hands on her hips. “You guys think this is all a joke, but I don’t. If you want to stay here, then you have to put in some effort. Even if it’s little steps every day.”

“Like I said before, you can’t baby us into good behavior,” Angel said. “Are we like your students or something?”

“Clients, yes,” she replied.

“You’re just a teen, darling,” Alastor added. “You don’t have any experience with being formerly human or know about how Hell really works. I’m surprised you made it this far after your entertaining fiasco on the picture show.”

That hit her hard. Alastor grinned in amusement at the stunned look on her face. His laugher rang in her ears (if she even had any).

Charlie had dealt with snide comments like that for many years. Helsa and Katie Killjoy were the worst, never hesitating to bring her down with comments on her clothing, her silly ideas, or her clown-like appearance.

“She’s a living joke!” Helsa would say, earning a snicker from her brother Seviathan. “Look at her blushing cheeks and tuxedo. Hey, you gonna juggle demon heads for us, princess?”

A younger Helsa was standing with a bunch of mean girls by a row of lockers (resembling Zootopia school girls with animal-like features.)

“Hey, look! It’s the gay princess of rainbows!” Helsa called. “I wanna see you smooch those loser girls over there. A love fest for freaks!”

A girl with a white ponytail and glasses whispered to another girl who stretched out her leg and made Charlie trip…papers flying everywhere as their laughter screeched around her.

“Well, looks like your project is dead on arrival,” Katie Killjoy had said, getting into her face. “How does it feel to be such a failure?”

“Listen well, Charlotte, because I won’t say this again,” Lucifer had warned her back at home. “If you know what’s good for you, you will give up on your foolish idea and start behaving like an adult.”

“But I am an adult!” Charlie protested, no longer struggling. “And I’ve decided as princess to continue on with opening the hotel. It will be what’s best for us.”

Flames sparked in Lucifer’s eyes. “If you think causing a war is what’s best for us, then you are gravely mistaken. I had high hopes for you all these years. But now…you’re nothing but a failure.”

“Charlie?”

A familiar voice cut in. Charlie looked to see concern in Vaggie’s yellow eye.

Vaggie enveloped her gray hand into Charlie’s pale one and gave it a comforting squeeze. The feeling seemed to bring her back from her plaguing thoughts.

She took a breath.

“Well, that may be true,” she began, regaining her composure, “But my parents taught me a lot about Hell as well as their histories. I know I’m new at this project and I’ve never interacted much with a lot of people. But I’m learning new things every day from sinners like you all. I do my best every day because I know that there is good in every one of you. And I’m not going to give up on my goal. I’m offering you all a second chance; you could start doing the same for me.”

Alastor was a bit taken aback, if not impressed with how well she recovered.

“Inside of every demon is a failure,” Alastor sang softly.

“You don’t know the song, do you?” Charlie spoke up, briefly startling him. She smirked. “And besides, I’m older than all of you. I’m over 150 years old.”

Everyone stared in stunned silence. Angel’s mouth was open and he breathed “say what?” Booze sputtered from Husk’s mouth and the winged cat demon coughed. Niffty scurried over and wiped up the spilled drops off the table. Alastor’s mouth was almost hitting the floor. But shortly after that, he cleared his throat and added, “You’re beautiful all the same.”

He winked and Charlie let out a giggle. Vaggie gave a deadpan stare at Alastor, gripping her harpoon tighter in her hands.

“Rules!” Charlie proclaimed, getting back to the topic. “First rule is the Golden Rule. Be kind and respectful to everyone.”

Rule number two: No drinking during the day or past curfew. Angel. Husk.”

She stared at them. “You better be listening.”

“I’m listening,” Husk said. “I just don’t care.”

“I can take that booze away from you,” Vaggie said.

“Try it bitch.”

“Enough, enough! Rule number three: no drugs of any kind. Angel.”

“Rule number four; no distributing porn. Again, Angel, take note of this.”

“For fuck’s sake, sugar!” Angel replied. “You trying to make my life miserable here?”

“Do you want to stay rent free or not, bastard?” Vaggie added.

“Touché,” Angel said, calming down.

“Rule number five: No murdering or harming any guests or staff members. Applies to everyone. Especially Alastor.”

“What?” he said with a chuckle. “If I wanted to hurt anyone here…”

“You would’ve done so already. We get it,” Vaggie yelled, walking over to him, spear at the ready. “Bullshit. If you won’t take that rule seriously…I can make sure that you do.”

“Rule number six, no swearing.”

Husk let out a series of cuss words in response.

“Vaggie, Husk, and Angel Dust, this rule is for you.”

None of them looked happy about it.

Alastor looked smug in his seat. “That’s one rule I don’t have to worry about.”

He appeared next to Charlie after materializing from shadow. He placed her hand son her shoulders. “But what’s say you? You’ve let out some swear words as well. I heard you on the picture show.”

Charlie looked flustered. “Y-yes, I know. I’m working on that too.”

Alastor cupped her cheeks and tilted the corners of her mouth upwards. “No frowns allowed, dear. That’s another rule.”

“Get away from her, you psycho!” Vaggie called, holding her spear and walking beside Charlie.

“It’s okay Vaggie,” Charlie assured.

Alastor poked the girls’ noses and materialized back in his seat.

“Rule number seven: respect personal space at all times. Applies to everyone. Especially now that there’s a pandemic going around.”

Alastor nodded. “A very important rule to have. The six foot rule! Angel Dust over there will have to follow it if he wants his fingers to stay intact.”

Angel backed up in his seat.

“But you will too, Al,” Charlie mentioned. “Just because you don’t like to be touched, doesn’t mean you can just touch others whenever you want.”

Charlie felt cold hands wrap around her waist. She glanced down and they were long and black. The air behind her felt cold and hummed with dark power. She looked back and stared into a shadowy face with blank teal eyes and a creepy teal grin.

“Argh!” Charlie jumped back in fright. Alastor’s shadow vanished.

“Don’t do that, Alastor!”

Alastor chuckled. “I didn’t touch you or anything. Surely, the no touching rule doesn’t apply all the time. How else would we dance and have fun?”

Charlie sighed, “Good point there.”

“Splendid!”

“Alright, now onto a list of possible solutions and goals to work toward. Vaggie helped me with this list.”

Charlie walked around the room and passed out identification papers unique to each individual that listed the subject’s dates of death, their sins and rehabilitation strategies. Extra copies were kept in a folder in Charlie’s desk.

“No sharing any personal info,” said Charlie. “Anyone who wants to talk about personal issues can do so in their own time.”

Everyone looked at her with appreciation in their eyes.

“To briefly list them out with Vaggie’s help:

“Angel Dust: drug therapy and gradual lessening of the cocaine and angel dust. Only drinking in the evenings or every other day. Frequent injections of medicine for sobering effect. Refrain from doing turf wars. No use of guns and weapons permitted in the hotel unless for self-defense. Rewards for cooperation include: staying rent free, making new friends, payment as progress goes on.”

“Alastor: No invading other people’s space. Any murder, harm or demonic possession will result in dismissal and use of harpoon weapon. Use of dark magic on anyone is prohibited. No making deals with anyone. Rewards for cooperation include: jambalaya, jazz dances, singing, and the willingness to hear dad jokes.”

“Husk: No stealing or hoarding liquor or any alcoholic beverages. We know that you do. Try and spend more time for alternative activities such as magic shows and similar gambling games that involve either less money or fake money. Rewards for cooperation include: catnip, weekend booze, money, and extra alone time.”

Charlie had written the next part for Vaggie:

“Vaggie: Take deep breaths and focus on me whenever temper arises. Refrain from swearing and killing if possible. Have faith that this project will work and keep supporting me. It’s much appreciated. Reward: new friends and spending time with me.”

“Niffty: don’t lift others up or cause any chaos. We know you’re capable of murder as well, so same rules: no murder, apply. Stalking men will result in a warning. Keep up the cooking and cleaning but don’t get too carried away. (rumor has it that you and Husk dispose bodies for Alastor, so watch your backs.) Rewards for cooperation include: spare time for reading, writing, and sharing fanfiction.”

Charlie glanced down and saw a section of advice for her written by Vaggie:

“Charlie: Refrain from swearing and getting too involved with the lives of other clients. It will take a while for demons to get redeemed, let alone go to Heaven, so be patient. Don’t be afraid to be stern and strict when necessary. You see the good in everyone, so bring out all their good traits while acknowledging the bad. Never give up on your goal, no matter what others may say. And most importantly:

BE CAUTIOUS OF ALASTOR.”

Charlie smiled at Vaggie who smiled back genuinely. She mouthed “I love you,” and Charlie did the same.

“Well, that pretty much covers it,” she said brightly. “We plan on having weekly meetings whenever we can. If any of you wish to talk about your personal issues, you can speak to me in private for a session.”

Vaggie nodded.

“Now…onto the fun part! The games I planned out!”

She held up drawings.

Vaggie groaned and facepalmed.

“Karaoke nights! Bingo! Strawberry cake desserts and cupcakes to share! Demon Dance Revolutions on stage! Bring your pets to work day! Arts and crafts and meet and greets! Sociological issues in Hell with Vaggie. And every Sunday, tales of Heaven and happiness!”

Now everyone had given up on taking her seriously. Some even began fidgeting or standing up to leave.

“I’ll stick with pole dancing,” said Angel.

“And gambling,” said Husk.

“Don’t forget dad jokes!” Alastor added.

“18+ fanfictions to share,” said Niffty. “My favorite: When Vox, Sir Pentious, and Alastor Cared for Me in Bed!”

Everyone gasped in surprise and disgust. The group parted ways, agreeing to meet back in the lobby.

Alastor briefly walked out of the room and up onto the balcony. His staff lit up.

“Hello there, you fabulous sinful folk! It is I, Alastor the Radio Demon coming to you live from…”

He briefly looked behind him to see that Charlie wasn’t watching,

“…the Hazbin Hotel! What is it, you ask? It is a unique little joint run by Princess Charlotte that aims to rehabilitate sinners. Yes, what a crazy idea indeed, but apparently, she already has a few clients waiting to stay there. It’s been getting boring around here and I think the princess and her friends could use some extra company. If you’re looking for a place to stay, or to hang out, or if you simply want to try and be a better person only to fail miserably at it…come on over! And it’s free as well!”

He laughed and basked in his glory. Keeping his promise to Blitzo, he added,

“…If you ever want demons or even humans to die after doing you wrong, contact the Immediate Murder Professionals. A lovely trio of imps in Imp City, they’ll kill your intended targets anyway you wish, both in Hell and on Earth! Decapitation, disembowelment, suffocation… you name it, they’ll do it. Goodbye humans, hello justice! Bonus: kids die for free!”

He snapped his fingers and a jazzy version of the I.M.P. Jingle played on air.

“I’ll see you around next time, here on 66.6FM. And as always, smile and stay tuned!”

The staff blinked off.

“Alastor?” Charlie called from inside. “What were you doing? I heard some music out from the balcony.”

Alastor turned around. “Hello, my dear! I just came out for some fresh air.”

“Where you just on the radio?” she asked.

“Yes. Nothing much, just advertising your hotel to the public.”

Now it was Charlie’s turn for her jaw to hit the floor. A mixture of elation, surprise, and nervousness spurred through her core.

“Y-You what?”

Alastor laughed. “I did say I wanted to help, didn’t I? So I figured, why not spread the word to a wider audience?”

Charlie smiled but was also shaking. If it was true, then now everyone would know about the hotel. Including Helsa, Katie, her parents…

On the one hand, it was the start of a dream come true. More people would folk to the front doors in the hopes of possibly redeeming themselves in the future.

On the other hand, she’d now be a potential laughing stock for everyone in Hell. Her embarrassment at the news station was awful enough. Now there could be more demons out there who would dismiss her idea just like that.

In the back of her head, she wondered about the other overlords. Would they be willing to come to the hotel as well? Could they track her location and harm her when she was by herself?

And what would her parents think of this? The last thing she wanted was another lecture from her father of how her plan seemed unreasonable, ridiculous and a waste of time.

But then again…she had her friends with her. She had Alastor to protect her. If she wanted to prove herself, she would have to get started somehow.

“Thank you, Al. I don’t know what to say,” she finally said.

“Think nothing of it, my dear. More people means more entertainment, doesn’t it?”

Charlie walked back inside, soon surrounded by the others. She stared into each of their eyes and saw something she’d never thought she’d see: sparks of hope and support. Genuine smiles on their faces, even for Husk. Each individual leading different lives but all connected together in a strange bond. A band of misfits, brought together by herself and fate. The downtrodden brought to a place of comfort, where they could be themselves while working toward getting into paradise.

It was the start of something special. Of potentially making a difference and changing her world.

“Charlie?” Vaggie asked.

“Yes,” she said.

Vaggie mentioned to the door. A series of knockings could be heard. Charlie walked toward the door, hesitantly reaching for the handle before swinging it open.

A pair of three imps and a hellhound stood in the doorway. The one in front had a white and red face with yellow eyes, long curved horns and a black mark on his forehead. The shorter imp to his right had white hair, a red face, yellow eyes and shorter horns. Both of them wore navy blue business suits, their long pointed red tails behind them. The other imp was dressed in a black tank top with torn pants. She had lone eyelashes and eye rows, plus a red face and wild black hair. Finally, the white furry hellhound was dressed in street clothing: torn short pants, a spiked collar around her neck and a tank top held in place with string shaped like a downward pointing pentagram.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Is this the Hazbin Hotel?” asked the imp in front. “The Radio Demon kindly advertised our company and so we decided to see what this Hazbin business is about.”

“No, this is the Happy Hotel,” she said, confusion etched onto her face.

“The sign up there read Hazbin,” said the shorter male imp.

The first imp spoke. “So you’re the princess that the Radio Demon talked about. Redeeming sinners, right?”

Charlie scratched the back of her neck. “Yes.”

Blitzo laughed. “My, that’s a first when it comes to hilarious ideas. And I thought Stolas was crazy in the head.”

Charlie flushed, eyes downward.

“But hey, don’t worry, we’re just here for a visit. At Alastor’s request.”

Those words sent an unforeseen chill down her spine. He wondered what he meant by that.

Making an effort to be polite, she held out her hand. “I’m Charlie.”

“Blitzo!” said the imp in front, shaking her hand. “The o is silent. Head of I.M.P. This is Moxxie, Millie, and my dear Loony. May we come in?”

“Sure.”

Blitzo proudly walked in, followed by a grumpy Moxxie, an excited Millie and an indifferent Loona.

Vaggie gasped in shock as the group came in. Angel, Husk and Niffty soon took notice.

“Hello there good friends!” Alastor greeted. He had clearly been expecting them. He turned to Niffty. “Niffty, it’s your turn to make some jambalaya for our new guests!”

“I’m on it!” she beamed before dashing of toward the kitchen.

“Jamba-what now?” Moxxie asked.

“Jambalaya, a Creole specialty dish from New Orleans. Rice, shrimp, vegetable, meat, and fresh flesh mixed in if you prefer.”

“Sounds ravishing to me!” Millie said. She looked around at the hotel. “Wow, this place is quite something! It may not be the fanciest one but it’s better than the slums and halfway houses in Imp City.”

She turned to Blitzo, “Blitzo can we please stay a night or two?”

“No Millie, this is a place for sinners, not for us hellborn. Besides, we’ll have to go back to headquarters once our visit is over.”

Millie pouted a bit.

Moxxie folded his arms. “Getting sent here for a ”meet and greet.” Pathetic. We’re treated like dirt day in and day out by Hell society. Why visit a random hotel down the pit?”

“Because,” Blitzo said, eyes shining. “Alastor promised me a taste of musical theater and entertainment. The two of us on stage!”

“That’s right!” he chimed in. “I heard about I.M.P. on the picture show. It was the least I could do to show my support. And here I am supporting Charlie with her hotel. It does feel good to help out others.”

Charlie cupped her face and beamed in delight. Millie and Niffty stood and giggled as they watched Alastor from a distance. Vaggie and everyone else looked suspicious. Vaggie seriously doubted that Alastor actually meant what he said. He was only concerned about entertaining himself and using others for his benefit.

Blitzo and Moxxie exchanged worried looks. The hidden mark of Kalfu and Alastor hummed inside their heads. The three imps were, in fact, summoned to the hotel just after Alastor’s announcement. Loona quickly tracked them down, almost pulled in after then as well. She, too, felt a pinch of dark energy inside her.

Moxxie opened his mouth speak, but no sound came out. He tried to use his hands for sign language, but a dark shadow seemed to hold his fingers in place. A look of fear was etched onto his face. He stared at Charlie, desperate to tell her, but he could only blink and move his eyes. Charlie was oblivious, of course. Vaggie and Angel were merely concerned. Niffty and Husk felt the same energy pulsing from inside their heads like a dark heartbeat. They knew that just like the newcomers, they couldn’t do anything but wait and watch. By the time the others figured out they had made deals with Alastor, he’d probably brush them aside, having no use for them. There was no way to tell, so they stopped thinking about it.

“Is something the matter, good sir?” Alastor asked, grin stretching slightly.

A flash of a recent memory at headquarters…

A very slow “Shave and a Haircut” knock filled up the silence. It came from behind the door that led to the hallway.

Loona and Husk froze, maws open in mid-brawl. Moxxie raised his eyebrows and suddenly started to shiver. Millie and Blitzo suddenly felt an oncoming sense of dread. Husk crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. Niffty, however, clapped her hands in excitement. She took some steps forward, but froze at Moxxie’s glare.

“Do not answer the door,” Moxxie whispered in a harsh tone.

Niffty stared in confusion. “Why not? He’s my friend.”

Moxxie narrowed his eyes.

“From the other side!” Niffty emphasized.

“Just don’t go any further.”

Niffty grinned and tiptoed closer to the door.

“No, no, no,” Moxxie breathed, moving his hands across in a signal. “Stop right there.”

Niffty stopped and slowly reached her thin black hand toward the round handle.

“Oh for Lucifer’s sake!” Blitzo announced, walking toward the door. “It’s Niffty’s coworker. How bad can he be?”

He opened the door and grinned. “Hi I’m Blitz…”

His eyes widened and his face fell.

“…o.”

Blitzo stared at a towering tall demon wearing a tattered red dress coat with vertical thin stripes. Burgundy colored pants covered his legs and ended in red patches along the ends. He wore black dress shoes with red deer print marks on the soles. His undershirt was red and had an upside down black cross as part of the design. A black bow tie was displayed below his slender neck. One of his four clawed hands held a red vintage microphone staff.

Blitzo stuttered, at a loss for words. Fear was constricting his throat. He stuttered as he looked up at the man’s face, “Welcome…”

Blitzo stared at the man’s red and black hair, with large deer ears and antlers. His large red eyes blinked to life from a pale face. A monocle gleamed under his right eye.

“…to…”

The man displayed a grin of sharp yellow teeth, his smile too wide to be considered natural.

“…I.M.P…”

The demon opened his mouth, “Hell…”

Blitzo slammed the door, catching his breath. He opened it a crack…

“…o!”

Closed it again. “Guys…” he began.

“What?” Moxxie asked in frustration.

“I think we need to move away. Niffty, could you please send your friend away? He’s giving me the creeps.”

Niffty shook her head.

“Don’t let him in, sir!” Moxxie said. Husk nodded in agreement.

Millie gasped, “That’s a rude way to treat a guest!”

“Okay then, do you want to open the door?”

Millie gulped.

Blitzo sighed and opened it again.

“May I speak now?” the man asked.

“Sure, whatever,” Blitzo muttered.

The overlord swooped into the room. “Greetings fellow sinners! I’m Alastor but people call me the Radio Demon. I heard from my little darling Niffty that you imps are part of an assassination organization, yes?”

Blitzo took a deep breath and cleared his throat. A smile appeared on his face, now that he was feeling confident. “That’s correct, good sir! I’m Blitzo and I’m the founder of the Immediate Murder Professionals, I.M.P. for short.”

Alastor laughed. “What a clever name! I.M.P. run by imps! And who are your associates?”

Blitzo mentioned to the other imps, “This is Moxxie and Millie.” Millie waved and blushed while Moxxie glowered.

Loona looked up from her phone.

“…and this is my sweet daughter, Loona,” Blitzo finished.

Loona growled and snapped her teeth at Alastor, causing him to take a step back. Retaining his composure, he continued. “That little maid is Niffty, and that cat over there is Husk. I saw your commercial on the picture show and was intrigued. Murdering people in gruesome ways…a classic form of entertainment! It even makes my methods look standard. All thanks to Niffty for finding your location.”

Niffty smiled and waved.

“Next time, don’t mention Imp City in the ad,” Moxxie spat at Blitzo in a low voice.

Alastor walked slightly closer to Blitzo, leaning in. “Is it true that you have access to the living world?”

“Uh…yes?” Blitzo answered. He felt Alastor’s fingers make their way along his curved horns. Despite himself denying it, Blitzo felt his cheeks go pink.

“And you can create portals? Splendid, indeed. There’s no other being in Hell who can do that.”

“Smooth liar,” Husk muttered from a distance.

“That’s right!” Blitzo replied. “Our company has special access to the living world due to our abilities. I may have also stolen a Satanic ritual book from a bird dick overlord several days ago. Top secret.”

Moxxie’s face turned purple, he made the hand signal for “zip it!” to Blitzo, but of course, he wasn’t paying attention.

Alastor smiled and put a finger to his lips. “Rest assured, whatever happens here, stays here.”

He waved his hand and two bottles of booze appeared in front of Husk.

“You might think you can keep getting away with bribing me like that…” Husk said, narrowing his eyes, “…but we both know you can!” He picked up a bottle and started drinking. Loona snatched the other one.

“What exactly are you doing here, anyway?” Moxxie demanded to Alastor.

“Why I’m here to help out your company, of course! I’m already involved in helping Charlie with her hotel, so I figured I could expand my horizons.”

The Radio Demon walked over to Millie. “Hello, dear, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He gently kissed her red hand, making her giggle.

Moxxie slapped his hand away. “No one touches my wife, you got that?”

Alastor just shrugged and walked toward the table.

“Don’t you walk away from me, Mister!” Mooxie stood from his chair and walked over to him. He pointed at his chest, making the demon’s smile more strained. “You look like a shady showman to me, so listen here. You have no business whatsoever in interfering with our company. Or messing around with my coworkers and my boss. So, don’t go around harming anyone here, or we’ll kick you out of our office…or just slice you to bits, Dapper Deer!”

Alastor just laughed softly. Millie and Blitzo walked over to calm Moxxie down.

“If I wanted to hurt anyone here…” Alastor said…

He then spoke in a creepy tone: “I would’ve done so already.”

His eyes turned into red moving radio dials and the air filled with radio static and floating red voodoo symbols.

He shook his head and the sensations ceased. His eyes returned to normal. “So, now let’s talk about how I can help you out.”

“What?” Millie asked.

“How can I be of assistance? You want donations? Promotion? An upgraded outfit?”

Blitzo scoffed, “My outfit is great enough as it is. But… you said something about promotions?”

Alastor nodded. “You ever feel like your work goes unrecognized?”

“Yeah,” Blitzo replied. “People do come to us a lot to murder people, but…”

Alastor tilted his head…

Blitzo continued, “…but the imps and residents here look down on us. Not to mention even the sinners brush us aside like we’re trash. That’s why we’ve kept to ourselves a lot. We imps have to stick together…and hellhounds, too.”

Loona rolled her eyes.

“But your company is so unique, and with such special access, I don’t know why others would look down on you,” Alastor mentioned. “Whoever those horrible people are…who are they?”

“My asshole father,” Blitzo said. “He’s kept me from achieving my musical theater dreams.”

Alastor placed a hand on Blitzo’s shoulder. He spoke in his sympathetic tone, reserved for making others feel at ease.

“Oh, believe me, I’ve been there. I’ve loved singing and music ever since I can remember. And my dad…well it’s a long story, too tragic to go into. Have you ever thought of…killing the person in your way? It’s surprisingly simple, and you of all people should know.”

“I…um…”

Moxxie nodded. “I had a dream that my parents were being murdered, and I wanted to get back to that.”

“What if I told you…there was a way for your dreams to come true?”

“That’s impossible,” Moxxie scoffed.

Alastor appeared behind him, from his shadow form, making him jump. “I don’t think so! I can do so many things for your cause.” He stood in front of the three imps. A flaming bag of money appeared in Alastor’s outstretched hand, in front of Blitzo’s eyes. It changed to fiery silhouettes of Blitzo, Moxxie, and Millie dancing to the clapping of a crowd coming through his microphone. “This may seem like a bit much, but so far, you’re a well-established company.” The I.M.P. logo appeared in his hand before he closed it. “I could improve you ads, extend your business to Pentagram City, all under my protection. Imps won’t have to be the lowest of the low ever again.”

Blitzo and his associates looked at each other, lost in thought. Alastor’s grin grew wider.

“Do you really want to give up this golden opportunity?”

Moxxie paused. Blitzo found himself shaking his head. Millie smiled at Niffty and Husk nearby.

Alastor turned to leave. “Well, it was worth a try. I could give you some time to think about it…it was only a suggestion.”

He slowly walked toward the door. “3…2…1…”

Blitzo’s eyes went wide. “No, no, wait! Don’t leave.”

Alastor turned his head, smile wide. He turned back to them and held out his right hand. “So, do we have a deal?”

“No deals!” Moxxie yelled, pulling Blitzo away. “There’s something shifty about this guy. The stuff he says is too good to be true.”

“You sure about that?” he asked. “Perhaps I need to persuade you a little more…”

He snapped his fingers and the table and pictures vanished. The room turned a dark purple and the floor became wooden like dance floor. Deer antlers and voodoo symbols lined the walls in neon colors. The posters now showed deer with black bloody circles in place of eyes. Alastor’s outfit changed into a red suit, with a red top hat with pins sticking out. Soon, everyone was wearing attire from the early 1900s: dapper dresses and round hats of purple, green and yellow for Millie, Niffty, and Loona, and suits of light blue, white and black for Blitzo, Husk and Moxxie.

“Take it boys!” Alastor called, snapping his fingers. Shadow spirits emerged from a newly created portal in the ground. One played a saxophone, one a trumpet, and the other played the drums.

A jazzy remix of the I.M.P. jingle played. Moxxie and Millie danced and spun around in the spotlight as the music played. Husk and Moxxie glared at each other in a corner. Niffty smiled and danced along, while Loona stared at her phone again.

Alastor mentioned for Blitzo to come on stage and sing with him. Blitzo blushed and slowly made his way next to him.

Alastor sang through his vintage microphone, which lit up.

“When you want somebody dead,

And you wanna poke fun at their head

Call the Immediate Murder Professionals

Whether homicide or genocide

We’ll make it look like suicide

Immediate Murder Professionals

We do our job so well

‘Cause we come straight up from Hell

We’ll kill your husband or your wife

We’ll even let you keep the knife

The Immediate…Murder…Professionals

The song was followed by an electro swing solo and a repeat of the verses.

Blitzo was lost in a blissful trance as he and Alastor spun around in a dance.

They both stopped to catch their breath as the music slowed to a relaxing jazz melody.

Alastor held out his right hand. “What’d you say? Won’t you shake a poor sinner’s hand?” The area around him glowed an eerie green and a strange wind gusted.

Millie ran over and eagerly shook his hand. “I accept! Thank you for your help!” In the shadows, Moxxie was pulled toward Alastor by black tentacles wrapping around his waist.

Blitzo stared at Alastor’s hand in front of him. Common sense told him to stay far away from this demon.

But Millie had shaken his hand already…and he did offer to help them…

Blitzo’s musical dream was just beginning, and so was his company. Why back out now?

He slowly moved his hand closer, hovering over Alastor’s fingerless glove- covered hand.

Loona’s eyes grew wide. Her fur stuck on end and her instincts kicked in. She could smell deceit and evil coming from the demon. She hadn’t thought it would go this far. For the first time, she placed her phone down on the ground. “Blitz!” she called.

Blitzo briefly looked behind Alastor…and saw his adopted daughter…with fear in her eyes for the first time. He was sure he was dreaming. There was no way magic like this could exist, and surely his daughter wouldn’t show this much concern for him.

But then again…Blitzo could create portals to Earth, so anything was possible.

“Anything is possible,” said Alastor, as if reading his thoughts.

“Don’t do it!” Loona barked. She raced over to Blitzo…only for Husk and Niffty to block her. Husk’s eyes and Niffty’s eye glowed red. “Ahh, the fuck?!” Loona exclaimed, in shock.

Blitzo’s shaking hand inched closer…

Moxxie’s hand was forcibly guided to the demon’s other hand by the tentacles…

Loona growled and swatted Husk and Niffty aside with her paws.

Blitzo’s hand touched Alastor’s at the same time Moxxie’s did.

“Noooo!”

The Radio Demon cackled in triumph as Blitzo and Moxxie shook his hands. All three imps briefly opened their eyes wide, all glowing red. Small streams of evil black energy from their souls traveled from each of their mouths and into Alastor’s staff. Husk and Niffty stood up and stared at each other…for this had happened to them as well. All five of them stood still like soldiers, each with too-wide grins on their faces as static and symbols filled the air.

“No, sir, nothing.” Moxxie replied.

The pulsing stopped and a shadow was lifted.

“Very well then. Off we go to the bar.”

Angel and Blitzo walked side by side, having a heated conversation.

“I’d kill to work for a company like yours, pun not intended,” Angel said. “Being paid to kill people? With all the turf wars I’m in, I’ve killed or hurt dozens of demons. With humans, it’s no problem.”

“What do you do,” Blitzo asked. “I must admit, your dress is rather…strange.”

“It’s a suit, thank you very much.”

“I still like it.”

“Really? Well, I’m not too surprised. I’m Hell’s number one porn star after all.”

“What’s that like?”

“I work for my boss Valentino. He’s the owner of a porn studio not too far from here. I just tell my haters, “It’s my day to be gay.” And to those who wanna fuck with me, they gotta pay me. My services don’t come cheap.”

“Heh,” Blitzo said with curiosity. “You with Valentino?”

“Yeah, he’s rough in the bedroom. Doesn’t really care much about me other than me paying him and keeping myself in line.”

“Sounds similar to Stolas. He sheds his feathers when he’s aroused. We fucked in his palace and I stole a Satanic ritual book to access the living world.”

Angel grinned. “Oooh! Kinky!”

“Then I fell down into chocolate cake and tell his queen, “Sorry I fucked your husband!”

“Damn! And you’re still alive?”

“I was lucky to hightail it outta there before she could peck out my insides.”

“Oh, tell me more.”

Blitzo laughed. “He called me over the phone and told me he wasn’t lonely now that so many people die from the covid 19 virus. Then he was then like, “When I’m lonely, I become hungry, and when I’m hungry… I want to…”

Blitzo continued on with a string of curse words and graphic descriptions.

“...and I’ll leave you screaming….like a fucking baby!”

Angel stared stunned at what he had told him. “Holy shit. And I thought I was into BDSM. This owl guy could probably intimidate Valentino. Heheheheh. I did the same thing to Alastor as a prank call and he just hung up on me.”

“Hahaha! I can see why.”

Charlie and Vaggie walked side by side together, placing their distance from the guys.

“Stolas…” Charlie said to Vaggie after hearing the name. “It sounds familiar. Oh I remember. He’s Melodia’s husband and father of Octavia.”

“Who’s that?”

“Octavia is a princess like me, except she’s a black and white owl. We…we used to be best friends when we were younger. We did typical princess tuff, tea parties, dress up, and the occasional murder. We even went to Hell-World in Gore-rida.”

Vaggie’s eyes brightened. “I remember when we went there together.”

“Yes. We posed together in front of the castle and we rode all the rides, too. Oh and the Disney musicals were the best part!”

The two girls reminisced over the fun times.

Charlie’s face fell. “But then, as time went on, we grew distant. I started to focus on the Happy Hotel and several other projects that could help out sinners. I encouraged Octavia to join me, but she refused. She thought my ideas were stupid and a waste of time. After a few years, she started to believe that I didn’t want to be her friend anymore. I told her that wasn’t true but she didn’t believe me. She said that if I were her friend, I would’ve kept in contact with her, dressed more properly and mostly forget about my rehabilitation goals.”

“That sounds harsh,” Vaggie said. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” She placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“My dad was hoping that our families could be on good terms through a partnership. Not by marriage but by business and friendship. Now we hardly see each other.”

Everyone made their way into the larger area, where they were free to talk or roam around.

Later on, Alastor and a very happy Blitzo were singing together in the spotlight up on stage. Blitzo now had a fancy dark blue suit with an orange, red tie and two dark top hats over his horns with stitched up smiley faces on it. With a confident grin, Alastor pulled Charlie onto the stage to sing along with them, much to Vaggie’s shock and anger.

Loona and Husk were fighting furiously over a bottle of booze.

“That’s my bottle, you bitch,” Husk hissed. “Go buy your own.”

It’s mine, pussycat.”

“Homeless furry beast. Go back to the fucking slum where you and the hellhounds belong!”

“I’ll chase you and rip you apart, you gambling shittalking clown!”

The two of them bared teeth and claws, swiping at each other and pulling each other’s ears.

Without ceasing his tap dancing nor letting his smile falter, Alastor snapped his fingers. Loona and Husk were sent to opposite corners of the room, each with a bottle of booze next to them. They both looked stunned before gulping down their bottles with deadly glares.

Charlie stepped up to the microphone and began to sing:

“Sing it out

You’ve got to see what tomorrow brings

Sing it out

You’ve got to be what tomorrow needs

For every time that they want to count you out

Use your voice every single time you open up your mouth

Sing it for the beaus

Sing it for the belles

Every time you lose it, sing it for Hell

Sing it from the heart

Sing it till you’re nuts

Sing it out for the ones you hate your guts

Sing it for the winners

Sing it for the sinners

Sing about everyone as you make fresh dinners”

Alastor’s heart fluttered as he immersed himself in the moment. Focusing only on the sound of her angelic enchanting voice.

“Oh Charlie, you’re full of surprises, charming demon belle.”

Meanwhile, Millie and Niffty were sharing stories about guys at their table.

Millie pointed to Moxxie, who was sitting across a table from Vaggie, both of them staring in envy at the trio on stage.

“That’s my husband, Moxxie. He can be a grump sometimes, but he’s very kind once you get to know him. He made me a song called “Oh Millie.” We sang it together one night when we were out shooting demons on the streets nearby.”

Niffty beamed. “How romantic! You two spending some great time together. Disposing bodies and dancing in the bloody rain…it’s worthy for a fairytale.”

“I know!” said Millie. “Blitzo films us outside of work, which drives Mox nuts. Sometimes he can have panic attacks, but I always know how to calm him down. I do love my job at I.M.P. Seems like I’m the only employee who does. Sure, we get into a lot of fights and we live in a crummy area of Hell. But we are a company family, so we stick together no matter what.”

“Well, I’m very happy for you.” She sighed. “It’s so sexy when a man shows his great power. I mean, look at my boss. He’s conquered a dozen areas in Hell and he has supernatural powers. Husk and I were summoned to this place to assist him. Husk is the bartender and I’m the cook and housekeeper. Man it felt good to be free of the burning lake, you know? Plus…I have a side-job too.”

“What is it?” She leaned in.

“Husk and I sometimes dispose of demon bodies after Alastor kills other demons…and we get paid at the end of every week.”

Millie laughed. “I’m all too familiar with that process. Except we dispose of humans. And on Earth…it’s more risky if you get caught. Down here, nobody cares.”

“Oh I just love men, so much! Alastor, Vox, Valentino…Lucifer too. If I had my way…”

Her voice grew lower and harmless fire spread over her body,

“I’d clean this hellhole of all the messy chaotic demons, clean up the organs and bathe in the blood. The skins of demons and women would be sewn together to make fashionable outfits for a grand ball. All the men in hell would devote themselves to me and the rest would die in cleansing flame.”

The flames stopped and Niffty shrunk back to normal size. Millie just stared at her for a while.

“Oh and I also want my new fanfiction to be noticed and published. I just fixed it, too. On Wattpad.”

She held up sheets of paper she summoned from fire: “How Vox, Valentino, Lucifer and Alastor Cared for Me in Bed.”

“I wonder what Blitzo and Moxxie are like…”

Millie glared. “Keep my husband out of this, and I’ll support your work.”

“Really? Thank you so much!”

Niffty jumped for joy and ran off to deliver more bowls of Jambalaya. Millie scanned through the papers with a smile. And then a grimace.

“Piece of shit.”

She casually tossed the papers to Loona, who tore them apart with her mouth and claws.

Moxxie and Vaggie said nothing for a while. They just watched as Charlie took a bow after singing “You’re Never Fully Dressed.”

“I swear, Blitzo, you keep going off the deep end every day. Why do I have to keep putting up with you and the dumb company?”

Vaggie watched as Alastor kissed Charlie’s hand, both of them smiling.

“Charlie, why don’t you stop and listen to me? You’d really risk our friendship…and dare I say it, your life, for an evil dealmaker who shows up at your door?”

As if they were reading each other’s thoughts, Moxxie and Vaggie glanced at each other.

“What a bunch of egocentric idiots,” he muttered.

“No need to remind me,” Vaggie said. “I wish I could slap that stupid smile off that man’s face.”

“Alastor?”

“Yes.”

“You’re stupid if you plan on trying.”

“Imp, I’ll only go that far if he puts my friend in danger.”

“I’m Moxxie, lady. I could care less about who you are.”

“Vaggie,” she growled. She gripped her spear with one hand.

Moxxie scoffed. “You gonna use that harpoon on me? You best use it wisely. After a single strike, I’d fall dead and everyone would want to get their hands on it.”

“And get kicked out of this place. No. How do you so much about my spear?”

Moxxie let out a small grin. “I’m a weapon’s specialist at I.M.P. I’ve been fixing and using guns, rifles, knives, and pretty much anything. I know an angelic weapon when I see it.”

This time, Vaggie got intrigued. “I’ve kept this with me ever since I fell down into Hell. I didn’t merely appear like the other sinners.”

She dug into her pocket and showed him one of her daggers. Moxxie studied it with interest. “Appears to be hand-made. Steel blade, slightly worn. You made this?”

Vaggie nodded. “I also am good at martial arts. Though I haven’t practiced since…well, my previous life ended and I fell from the Heavens. This weapon is my only reminder of that.”

Moxxie handed the dagger back to her. “Are you a … fallen angel?”

“Fallen Exterminator,” she corrected. “I’m stuck here forever just like everyone else. And perhaps I’m destined to die on one of the Exterminations.”

Moxxie shook his head. “With your intellect and courage…and temper, I doubt that.”

Vaggie didn’t know what to say, other than, “I figured as much.”

Moxxie then asked, “Have you ever felt like you’re…somehow second best? Like you’re just the sidekick to your boss or friend, stuck in a big company with no one but annoyances around you?”

Vaggie nodded. “All the time. It always seems to be about Charlie and Alastor. When they’re together, they act like I’m not even there. And don’t get me started on Angel Dust, Husk and Niffty. Angel, fucking son of a bitch drug addict. He jumps into turf wars and made the hotel look bad to the public. He only wants a free place to crash. He doesn’t give a flying fuck about anyone around him, it seems. And Husk, the drinker and gambler…swears as much as me. Called me bitch when I told him to stop hoarding liquor for the umpteenth time. Niffty, that fast little bugger, always hot for men and getting into everyone’s business. And Alastor…urgh! He shoves me aside, slaps my ass, steals my girlfriend away! He’d be dead if he weren’t so powerful. If this goes on too long…”

Vaggie turned away, angrily wiping a stray tear from her eye. “Just…men are untrustworthy. At least to me. They stole my virginity, stole my life, and now my afterlife best friend.”

Moxxie didn’t know what to say, he just seethed softly, debating on whether to talk to her or leave her alone.

“That’s harsh. I’m sorry. I thought I had it hard, with Blitzo stalking me every day, and him using my salary to pay for an advertisement. I live in poverty and listen to musicals…but life’s not bad not that my asshole parents aren’t around.”

Moxxie cleared his throat. “Well, I can say this, having been in Hell for a while. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer. Stick with people you trust, and when you can’t trust them…sometimes you have to roll with the punches and get through the day.”

He brandished a small black gun and clicked it for show. “Trust your instincts. And when it’s time to fight, don’t hold back.”

“I won’t, believe me.”

Her demon form emerged, her white hair fanning out, with eyes forming on it like moth wings. Her pink bow turned into pink horns and her pink x glowed. Purple moth wings made of flame sprouted from her back and an extra pair of insect like limbs allowed her to carry more weapons. Small antennae formed from the front part of her head of hair.

“I would give my life to save Charlie.”

“As I would for Millie.”

Vaggie reverted back to her regular form, the wings and features vanishing.

“Thank you, Moxxie, I really needed that.”

“Not a problem.”

They shook hands before parting ways.

Charlie ran over and enveloped Vaggie in a hug. “Oh that was such a great performance. It was so much fun being up there!”

Vaggie had to smile. “You did well up there. Your voice is beautiful.”

“Aww Vaggie,” she laughed. She planted a kiss on her friend’s forehead, a blush coming to her gray cheeks. Charlie sat next to Vaggie as they listened to Alastor’s dad jokes.

“Two radio antennas got married. The wedding was good but the reception was awesome!”

“Boo!” shouted Angel. Everyone else sat in boredom, save for Charlie, Millie, and Niffty who silently giggled. Lonna lifted a middle finger as she stared at her phone.

Alastor cleared his throat.

“Knock knock. Who’s there? Radio. Radio who?”

He then answered his joke in a demonic voice without moving his mouth.

“Radio not here I come! Hahaha!”

“Jeez, even when he’s telling jokes, he gives me the creeps,” Moxxie mentioned to Millie. Millie nodded, half dazed. “Snap out of it,” he shook her as she turned to him.

“Calm down, Mox. Don’t worry so much.”

Niffty had gotten a nosebleed and fainted in delight.

Alastor glanced down. “Somebody please help the little darling?”

Millie raced over and moved Niffty over to a couch.

“Radio not, here I come,” Vaggie scoffed. “That’s not even a dad joke, it was a knock knock joke! So terrible.”

“Like paper is,” Charlie added, with a smile.

Vaggie playfully elbowed Charlie in the ribs. “Blonde dork.”

Soon it was getting late. It was time for I.M.P. to go back to their business.

“Thank you for coming, everyone!” said Alastor. “What a splendid night it was! You’re welcome back here anytime!”

“Good riddance,” Loona called back, taking a breath of a cigarette and holding a stolen bottle of vodka in her hands. Husk flipped the bird at her as she did it back with both hands. Angel Dust had given her a bag of angel dust, which she hid in her shorts. It didn’t go unnoticed by Charlie but she decided to let the matter slide.

Loona was the first one out, followed by Millie, Moxxie, and finally, Blitzo.

“Bye everyone!” Blitzo called out. “Be sure to call us you want somebody gone!”

“Are you sure you don’t want to redeem yourself?” Charlie asked. “You are an incredible performer and it was so much fun to spend time with you.”

“Hmm, let me think…no thank you!” Blitzo laughed. “Business is business!”

Blitzo did one last wave and wink before Charlie shut the door with a sigh.

“Alright, off to your rooms everyone,” Charlie called. “We have a busy day tomorrow.”

Alastor sent his shadow to guard the perimeter outside, while the group straightened up the lobby before heading upstairs.

She walked toward a certain red clad demon.

“Alastor, you changed the sign of my hotel. Why?”

Alastor looked up from the voodoo doll he was sewing and stood up. “Darling, Happy sounded too immature. It sounds like a name for an overnight rehab center where demon’s reputations are forever tarnished in group meetings and little kid activities. This is a hotel in Hell, for misfits like us. A safe place for them to stay for the night. No other name properly reflects that.”

“That still doesn’t give you the right to change anything!”

Alastor shrugged and spread out his arms. “Hey, no need to get so frazzled. I’m just doing my part to help. Though if you don’t want any more help…I can just find entertainment elsewhere…”

“Nonono! Please…stay,” Charlie begged. “Just…stay out of trouble.”

Alastor pulled her in for a brief side hug, then pat her head. “We’ll do. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

He vanished into the shadows without another word.

#hazbinhotel #helluvaboss #crossovers

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jayie-the-hufflepuff · 5 years

Text

Ten Percent Left Challenge

Well. This was just going to be a quick little thing I wrote for fun. Not the seventeen-page monstrosity it turned out to be. This took a few days to write, but I'm glad I finally got it all done. This is a really creative idea for a writing challenge, and it was a lot of fun to come up with ideas for it. The original prompt of course belongs to @10leftau. For those who don't know, the idea is to write a brief The Last Hope AU where only 10% of the Clan cats survive the battle, using a random generator to determine which twenty or so cats make it through the battle alive. Below are the cats that I randomly generated to survive, and a brief description of their dynamic and story in this AU.

Just a note – my version of this follows my post-The Last Hope AU fanfiction's worldbuilding for Warriors, so I'm using my own family trees for the non-ThunderClan cats, not the ones that were revealed later by the Erins. Hence Olivenose being half BloodClan, Leaftail being Whiskernose and Crouchpaw's father, etc. I've given a brief bio of each cat's family relationships to make things a bit clearer. This also means that my versions of the kits born by the end of TLH for queens outside of ThunderClan are different than canon, thus I had to switch around a few of the younger cats that the generator picked for me. The generator selected one of Ivytail's kits, so I used my son for her, Twigclaw, instead, and it picked two of Duskfur's kits, so I went with her litter that would've been kits at the time of TLH for my 'verse, Lilykit and Pondkit.

If you're curious to learn more about my fanfiction, there's a link to the first book in the six-book series Echoes of the War right here: https://www.deviantart.com/jayie-the-hufflepuff/gallery/38405975/EOTW-Faded-Boundaries

And now, on with my version of the Ten Percent Left challenge. :D

Ten Percent Left Allegiances

LIGHTCLAN

LEADER

OLIVESTAR - tortoiseshell she-cat

DEPUTY

BLOSSOMFALL - tortoiseshell and white she-cat

MEDICINE CAT

BRIARLIGHT - dark brown she-cat

APPRENTICE, TWIGPAW

WARRIORS

BIRCHFALL - light brown tabby tom

HAZELTAIL - gray-and-white she-cat

OWLCLAW - light brown tabby tom

SEDGEWHISKER - light brown tabby she-cat

BOULDERFUR - large pale gray tom

WHISKERNOSE - light brown tom

TROUTSTREAM - pale gray tabby she-cat

APPRENTICES

TWIGPAW - small light brown tabby with a stumpy tail

QUEENS

LEAFTAIL - dark brown tabby tom (foster father to Lilykit, a dark tabby she-cat with patches, Lilykit, a black she-cat with golden eyes, and Pondkit, a dark brown tom with white paws)

GORSETAIL - very pale gray-and-white she-cat with blue eyes, mother of Emberfoot's kits (Icekit, a white she-cat with ice-blue eyes)

ELDERS

TALLPOPPY - long-legged light brown tabby she-cat

GRAYMIST - pale gray tabby she-cat

CATS OUTSIDE THE CLAN

SMOKY - muscular gray-and-white tom who lives in a barn at the horseplace

FLOSS - small gray-and-white she-cat who lives at the horseplace

CORICOPAT - dark gray-and-white tom with green eyes

FURZEPELT - gray-and-white she-cat, formerly of WindClan

SMOKEFOOT - black tom, formerly of LightClan

OLIVENOSE/OLIVESTAR:

Rank: Leader

Former Clan: ShadowClan

Mother: Fernshade (deceased)

Father: Boulder (deceased)

Sister: Ivytail (deceased)

When the shattered remains of the Clans first joined together, there was an air of hopelessness among the survivors. None of the leaders, deputies, or medicine cats had survived the Dark Forest's slaughter. There was no one left to lead the surviving Clan cats.

Olivenose could feel the same stunned grief and terror clawing at her own gut. Her sister Ivytail had been murdered by her own mate during the battle, and her leader and most of her Clanmates had been slaughtered. But unlike her fellow survivors, a sense of determination clawed its way past the rest of her emotions. She had always been a warrior of dedication and strength, and even through grief for her sister, she managed to keep her emotions in check enough to take the lead and help the others organize themselves and keep themselves alive. The little group settled in ThunderClan's old camp, as it was the largest and most easily-defended camp, and they spent their first moons living in fear of the Dark Forest attacking once again.

Olivenose worked tirelessly to support her new group, hunting until her bones ached to keep them fed, patrolling the borders day and night to make sure the Dark Forest didn't return, heading several projects to rebuild and reinforce the camp's dens and defenses. Over time, many cats began looking to her as a leader. The she-cat was pushing herself to the point of exhaustion, and the other cats' expectations were another burden on her shoulders, but she bore it all as bravely as she could. She was determined to do everything she could to ensure the survival of her group. When StarClan was finally able to contact the survivors through Briarlight, it was to no cat's surprise that they sent a sign showing that Olivenose was to be the group's new leader.

Olivestar gained her nine lives at the Moonpool and selected Blossomfall as her deputy. She had been worn by so many losses and the hard work of trying to keep her new Clan alive, but seeing her ancestors at peace among the stars and learning that they still watched over the Clans gave her more hope than she'd felt in moons. She was determined to make LightClan a Clan to make her ancestors proud, to preserve the legacy of the four lost Clans and to honor their sacrifices.

Even through all of her work for her Clan, Olivestar managed to find time to look after Twigpaw, her sister's son and her only surviving kin. She became almost a second mother to him, and was immensely proud when he decided to become the new medicine cat apprentice. Some moons later, she took on Sorreltail's daughter Lilypaw as her apprentice, and is very fond of the gentle young she-cat.

BLOSSOMFALL:

Rank: Deputy

Former Clan: ThunderClan

Mother: Millie (deceased)

Father: Graystripe (deceased)

Sister: Briarlight

Brother: Bumblestripe (deceased)

Blossomfall was devastated by the losses in the Dark Battle. She had only narrowly escaped death herself, taking her sister Briarlight away from the fighting when she realized just how many cats were dying. She felt horrible guilt for having been tricked by the Dark Forest, and for not being able to save more of her Clanmates. It was only through Briarlight's support that she was able to even start forgiving herself. She too worked tirelessly to provide for her new Clan, determined to make up for all of her mistakes and be the warrior her Clan needed. She helped teach her new Clanmates all of the fighting techniques of the Dark Forest, so that they would be prepared if the dark spirits ever attacked again.

When Olivestar became LightClan's leader, Blossomfall was stunned to find herself chosen to be her deputy. Part of her still felt she didn't deserve the forgiveness of her Clan, let alone such an esteemed role. But Olivestar insisted that she had seen how hard Blossomfall had been working for the Clan, and that her loyalty, dedication, and her strength in battle made her the best cat for the job. With encouragement from Briarlight, Blossomfall accepted the role. She chose not to take a mate or have kits, instead focusing her energy into being the best deputy she could for her Clan, and being the sister that Briarlight deserved. Her bad experiences with the Dark Forest have made her very protective of her Clan, and rather wary of cats she doesn't know well, as anyone could be a threat waiting to trick her and bring her defenses down. As a result, she can be rather harsh against outsiders. But she is fiercely loyal, and can be brought around to trust others given enough time.

BRIARLIGHT:

Rank: Medicine Cat

Former Clan: ThunderClan

Mother: Millie (deceased)

Father: Graystripe (deceased)

Sister: Blossomfall

Brother: Bumblestripe (deceased)

When the survivors first realized that there were no medicine cats among them, there was panic. How were the injured cats supposed to recover from their wounds, and how were they supposed to communicate with their ancestors? It is through this panic that Briarlight spoke up. Her own heart was heavy with grief for Jayfeather and her family, and she felt guilt for not being able to fight to defend her Clanmates. But she felt a strange sense of calm as she faced her new groupmates. She told them that she'd learned a lot about healing from her moons in the medicine den, and that she would do her best to heal the injured cats.

Many of the non-ThunderClan survivors doubted the ability of a paralyzed cat to tend to so many wounded, but Briarlight paid them no heed. She had a job to do, a purpose to hold on to, and that was more important than any cat's doubts. She worked hard to nurse the injured survivors back to health, and kept the medicine den well stocked and organized after that. Owlclaw's apprentice, Twigpaw, showed an interest in healing early on, and often went into the forest to gather herbs for Briarlight and hung around the den helping her organize them and listening to her listing their uses. Though guilt continued to plague her, she was one of the cats who managed to retain the most cheer and determination through the loss. She'd survived hard losses before, and she was determined to keep the group together, so she remained cheerful and friendly and worked hard to try and bring every cat together like proper Clanmates. Having a purpose to focus on helped keep her from giving in to despair. She especially worked hard to be there for Blossomfall, who was wracked with guilt for having trained in the Dark Forest. In return, Blossomfall worked hard to be there for her sister, and to support her through those first hard moons as the group's healer.

A few moons after the Dark Battle, Briarlight was sent a sign in a dream. She saw a star gleaming in a dark sky, growing brighter and brighter, and she could hear Jayfeather's voice in her ears. “Four will become the one light that must chase away the darkness,” he told her. Her nose was filled with the scent of olives, and when she woke, there was an olive branch resting against her side. She was overjoyed that her ancestors had sent them a sign at last, feeling a greater peace in her heart than she'd felt in seasons. She called all the group together, relaying the dream to them, telling them that StarClan recognized them as a proper Clan, a successor to the four that had been lost. “The four will become the one light – and so we will be LightClan,” she declared. With the sign of the olive branch to guide her, she declared Olivestar to be the Clan's new leader, and she took her own place as the medicine cat, with Twigpaw as her new apprentice.

BIRCHFALL:

Rank: Warrior

Former Clan: ThunderClan

Mother: Ferncloud (deceased)

Father: Dustpelt (deceased)

Sisters: Hollykit (deceased), Larchkit (deceased), Icecloud (deceased)

Brothers: Spiderleg (deceased), Shrewpaw (deceased), Foxleap (deceased)

Mate: Whitewing (deceased)

Daughters: Dovewing (deceased), Ivypool (deceased)

Birchfall was one of the most injured cats after the battle. He'd been fighting like LionClan to defend his family, but the Dark Forest had cut them down anyway, and they'd nearly killed him too. It had only been luck that he'd been unconcious, not dead, when the battle ended. Briarlight managed to nurse him back to health, but there was little she could do to ease the terrible grief that gripped the tom. His entire family had died in the battle – his parents, his siblings, his mate, even his daughters. This was all his fault – if he hadn't trained in the Dark Forest, if he'd just seen the danger earlier, he could have saved them. But it was too late. There was no one left. The tom was utterly broken by all of the losses, and nothing any cat said seemed to make any difference for his grief. It was only the desperate need of the group to eat that kept him on his paws and made him go out hunting every day.

In the end, it was Tallpoppy who finally seemed to get through to the heartbroken tom. She had known him well as a kit during the Great Journey, and her heart ached to see him suffering so much loss now, especially since she too had lost all of her remaining family in the Dark Battle. She took the tom under her wing, making sure he ate, offering silent company when he didn't wish to speak, or else telling light-hearted stories of times past, things to take his mind off of what he'd lost. Birchfall seemed to recognize that she'd lost as much as he had, and allowed Tallpoppy's words to reach him for that reason. He never seemed to truly let go of his grief, but life began to spark in his eyes again. He ate without being prompted, he went hunting for the joy of it rather than just to feed cats, and he began to connect with his new Clanmates. He became especially close with Owlclaw, who had lost his brother to the training of the Dark Forest. He seemed to find purpose in helping him move past his own loss, like Tallpoppy had done for him. Like Blossomfall, he helped teach his Clanmates fighting techniques from the Dark Forest.

HAZELTAIL:

Rank: Warrior

Former Clan: ThunderClan

Mother: Daisy (deceased)

Father: Smoky

Brothers: Berrynose (deceased), Mousewhisker (deceased)

Half Sister: Rosepetal (deceased)

Half Brother: Toadstep (deceased)

Hazeltail wasn't in ThunderClan's camp during the battle, and so wasn't present for the slaughter of her Clanmates. She was one of the cats who had been sent to WindClan's camp to fight. When WindClan's camp was overrun, she helped get every cat out of camp. She found a wounded Leaftail wailing over the body of his son, Crouchpaw, and dragged the tom away so he wouldn't be killed too. It was only when they fell back to ThunderClan's camp that she discovered just how many of her Clanmates had died. The she-cat was plagued with guilt over not having been there to defend her Clan, and the loss of her entire family, and the tom she had been in love with, haunted her.

Hazeltail hid her grief behind an expression of stone, forcing all emotion back and focusing on hunting for her new groupmates. It she didn't let herself feel anything, then she wouldn't have to feel that terrible grief. But when Leaftail reached out to her, recognizing his own grief and guilt in her, Hazeltail couldn't bring herself to push him away. Slowly, the two began to grow closer, sharing their grief with each other, telling each other their regrets and their fears to an extent they hadn't shared with any other cat. Leaftail couldn't save his son, and Hazeltail couldn't save her family. Over time, they grew closer for reasons other than grief, though it was some moons before Hazeltail was able to allow herself to admit her feelings. The last tom she'd loved had died when she hadn't been there to fight beside him. But finally, she allowed herself to truly feel her love for him, and she and Leaftail became mates.

When LightClan's kits became apprentices, Hazeltail was assigned as the mentor of Duskfur's daughter, Lilypaw. The she-cat was cheeky and clever and eager to learn, and Hazeltail became very fond of her new apprentice.

OWLCLAW:

Rank: Warrior

Former Clan: ShadowClan

Mother: Applefur I (deceased)

Father: Snaketail (deceased)

Brother: Redwillow (deceased)

Owlclaw had always been something of a bully, reveling in his natural strength and sneering at denmates he saw as weaker. He was prone to pushing around his brother Redwillow, though unlike most of his victims, Owlclaw did care for his brother. He simply saw Redwillow as eternally the little brother who would never quite measure up to himself, someone to push and tease because that's just how things were.

So imagine his stunned horror when, during the Dark Battle, his snot-nosed little brother turned on his own Clanmates with claws extended and hate in his eyes. Owlclaw barely had time to take in Redwillow's treachery before Blackstar cut his brother down in front of him. After that, the battle turned so fierce that cats were dying on both sides, and his Clanmates were falling all around him, and the stench of blood was heavy in the air, and Owlclaw couldn't move. He was pinned to the spot by sheer horror. He couldn't take in what was happening. It wasn't real. It couldn't be.

In the end, it was only the quick thinking of Tallpoppy that got Owlclaw out of camp before it was completely overrun by Dark Forest cats. He joined the battle of the last surviving cats in ThunderClan's camp, and though the survivors managed to triumph over the last Dark Forest leaders, Owlclaw could feel no relief, only a great sense of emptiness. In the days after the battle, Owlclaw struggled to come to terms with all that had happened. It had occurred to him that Redwillow had probably been pushed into joining the Dark Forest at least partly because of how his brother had treated him. Maybe if he'd been kinder, if he hadn't been so blind to how he was hurting his own brother, Redwillow wouldn't have betrayed his Clan. Maybe he'd still be alive.

Guilt threatened to eat Owlclaw alive. He tried to keep up with his duties, but he was just so tired, and he couldn't bear to look his new groupmates in the eyes. This was all his fault. How could he ever be forgiven for what he'd done to his own brother, to all of the cats he'd ever pushed around? The miserable tom began to withdraw more and more.

It was finally Tallpoppy who managed to break through the tom's haze of misery. She told him bluntly that yes, he'd been a bully, and yes there were things he'd done that he could never take back. But no amount of bullying could justify betraying one's entire Clan – in the end, Redwillow had made his own choices. Owlclaw wasn't responsible for what his brother had done. All he could do now was try to be better, and do the best that he could for his new Clan. Birchfall approached the tom as well, and Owlclaw could see his own guilt reflected in the tom's eyes. He had trained in the Dark Forest, after all. It was his mentors who had killed his family. Slowly, Owlclaw found himself accepting the comfort of his new friend, and offering his own comfort in turn. It was a hard road to forgive himself, but he worked hard to be kinder, to be better, and over time he found the weight of guilt in his heart grow lighter and lighter. With Birchfall at his side, and Tallpoppy supporting both of them, Owlclaw could finally look to the future, not to the past.

SEDGEWHISKER:

Rank: Warrior

Former Clan: WindClan

Mother: Gorsetail

Father: Beechfur (deceased)

Sisters: Thistlepaw (deceased), Swallowtail (deceased)

Half Sister: Icekit

Sedgewhisker was dragged out of WindClan's camp by her mother when the Dark Forest began to overwhelm them. She had been frozen in horror over her sister's body, sick with the knowledge that her own Clanmate had murdered her. She had managed to cut Breezepelt down after Swallowtail's murder, but tearing out the traitor's throat had done nothing to bring her sister back. She hardly noticed as Gorsetail herded her out of camp and out into the moorland. It wasn't until the fight in ThunderClan's camp ended that she even realized she had been injured. Breezepelt had managed to tear out a chunk from one ear and had badly scarred her flank before she'd managed to kill him.

Sedgewhisker fared better than some of her new campmates in dealing with her grief. She had her mother there to help her, and not long after the battle, Gorsetail gave birth to her half sister, Icekit. Sedgewhisker adored her tiny sister immediately, and threw herself into helping Gorsetail care for her. And even with all of the loss and the grief, there was a certain comfort in having all of the surviving Clan cats living together. For a halfClan warrior who had always had to hide her connection to RiverClan, it was a relief to not have to worry about borders anymore. She managed to befriend Troutstream, her kin through her father, and she became good friends with Briarlight. When the group came together to form LightClan, there was a sense of peace in her heart that she'd never known before. Now nothing could ever tear her away from the cats she cared about most.

BOULDERFUR:

Rank: Warrior

Former Clan: WindClan

Mother: Willowclaw (deceased)

Father: Owlwhisker (deceased)

Sister: Furzepelt

Boulderfur had always been a fairly average tom. Not the most outstanding hunter, nor the bravest fighter, not the most outspoken or intelligent or kindest warrior. He just sort of... was. He did the work that was required of him, he hung out with the warriors that were his friends, and he was content. His sister, on the other paw, had always been ambitious. He'd never resented Furzepelt for being the stronger warrior, but he'd never had the drive to keep up with her, and they drifted apart as they got older.

It was still like a blow to the gut when the Dark Battle was over and Boulderfur learned that his sister had turned traitor for the Dark Forest. She'd always been ambitious but... killing innocent cats? Fighting on behalf of long-dead traitors? Boulderfur was left with the horrible realization that he hadn't ever really known his sister, not for moons. With his sister run away to be a rogue, and his parents and friends dead, Boulderfur began to withdraw from the group in his grief and feelings of guilt.

It was the other young warriors of the new Clan that finally helped draw him out of his grief. Whiskernose had always been a good cat to hang out with, and now he was a bright light in the midst of the group's misery, and Troutstream understood Boulderfur's feelings of guilt and hurt like no other cat. The other two helped ease Boulderfur's guilt, and made him feel more comfortable with who he was. He made a greater effort to stay connected with the cats he cared about, but he still wasn't the strongest or bravest warrior, and that was okay. He was Boulderfur, and that was enough. The three cats eventually came together to form a happy, loving polyamorous group of mates, and Troutstream eventually bore a litter of kits fathered by both toms.

WHISKERNOSE:

Rank: Warrior

Former Clan: WindClan

Mother: Dewspots (deceased)

Father: Leaftail

Brother: Crouchpaw (deceased)

Adopted Sisters: Lilykit, Lilykit

Adopted Brother: Pondkit

Whiskernose was devastated by the loss of Crouchpaw in the Dark Battle, but even with the death of his young brother, he was luckier than some of his new groupmates. He still had his father, after all, and the older tom had taken in the group's orphaned kits, giving Whiskernose a new set of adopted siblings to look after and play with. He had always been a fairly cheerful, happy-go-lucky tom, and he managed to bounce back to his cheery personality more easily than some of his groupmates. He had lost his brother, yes, but he was still alive, his father was still alive, and it was hard not to feel hope when their little group was still holding on after all of their losses.

His cheery attitude made him a desirable companion for the other young warriors in the group. Boulderfur was trying to muddle through his feelings over his sister's betrayal, and Troutstream was wracked with guilt over how she'd treated her brother. Whiskernose had always liked Boulderfur, the tom was kinder and better company than he gave himself credit for, and Troutstream was hard not to admire with her quick wit and her strength in hunting. He found himself growing closer with the two, eager to help them and try to put a purr in their throats with one of his jokes. Eventually, he realized he had fallen in love with the pair, and accepted their proposal to become mates.

TROUTSTREAM:

Rank: Warrior

Former Clan: RiverClan

Mother: Otterheart (deceased)

Father: Rippletail (deceased)

Sister: Mossyfoot (deceased)

Brother: Hollowflight (deceased)

Troutstream had always been the most ambitious of her littermates. She always had to be the strongest, the fastest, the best swimmer, the best hunter. She wasn't a cruel cat by nature, but she had a tendency to focus more on her training than other cats' feelings, and her words to her less talented brother Hollowflight were often more cutting than she meant them to be. She was too wrapped up in making herself the best warrior possible to notice how her scoffing remarks bothered him, and she failed to notice how he grew colder and more hostile over the moons. But the horrible truth of what her brother had become was made all too clear when, during the Dark Battle, he died fighting on the side of the Dark Forest.

Troutstream was wracked with terrible guilt in the weeks after the battle. She'd been so blind. Being a strong warrior was important, but how could she have let that come before being kind to her own brother? How could she have said the things he had to him? Maybe if she hadn't been so cold, he wouldn't have turned to the Dark Forest in the first place. The young she-cat began to withdraw from the others in her guilt, but to her surprise, two of her fellow groupmates began to reach out to her.

Boulderfur felt a guilt similar to her own, and Whiskernose was so cheerful and so kind even through her guilt that she couldn't bear to push them away. They told her that yes, maybe she could have been kinder, but it wasn't her fault what Hollowflight had chosen to become. She focused on being the best warrior she could for her new Clan, but also on being a better cat, kinder, more aware of the feelings of those around her. It was partly this shift that allowed her to realize that she, Whiskernose, and Boulderfur had all fallen in love with each other, and what pushed her to suggest they all become mates. Some moons later, she was given Pondpaw as an apprentice. She put everything she had into making him the best warrior she could. She shaped him into not only a strong swimmer and a talented fisher, continuing the legacy of her lost Clan, but also a good and kind cat. Seasons after that, she birthed a litter fathered by both of her mates, and together the three cats doted on their new kits.

TWIGPAW/TWIGCLAW:

Rank: Medicine Cat Apprentice

Former Clan: ShadowClan

Mother: Ivytail (deceased)

Father: Redwillow (deceased)

Sister: Specklepaw (deceased)

Twigpaw only survived the battle because his aunt Olivenose helped him escape before the Dark Forest cats could swarm him. The battle was especially traumatic for the young tom. His mother was murdered by his father, his father died at the claws of his own leader, and his sister was torn apart like a piece of prey. His mentor Owlclaw was no help in the days after the battle, lost in his own grief and guilt. Olivenose did everything she could to be there for the young tom and support him through his grief, but she was often busy with patrols. So the quiet, grieving tom was often left to his own devices.

It was through this time left behind in camp that he came to be close with Briarlight. The new healer was endlessly kind and patient with the young tom, and she was such a wealth of knowledge when it came to herbs and healing. Twigpaw had always considered medicine cats fascinating, and now here was the chance to learn from one. He could see that the she-cat had her own grief, though she hid it well, but her cheery personality and her kindness made her a source of comfort for the grieving apprentice. Over time, his interest in healing only deepened, and he found himself doing more and more to help Briarlight with her healing rather than focusing on his warrior training.

Once LightClan was established and Briarlight made an official medicine cat, Twigpaw finally asked to become her apprentice. Though he still missed his family, much of his grief had been redirected into a sense of purpose. Healing made him happy, it was what he was meant to do, and if he become a good enough medicine cat, he could help cats avoid the sense of loss he'd felt. He threw himself into his training, and over time, he grew to become a dedicated and talented medicine cat.

LEAFTAIL:

Rank: Queen

Former Clan: WindClan

Mother: Morningflower (deceased)

Father: Tornear (deceased)

Sister: Sunstrike (deceased)

Brother: Gorsepaw (deceased)

Mate: Dewspots (deceased)

Sons: Whiskernose, Crouchpaw (deceased)

Adopted Daughters: Lilykit, Lilykit

Adopted Son: Pondkit

Leaftail was protecting the nursery during the battle, but when the Dark Forest cats flooded into the den, there had been too many for him to fight. Heathertail and her kits had died, and he'd been badly wounded before managing to escape the den. He went in search of his kits, desperate to help them escape – only to be greeted with the sight of a Dark Forest spirit crouched over the still-bleeding body of his youngest son, Crouchpaw. Leaftail slew the spirit where it stood, but it was too late for his son. Leaftail would've died by his son's body, too stunned with grief to defend himself, had the ThunderClan warrior Hazeltail not forcibly shoved him away and herded him out of the camp.

The wounded tom spent the days after the battle being looked after by Briarlight. His heart was heavy with guilt and grief, and he barely spoke to any cat. He'd failed to protect the nursery, and he'd failed to save his youngest son. Whiskernose was alive, and his visits and encouragement did help keep Leaftail from succumbing entirely to grief. But the tom's heart still ached with all that he had lost.

It was this time spent in the medicine den that allowed him to get acquainted with the group's kits. Lilykit of ThunderClan and Lilykit and Pondkit of RiverClan were the only kits who had survived the slaughter, and all three of them had been orphaned by the battle. Leaftail's heart still ached with grief, but he couldn't deny that spending time with the kits helped ease the hurt in his heart. He'd loved looking after his sons while they were growing up, and he felt that sense of rightness now as he helped look after the orphaned kits. When his wounds were healed, instead of returning to his warrior duties, Leaftail found himself spending more time in the nursery.

He eventually approached Olivenose, tentatively suggesting that he be allowed to live in the the nursery as a queen, so that he could spend more time looking after them. To his surprise, the she-cat accepted. Leaftail made a nest for himself in the nursery, and his heart was warmed by the delight the kits showed when he told them he'd be looking after them now. Over the moons, the kits began to refer to him as a father, and while it stunned him initially, it began to feel more and more right. Soon, he no longer reacted at all when they referred to him as their father. They were his kits now, as surely as Whiskernose and Crouchpaw were.

As his relationship with his new kits helped Leaftail to heal, he found himself looking with more and more interest at the she-cat who had saved his life in the battle. Hazeltail wore a mask of stone, seeming unaffected by all of the loss, but Leaftail could see the hurt she was hiding underneath. He reached out to her, and the two began confiding in each other. Leaftail realized his feelings for the she-cat before Hazeltail realized it herself, but he was content to wait for her to make the first move. He knew the pain she had suffered, and that she would only approach him when she was ready. Eventually, however, she did confess her feelings for him, and the two became mates. When they eventually had kits of their own, Leaftail opted to stay in the nursery with them, and even after they were fully raised, he chose to remain in the nursery as a permanent queen, perfectly content with a life of looking after the young of his new Clan.

GORSETAIL:

Rank: Queen

Former Clan: WindClan

Mother: Runningbrook (deceased)

Father: Mudclaw (deceased)

Mate: Beechfur (deceased), Emberfoot (deceased)

Daughters: Thistlepaw (deceased), Swallowtail (deceased), Sedgewhisker, Icekit

Gorsetail was horrified when, during the Dark Battle, she found one of her daughters standing over the body of another, wailing at her loss. Gorsetail's heart broke at the sight of Swallowtail's body, but she couldn't let herself break apart right now. Sedgewhisker was still alive, and she still needed her mother. Gorsetail herded her living daughter out of the camp and to the safety of ThunderClan's forest. It wasn't until after the battle that she learned that Emberfoot, her new mate, had also perished. And it wasn't until another half moon later that she discovered Emberfoot had left something of himself behind – she was expecting his kits.

Gorsetail was no stranger to suffering loss and heartbreak in silence. As a young warrior, she had fallen in love with the RiverClan warrior Beechfur. The pair had carried on a secret affair for seasons without either of their Clans suspecting a thing. Though she'd made sure her kits knew their father, Gorsetail had been unable to turn to her mate when their daughter Thistlepaw had died, except for the brief moments they could steal together on the border. When Beechfur himself had died, Gorsetail had been forced to pretend that nothing was wrong, even when her heart was breaking inside of her. Now, at least, she was able to mourn Swallowtail openly, and she had the support of her remaining daughter to help her through it. When her new daughter, Icekit, was born, Gorsetail took comfort in the feeling of a new life depending on her. She hadn't been able to save Swallowtail or Thistlepaw, but she would lay down her life before she let anything happen to her precious new daughter.

Icekit was a gentle, caring young kit, and Gorsetail's heart grew lighter every day she spent raising her precious daughter. She was beyond proud when Icekit decided to train as Twigclaw's apprentice and become the Clan's next medicine cat. She retired to the elder's den not long after Icepaw left the nursery, content to spend the rest of her days in peace as an elder and to enjoy the time she had left with her family.

LILYKIT/LILYFROST:

Rank: Kit

Former Clan: ThunderClan

Mother: Sorreltail (deceased)

Father: Brackenfur (deceased)

Adopted Father: Leaftail

Sisters: Cinderheart (deceased), Honeyfern (deceased), Poppyfrost (deceased), Seedkit (deceased)

Brother: Molepaw (deceased)

Adopted Sister: Lilykit

Adopted Brother: Pondkit

Yellowfang did manage to kill the spirit of Brokenstar, but too late to save most of the inhabitants of the ThunderClan nursery. The old ShadowClan leader had cut down every queen and kit in his path – it was pure luck that Lilykit was still alive when Yellowfang finally brought down her bloodthirsty son. Sorreltail had been fighting outside of the nursery, and had been brought down by wounds she'd gained killing Darkstripe's spirit, while Brackenfur and her older sisters were slaughtered in the battle. With her littermate lying dead in the nursery beside her, Lilykit was the only cat left alive in the den. She wasn't discovered until after the battle had ended, wailing over the body of her sister.

The she-kit was silent in the days following the battle. She had always been the gentler kit in her litter, and now, with the trauma of seeing so much death fresh in her mind, she was reduced to silence. It took the gentle coaxing of Briarlight, and the surprisingly comforting company of WindClan warrior Leaftail, to draw the little kit out of her silence. The only other surviving kits, Pondkit and another Lilykit, were younger and needed to be looked after, and something protective in Lilykit urged her to help make sure they were alright as well. She became more confident with the help of Leaftail, and she grew very close with the other kits, looking to them like younger siblings. It hurt, no longer having her parents or Seedkit there, and she wasn't sure that hurt would ever go away, but Leaftail loved her, and her new siblings loved her, and somehow that made it feel like things might be okay after all.

Eventually, she was apprenticed to Olivestar, and she grew to adore her strict but caring mentor. She became a warrior beside her adopted siblings – Lilyfrost, named after her ice-blue eyes and white patches.

LILYKIT/LILYCLOUD:

Rank: Kit

Former Clan: RiverClan

Mother: Duskfur (deceased)

Father: Reedwhisker (deceased)

Adopted Father: Leaftail

Sister: Curlpaw (deceased)

Brothers: Podpaw (deceased), Pondkit

Adopted Sister: Lilykit

When RiverClan's camp was overrun, it was only the quick thinking of some of the warriors that saved Lilykit and her brother from sharing their dentmates' grisly fates. They bundled the kits off to Graymist and Troutstream, who carried them off to ThunderClan along with some of the other surviving warriors. When the battle in ThunderClan's camp ended, however, only Troutstream, Graymist, and the kits were left alive.

Lilykit and Pondkit were lucky enough not to witness most of the bloodshed of the battle itself, having been shuffled out of the nursery before the slaughter began, and being hidden in the ThunderClan nursery during the survivors' last stand. As a result, they weren't as traumatized as the other surviving kit. But their young age did mean they needed to be looked after. While they missed Duskfur and Reedwhisker, they were young enough that their memories of their parents grew cloudy after a time. They took easily to Leaftail's care, and came to care for the older Lilykit as a big sister.

Lilykit was the bolder of the two kits, always ready for a new adventure, always ready for some mischief. She gave her adopted father and sister the most trouble of the pair, but they loved her dearly even for the mischief she occasionally cause. She grew into a quick-witted, fiery young apprentice, with the stern Hazeltail keeping her just in check enough that she was able to take in her training properly. She earned her warrior name beside her brother and adopted sister – Lilycloud, for her soft pelt.

PONDKIT/PONDBREEZE:

Rank: Kit

Former Clan: RiverClan

Mother: Duskfur (deceased)

Father: Reedwhisker (deceased)

Adopted Father: Leaftail

Sisters: Curlpaw (deceased), Lilykit

Brother: Podpaw (deceased)

Adopted Sister: Lilykit

Pondkit didn't remember the Dark Battle any better than his sister did, and was no more traumatized than her about it. He loved Leaftail as a father, and the other Lilykit as a sister, and he was happy with his life in LightClan. He had always been a cheerful kit, and goofy, joking demeanor stayed with him as he aged. He loved to joke with his sisters and dutifully followed the younger Lilykit into any mischief she set her mind to. He was perhaps too trusting sometimes, too naive, but he had a good heart, and he undoubtedly kept his family happy even through the first hard moons after the battle.

After a few moons, the tom was apprenticed to Troutstream, the only RiverClan warrior among the new Clan, who was eager to pass down the techniques of their ancestors to her RiverClan-blooded apprentice. He wasn't the strongest fighter, but loved to swim and proved an efficient fisher. He eventually earned his warrior name alongside his sisters – Pondbreeze, for his easy-going personality.

TALLPOPPY:

Rank: Elder

Former Clan: ShadowClan

Mother: Amberleaf (deceased)

Father: Scorchwind (deceased)

Sister: Applefur I (deceased)

Mate: Wetfoot (deceased)

Daughter: Applefur II (deceased)

Sons: Oakfur (deceased), Toadfoot (deceased), Marshkit (deceased)

Tallpoppy did not see her daughter die. Applefur had been in RiverClan's camp when she'd turned against her Dark Forest mentors, and had paid for it with her life. She did hear later from Graymist that one of Applefur's last acts had been to help save Duskfur's kits and make sure they got out of camp safely, before returning to the battle to give them more time to escape. She did see her sons die, however. Oakfur and Toadfoot had both been cut down while defending ShadowClan's camp. Tallpoppy's heart had shattered inside of her at the sight.

It took the elderly she-cat what felt like moons to force herself to her paws, to stumble out of her den at the sound of Rowanclaw's yowl for a retreat. On her way out of camp, she stumbled across Owlclaw, frozen by his shock and trembling all over at the sight of his brother's body. Something about the sight of the tom woke something back up in Tallpoppy. Owlclaw was her kin – her sister Applefur had been his mother. She hadn't appreciated his bullying nature, but he was still her Clanmate, and her kin, and he was too young to die here like this. So she forced herself into action, bodily shoving the warrior out of camp and herding him into ThunderClan's forest.

In the weeks after the battle, Tallpoppy felt a gnawing emptiness inside of her. All of her children were dead, and most of her Clanmates were gone. She was already at the end of a long life, logically she knew she didn't have long before she was reunited with her family in StarClan, but she had never expected to end her life so... alone. Besides that, her kits had deserved better than to die so young. But even through her own misery, Tallpoppy had always had a strong motherly instinct, and her eye was caught by two of the most broken-hearted warriors in the new Clan.

Birchfall had been best friends with three of her children when they were kits, and Owlclaw was her kin. It tore at her heart to see them so miserable through their losses. The elderly queen quickly took the toms under her wing, giving them all of the love and guidance – and occasionally harsh reality checks – she had ever provided for her own kits. It didn't make up for losing her own children, not really, but it did help to fill some of the emptiness in her heart to have these two young cats to look after. With the passing of the moons, Tallpoppy began to think of them as almost sons of her own, and Birchfall and Owlclaw returned the sentiment once they began to recover from their own misery. Tallpoppy passed the rest of her moons in peace in the elder's den, some of her grief muted now that she had cats in her life to care about again.

GRAYMIST:

Rank: Elder

Former Clan: RiverClan

Mother: Mistystar (deceased)

Father: Loudbelly (deceased)

Brother: Rainstorm (deceased)

Half Sister: Primrosepaw (deceased)

Half Brother: Reedwhisker (deceased), Pikepaw (deceased), Perchkit (deceased)

Mate: Stonestream (deceased)

Sons: Sneezepaw (deceased), Mallownose (deceased)

It is no great surprise to Graymist that she loses her mother and half brother in the Dark Battle. Despite being an elder herself, they had both been older than her, and Mistystar especially had been close to joining StarClan already. But losing her only remaining son was a blow that Graymist wasn't sure she'd ever recover from.

Even through her loss, there was one bright spot left in Graymist's life – the kits of her half brother, Lilykit and Pondkit. Graymist had helped carry them from RiverClan's camp during the battle, and even as she struggled to come to terms with Mallownose's death, she found comfort in spending time with her young kin. She was too old and too tired to be a full-time parent for the kits, and was more than happy to let Leaftail take over as a father for the pair, but she was there for them as much as she could be and loved them dearly.

When Olivestar became the official leader of LightClan, she often turned to Graymist for advice. The elder had never served as a leader herself, but her mother had been RiverClan's leader, and her brother its deputy, so she'd been exposed to much of the trials and tribulations of leadership in her life. She tried to give Olivestar the best advice she could, and it gave her a source of pride to be able to help her new leader in this way. With her leader's faith in her, and the love of her young kin, Graymist spent the rest of her moons quite happy with her place in LightClan.

FURZEPELT:

Rank: Rogue

Former Clan: WindClan

Mother: Willowclaw (deceased)

Father: Owlwhisker (deceased)

Sister: Boulderfur

Furzepelt started training in the Dark Forest when she was still an apprentice. She had always been ambitious, wanting to be the strongest, the fastest, the most admired by her Clanmates. She was Heathertail's apprentice, but she'd always admired Breezepelt more – he wasn't as strict and goody-goody as Heathertail, and he was a strong and fearless warrior. So when tom noticed her eagerness to learn and offered her a way to become even stronger as a warrior, she accepted without question. She started training in the Dark Forest that night.

Furzepelt hadn't started out with any particular hatred for the Clans, but she'd always been brisk with her Clanmates and unimpressed with rules and restrictions. Her Dark Forest mentors played on that masterfully. They taught her techniques that made her stronger, a better fighter than her Clanmates, and they whispered to her of how weak the Clans were, how they catered too much to the weak and cheated the strong of what they were due, how things would be so much easier if the strong were allowed to take what belonged to them. The feeling of becoming such a strong fighter filled Furzepelt with a heady sense of power, and she took in every word the Dark Forest told her. Seeing Antpelt's spirit killed in front of her only convinced her further – the world was kill or be killed, and the Clans were foolish for pretending their code of honor meant anything. By the time the Dark Forest revealed their true plans of destroying the Clans, Furzepelt was as eager for the fight as any true Dark Forest warrior. Finally, her Clan would see her true strength, and they would be sorry they'd ever tried to restrict her with their dumb rules.

When the surviving Clan cats managed to kill the last of the Dark Forest leaders, Furzepelt was driven away along with the remaining Dark Forest spirits. But she was still alive, she couldn't follow them back to the Dark Forest, and once driven away, there was only the lonely existence of a rogue for her. Hatred seethed inside of her. How dare those cowardly spirits give up the fight once their leaders were dead? How dare the Clan cats drive her away? She was stronger than any of them, this was supposed to be her day of triumph, and yet the continued living by their ridiculous code like they'd never lost anything!

The she-cat lived in solitude for several moons, stewing in her anger and hatred, letting her heart turn black with it as she schemed ways to get back at the Clans. Eventually, she was joined by Smokefoot, who'd had enough of how soft LightClan had gotten and all of the ridiculous interClan interactions being allowed. Bolstered by no longer being alone, Furzepelt decided that if she was ever going to get true revenge on the Clans, she was going to need more cats. The pair began to recruit more rogues to their cause, local cats who resented the Clans for hogging territory and prey, and loners and kittypets they could trick into thinking the Clans were savages who needed to be put in their place.

One day, many moons later, Furzepelt's group was approached by a gray she-cat calling herself Scorch. The she-cat was massive and covered from head to toe in scars, and there was a steely look in her golden eyes. She told Furzepelt that she was willing to become Furzepelt's ally, if Furzepelt could help her in return...

SMOKEFOOT:

Rank: Rogue

Former Clan: ShadowClan

Mother: Darkflower (deceased)

Father: Flintfang (deceased)

Brother: Crowfrost (deceased)

Mate: Applefur II (deceased)

Daughter: Stoatpaw (deceased)

Smokefoot was one of the Clan cats to survive the Dark Battle, and initially he stayed with the rest of the survivors. But he'd always been a very traditional tom, caring more for preserving ShadowClan's image of strength and the traditional values of the Clans than these ridiculous new ideas of kittypets being warriors or the Clans working together. He was therefore frustrated by the direction Olivenose was taking in the group in. Most of ShadowClan had been lost in the Dark Battle, but that didn't mean that she should give up all pride of being a ShadowClan cat!

She was letting cats from different Clans become mates – letting paralyzed cats serve as medicine cats and toms live as nursery queens – she hadn't even punished Gorsetail when the she-cat revealed that her first daughter was the result of a crossClan affair! She talked of the time of the Clans being over, of borders being a thing of the past, of peace being more important than upholding their proud heritage... it was no more than Smokefoot would expect of a halfClan cat like her, but anger boiled under his pelt at how the rest of the new Clan followed her every word.

Eventually Smokefoot got so fed up that he joined Furzepelt in exile, rather than live in a Clan led by a halfClan weakling like Olivenose.

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rorykillmore · 4 years

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okay a belated holiday gift fic for @tailsthesales! they requested villanelle + draco and their daemons, so i just went all out and wrote a snapshot of a full daemon au rather than just “they’re hanging out in saint denis on denny”

giz!! thank you for another year of good times and wonderful rp! you’re always so quick to reach out to support and compliment my writing, and i’m so grateful for all the times that’s encouraged me to keep going. thank you also for being such a constructive and creative staffing partner on denny -- i feel like whenever i come to you with an idea you’re always ready to help me build on it and fine tune it. even if you’re not always feeling sure of yourself, i want you to know that your kind and supportive presence makes a difference, and i’m grateful as always to call you my friend <3

Draco, Villanelle decides in that moment, will see his daemon settle when he really, actually chooses where he belongs. And decides whether that’s with his family or not.

“When did your daemon settle?”

It isn’t that Draco ever has any qualms with asking exactly what he likes when he likes, but this question feels odd for reasons Villanelle can’t put her finger on. Maybe because it’s the kind of thing nosy kids ask adults, and there are so few moments in which Draco lowers his guard and really embraces the vulnerability of being... child-like.

Villanelle runs her fingers luxuriously through Mischa’s striped fur. “I don’t remember. I don’t think it was for any special occasion. One day, we just decided who we were.”

She’ll spare him the truth as a kindness, she decides easily. Even he would be frightened by it.

Draco snorts, as though that answer doesn’t impress him. “Fine. Then when did he settle? How old were you?”

Raising her eyebrows, Villanelle finally lifts herself a little from where she is lounging on their living room couch, Mischa laying on the floor beside her, to stare over at Draco. For the past half an hour, he’s been hovering over at the coffee table, practicing some transfiguration trick or another on an old set of teacups he found God knows where (as if Villanelle would ever be caught dead owning teacups). But now he seems distracted. Libelle, presently in the form of an arctic fox, paces restlessly at his feet as if she is not particularly pleased with the direction of the conversation.

“Older than normal. Older than most of the other kids.” Villanelle shrugs. She had felt identity-less, like little more than an adaptable shapeshifter herself for much of her childhood and her teenhood, but looking back it hardly seems significant, like it is just another of the many, many ways she is not like everyone else. “Eighteen, I think.”

As if she doesn’t remember with incredible specificity. Sometimes before that, Mischa would pretend to be settled into a singular form whenever they’d meet strangers, and the two of them would have fun by pretending to be meek and delicate and seeing how they might mislead people.

Draco frowns faintly, and Libelle shoots a smug look up at him, and it prompts Villanelle to ask, “Why do you care, anyway?”

For a heartbeat Draco looks as though he might scoff and deflect, but in the end he answers, “I’ll be fourteen this year.”

“So? That is not so abnormal. I just told you Mischa did not settle until I was eighteen.”

Draco shrugs, turning stiffly back to the table, until Libelle abruptly calls him out. “He’s worried what his father would say,” she tells Villanelle, sniffing at her counterpart. “Pureblood families are meant to have their daemons settle by the end of their third year of school. It’s considered proper.”

“Wow. What a stupid rule.” Then again, Villanelle is sure she hasn’t yet heard one of those Pureblood stipulations that she hasn’t considered stupid at best. But Draco tenses and turns back to her, and not before shooting a sharp, irritated look at his daemon.

“It’s embarrassing, having your daemon flitting from form to form like a child’s after a certain age. I’ve been telling Libelle she ought to just... get on with it, already.”

Mischa makes a low huffing noise, his ears prickled and his attention focused on Libelle. Villanelle glances at her too, and finds her distaste for the whole situation evident. It is not uncommon, necessarily, for Draco and Libelle to be divided in opinion on things, and in fact it isn’t uncommon for children to argue with their daemons about settling anxiety in general, but...

Still, Villanelle snorts. “You cannot just get on with it. It just happens. At the right moment.” She thinks of Mischa’s bloodstained muzzle, his amber eyes alight and alive. She remembers her own quickened breathing. The stench of death in the formerly sweet apartment air. When they’d decided who they were.

Dismissive, she blinks the memory away.

“And I don’t feel it’s the right moment yet,” Libelle retorts brattily, pointedly trotting away from Draco’s side and sidling up next to Mischa. She tilts her head, considering, and by now Villanelle recognizes that spark of mischief in her eyes. She watches as Libelle changes form, becoming large and feline and predatory, with golden, tawny fur. “Perhaps I’ll be a lioness. That’d be new and different.”

Mischa rumbles, indulging her, but Draco scowls as though Libelle has made some kind of taunting joke.

“No offense, but you do not strike me as a cat person,” Villanelle tells Draco airily. “...Although lionesses are quite stubbornly loyal to their families. So who knows.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Draco demands while Libelle snickers. Over time, he’s begun to lose some of his sensitivity to Villanelle taking jabs like that, which Villanelle has taken as a good sign, but today it seems like a sensitive issue again.

“You let them tell you when your daemon is supposed to settle.” Villanelle rolls her eyes. “That should be her business. And your’s. Your father would have you let him stick his nose into everything, until there is nothing left that belongs to you.”

She hates fathers, she thinks bitterly, not for the first time in her life.

She’s expecting a fired up retort from Draco, but this time he stays curiously silent. When Villanelle looks over, she finds that he looks troubled. Torn. Libelle has gone back to vixen form, but this time her fur is a deep, defiant red, and her ears are pinned to her head.

Draco, Villanelle decides in that moment, will see his daemon settle when he really, actually chooses where he belongs. And decides whether that’s with his family or not.

Well, she knows Mischa would tell her if he much felt like speaking, He’ll have to discover that for himself, won’t he?

Villanelle amends for the time being, “I am just saying, don’t let that be the reason you stress over it. It’ll make your head all confused. People’s daemons don’t settle when their heads are like that.”

Draco relents with a sigh, unfolding his arms, which had been crossed defensively over his chest. “I suppose there’s no point in getting too worked up about it. It’s not as though I’m at Hogwarts, where anyone can see.”

“Yes, and you know I will judge you regardless of what petty societal expectations you follow, so at least there is that consistency!” Villanelle reminds him cheerfully.

Libelle chitters out a laugh and curls up on the floor near Mischa, finally at ease again. Villanelle marvels at it briefly, the way she always does when another daemon extends that sort of trust. Mischa is as much a killing machine as she is, capable of crushing the throats of most daemons in his jaws if he so chose, and yet the people close to him act as though he is a normal fixture of their lives. Safe to turn their backs on.

They’re both still getting used to that treatment, she supposes.

“As if I’ve ever cared what you think,” Draco is busy retorting, drawing Villanelle out of her thoughts and making her grin slightly.

“Good. That’s good practice for you.” And before he can process that statement, she continues on casually, “Are you going to show me that trick you were doing with the teacups, or what?”

Never one to pass up the opportunity to show off his magic, Draco pauses to glance over his shoulder. “Oh -- that? It is a fifth year spell, not that it’s been posing much of a challenge.”

“Wow. You can do things fifteen year olds can do!” Villanelle’s eyes widen, mocking and playful. “I wish I could.”

They trade jokes and insults for the rest of the afternoon, until Draco seems as at ease at his daemon, as if there’d never been any argument at all. Later, Villanelle is sure they will both remember, perhaps while lying awake at night with their restless thoughts. But she’s not one to worry about the future, and Draco can probably stand to learn from her example.

But then to give him credit, she relents as she steals a brief glance at him, he’s already learned quite a lot.

#christmas gifts #fic #PROUD OF U DRACO AS ALWAYS

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grell-writes-stuff · 5 years

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I finished chapter 28 and I’m posting it here because I did so many bad things

Tag List: @fenfaerie @arieswriting

I spent the week avoiding my phone as much as possible, and immediately deleting any notifications that popped up from that group chat. To keep it all confined to that forbidden, digital space, I tried to distance myself from the guys at school. Kelley had a lot to say about that yesterday.

“Do I have to bribe you into doing stuff?”

“Using what?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far yet. Maybe I just need to start smacking you with a newspaper until you do the thing that I want you to do.”

“You said we’re not hitting people.”

“I said you aren’t hitting people. I have free rein to do whatever is best for your health, and, at this point, I’m thinking of getting a little spray bottle–”

“Seriously?”

“You’re like a misbehaving cat, and I’m training you to stay off the kitchen table.”

She let up when I told her what my plans were for today.

At around six, I receive the “Here” text from Cole as his Cherokee rolls into our driveway behind – avoidance – something that I decide not to think about. Not today. For the sake of getting through this jam session and keeping it a good day, I can’t let myself focus on anything except drumming. That’s it. Nothing else.

That’s also why I slip my headphones in before leaving the house. I don’t have any music playing, but it keeps the ride to West Hills quiet – with the exception of Cole’s screamo. I say a polite “hey” to him and Matt, but that’s about it.

In approximately fifteen minutes, we’re pulling into the Mechis’ driveway next to a sleek, black Lexus that I refuse to look at. I don’t notice it, or the person walking from it to the entrance to the garage. I wedge a broom through the handle, because I refuse to open that door in my mind and let the memory of the screaming match ruin this day. Frankly, I’m determined to block out her shrill voice in whatever way I can. I fight against the ever-present urge to give myself tinnitus.

The three of us get out of Cole’s car, and I hang back for a moment as they grab their guitars. Together, we enter the garage, and I tug out my earbuds.

I swallow back the lump in my throat, but that’s tough when my windpipe is constricted.

It’s such a familiar place. It used to be comforting, but now it feels tainted and hollow. The old, duct-taped couches that are falling apart seem like dusty relics of some long-forgotten past for which I am the sole historian. The boxes of Full Stop. merch lying around feel like clutter now instead of a celebration and achievement, like some ancient memorabilia that no one will ever purchase, not even the most dedicated collectors. The band binder is still just hanging on by a thread, but it feels like it’s already exploded and setlists and notes are paper shrapnel raining down from the sky. My drum kit feels like a foreign technology that I don’t understand. This room is infested with age. It’s an abandoned ghost town, and I feel haunted.

As we enter, Bryson greets me. Cole and Matt say hi back, but I’m still finding it hard to make words, so I just nod and try to put my attention elsewhere. I try to remember the workings of my setup. I’ve been visualizing the placement of cymbals, and toms, and the kickdrum while I’ve been recovering. I know where everything is. I can figure out how I’d once played music on this strange contraption again. Maybe someday it’ll feel the same.

I head to one of the sofas as Matt and Cole go about tuning their instruments.

And I ignore the screeches that she calls vocal warmups. In fact, I do everything within my power to forget her presence all together.

“Okay,” Bryson interrupts after a few minutes have passed. In that time, I’d listened to the twangs of the guitar and bass, and not her shrieks into the microphone. “I guess we can start.”

Since we don’t have a gig lined up, and this is just an unofficial jam session for something like fun, there’s a difference in his tone. It’s not as desperate. That’s probably a good thing. He’s not stressed, and there’s less pressure on us to be perfect. We’ll be far from it. The walking boot on my leg acts as a constant reminder of that fact as I rise and move over to my kit.

“We’ll probably be a bit rusty,” he elaborates. “But everyone just try your best. We don’t have to sound filled-out. Just let us know if you need a break, Scott.” He gestures to my leg, to the boot.

I nod. There was no hope of us sounding full anyway, and I haven’t tried drumming with a cast ever, but I doubt it will help my limb coordination and timing, and it probably won’t feel too great after a while, so I’ll definitely be off. And we’re painfully lacking in guitars, but I force that thought out of my mind.

I don’t purposefully bump into her shoulder as I pass. It’s easier to pretend she’s not there – that she’s not even furniture – rather than acknowledging her as an obstacle.

“All right. So, Scott?” Bryson says to grab my attention. Once I’m sat on my stool behind my setup, I look at him. It’s tough to define what’s in his expression, but his words are rather transparent. I didn’t text him back at all the past few days and he knows that was a deliberate choice. “We all picked songs this week that we want to run today, and, after that, we’ll focus on originals, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Cole wants to run Ocean Avenue – so we’ll start there – and Selena picked Told You So.”

Of course it’s a Paramore song. Of course it is.

“Matt chose You Think You Know It All by Red As Dusk. What’s your pick?”

It takes me a second longer than normal to peruse my mental music library because now it’s shrunk in size, and so many songs have been filed away and are now off-limits. Kelley’s suggestions are background noise as I search the stacks. Purge the excess negative energy. Purge the anger. Hitting my sticks against my drums will help, but only if I can find a way to throw everything that I possibly can into it. It’s a good thing that I’m battling rage because those tracks are the safe ones now, and anything rebellious will do.

“The Anthem – Good Charlotte.”

Bryson gives me a brief nod, but that’s ruined immediately. Every hair on my body seems to rise in defense.

“Um, I don’t know that one!” It’s her sharp voice speaking, and I shove my earplugs in to filter out some of the volume and annoyance. “I would have learned it if you’d picked sooner.”

“Sucks to be you!” It slips out of me, and I realize that means I’ve broken my vow for the day, and now Selena’s materialized in the garage, and my glare lands on her, which she matches with one of her own. In my peripheral, the rest of the guys look like they’re getting ready to break up the resulting physical fistfight that seems to be inevitable.

But that will get me in trouble in some way. I know it for a fact. I’ve already reacted, so retreating is tough, but I grapple for a way to deescalate.

“I’ll fucking sing it then. Why does it even need lyrics anyway? It just needs to be cynical and loud.” My fingers clamp around my sticks, the tools that will help me feel better and prevent me from punching her square in her contoured cheek.

“You just want Vikki to come in here and yell at us again, don’t you?” Bryson asks, deadpan, probably so Selena doesn’t have a chance to retaliate.

“Yes,” says Cole.

“Oh, my God,” he sighs. “Really, Cole?”

“Dude, I can’t be the only one who’s told you that your sister is hot.”

“She’s hot,” Matt agrees.

“See? Verdict’s in: she’s hot.”

“Why am I friends with you?” That knocks the desperation back into his tone, and it almost feels like a normal detour from practicing. Like we have a gig soon, but we’re all screwing around, and Bryson’s the only one with a sense of urgency and deadlines. I almost make myself savour it. “Can we just start the song? Please? Just play the fucking song?”

At that, Cole shrugs slightly, and his gaze sweeps over us to find confirmation. I signal back, my limbs still humming with everything I had to repress a second ago. They’re vibrating with the need to get it out, and I feel ready to drum to release it all before it boils my blood. She injected the steam into my veins and it wants out.

When everyone’s ready, Cole’s guitar plays the chugging, palm-muted intro to Ocean Avenue. Finally, my sticks hit and my foot stomps the kickdrum’s pedal. Matt’s bass fills it out a little bit, but we still sound empty. We’ve played this track before, but it doesn’t sound anything like it used to when it came out of our instruments. Selena’s unstable voice wails without a care, and I try to block it out and focus on my drumming so I don’t sound so off even though I totally am.

My limb coordination is flawed because the boot is throwing off my time-keeping and I haven’t put my formerly-sprained wrist to much work until now. I knew that I wouldn’t be perfect, but it’s bugging me nevertheless. My brain is telling me that it shouldn’t be like this. As a whole, we should sound better. My limbs shouldn’t feel so stiff as if I were a marble statue, as if I’m turning to stone. I hope for a second where I get the chance to shake it off, except–

Except my throat has a tight knot in it, and it hastily, heavily drops down into my chest. It’s so sudden and strange, but I feel something stirring and then curdling within me, rising up and bubbling through every artery before solidifying into a heavy, black mass that weighs down my arms. I remember a moment too late that I should be breathing, and I only accomplish that because I haven’t been taking in air and it already feels like my lungs have been set on fire after being filled with concrete, so it’s tough to shove into my subconscious. My eyes are stinging so bad that I can’t see my sticks where they rest in my shaking hands. The knot launches itself up from my chest and I feel like I have to gag. My pulmonary function fails and I become as empty as the music that falls silent.

Not all at once. It dies off in pieces, but I stop first, right at the start of the chorus. Then, everyone else cuts off too. The sticks slip through my loose fingers, but I barely hear them hit the hard floor with a soft clatter because a song is echoing in my mind now, and it’s not Ocean Avenue.

But it’s close. Too close. Ahead of me, I see blurs.

But also, an endless horizon of blue.

“Scott?”

Bryson’s voice penetrates my earplugs, but it still sounds twenty-thousand feet away from me. My mouth feels like it’s been filled with sand, and my stomach hurts, and everything is blocked by the firm, congealed sludge living inside of me. My hands are caught up in earthquakes, and I hear my hollow attempts to breathe as something between gasps and augmenting sobs.

I suddenly feel his hand on my shoulder and I don’t know how because his touch is light and everything is hot and numb.

“Are you okay?” he asks in a distorted voice.

No. I’m not. I’m not okay, but I can’t speak to lie and say that I’m fine, or to, for once, tell the truth. My mind is not a blank whiteboard. Instead, someone has written lyrics on it in permanent marker, and now the words are tormenting me along with dark chords, and a frantic, panicking drum beat that’s pounding against my skull.

“What’s wrong, Scott?” One of them questions me. I can’t even tell which one of them it is anymore. Matt, I think. Maybe.

I want to throw up. Or I need to. Or I just need to take in air. Any fucking air at all. Before everything finally shuts down, I have to get it out. Quavering. Quiet.

“Yellowcard.”

There’s some silence. Or it would be, but my ears are ringing, and my cheeks feel wet. After a few hundred, frenzied heartbeats, Bryson stiffens beside me, which I know because the hand that’s on my shoulder is attached to a body that I feel go rigid. His voice mingles with the deafening tone and my tears, and I hate how horrified and sorry it sounds. How lost and guilt-ridden it is.

“I was playing Lights And Sounds when they jumped…”

It’s not even the same fucking song! So what?! I’m just never going to be able to listen to Yellowcard again?! Because now they are tainted with tragedy and I’ll always remember in some crevice of my mind that that stupid song was playing, and I can almost feel our arms locked, and the salty breeze as it all rushes up ahead of us–

“Shit, man. I-I’m sorry.” I hear Cole say, and I hate the way that it sounds too because he shouldn’t have to apologize. “I didn’t know–”

I can’t even tell him to stop because I won’t be able to make any words, and I can’t breathe. Nothing’s going in and reaching my burning lungs even though I’m gasping for it. It’s not his fault, but those words stop on my tongue. It isn’t Cole’s fault. He doesn’t have to say sorry. He was in the water. He couldn’t have heard it. It’s not Cole’s fault. It’s not Matt’s fault. It’s not Bryson’s fault.

Because maybe it’s mine. We did it together, and one of us tripped, and what if it was me? Maybe if we hadn’t jumped at the same time, things would be different. He would be here, and this would be a practice for a gig instead of a failed jam session, and his guitar would have filled out Full Stop. and we would feel like Full Stop., and I wouldn’t be breaking down over a fucking Yellowcard song! But it’s too late now, and it’s all my fault.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Fuck it! Move!”

Such a loud voice that slices through my earplugs like a razor blade and splits the air with the shrill metal sound of an axe hammering down. If I wasn’t shaking so terribly, I’d flinch at it because it hurts, but it also makes every trembling muscle inside of me tense painfully.

It’s sudden, but Bryson’s hand withdraws quick, and my vision finally goes dark, and then talons dig into my flesh and sear it, and I’m yanked up violently to the sounds of muffled protests surrounding us. My own laboured, raspy, wailing gasps rise above the guys as I try to bring in anything at all, but it turns out to just be another futile attempt because there’s not enough air in the atmosphere to keep me alive.

My skin burns where fingernails dig in and inflict agony like they’re steel nails instead, and I don’t know how I stumble when my legs have turned to rubber, and my feet feel weighted down. I could crumble and snap and break at any moment like a building ready to topple. All the retentions are groaning, the supports failing, and I’m about to fall, and I can’t fucking breathe!

There are bewildered and demanding words coming from the dark blurs around me, and I try to blink the water away, but it’s coming too fast. Only one forceful voice has the volume to rise above, and it’s almost clear, and so close to me, and shoving me harshly as if the sound itself has become a physical entity, and it’s so damn annoying. It pushes and pulls me, and I’m running out of the strength to fight it because everything I have left is trying to suppress the bile gathering in my stomach and threatening my useless esophagus.

Then everything is bright, like the sun on that horrible, unsuspecting day. I’d say I feel blinded by it, but I didn’t see anything before anyway. There’s more forced stumbling and a muddling of voices and sounds. Another rises over them, so loud, and shrill, yet it can never hit the notes it sets out to despite always trying to rise at the end of every line.

“Get in,” it demands.

“Selena, what the fuck are you doing?!” Bryson. I think it’s Bryson. It sounds kind of like Bryson, but so far away.

I think there’s a response, but I’m trapped in a fishbowl and everything is half muted. I’m sitting, and all I hear before someone else speaks is a loud slam right beside me. Then there’s something that sounds like angry arguing, but I can’t make it out because my thundering heartbeat and broken lungs are trying to kill me. Another harsh slam, then a jingle, sputter, and hum, and then the whole world lurches forward.

And my gut lurches forward and upwards again, and that forces the blackness clouding my eyes to dissolve into dizzy, sparkling fragments. I barely have the air to heave, but I manage to start gagging, rocking forward in my leather seat, and then her voice shrieks:

“Don’t you fucking dare puke in my car!”

I’m in Selena Walton’s stupid, expensive Lexus. There’s that small, sane part of me clinging to the thought that blowing chunks inside of her Lexus is a bigger fuck you to her than smearing Vaseline on the door handle, but it’s microscopic because the acidic needles of the bile are pricking the base of my empty windpipe, and it’s so fucking hot in here, and no matter how much blinking I do everything is blurry, and those lyrics are stuck in my mind.

“But make it loud, cause nobody’s there.”

Nobody’s there.

He’s not there. He’s not here. One. I’m alone in the chapel with a monument to destruction, the end of an era. Two. Together, we jump. Three. My leg feels like it’s been severed. Four. My head has exploded. Five. I shatter into pieces. Six. I’m gripping the porcelain sides of a bathroom sink to keep from falling. Seven. In the nightmares, I’m falling. Falling, falling, falling. Eight. I’m suffocated by the emptiness of a black abyss and closed-in walls of my bedroom without him in it. Nine. The futon is in couch mode. And that’s not ever going to change again. Ten. There’s not enough air, but I can’t seem to drown. Eleven. We hit the ledge over half-way down a thirty-foot fall, and it was all my fault. He’s gone, and I should have gone with him, but I didn’t and he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone – You’re never going to get rid of me, Morgan – and why can’t I fucking breathe–

And then something unimaginable happens.

It’s fast, unpredictable, and unprompted, and my boiled blood becomes lava because the second I realize what’s going on, I am furious.

Her arm smacks into and lays across my chest and pushes me back harshly against the seat, pinning me. She’s leaned over the console in the middle with her other hand still stretched to hold the wheel, but I only notice that after the fact, and it’s still not the most terrifying thing. My tear-blinded eyes go wide, and probably vault out of my skull like a cartoon because this is a new kind of unwelcome proximity.

Her lips are on my lips. She kisses me with her greasy, scalding, obnoxious, red mouth and suddenly my trembling limbs freeze in place. The world pauses for a second – or it feels like it except she’s also fucking driving in West Hills, which is just as uneven and winding as Woodland Hills and Bryson’s street is no exception, and her fucking foot must be pressing the accelerator to the floor.

But I am less focused on fearing for my life and more focused on the fact that I have now kissed Selena fucking Walton.

“What the FUCK?!”

#interlude #wip: interlude #book: interlude #morgan scott #selena walton #bryson mechis #cole marshall #matt jordan #mental breakdown #writing #my writing

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thebeautyofdisorder · 5 years

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Blog of John H. Watson, Hidden Post #57 (Adlock Drabble, Post S4)

This is what happens when I’m bored at work and speculate on the possible dynamic that could spawn out of Irene’s continued presence in Sherlock’s life being revealed in The Lying Detective, as well as the thought that John totally keeps an up to date documentation of Sherlock’s bullshit, even when he doesn’t share it. Short head canon in a blog post. A happy medium ending shall we say. Compatible with canon.

Rated T, for language and innuendos.

---

Sherlock Holmes is not a romantic, by any meager stretch of the imagination. In fact, if there were a term in the English language adequate enough to be defined as the polar opposite of a romantic, I wouldn't hesitate to employ it in regards to the world's only consulting detective. But, as with everything else in the complex world surrounding him, it's never quite so simple as that, either. For every area of disinterest in his over-wrought brain, there never ceases to be an exception to the rule. He hates the television, except for when he needs to pass the time.; he's seemingly ignorant of any charms the fairer sex may possess, until he decides to point out which one's they're lacking; he doesn't eat while on a case, unless you buy a very particular brand of biscuits and force them into his line of sight; and he doesn't have a single romantic bone in his body until The Woman is brought into the equation.

Now when I say 'romantic', don't think I mean that in the normal sense of the word - marriage and babies aren't something I can see him ever willingly seeking out, even for the likes of her. That man's idea of a valentine is probably the still-beating heart of one of her enemies, but thankfully (dreadfully?) that woman would happily accept it, and even prefer it over the largest diamond at Tiffany's. Domesticity, suffice to say, has never been a prominent part of their 'relationship'. They do so enjoy flirting with it though. The way anyone else would take a holiday from their mundane desk job to somewhere more exciting, every once in a great while, The Woman formerly known as Irene Adler takes a brief respite from whatever chaos she's getting up to on the other side of the pond and finds her way to Baker Street. Sherlock never seems surprised, though whether that's because she warns him ahead of time of her eminent arrival or if he can sense her presence like some sort of lovesick bloodhound, I don't know (I mostly suspect the latter). But one moment everything is perfectly normal, and the next she's there - and the world has turned upside down. It's never really that dramatic a shift, though, truly. Sherlock is still very...Sherlock. Not even Cupid could fix that. It's his resolute single-mindedness that suddenly seems to take its leave. Whatever has been at the forefront of his thought process is, if not completely usurped, carefully shifted over as if to make room for her. Normally anyone or anything having such an impact on his needle-point focus would annoy him - and sometimes it still does, 'defiance' added to the cluster of other emotions that seem to radiate from him in her presence. More often than not, however, he accepts this adjustment without complaint. If he's particularly deep in the depths of boredom, dare I say with relief. One moment he'll be in a rush to go over some experiment or contact a client, and then there she is - sometimes sitting in his chair looking over a file he'd left lying on the floor or lounging in the bathtub as though she had always been there, and hadn't just broken in. If the timing is really inconvenient, he might shoot her a look not unlike one you or I would give a beloved but stubbornly misbehaved house cat - but it still happens, the immediate recalculation of his priorities. He probably just pulls up a day planner in his mind and starts crossing things off and pushing them around. Brooding can wait ‘til next week, there'll be time to annoy Mycroft tomorrow afternoon, etc. The case - if there is one - still gets solved, of course. No force, however unstoppable, would ever halt the investigative side of his brain. If anything we just gain an amused spectator or even another educated opinion. However as soon as the thinking is done and the only thing left of it is the 'boring' part - contacting the client, handing over evidence, explaining all of his elaborate deductions to a mostly confused and unappreciative audience - I tend to finish it out. Hell, I volunteer to do so, or else it simply doesn't get done. Found that out the hard way once when he stopped answering Mycroft's phone calls halfway through halting a smuggling operation and - well, suffice to say he always knocks now, even if he did have a spare key made just to be intrusive. Not that it seemed to phase either of them. Hardly anything does, during these short visits. As affronted or even offended Sherlock will no doubt be at the turn of phrase, the world by and large ceases to exist to him when The Woman is in town. Once the mostly-metaphorical detective hat is off, there's nothing that can begin to compete with her hold over his attention. I've certainly never had any interest in trying. It took me less than five minutes, the first time she showed up, to see how obviously under-stated he had been when he told me that it was 'just texting' between them that first night I discovered their continued interaction. There had been a tension between them since the moment they'd met, obviously, but it had evolved somehow. It wasn't the unresolved curiosity it once was, but it wasn't a comfortable fondness like most couples have after a reasonable period of time either. It was trapped somewhere in the middle: a constant thrum of kinetic energy almost. It was the power of uncertainty and yet the knowing acknowledgement of potential. I've never seen it’s like anywhere else, probably because no other two people in the world have the patience and tenacity to make such an unreasonable constant work. Coupled with the fact they seemed to be in a continuous competition with each other, for what stakes I still don't know, it was a tangible thing. I'd call it a 'battle for dominance' but that seems far too on the nose for my taste. No, the only thing out of the ordinary about her physical proximity to the detective was that I was now privy to it. I'd say I'm now 'in on the joke', but that doesn't sound right, as funny as the idea of Sherlock shagging a (former?) dominatrix sounds. More like being an unwilling member of an obscure and elitist secret society whose meetings I don't attend and yet end up bearing witness to anyway. Then again, with Sherlock Holmes, when don't I feel like that? Neither of them have ever asked me to make myself scarce during these periods (the shortest being all of 12 hours or what I would deem An International Booty Call - the longest was a full week: Christmas to New Year, leading into a suspicious spike in our usual caseload), but I often do it anyway. No matter the innocence of the conversation they're having - or not having, it seems voyeuristic somehow. And not just in the sexual way. There's a certain foreign intimacy to their seemingly benign interactions that makes it almost more intrusive to walk in on them having tea than any of the more explicit scenarios that end up occurring at 221B Baker Street behind closed doors. There are exceptions of course - the three of us have managed a few pleasant evenings (as pleasant as Sherlock is capable of), but all in all, I leave them to themselves. For as suddenly as she arrives, she's just as quickly gone - leaving no obvious sign of her presence save the lingering of her perfume and usually some spontaneous possession that finds its way to the mantelpiece, and remains there until the next time she inevitably appears in another few months. Hell, maybe the next year. A bottle of red nail lacquer, a hair pin. Last time it was a dagger. I think it's probably deliberate - an excuse, outside of sheer interest, to return. Or maybe some sort of weird code, fuck if I know. Regardless, as soon as her presence dissipates, the Consulting Detective is back to his obnoxious and hyper vigilant self, as though nothing and no one could ever distract him from his single-minded search for problems to solve and humans to outsmart. If Sherlock's unhappy with this unstable 'arrangement' - hell, even if he's perfectly happy with it - he's never really said. In fact, he makes almost no comment about her at all when she's not here. This alone, apparently unbeknownst to him, makes her unique in the whole of the human race. The only exception seems to be under the specific pretense of making his older brother look both nauseous and disapproving at the same time. As for Mycroft Holmes, if 'The Ice Man' ever had any specific ill intentions towards The Woman who nearly brought the nation to its knees, he's apparently given up on them for now. He's even stopped making lewd comments about beheadings just to make Sherlock angry. Every once in an even greater while - only thrice in my memory - some mysterious 'case' will arise from overseas and Sherlock himself will vanish from the streets of London for a number of days. He always asks me if I'd like to come along, and I always give some sort of excuse to remain: can't find a sitter for that long, my passport expired, etc. I know what he's really doing, just as he knows that my passport is perfectly legal, and yet neither of us say a word. I don't know if it's some twisted way to extend the 'mystique' of a secret tryst, or he's just helping her out with something very illegal, but I'm not sure I want to. It's not up to me to say if this sort of dynamic will last - if either of them will eventually require something more steady or resolute, or simply grow bored with one another. But for now, as I write this, Sherlock is restocking the kitchen for the first time in months without being harassed and has ceased whining about Lestrade not calling him back all weekend - so I doubt it's going to be a concern for a long while. By morning I'm sure I will walk in to witness my boorish and manner-less best mate who will rarely even boil his own water trip over himself to have her coffee made by the time she wakes, so he can regale her with the gory details of how he solved the grisliest murder we've had since her last visit. And they say romance is dead.

#my writing #adlock #john watson #sherlock holmes #irene adler #post series 4 #john's blog #the adlock yacht #narrative nonsense

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mrschangrettawrites · 6 years

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Hell Hath No Fury

Summary: You had been betrayed for the last fucking time

Pairings: Tommy Shelby x Reader (formerly), Tommy Shelby x Grace (mentioned), Luca Changretta x Reader (main)

Words: 1531

Notes: Spoilers for season four, female reader, I should be working on other things but instead I’m doing this. Drag me. I highly highly highly recommend installing the InteractiveFics extension from the Chrome store if you can. To add your name and last name simply install the extension, then click ‘Need to replace something other than Y/N?’ and in the value bar put Name and put your name in the Replace With bar, then click change! And be sure to tick Store this replacement so that you don’t have to do it every time.

I also want to say thank you all so much for the love and support that all of you have shown for this story! It really was unexpected and so so appreciated, honestly it has made me all the more motivated to get these out! I hope you all enjoy!

Tagging: @timeless-flogging @decaffeinatedeaglefart @goghadventuring @sophspark @possiblyafangirl @buckybarnesisalittleshit @aya-fay if you would like to be tagged in future chapters just send in a message!

One//Two//Three

CHAPTER FOUR

It had taken what felt like forever to calm down Curly, and assure him that despite the gunshots, you were perfectly safe. The Italian that had been sent after you had managed to escape, which was partly true, and left him to tend to Diamond and her broken stall. Although you had given him some shreds of truth, you still felt bad for lying to Curly. He was a good sort, odd, but good, and always gentle with the horses.

Matteo had been able to sneak back to his car while you distracted Curly and you met him two blocks away where he proceeded to drive you to the hotel where he and his brothers were staying. The ride was silent and tense, and you kept one hand on your gun the whole way, but you had a feeling that Matteo would see this through. If nothing else, delivering the wife of Thomas Shelby to the head of the Changretta family would certainly be an accomplishment.

A talk with Luca Changretta was all you wanted, and although Matteo had been suspicious, it was better than the alternative. As a show of good faith you even gave him back his gun, which had surprised him. You didn’t know what he was expecting, but you had feeling that it wasn’t this.

You had never been to the Inkberrow Hotel, and you were somewhat impressed with it and the implication that the Changrettas had plenty of money to spend. Growing up the way you did, any sign of wealth impressed you, even after all the money Tommy had gained in recent years.

Before you could see Luca Changretta your presence had to be explained, which Matteo did on his own. You weren’t entirely sure that this wasn’t all together foolish, but you didn’t say.

After a few minutes and a surprising lack of raised voices, Matteo came back out into the hall. “He’ll see you.” And that was good enough.

The first thing you noticed was how big the room was. It seemed to be the same size as your mum’s living room, bigger even, and you couldn’t help the internal rise of an eyebrow. The second thing you noticed was Luca Changretta.

He was taller than you had expected him to be, taller than Arthur, and he had the same commanding presence your mum could muster at the tip of a hat. And he was very handsome, with his black hair slicked back and a strong profile that added to the general air of intimidation. A part of you felt bad for noticing, you were married after all. But Tommy had done far worse, and your idea was far worse than finding another man infinitely more attractive than your husband.

Luca Changretta smiled, and you immediately felt as if you were staring at an apex predator. “Mrs Shelby,” he said, the words falling from his mouth as languid as a cat. A big one maybe. “My brother tells me you wish to talk to me.”

“Name.” You said. Hearing the name ‘Shelby’ made your skin crawl. “I would prefer it if you called me that, Mr Changretta.”

There was the smallest hint of surprise on Luca Changretta’s face before he smiled again. “In that case, please call me Luca.” He sat behind the large desk at the center of the room, pulling out a toothpick from his pocket and putting it in his mouth. “So, what is it you wish to discuss?”

“I want to help you.”

The idea had only been half formed when you had first spoken to Matteo, but the time it had taken to be able to talk to Luca had allowed it to grow, like a creeping vine, wrapping itself around your heart.

To your surprise, Luca laughed. “You want to help.” He said, before glancing at Matteo. “She wants to help.” He chuckled, rolling the toothpick from end of his mouth to the other. “That is a very kind offer Name, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“I didn’t expect you to.” You said. “Which is why I’m going to tell you about Polly.”

For a brief moment, there was a flicker of apprehension on Luca’s face and you saw him look over at Matteo again. “What about her?” He asked slowly.

“Tommy knows about the double cross. The whole thing had been his idea.”

That had changed the atmosphere. It became heavier and you could feel the tension, yet somehow you were unbothered.

You had been apprehensive of the whole idea at first, too many things could go wrong and you weren’t keen on the idea of putting Polly in danger. But none of that mattered now.

“Is that so.” Luca slowly rose, making his way around the desk. “Why are you telling me this?” He leaned back against the desk, almost sitting on it. “You’re married to Thomas Shelby after all, why do you want to help us?”

“Because he’s a right bastard.” You weren’t any mood to sugar coat things, and you figured honesty would be the best course of action in this situation. “He’s cheated on me for the second time and this time he got the girl pregnant. He can fucking rot for all I care.”

There was a brief silence, but it was broken when Luca laughed, looking back at Matteo. “L'inferno non ha furia.” He said, more than a little amused.

“You haven’t begun to see my fury.”

Luca raised an eyebrow, grinning so widely you wondered if he was holding back another laugh. “You speak Italian.” “My grandmother was from Sicily.” You clarified. “She immigrated here after marrying an Englishman.” Your grandmother had never said much about Sicily, in fact she rarely spoke at all, and when she did it was always in Italian, which meant your mum and later you had to learn how to speak it. It wasn’t something you talked about much either, mostly because no one ever really asked and you never found it important or interesting enough to mention. It was the worst during the war, your mum refused to speak Italian outside the home out of fear that someone would mistake her for an Italian spy. She didn’t feel comfortable enough to let the language leave her door again until 1922.

“Well, that explains it.” Luca said. “My father always said that Sicilian women are more dangerous than guns.”

A sudden air of sadness came over the room, as Luca went from playful and pensive, and you found yourself feeling empathetic towards him.

“I’m sorry about your dad.” You said softly. “He never should’ve died.”

What you really thought was that none of this, the vendetta, the deaths, needed to happen. The only reason why it was happening was because Lizzie had fallen in love with Angel Changretta, a development that you had supported. You had been furious with Tommy when he tried to interfere, after all it was none of his business who Lizzie saw. John had married Esme which left Lizzie to pursue whatever man she wanted. Now you felt that a part of you better understood why he had done that.

“Thank you.” Luca gave you what appeared to be a genuine smile and a part of you felt warmer for it. “So, Polly has been playing me has she?”

“Yes.” You said, pulling yourself back into the moment. “She went to Tommy after she got your letter and they came up with the plan together. She would give you a time and place to go after Tommy and set up an ambush. None of you know Small Heath all that well and Tommy planned on using that to his advantage.”

“You realize that this means Polly is back on my list.” Luca said, raising a brow. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

“She knew about the pregnancy.” You said, still stinging from that particular betrayal. “As far as I’m concerned she’s as bad as Thomas. But, you don’t need to kill her. Or Thomas.”

Luca took the toothpick out of his mouth, rolling it between his fingers. “Then what do you suggest?”

“Take everything else from them.” You said. “As far as I’m concerned, death is too quick and too good for them. But if you take away what they have, the business the money the empire, that’s a much slower death. A more painful one, and it’ll hurt Tommy the most. He’s always wanted power, so how better to punish him than to take it away?”

There was a pause as Luca appeared to be thinking your suggestion over. He looked up at you with an expression you couldn’t read, the corners of his mouth twitching. “It’s a shame Mr Shelby doesn’t know how to be loyal to his wife.” He mused. “It seems he’s lost a valuable ally.” He stood up straight, putting the toothpick back in his mouth. “Thank you for your help Name, I’ll contact you if I need to.”

You didn’t ask how he would do that, you just assumed that like Tommy and other gangsters, he would find a way. “Have a good day Luca.” You said.

“Oh, I’m sure I will.”

Translation: L'inferno non ha furia-Hell hath no fury (according to google translate)

#tommy shelby x reader #luca changretta x reader #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders x reader

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louisfeatharry · 6 years

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the end of 2017 is nearing, and while one direction may have gone on hiatus two years ago, fandom participation has stayed strong, particularly in fanfiction! for those of you who are following me, you’ll know that i’ve read a lot this year, and i love rec-ing fics whenever i can. so i thought i’d share my list of my favorite fics from this past year.

and thus! here is part one of my list of my favorite fics from 2017!

note: all fics listed have been completed in 2017, although some may have started in previous years.

in alphabetical order:

Atlas At Last by louisandthealien

Be Still by thisonegoes

Black with Autumn Rain by whimsicule

Cold Little Heart by seducedbycurls

cupid’s defence by harbb

Deuxsphere by sweetlullabies

Emperor’s New Clothes by sunsetmog

got the sunshine on my shoulders by hattalove

Homegrown by casuallyhl

It Comes and Goes in Waves/It Always Does by roaroftheninth

keep the light on by renlyne

Life Was a Song, You Came Along by rainbowninja167

like a boomerang by youwilll

Like an Endless Summer by objectlesson

Looking Through You by allwaswell16

all information on the fics is under the cut.

Atlas At Last by louisandthealien [@louisandthealien] (83k) Harry/Louis, 1970s AU, road trip, ot5 friendship, strangers to friends to lovers

He doesn’t know what he had been expecting out of the road trip itself besides burping contests and too much shitty gas station food with Oli and Stan, but in the brief moment before Harry ambles up his driveway, Louis idly wonders if this is about to become some sort of Gay Coming of Age story.

Maine to California in ten days. In which Zayn’s an open-shirt hippie they meet somewhere in Ohio, Liam’s the pastor’s son running away from home, and Niall’s the number they call on the bathroom wall.

It’s 1978. Harry and Louis are just trying to get to San Fran in time for the Queen concert.

⇨ read on ao3

Be Still by thisonegoes [@this-onegoes] (150k) Zayn/Harry, murder mystery, detective AU, hurt/comfort

Zayn hears the telltale sound of stretcher wheels bouncing up over a weather strip. A tech backs out of the door first, as both Zayn and Harry turn to watch. They wheel the black body bag out and lift it down the stairs, to take her away. She's officially cleared for transport, no longer a resident of the household. She's now just a corpse wrapped in plastic.

When they finally turn back to one another, Harry blinks and then shatters into pieces.

Detective Zayn AU.

⇨ read on ao3

Black with Autumn Rain by whimsicule [@whimsicule] (93k) Harry/Louis, magical realism, thriller

“Thank you,” Geoff says, taking a sip of his tea. “What did you tell him?”

Louis has a sip as well, lets the tea burn down his throat too quickly, too hot, and he feels it all the way down to his stomach. “The truth. Essentially,” he replies after a moment, licking his lips, relishing the slightly bitter taste of the brew that’s never quite strong enough for Louis’ liking. At least it’s not decaf. “That my dog scented it. That I didn’t touch the body. That I came here first thing.”

Geoff nods pensively. “Did he believe you?”

“Probably not. There’s only so many people who can drown on dry land before it gets fishy.”

or: Harry is a journalist, Louis has lots of secrets and the moors aren't exactly the ideal place to rekindle a lost romance.

⇨ read on ao3

Cold Little Heart by seducedbycurls [@seduced-by-curls] (194k) Harry/Louis, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, werewolves, hurt/comfort

Louis is a soft omega with an abusive past and an alpha child.

A few months after getting a divorce, Louis meets Harry, an ex-military alpha wolf that offers him something -odd.

In exchange for teaching him how to cook, Harry will babysit his son, Abraham.

Louis really could use the help.

⇨ read on ao3

cupid’s defence by harbb (116k) Harry/Louis, Cupid AU, lawyer AU, fantasy & supernatural

In which Harry is Cupid, Louis and Liam own a law firm, and they're all getting sued.

⇨ read on ao3

Deuxsphere by sweetlullabies (156k) Harry/Louis, college/university AU, soulmates/soulmate-identifying marks AU, enemies to friends to lovers

The way the vines of the rose curled around the sharp straightness of the dagger was an image that was going to be forever embedded into his mind. The longer Harry craned his neck to look at it in the mirror, the more he realized—it was fucking creepy. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why it was there, or why humans decided to make it mean something.

Harry's first year at uni is guaranteed to be a breeze as long as he stays focused, steers clear of flying footballs, and completely avoids boys who are in bands.

⇨ read on ao3

* as a note, this is my favorite fic of 2017.

Emperor’s New Clothes by sunsetmog [@magicalrocketships] (92k) Harry/Louis, famous/nonfamous AU, exes to lovers, secret relationship

The fact that Louis’s most precious belonging was a cat with a face like thunder and an uncanny ability to cover every single inch of Louis’s clothing with cat hair was something that Louis chose not to think about too much.

or: Harry’s a pop star and Louis isn’t, and there’s a non-disclosure agreement where there used to be a relationship.

⇨ read on ao3

got the sunshine on my shoulders by hattalove [@hattalove] (124k) Harry/Louis, famous/nonfamous AU, exes to lovers, Sweet Home Alabama AU

five years ago, harry styles left his tiny home town to make it big as a recording artist. he didn't have much regard for what he left behind - a life, a family, and a husband, who woke up one morning to find him gone.

now, harry has everything he could possibly want: he's rich, famous, and adored by everyone he meets, including his boyfriend. but when said boyfriend proposes to him, he's forced to face the uncomfortable facts of his past - and louis, who's spent the last five years returning every set of divorce papers harry sent him.

(or, an au based on the movie sweet home alabama.)

⇨ read on ao3

Homegrown by casuallyhl [@casuallyhl] (51k) Harry/Louis, gardens & gardening, strangers to friends to lovers

“It wasn’t an easy decision, if I’m honest,” Harry admits, shoulders sagging in on himself. “Moving is really difficult. My whole life was in Manchester. But Manchester didn’t want me. Leeds did.”

“Well, Leeds is happy to have you,” Louis says, giving Harry a kind smile.

Harry brightens a bit at that, undeniably pleased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis replies, expression soft and lips curved.

Or, a gardening AU where Harry is new to town and the newest volunteer at the local gardening club, Louis is the attractive grandson of one of the members, and the nosy volunteers hatch a plan to get them together.

⇨ read on ao3

It Comes and Goes in Waves/It Always Does by roaroftheninth [@almost-a-class-act] (50k) Harry/Louis, World War II AU, post-war AU

“He says that he’s grateful for that ending, because he always wanted to imagine it like that and you were always a better storyteller than he was. But that’s not the ending that should be published, because it’s not the truth.”

Summary: It is 1953; Louis makes that nine years since they won the war (eight if you count the Americans, which he never does). His first novel, a best-seller set during wartime, is due for a sequel - but Louis doesn't want to face the ending.

⇨ read on ao3

keep the light on by renlyne [@daretomarvel] (43k) Harry/Nick Grimshaw, canon compliant, future fic, friends to lovers

but·ter·fly ef·fect noun 1. (with reference to chaos theory) the phenomenon whereby a minute localized change in a complex system can have large effects elsewhere. 2. a cumulatively large effect that a very small or seemingly insignificant natural force may produce over a period of time.

In which Harry Styles tears up over glitter, and Nick Grimshaw’s life becomes immeasurably more complicated.

Or: it’s 2020, and really, better late than never.

⇨ read on ao3

Life Was a Song, You Came Along by rainbowninja167 [@rainbowninja] (37k) Harry/Louis, Singin’ in the Rain AU, famous/nonfamous AU

It's embarrassing how long it takes Louis to recognize his own song. Niall had sung it as a bright, hopeful love song, and that’s honestly how Louis had always assumed it should sound. But this new voice, slow and rough, stripped of any backing instrument, has infused the lyrics with just the tumultuous mix of fear and defiance that Louis can remember so clearly from the night he wrote them. It’s not a comfortable thing, to feel like someone is singing all your secrets back to you.

Louis is a songwriter trapped in a lie that could ruin his best friend's career. Harry owns a record store, distrusts everyone in the music industry on principle, but loves Niall Horan's newest album. A modern retelling of Singin' in the Rain.

⇨ read on ao3

like a boomerang by youwilll (51k) Harry/Louis, college/university AU, Groundhog Day AU, pining

AU in which Harry gets trapped in a lift, Louis gets stuck in a Wednesday, and it's always February 2nd. Until it isn't.

⇨ read on ao3

Like an Endless Summer by objectlesson (87k) Harry/Louis, summer camp AU, friends to lovers

“You just wanna go fawn over Styles as soon as possible,” Zayn grumbles.

“I do not. Plus, he probably got ugly this year. Eighteen is an awkward time...I bet he’s got acne and one of those terrible fuckboy haircuts all the hipsters are getting these days, with the shaved sides? Just watch, the first year we’re gonna get any time together is gonna be the first year I don’t have a stupid crush on him.”

---

Or, Louis is a riding instructor at a summer camp, and Harry is a fellow counselor who he’s been successfully managing his crush on for the last two summers. That is, until Harry shows up this year leveled up and lethal, and all Louis’s formerly perfected veneer of nonchalance melts like a popsicle in the sun.

⇨ read on ao3

Looking Through You by allwaswell16 [@allwaswell16] (41k) Harry/Louis, famous/nonfamous AU, roommates, friends to lovers

Just as Louis and Liam were starting out in the music industry, writing and producing for up and coming artists, a fateful meeting with new pop singer Harry Styles changes everything. Four years later, just as Harry is set to embark on his next world tour, a drunken confession causes a rift between once inseparable friends. As Harry tries to make sense of his feelings for Louis, he begins writing his next album to express them as it may be the only way to break through the walls that Louis has built between them.

⇨ read on ao3

and that’s it for part one! part two will be coming out soon! x

credits for resources in banner: saturnthms (gradient), resourcescollection (galaxy texture), & kaeveeoh-art (speech bubble animation)

#favefics2017 #fic rec list

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theragnarokd · 7 years

Text

maculategiraffe

replied to your post

“am i going to now unleash on the world my awful self-indulgent...”

omfg do iiiiit

YOU HAVE ONLY YOURSELF TO BLAME FOR THIS TRAVESTY

(contains: multiple OCs, ableism, murder, small children who are not harmed, non graphic discussion of bathroom functions. 2.4k and there might still be more)

They were two hours away from Fort Independence when the bushes rustled suspiciously.

There have been reports of raiders in this area. Nora caught Hancock's eye, got a tiny nod in return, and cautiously approached.

She wasn't surprised to see a gun pointing at her. The hand holding it, though, was unexpected: it was shaking so hard that the gun's owner was likelier to hit themselves by accident than to hit Nora.

"Don't come any closer." The gun owner's voice was flat. "We don't want any trouble. Please just leave us alone."

Nora held up her hands. She was pretty sure she could take the gun away without hurting the person in front of her too badly, but it would be better to talk them into putting it down.

Before she could start, another voice piped up. "Mommy, can we go home now?"

Nora looked downward. Sure enough, that was a small child tugging on her mother's pants; the mother, still looking at Nora, was trying to keep the kid behind her, with little success. "Please leave us alone," the mother repeated.

Slowly, hands still held up, Nora sank into a crouch. "I'm not going to hurt either of you," she said, as soothing a tone as she could manage. "I just want to help. Where are you from? Do you need help getting there safely?"

The mother was silent. The child said, insistent, "I wanna go home." In a quieter voice, she added, "I wanna go potty."

Nora met the mother's eyes. "My daughter is just over there," Nora said. "How about she take... what's your name?" she addressed the kid.

The kid chose this moment to hide behind her mother's leg. After a moment, the mother said, "Shelby."

Nora tried to keep her smile soft. "Hi, Shelby. Can I bring my daughter Emily here to meet you?" She looked up at the mother, who finally nodded, holding Shelby behind her like she could be a human shield for her daughter.

To Nora's complete lack of surprise, Emily had Shelby shyly holding her hand within ten minutes, with the mother allowing this. "How about I take you to water the bushes," Emily said, making Shelby giggle, "and my mom and yours can talk a bit?"

Shelby threw her mother one last doubting glance. "Go on," the mother said softly. "Go with her."

Nora waited until they were out of earshot to ask, "So?"

"I was exiled," the woman told her, "because I killed my brother. I drugged him and stabbed him in the neck when he was asleep, and I'm not sorry." She let out a gasping sob, then, and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. "But Shelby's only three." She forced the words out, wheezing.

Nora laid a hand on her shoulder. "Hey. C'mon, you don't have to tell me everything right now. Here, drink some water." She attempted to pass her canteen.

That only got Shelby's mom to bend over double. She was crying so hard she shook with it, but she didn't make a sound until she started speaking again. "I meant to leave her with friends," she said. "But she ran away after me." She took three ragged breaths, stood up and wiped her face, smearing up half-dried blood and dirt. "If you walk a little way away, you can execute me and tell her I said to go with you. Just find somewhere safe for her. She's healthy, I know there's families in the Commonwealth looking to adopt, or in Diamond City--"

"Hey, no," Nora said, alarmed. "I'm not executing anyone right now." Belatedly, it occurred to her to ask, "You know who I am?"

In return she received an unimpressed look. "You're Nora Bowman."

Nora grinned, sheepish. "That I am. Mind telling me your name in return?"

"Cindy," Cindy said, after a short hesitation.

"Nobody's getting executed today," Nora said firmly. "Or, I mean, definitely not in the next hour-- oh, shit, I'm sorry," she said, as Cindy started crying again.

Cindy waved it off, tears still streaming down her face. "Sorry," she said. "I don't think you mean anything bad. I'm just." She swallowed. "Scared about Shelby. Promise me you'll keep her safe? Please."

"Promise," Nora said promptly. She was pretty sure Hancock was side-eyeing her from where he stood, but it's not like he could think she'd say anything else. "And you too. Where are you from?"

That seemed to shock Cindy silent. She blinked several times. "I can't tell you that."

"Okay," Nora said slowly. "You're not a synth by any chance, are you?" Cindy just shook her head; if she was a liar, she was better at it than most of Nora's kids. "Okay. Come with us and we'll sort things out."

A little way away, Emily was listening to a halting story about-- a cat and a hippo? And birthday presents? --and Cindy said, "You sure you want an unrepentant murderess in the place your children live?"

Nora snorted laughter. "My kids," she said with pride, "can take care of themselves."

This statement turned out to be less universal than she thought it'd be only a week later.

X6-88 brought her the news, stone faced. "J3-42 is dead," he said, "and the scientist formerly under her protection wishes to meet with you."

He'd told her to sit down before speaking. Yet another time Nora was glad she listened to her kids. "Shit," she said, with a heavy heart.

She didn't really know J3-42, not at all. Michael and X6 told her some tidbits about her - that she was strong and fierce (like all of Nora's children), that she was loyal (like all of Nora's children). At the time of her death, J3-42 hadn't been comfortable coming under Nora's wing, or bringing her charge there.

Nora wiped her face. If only they'd had more time... but they didn't. "So, why should I listen to the person who probably sat back and let her die?"

For J3's memory, if nothing else. But X6 said, "Dr. Harrington let me know that there is another synth hiding with him. I was not permitted to see this synth, or talk to them."

Nora chewed her lip. "Could be a wild goose chase."

"Undomesticated fowl has never stopped you before," Michael said behind her, and Nora had to stop herself from crying with how grateful she was for his presence.

She stood up, shaky but true. "I'm going to need to be in top form for this," she told Michael.

He answered, "Of course, mother," and opened his arms to hug her.

Whatever was going on with Harrington, he probably wasn't lying about another synth. The voice screaming "No! No! No!" was definitely female, which Harrington wasn't last Nora checked.

When Harrington opened the door to Nora, he was visibly sweaty, malnourished, bags under his eyes that looked like actual bruises. Good, Nora thought, gritting her teeth.

"She's quite intractable, I'm sorry," Harrington said, "and she's been worse ever since poor J3 - hey!" The last word was said to Michael's back as he approached the synth huddled semi-fetal on a chair in the corner.

"K8-99?" Michael said, with something like disbelief.

K8 raised her eyes at him. She was small and dark, with her short hair in cloudy fluffy curls. "X9-21?" she said, uncertain.

"That was my name," Michael said. "I prefer to be called Michael now." He gestured at Nora. "This is Nora Bowman. She's the General of the Minutemen, and Father's heir. She wants to help you, and so do I." K8 listened to this unblinking. "Were you yelling? Can we help?"

K8 huddled tighter, and said something Nora couldn't make out.

"I don't see a reason you should have to do that right now," Michael said. "Is this something you have difficulty doing?"

"That and everything else," Harrington said crossly.

The look Michael gave him like a laser beam. His voice was utterly polite when he said, "I wasn't asking you."

"I have difficulties in many tasks." K8 was audible, just barely. "I need help using the restroom. I can't touch anything dirty. If commanded to do so, I-- malfunction."

"You don't have to," Nora said, the words rushing out of it. "You don't have to do anything that hurts you, okay?"

K8 turned her eyes on Nora. "I do have to," she said, as if correcting a small factual error. "I have to use the restroom, and I can't do that by myself."

"So, someone can help you," Nora said. "Who did it until now, Dr. Harrington?"

"Every since we lost J3-42," K8 said softly.

"Are you comfortable receiving help from him?" Nora asked. K8 nodded. "I don't see a problem."

"I'm a man of science," Harrington said tightly. "You can't reduce me to a wet nurse."

It was an effort not to pin him to the wall by the throat. Instead, Nora smiled very brightly and said, "I can do lots of things, Dr. Harrington. You'd be surprised how few things I can't do, actually."

Harrington got the point and fell into grumpy silence.

With the same bright smile, Nora said, "So, is everything settled? You guys are coming? Can we go home now?"

K8 looked at Michael. "Can I have a name, too?"

Nora beamed. "Of course. Which one do you want?"

"Katherine," she said promptly.

Nora approached for a hug before she could think better; but after only a brief hesitation, Katherine hugged her. It was stiff and gingerly, but Nora was pretty sure it was genuine. "I'm so glad to meet you, Katherine," she said, choked up.

"I'm glad to meet you too," Katherine said. "Apparently I can hug some people, that's good to know." She sounded like she was noting a curious fact.

"That's great," Nora said, whole-heartedly, and hugged Katherine some more.

It took less than a week for Harrington to make a nuisance of himself. Nora couldn't say she was surprised, but she did wish it could have taken longer for the shit to hit the fan.

"This is preposterous," Harrington yelled. Katherine had backed into a corner, mouth drawn into a stiff line. "You're acting like a child!"

"I can't," Katherine said. Those were the only words she'd said in the last ten minutes.

Harrington turned to Nora; if he was looking for sympathy, he wasn't going to find any here. "Please stop encouraging her. How do you think she'll ever get better if you don't--" He apparently caught on to Nora's fury and abruptly changed tactics. "Be reasonable. What if something happens to me? Without me, who's going to," he grimaced, "care for her? Are you going to do it?"

A voice came in from the doorway. "I could do it."

Nora looked up. It was Cindy; Nora wasn't certain, but that may have been the first thing Cindy said to her since arriving at the Fort. Nora had been busy, and every time she caught a glimpse of Cindy she'd had her hands full of various crops and a three year old.

Cindy was looking straight at Katherine. "What kind of help do you need?"

Katherine pointed at the fork she'd dropped on the floor. "I can't pick it up." Her voice shook. She yelped when Cindy bent and grabbed the fork. "Don't bring it near me!"

"Not bringing it near you." Cindy's voice was steady and calm. "What do you need me to do?"

Katherine took several deep breaths. "Wash it with soap. And your hands, too. I won't look. Then give it to me."

Harrington burst out with, "This is insane."

Katherine stared at him with wide eyes. "Did you just notice that? Then what was all that research about?"

Nora spun around to stare at Harrington as well. "Yeah, how about we discuss that. What research?"

It wasn't hard to figure out that Katherine had some species of OCD: Nora didn't know much about mental illness, but all the hand washing was kind of a dead giveaway. She didn't know synths could have that. Apparently, neither did the Institute: Michael told her he'd thought Katherine had been destroyed as a defective specimen.

The ugly ramifications of what the Institute might have done to her instead were too easy to imagine.

Harrington flushed. "I protected you," he told Katherine. "Remember that. The others would have wiped you, at the very least left you to die."

Katherine looked down. "I know."

"So what?" Cindy's voice was high and sharp. "Gee, thanks a lot, how nice of you not to kill someone who depended on you. Real sweet of you."

Harrington gave her an incredulous look. "Do you know what I've done for her? I've bathed her when she soiled herself. I've--"

"Yeah, I raised a baby," Cindy said, before Nora could burst into flames of sheer fury. "You're not going to make me think you're a saint because you helped someone with bathroom stuff. Also, bringing it up like that is super shitty."

There was a stiff silence, which Katherine broke by chuckling.

"What?" Cindy said, wary.

"Shitty," Katherine repeated. Then she flushed. "I'm sorry."

Cindy smiled at her. "What for? You're not the one making unintentionally terrible puns." She turned back to Harrington and the smile fell off her face. "She's not a child, and maybe she wasn't born, but nobody asked her if she wanted to be made. You're the one who had a choice, you deal with it."

Harrington stormed off in a huff. Cindy looked at Katherine, then looked at Nora. "Uh, sorry?"

Katherine took a step forward towards Cindy. "That was the bravest thing I've ever seen, and I want to hug you now."

Cindy's face blanked and she started crying. Even as Katherine retreated in alarm, Cindy waved her hands. "I'm fine, you didn't say anything wrong." She sniffled. "Sorry. I don't know, I start crying when people are nice to me."

"You've cried every time I talked to you so far," Nora said, alarmed. "Are you calling me nice?" Cindy looked at Nora and started sobbing harder, clutching herself. Nora raised her hands and stepped back. "Sorry! I'm sorry I said anything!"

Cindy stood up. "I'd like you to hug me," she told Katherine, "if I'm, uh, not too gross."

Katherine hugged her without another word.

"You too seem to be doing okay," Nora said, feeling unnecessary and extremely proud. "Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

Cindy, still crying, gave her a thumbs up. After a moment, Katherine copied her.

#maculategiraffe #i post #fallout 4 fanfic #nora bowman #my fic

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pinelife3 · 5 years

Text

Getting Short Stories

I read the short story “The Wind-up Bird and Tuesday’s Women” by Haruki Marukami last weekend. I really enjoyed it - until it finished. Because then it was obvious the story wasn’t going to give me any more help to understand it. Of course, I thought about if after I finished it, still trying to get whatever Murakami was on about. And I’m still thinking about it now. I don’t get it.

(Disclaimer: I cannot give you a clear definition of what it means to get it. It’s the same as when a poem works. It’s something clicking into place. Something you couldn’t learn on Wikipedia. Sweeping clear new pathways in how you think about something. I’d argue that you can get something from a piece of media without explicitly getting the media itself (for example, I love “Burnt Norton” but it is pretty inscrutable to me). Equally, you can get something without really caring about it (see: the more recent seasons of Black Mirror) - but that’s not all that interesting to talk about.)

“The Semplica-Girl Diaries” by George Saunders is an example of a short story I like and get: the character’s actions and motivations are sometimes surprising but still make sense, the world is vivid and interesting, the writing is highlightable, and I think I understand what Saunders is trying to say. Or - if I’ve misunderstood what he’s saying, I’ve been able to wring something satisfying out of it on my own. It means something to me, and I feel moved by the story and its ideas in some inarticulable way. I think I read it in a food court.

“The Wind-Up Bird and Tuesday’s Women” was published in The New Yorker in 1990 and then made its way into Murakami’s 1993 book of short stories The Elephant Vanishes (published in English in ‘93 - it wasn’t published in Japanese until 2005). Probably like many people who have bought the book in the past year, I was inspired to read it after seeing the Korean film Burning (which is based on a story in the collection called “Barn Burning”). Also, I haven’t read any Murakami (that’s a lie: I tried to read Norwegian Wood when I was 21 but didn’t have much patience for it and gave up after ~100 pages) and thought this might be a low-effort way of remedying that.

In terms of the action of the story, The New Yorker summarises it well:

The narrator, a resident of Tokyo, has quit his job in a law office, and is living as a house husband. One Tuesday morning he receives a phone call from an unknown woman, who says she will help him "come to an understanding," if he'll give her ten minutes. Busy cooking spaghetti for brunch, he hangs up. Later, his wife calls to tell him of a job prospect, as poet and poetry editor of a magazine for young girls. She also asks him to look for their missing cat; it's named Noboru Watanabe, after the wife's brother. She thinks it's in the yard of an abandoned house on their street. In his own yard, the narrator hears a bird screeching; he doesn't know what species of bird it is, but he and his wife think of it as the windup bird: it's there each morning, as if to wind up their world. That afternoon the mysterious woman calls back, and tries to have an erotic dialogue with the narrator. After he hangs up, the phone rings again; he doesn't answer. At the abandoned house, a young girl coaxes him to sunbathe with her. She tells him a fantasy about ripping up a corpse to get at "the lump of death itself." That night, his wife angrily accuses him of killing the cat. He writes a poem: Noboru Watanabe Where have you gone? Did the windup bird Stop winding your spring? The telephone begins ringing once again, but neither the narrator nor his wife will answer it.

This is basically the extent of the story but there are some weird details that add flavour. For example, the protagonist seems to have an auditory fixation. A lot of the story is about him listening to female voices (side note: Murakami is known for having a thing for ears - or formerly having a thing for ears). When a woman calls him on the phone, he makes much of his ability to place voices but has difficulty placing hers. Eventually, their conversation devolves into what is essentially phone sex. He hangs up and avoids answering the phone for the rest of the day, although it keeps ringing. The narrator describes a secret garden path/passage with no entrance or exit. It runs behind all of the houses in his block, so when he walks down it, he has a view into everyone’s backyards: he can see their washing, smell their cooking, etc. He is surprised and suspicious that his wife is familiar with this corridor. (If this were high school English I would be hammering home that the blocked in tunnel is a metaphor for the protagonist’s directionless existence, etc.) The ‘young girl’/teenager mentioned in the summary above, is described as crippled/limping and she mentions that she’s taking the year off school while her leg heals after a bike accident. He falls asleep in a deckchair in her garden while she talks to him. When he wakes up she’s gone. This never goes anywhere. The phone sex never goes anywhere. The corridor never goes anywhere.

The passages about the wind-up bird are brief and seem trivial while you’re reading them: just lazy, dreamy thoughts from our unemployed protagonist as he drifts off to sleep on a warm Tuesday afternoon:

A regular wind-up toy this world is, I think. Once a day the wind-up bird has to come and wind the springs of this world. Alone in this fun house, only I grown old, a pale softball of death swelling inside me. Yet even as I sleep somewhere between Saturn and Uranus, wind-up birds everywhere are busy at work fulfilling their appointed rounds.

Okay... sure. Clearly, the bird has some significance, but the protagonist spends an equal amount of time thinking about spaghetti. What I also find difficult is that people’s emotions, reactions and motivations in the story don’t make sense. When his wife yells at him at the end of the story, accusing him of killing their cat, I wondered if maybe she was trying to pick a fight, if she’s sick of the marriage and wants out. I also thought she might be more distressed because the cat is named after her brother - how do you tell your brother that the cat you named after him is lost, probably dead. What would that symbolise? Still, to me she seems like an unreasonable person because the way her emotions escalate (apparently without any real trigger) is seriously out of step with normal human behaviour:

I emerge from an after-dinner bath to find my wife sitting all alone the darkened living room. I throw on a gray shirt and fumble through the dark to reach where she’s been dumped like a piece of luggage. She looks so utterly forsaken. If only they’d left her in another spot, she might have seemed happier.

...I take a seat on the sofa opposite her. “What’s the matter?” I ask. “The cat’s dead, I just know it,” my wife says. “Oh c’mon,” I protest. “He’s just off exploring. Soon enough he’ll get hungry and head on back. The same thing happened once before, remember? That time when we were still living in Koenji -” “This time it’s different. I can feel it. The cat’s dead and rotting away in the weeds. Did you search the grass in the vacant house?” “Hey no, stop it. It may be a vacant house, but it’s somebody’s house. I’m not about to go trespassing.” “You killed it!” my wife accuses.

I heave a sigh and give my head another once-over with the towel.

“You killed it with that look of yours!” she repeats from the darkness. “How does that follow?” I say. “The cat disappeared of its own doing. It’s not my fault. That much you’ve got to see.” “You! You never liked that cat, anyway!” “Okay, maybe so,” I admit. “At least I wasn’t as crazy about the cat as you were. Still, I never mistreated it. I fed it every day. Just because I wasn’t enthralled with the little bugger doesn’t mean I killed it. Start saying things like that and I end up having killed half the people on earth.” “Well, that’s you all over,” my wife delivers her verdict. “That’s just so you. Always, always that way. You kill everything without ever playing a hand.”

I am about to counter when she bursts into tears. I can the speech and toss the towel in the bathroom basket, go to the kitchen, take a beer out of the refrigerator, and chug. What an impossible day it’s been!

Am I dumb? Do I not understand adult relationships? Because this seems like a very weird exchange to me. Does the way he reacts to her accusations, with exasperation rather than anger or surprise, suggest that he’s seen her behave like this before? A pop culture analogue: remember the video of Solange beating up Jay-Z in an elevator after the 2014 Met Gala?

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Jay-Z is in the white suit. Solange is the one hitting him. There’s a bodyguard trying to keep them apart. And Beyoncé is standing there calmly - not getting involved, just trying to protect her outfit. Here they are directly after the incident.

What a fucking pro. Thousand yard smile.

At the time, speculation was rife about what Jay-Z did to trigger such a beating (in italics because it’s still surprising that everyone was so okay with the domestic violence). What really thrilled people was the crack in the facade of perfection. A glimpse into their lives that hadn’t been perfectly curated, something we were never meant to see. The common read was that Jay-Z must have done something because otherwise Beyoncé would have stepped in to protect him. The consensus now is that Solange had found out that he’d cheated on her sister. Maybe even that he’d done something at the Gala. This is all now part of the Carter canon because they’ve referenced it in their music to great commercial and critical success.

Another interesting interpretation was that perhaps Beyoncé had seen Solange raging and uncontrollable many times before and knew how to weather the storm. Maybe Solange has a temper when she drinks? Maybe she’ll have an outburst, and all you can do is stay out of the way and ignore it until the mood passes and she sobers up. Perhaps her family is used to this behaviour. There’s no point engaging or trying to reason with her, you just have to let her get it out and then smile for the press at the elevator doors.

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As with Beyoncé, maybe our protagonist is accustomed to bad behaviour: recriminations, tears, tantrums. You kill everything. Most people would want to dig in if their partner said something like that. But perhaps it doesn’t trigger such a strong reaction in him anymore. Another odd behavioural detail, perhaps again showing the protagonist’s muted response to the world, is that he is pretty indifferent to the mysterious phone call. He resolves not to answer the phone, but is otherwise not at all curious about who’s calling him. If I received a call like that from a shadowy stranger, I would sacrifice a great deal to find out who was behind it. I know I’m not alone here - because, as every scammer knows, the most efficient way to get someone to open an email which it is in their best interest to not open (full of malware, spyware, etc.), is to include a declaration of love or romantic interest in the subject line.

Searching for some connection between the events of the story, I wondered if maybe the wife hired the woman on the phone to seduce her husband so that she’d have a concrete reason to divorce him. But this doesn’t really track because just earlier in the day she was encouraging him to stay a house husband - why would she do that if she wanted to leave him?

There are lots of weird details in the story, none of which signify much to me. Our protagonist is unemployed, he doesn’t have much to do and isn’t looking for much to do, his voice as narrator is anxious, circular, repetitive. The key themes seem to be curiosity, restlessness, loneliness, directionlessness, nessness, etc. But unless the point is that everything that happened in the story was pointless, and that’s supposed to echo the protagonist’s torpor, I don’t get it. Basically every major plot element is still a question mark - are we supposed to dismiss those as magical realism or wishful thinking on the part of the protagonist and move on with our lives, never being curious about who the lady on the telephone is, or why the girl has a messed up leg and won’t go to school? I can’t do it. I want to know! I want to get it.

Fortunately for us, Murakami wrote a novel called The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle which spins off the short story into the first chapter of the novel and runs from there. Do you think it answers any of my questions above?

Remember the cat named after the wife’s brother? In the novel, the brother is an incestuous rapist. Maybe that is why the narrator doesn’t care for the cat much. Maybe that’s why the wife is accusing her husband of killing it? Some kind of wishful thinking? Still, we don’t get any background on the relationship with her brother until The Wind-up Bird Chronicle so you’re kind of grasping at air in the short story.

In a chapter of the novel apparently not published in English versions (according to Wikipedia, Vintage, the English publisher, was concerned the book was too long so they had the translator cut about 61 pages from the original 1,379 pages), it is revealed that the phone sex lady was actually his wife. Twist! In the short story he said of the woman’s voice:

I have absolutely no recollection of ever heading this woman’s voice before. And I pride myself on a near-perfect ear for voices, so I’m sure there’s no mistake. This is the voice of a woman I don’t know. A soft, low nondescript voice.

I presume his skill for placing voices isn’t in the novel. Because that seems like a pretty lame trick to pull on your reader. It’s one thing to have an unreliable narrator. But an incompetent, overconfident one is just setting you up for a shitty experience. That’s a book I don’t want to read. I also don’t want to read it because it’s 1,318 pages, so that’s that.

Perhaps it’s wrong to judge Murakami based on one short story. But he put this one at the start of the book! And actually (even though I’ve read hardly any of his stuff) I would argue this story is probably representative of his work. Check out this Murakami bingo card:

Appearing in “The Wind-up Bird and Tuesday’s Women”:

Mysterious woman

Ear fetish? Perhaps not - but, like I said, an auditory fixation for sure

Unexpected phone call

Cats

Urban ennui

Secret passageway

Precocious teenager

Cooking

Vanishing cats

This story is in his usual stylistic neighborhood. He’s got to be comfy here.

What do people like about Murakami? Does his writing make me feel like the universe is singing a song? Certainly, this story has stuck with me. By which I mean, it plagues my every waking thought. It torments me. It twists my toes backwards, blocks the drain of my shower with hair, corrupts my Excel files. It is a blight I shall bear for the rest of my life: who was on the phone? Not only do I not get Murakami, but I don’t get what others might like about him. Like I said at the top, I did enjoy reading this story because there were tantalising threads. I could tolerate the dull inner monologue about the narrator’s erstwhile legal career and how he felt as he drifted off for an afternoon nap if there were a resolution to at least one of the story’s mysteries. But this story does not pay off. Not even a little bit. The idea that you need to read 1,300 more pages for a resolution is frustrating. In 2014, The Guardian covered an event where Murakami spoke about The Wind-up Bird Chronicle:

The author of 13 novels and many short stories admitted to having completely forgotten what he has written – or indeed why – when asked about specific plot points, without seeming bothered at all. “Really?” and “I don’t remember that” were two of his most frequent answers, and he had the audience laughing at his frankness every time. “It was published 20 years ago and I haven’t read it since then!” he said of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, around which the event centred...

“I don’t have any idea at all, when I start writing, of what is to come. For instance, for The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, the first thing I had was the call of the bird, because I heard a bird in my back yard (it was the first time I heard that kind of sound and I never have since then. I felt like it was predicting something. So I wanted to write about it). The next thing was cooking spaghetti – these are things that happen to me! I was cooking spaghetti, and somebody call. So I had just these two things at the start. Two years I kept on writing. It’s fun! I don’t know what’s going to happen next, every day. I get up, go to the desk, switch on the computer, etc. and say to myself: “so what’s going to happen today?” It’s fun!”

Fun for you, maybe.

I don’t think a feature of good fiction is wacky shit inexplicably occurring with no explanation or follow up - otherwise, it’s not a narrative.

I don’t need every plot line neatly resolved, and I don’t need to be told explicitly what everything means (I’m happy to do some legwork on my own) but none of the plot points are resolved at all in "The Wind-up Bird and Tuesday’s Women”. In fiction, as in life, I want things to be connected, to have a cause and effect relationship. I want things to make sense: to have a trigger, make an impact, be remembered. Even if the trigger is hidden, I want people to react to the things happening around them in a plausible way. Ideally, I want to think the things in the story mattered.

“Up in Michigan” by Hemingway is a short story I like. It’s an interesting depiction of sexual politics, innocent female affection, etc. As I’ve gotten older, the reasons I like it have changed. When I read it when I was 20, I felt some kind of feminine kinship across time with the protagonist because she falls for the wrong guy, and her romanticism is crushed by the weight of the drunk guy she likes falling asleep on her after some bad sex, and she loses a little bit of herself that night - yes, her virginity but also some trust and whatever. And now I find it kind of amusing because you know Hemingway killed with the ladies and probably played the heart breaker (or the drunk dude falling asleep on some poor girl) a hundred times over so it’s funny to imagine Hemingway in his early 20s, having just got done stomping some girl’s romantic aspirations, then sitting down to write this story, all soulful and sensitive, as if he gave a fuck about girls crying over boys who will never like them. Still, Hemingway’s short stories fucking kill. Killing fuck. They’re good. In “Up in Michingan” as in many of Hemingway’s stories, things are implied rather than uttered (as per the law in Hemingwayland), so sometimes you don’t know the background to a conversation and have to deduce what two characters are talking about, but the dynamic between them is revealed through dialog and their actions. You may not understand why something happened, and often there’s no narrator to help you out, but you infer how people feel about it and what it means to them. Not everything needs to happen for a reason: sometimes babies are born with cancer, sometimes the guy you like doesn’t like you back, sometimes guys get into fights outside bars, sometimes you meet a weird teenager in a secret garden path. But the things that happen should matter to you, to your reader, and to your protagonist, at least a little bit. Otherwise what’s the point?

#haruki murakami #burning #the elephant vanishes #the wind-up bird and tuesday's women #hemingway #up in michigan #george saunders #the semplica-girl diaries #the wind-up bird chronicle #jay-z #beyonce #solange #met gala #the new yorker

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janeaustentextposts · 7 years

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If Lydia and Wickham hadn't run away (or had just done it later) and Lizzy had been able to see out her planned time in Derbyshire, do you think she would have got engaged to Darcy before she left?

99% no. Like, there are other circumstances which I suppose could make it happen, but if the only variable is the absence of the elopement and Lizzie lingering a bit longer in Derbyshire, I’m still going to guess no.While her opinions of him are beginning to shift because he’s actually actively kind to the Gardiners and she hears some weird hints at his true nature via the housekeeper at Pemberley, and has already somewhat started to question Wickham’s Alternative Facts, the hammer that smashes the last of her formerly-held notions about Darcy IS the elopement, and, ultimately, his reaction to it. Thinking someone is not quite as much of an asshole as you used to imagine they were is a far cry from coming to love that person, and as her holiday with the Gardiners was always going to be a transient and brief time in the area, I highly doubt there would have been enough time to effect so deep a change in her feelings, even if Darcy could have gotten up the courage to ask again. (I know the 1995 miniseries hints at this with Darce getting his nice duds on and excitedly riding over to the inn to call upon them, but let’s be honest, he hasn’t done much more than make Elizabeth go ???? and maybe like him a little bit but she’s also still cringingly awkward around him because even though they’ve gotten past the whole SURPRISE I’M TOURING YOUR HOUSE moment there’s still the undeniable fact that their last major interaction was her telling him NOT IF YOU PAID ME ONE BILLION OF YOUR ENGLISH POUNDS AND WERE THE LAST MAN ON EARTH.

What exists between them is fragile--suuuuper-fragile. This is why, after the elopement, Elizabeth only then starts to uncomfortably realize that They Could Have Had Something, but by no means is she thinking WE HAD SOMETHING AND WE WOULD HAVE BEEN MARRIED WITHIN THE WEEK OH WOE. Her regrets begin to come out of figuring how wrong she was, the grief of the time and energy she wasted trusting Wickham, and how bleak the future looks for ALL the unmarried Bennet girls, in general, now, and not specifically “Darcy and I were meant to be and now ‘tis all done and gone.”

Things move a bit awkwardly and slowly after that, though Bingley turns up to put a ring on Jane, because Darcy and Elizabeth are still sorting out their own awareness of one another, and their involvements in the elopement and its fallout. Darcy doesn’t know SHE knows about him tracking down Wickham and paying off his debts to make him marry Lydia, but he knows enough of his own involvement to feel it is not honourable for him to then ride off to Longbourn and declare himself again because Elizabeth is going through her own shit with her family, right now, and it’s not like they had an openly-acknowledged Thing in Derbyshire, and if some hint of his involvement did get out, would she only think he’d done it as an indirect means of buying her regard, etc. etc. Doubtful Darcy has a lot of marks against his renewing his addresses to her, and so he holds off.

Of course, Elizabeth DOES find out about what he did, and while the money is a consideration, her gratitude is more due to what he’s done for her and her family--and the fact that he’s stayed away and tried to keep it quiet, evidently expecting nothing in return, is what unlocks her deepest appreciation for his goodness and character.

Then Lady Catherine turns up to be the final catalyst by goading Elizabeth into defending her personal right to not NOT marry Darcy, the scathing report of which from his aunt rather electrifies Darcy and signals to him that he might have a hope in hell, after all. Yet, still, he does not dare to speak until Elizabeth herself confirms that she knows all about what he did for Lydia, and by extension, herself and her whole family. That cat is out of the bag through no fault of his, and he sees that Elizabeth hasn’t taken it as a means of manipulating her, but that she truly admires him for it. Only then does he figure it’s worth the risk of asking again.Basically, for an AU fanfic, Elizabeth Staying in Derbyshire is an intriguing idea, but it would need to have OTHER extenuating circumstances added to it in order to prolong her stay, and have other opportunities of revealing Darcy’s goodness without it seeming that he’s purposefully Showing Off in order to impress her. It’s the selflessness of his action on the Bennet’s behalf which seals the deal, so something similarly touching and deeply personal would have to come to Elizabeth’s attention. It’s one thing to see Darcy being good to others, but it’s the very great secret service he does for Elizabeth which she accidentally discovers which cements her regard for him.

#Ask Me Anything Austen-Adjacent #AMAAA #Anonymous

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wmucradio · 7 years

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Q & A with Gabrielle Smith of Ó (formerly Eskimeaux)

On April 12th, I attended a show at the Black Cat featuring the band formerly known as Eskimeaux* as the opening act, followed by Why? It was the first time I had been able to see Gabrielle Smith and her gang perform live, so I was very excited. The show was incredible, and the band was very tight. Every pause or idiosyncratic beat was facilitated expertly by Felix and Gabrielle, followed by head nods and curtsies between Oliver and Jack. The band is a joy to watch live, as you can see and feel their chemistry in every song. The set included many of my personal favorites, along with a few previews of new material. Following their set, I met with Gabrielle for a “brief” interview that ended up lasting over an hour. I can only speak for myself when I say this, but our correspondence felt more like catching up with an old friend than it did an interview. Gabrielle Smith is honestly one of the most pleasant human beings I have ever had the pleasure to meet. I have transcribed questions from the interview below.

*Since this interview, the band has changed their name to Ó. This came to fruition following a confrontation with Inuk throat singer, Tanya Tagaq, in which she made clear that the term “Eskimo” is considered derogatory by much of the Inuit population.

Q: What music did you grow up on?

A: When I was growing up my parents were really into Carol King, the Carpenters, and I grew up in choirs. So I was always performing, thinking about, and singing really weird hymns. A lot of Hallelujah and stuff like that. And my grandma is a pianist, so she would always play really good classical stuff.

Q: Was that when you started with music making? (Like when you were a kid, through choir, or did you do other things?)

A: Yeah, it was between that and I took violin lessons when I was growing up. But I didn’t really think of it as “making music.” I feel like when I was little I didn’t understand that choir, and orchestra, and Ace of Base were the same thing. There was this really big separation for me between musician, which I didn’t understand as being human, and the product. I sort of knew phonetically El-ton John and Ce-line Di-on, and Ace of Base. But didn’t understand that they were people until I was much older.

Q: Was it sort of like finding out that Santa Claus isn’t real?

A: It’s kind of the same thing. You’re like “Oh my god, someone made this. This is like art, I guess. Woah.”

Q: Are you still coping with that realization?

A: It’s kind of hard to. I feel like making music and doing this has made it clear that musicians are human beings. But I still didn’t connect some of my favorite ones. Like Why? for example. I was like “I could probably meet so-and-so if I networked this way.” Or “I bet this person through this person knows person X.”

Q: So it’s still kind of non-people with artists that you’re into?

A: Yeah. I mean, especially ones from my younger years.

Q: Did you have any specific female influences in your life when it comes to songwriting or even getting into instruments?

A: Yeah. Definitely Bjork was a huge one. Joanna Newsom. So amazing. So amazing. It’s unreasonable. I remember hearing her for the first time. There was this kid that went to a different high school. I thought he was so cool. He had a band, and wore scarves, and was very glam. He had “The Book of Right On” on his Myspace page, and I was like “What is this? I’ve never heard anything like this before. This is so amazing. It’s kind of annoying and it’s so brilliant. And the lyrics are so amazing. And I’ve never noticed lyrics before. And holy sh*t.” It was a huge realization. So, Joanna Newsom. Really big one. And probably Greta, from Frankie Cosmos.

Q: I was actually going to ask you about shaving your head. Because I know you’ve done it, she’s (Greta) done it, and so has Adrianne Lenker from Big Thief. I was wondering if it was significant in some way or if you all just did it?

A: So, I was on tour with Oliver’s project, Bellows, and Felix’s project, Told Slant, and The Hotelier. Pride Weekend happened and my friend Meghan shaved her head, and I was like “Wow. You look so hot and cool. I just think I need to know if I could do it.”

Q: Are you into any other art form? Because I know that you went to University of the Arts.

A: For like a second. I went for like a month. It was so bad. Not that the University of the Arts was bad, I was bad. I just felt like they… First of all, I wanted to go for animation. And they were like you could go for animation or you could go for film and we’ll give you a half scholarship. And I was like “okay, what’s the jig here?” And I never found out because I only stayed for a month. I basically got offered to go on a tour with this band, and then I said yes. And then I called my parents from Indiana. And I was like “I’ve been on tour for a week, and I’m not in school. So…”

Q: How did they take that?

A: They were really pissed, obviously.

Q: When did they finally come around- Have they come around?

A: They’ve come around. They came around. I mean, my parents have always been really supportive. But they really, really, came around after Frankie Cosmos played at the MOMA. That was the moment, they were like “Oh, this is cool.”

Q: Was it a hard decision for you?

A: I didn’t like it at all. I was miserable. We were just watching Westerns, and it’s so unreasonable. There were kids in my class that had turtlenecks and low pony tails. It was like the black turtleneck with the round glasses, the low pony tail, and the beret was what really pushed it over the edge for me. You can do anything you want. You can dress that way and it’s totally fine! I just think that sitting in a class talking about which Western is the best in the summer, while wearing those things. And that being said, it was really air-conditioned, so I kinda wished I was wearing it too. But I didn’t give in. My point is that these kids just took themselves really seriously. And I feel that the point of art school is that you’re supposed to unlearn everything you know so that these professors can say “this is how you do it. This is what art school is all about. This is the technique you never knew. If you don’t allow us to fully give you what we know, you’ll just waste your money here.” But these kids were like “my name is Remington.” I don’t know how else to explain it. It was just a vibe that I got. The kids were just super like “I was the weird kid in my town in New Jersey.” That’s also fine. I don’t know, I feel really stuck-up saying all this, but. My priorities were just elsewhere. I also think I wasn’t ready to go to college, realistically.

Q: Were you trained on the instruments that you play now, or were you self-taught?

A: I took piano lessons very minimally from my grandma. It was nice, except I was an asshole. She was teaching me about all these important things like scales and I was super not interested in what she had to say. I was like “Piano sucks.” It’s super overwhelming. It looks like nothing, so it’s just really weird. But lo and behold, I play keyboard in Oliver’s band. Well, I play synth. It’s more like pushing a button and turning the knob. I do know the chords!

Q: How was growing up in New York? Did you feel like you had a normal childhood?

A: I think so. My parents work so hard. My dad is a lawyer. And my mom’s had a bunch of different jobs, but they’ve always in the finance department of whatever thing she’s doing. Right now, she works at this humongous insurance company. I think they insure business, so like malpractice insurance. I only know this because I worked there for a little while, and they gave me this really fancy title. I was a “Junior Financial Analyst.” However, I was scanning W-9 forms and digitizing their clientele. I was basically a scanner.

Q: It’s fine. I just gave myself a job. My sister has this madrigal group so I made myself their “administrator.” But now I’ve actually started to do things!

A: What are you doing?

Q: I’m booking a gig for them! It’s crazy.

A: Wow, a madrigal choir. That’s so cool. I love that.

Q: My sister’s all about renaissance music. I’ll be listening to my music in the car and she’ll just be like “can I put on my recital repertoire?” and I’ll be like “Oh my god, okay fine.” And it just completely ruins my day, but it’s fine. She’s actually really good, so I don’t mind. But I don’t really like other people’s voices.

A: There was one day where for a few minutes we listened to Gregorian chants. And it was so amazing. Jack is really into this mash-up artist named Neil Cicierega. He just came out with a new record Mouth Moods. So, you should totally check it out.

Q: Is it what it sounds like it’s going to be?

A: Yeah. Well, he’s really about All Star by Smash Mouth.

Q: Why is everyone all about that song?

A: It’s just what it is.

Q: SO confusing.

A: It’s just the most amazingly horrific pump-up jam. You’re just like “yeah, I think I can do whatever I set out to do today.” So one day, this guy, Neil Cicierega, decided to mash up the YMCA to the Inception soundtrack. It’s really moving and really emotional. So we’ve been pranked a lot with that. You should just listen to it. It’s bad to describe it. You should listen to it even though you shouldn’t.

Q: I understand. Back to All-Star, the radio station played All-Star for 24 hours straight once.

A: That’s like two- two stories about that. One day, we tried to listen to Build This Pool by Blink-182. We tried to take the 45 minute challenge. We made it like 10 minutes I would say, but we had to stop. The other story is that I used to go to this camp, called Camp Lohikan. It was on the New York/Pennsylvania border. It was a really shi*ty camp. But the camp owner thought it would be really funny to play Hero by Enrique Iglesias for a full day over the loud speaker for the entire day of camp. So I forever know all the words to that song. We tried to cover Hero actually. We learned it one time, but forgot it since. So, we’ll have to learn it again!

Q: If you weren’t doing music what would be doing? What would your dream job be? Because I’m assuming this is your dream job.

A: It is my dream job, definitely. Well, I have this back-up plan. Which requires a lot of money. So it’s not really a good Plan B. But my friend and I are super passionate about animals. She works at the ACCT in Philadelphia. It’s a kill shelter, but her job is getting animals to rescue. So she calls rescues all day to promote animals that are ready to be adopted. She’s very cool. We have this pipe dream to have an animal sanctuary. And there was a moment this year, I guess it was last year, where I was just feeling super down on everything. I was like “What the f*ck am I doing? Why am I doing this? What does this mean? This is super weird. Well, you know. This is such a weird job. And it’s based on validation which doesn’t always come. Or like when you’re not on an album cycle, what are you doing? You’re just living your life and it’s weird. And I grew up in a choir, so being like “listen to me” is a weird impulse that I don’t really possess naturally. So anyway, I was having this whole moment of crisis, and then I called up my friend. We were talking about it and saying “we could just have an animal sanctuary.” And she was like “There are a bunch of goats in my job right now. You should come down and pet the goats.” And I was like “I can’t come down, because if I pet the goats I’m going to take them home.”

We discussed the pros and cons of having a goat as a pet in New York City, but decided that it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. However, according to Gabby, a goat would likely be one of the few animals that would understand her dog. She’s had her dog, Frankie, for 4 years. He’s a smallish pitbull-esque dog that a lot of their neighborhood kids are scared of. However, Gabby stated that he’s a very good “muffin.” We talked a little bit about the Chinese zodiac, along with the origin of the line “2011, the Year of the Rabbit.” (It was a “really good rhyme” that was incidentally true!) This led to a discussion about reading horoscopes and being a Taurus.

Q: What do you embody about a Taurus?

A: Well, we’re really stubborn. And we love food and money. And aren’t really good about either of those things. In that, because I have such a high standard for what food should be like, I’m really picky about quality. Though I’ve been trying to get better because obviously touring is a nightmare. It’s more of just like an “oh my god, this texture is disgusting” type of thing. I’m really weird about food. Like, I don’t like fruit. Yeah, none of it, it’s gross. I mean, I like lemons and limes.

We discussed the correctness of calling lemons and limes, “fruits.” Ultimately, we decided to be honest and call it what it is. They’re more along the lines of sauces and stuff to make lemonade with. Lemonade, according to Gabby, is just “sauce in a cup.” Back-up Plan C for Gabby may well end up being “Cup Sauce” lemonade. She’s even come up with the slogan: “Buy it. Do you like it?” A slogan that I immediately shot down and told her that she’d likely need to hire a better PR person. Gabby then brought up her stage banter during her set and said it’s not very good at selling. I, however, disagreed. Her understated and meek “thank you’s” perfectly compliment the direct tone in her songs.

She did tell the crowd earlier in the night that she was in a really bad mood. An issue that started earlier in the day with a looming phone call that she had already pushed back. The ride to DC was also stressing her out, and causing her to be angry and grumpy. (Something that I could never imagine!) She was able to turn it around though, and it ended up being totally fine. There were also some issues with the voltage of her second-hand Japanese amp. She was getting shocked during soundcheck but the sound guy helped her out with all the technical bullsh*t!

Q: Have you ever felt that you’ve had something to prove, because you are a female musician, to people who might know a lot about the technical stuff and things like that?

A: I think that I did when I was younger and first starting. I feel like I was really, really, adamant about being my own producer and recording everything myself. And whenever I enlisted the help of other people, it was as an arrangement kind of thing. I had a really big, well it wasn’t a really big deal, but I had this other bandmate who was a man. For a while, it was just the two of us. And a lot of times, people would come up to him, asking him questions. Or they’d be like “producer, Him, and songstress, Gabrielle Smith.” It was just like “Ew. F*ck. Uh, no.” So it took a lot to kind of re-write that. But, that being said, I am super, super, lucky. All of my friends have been supportive and treat me as an equal even though most of them are male. We all share secrets about songwriting with each other, and it’s this super reciprocally nice supportive process. So I’ve been in a bubble basically, for my whole coming up time. (She’s referring to her music collective here.) It’s been easy in that way, but I do think that people, even on this tour don’t assume- like, I work my own merch table, and a lot of times people are like “oh, is this the opening band? Are they good?” And they just assume that I’m not in the band. Most times, people generally know who we are before we get there. Yeah, it’s been really chill, to answer your question. I feel like it was harder when I was younger, but now I don’t really care, so I don’t think about it.

Q: What are you working on now?

A: I feel like, usually all of my songs have already come out before we come out with an official record. So yeah, this time, we have a whole record written. I’ve written a couple more songs on this tour that I want to see if they’re better than some of the other songs. Because some of them are kind of like- they’re good, but they don’t make sense on the record.

Q: Is there a theme that they’re not fitting?

A: Well yeah. The record, I think, the overarching theme, is sort of the opposite of O.K. Where O.K. was very like “and this moment is this, and I’m in love with this person!” and “ this moment is this, and I like you.” And “this is how you’re affecting me in this moment.” It was very descriptive of external observation and how I was feeling about them. The new songs are a lot more internal, and more about trying really, really, hard to exist in the present and not being able to fully be there. It’s a lot more impressionistic. There’s more color rather than nature. It’s a lot more internal and hard to escape yourself kind of feeling.

Q: And this was around the time you were having your “goat moment”?

A: Oh yeah! So sick- I’m gonna call it that from now on.

Her hope is that the band will hit the studio after this tour and the next tour (w/ Frankie Cosmos). She’s hoping they’ll be done tracking the record by July, and that it’ll be done and ready to release by the Fall. She’s very excited about it. In a new song, there’s even a visual of a goat that is trying to stand on a moving truck bed, but is having a difficult time standing up. She was hoping they would play this new song on tour, but they couldn’t due to instrumentation needs.

Q: What’s your favorite part about coming to DC?

A: Well, usually. This is going to sound like a humble brag, but I’m really good buddies with Bob Boilen. He’s the best, and so nice. Kate Tempest is in town, and he was like “I’m so sorry, I can’t come to the show. Usually you know that I’d come make it work, but you’re playing at exactly the same time as Kate Tempest. She never comes here, so.” And I was like “it’s totally fine,” but now I’m really sad. We just like chill. He’s so chill. The last time I saw him, Eskimeaux came here and played at Rock and Roll hotel with Japanese Breakfast, and he stopped by the NPR office. And we had written this Christmas song the night before that we performed on All Songs Considered. It’s really good. I actually stole- for one of the new songs that we played tonight, I realized that I actually stole one of the melodies and chord progressions from the Christmas song. And I had to text Michelle and be like “I hope this is okay. I’m really into this song that I just wrote, but I know that I stole the “Christmas tree-ee” part, and I know that it’s maybe not chill to do that. And she was like “oh my god, it’s fine.”

We then discussed the fact that interning at NPR’s Tiny Desk is my dream, our love for HBO’s Bored to Death, and methods for figuring out the name of someone you’ve forgotten. If you’re wondering, the right way to do it is by introducing another friend to the aforementioned forgotten friend, and just hope that they’ll say their name.

Gabby told me about her favorite things about touring: amazing food and being touristy. (Places that she recommended include White Sands National Park and Meow Wolf in Santa Fe.) Along with seeing friends from other cities and getting to tour with bands that are super inspirational to her.

“This is so surreal, and it’s really amazing that I was able to get so out of it that I was in a bad mood.”

When I told her that it was completely human to feel bad, and that she shouldn’t be apologizing or feeling bad for feeling bad, she said something that made me realize what an amazing artist (and person) she is.

“I just want so badly to not normalize this experience at all- and have it be this overwhelmingly amazing thing.”

We talked a bit more about the pros and cons of touring. According to Gabby, the worst thing about tour is that she’s not as available to be a good friend. It’s hard to be like “just so you know, I’m still your friend. Tell me if you need anything, I love you.” Another things is navigating her coffee addiction. Something that started when she was working at a coffee shop in New York. She told me a bit about her experience there, which she asked to have off the record. She now drinks two cups a day, but Oliver is on a very rigorous coffee schedule. She goes along with it, but now has gotten into buying tinctures, so that she won’t need coffee as much. Apparently they taste like sh*t, but she’s been putting it into Kevita. (Which is basically just “bubbly cup sauce.”)

Q: Super weird question, but would you be willing to take a mirror selfie with me?

Written and transcribed By No Boys Allowed DJ Ava Mirzadegan

#dc #interviews

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