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gallavictorious · 3 years

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Gallavich Week Day 5: Fix-It / Rewrite

Right, so fix-its aren’t so much my jam, but there is this one weird, weird, weird thing that I’ve (so far) been unable to meta into any sort of sense. Namely, Mickey looking like that in season 11 while apparently not working out. It’s just… uh… he… what? At one point I hypothesized that he’s been bitten by a radioactive spider or the like, leaving him magically super buff, and to be honest, that’s still the most reasonable explanation I can think of, soooo…

Today I'm back at my nonsense to bring you, everyone and especially our dear @gallavichthings, 2,711 Very Serious words about Mickey being a secret superhero. Well. Except for the hero bit.

Read it below or on AO3.

---

In Which Mickey Milkovich Does Not Save the World

Afterwards, he would always refer to it as the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell, but the truth is that Mickey never saw the thing that got him.

He was going about his business (namely poking around the Gallagher basement for any forgotten shit he could sell for beer money now that all the cash from the wedding had been surreptitiously replaced with I.O.U:s) when he felt a sudden, sharp pain just above his ankle. Cursing up a storm, he desperately waved his foot around and lost his balance and stumbled straight into one of the many piles of boxes that littered the basement. By the time he was back on his feet whatever creature that had dug its nasty little teeth/pincers/claws into his tender flesh had scurried off, leaving Mickey with a throbbing ache and a halfway impressive puncture wound on his left leg.

Muttering darkly about fucking Gallaghers being so used Frank they didn’t know how to keep goddamned monster vermin out of their shitty house Mickey limped up the stairs to pour some Jamison on the wound, and then pour some down his throat because he had the bottle out already so he might as well. He borrowed one of Franny’s colourful pirate-patterned band-aids, and when his nosy as fuck ex-EMT of a husband asked about it later that evening Mickey said he’d dropped a can on his foot, it’s just a scratch, man, no you don’t need to take a look at it, just put your fingers back in my ass, please.

Mickey didn’t make a habit of lying to Ian, but he figured that telling the truth would lead to all sorts of questions about why he was in the basement and having to come up with plausible explanation for that when he should just be focusing on getting railed wasn’t part of his plans for the evening. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to Ian, who’d been getting so worked up over money lately, to distract him with that sort of unimportant stuff while they were banging. Mickey was a considerate spouse.

Thankfully, Ian dropped the subject and proceeded to do his husbandly duty. Mickey went to sleep deeply satisfied.

He was almost as satisfied the next morning when he woke up to realize that the pain in his leg was gone, as were all traces of the wound itself. Mickey had always healed pretty fast, but this was quick enough to have him questioning whether or not he’d really been bitten/stung/whatever at all. Maybe he’d had more beers than he thought and imagined the whole thing… ?

It didn’t really matter, and if that had been the whole of it Mickey was likely to soon have forgotten all about the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell. However, in the next few weeks he started noticing stuff, weird stuff. For instance, it wasn’t just the (possibly imagined) bite/sting that healed far more quickly than normal; it was all the little cuts and scrapes he tended to acquire. A big bruise from running into the table while playing with Franny; faded to nothing the next morning. A cut from the razor; gone within the hour. For the first time he could remember, Mickey looked at his naked body in the mirror and saw not one single wound (though there were still scars aplenty). It wasn’t a bad thing, per se, but it was weird.

Then there was that thing with his muscles. Mickey had been in decent shape for most of his life and whenever he got locked up for extended periods of time he made a habit of hitting the gym on the regular. Really wasn’t much else to do in the joint, and having a decent bulk reminded the other inmates that you weren’t someone they could push around; letting people know that you could beat the shit out of them often meant you didn’t have to actually do it, which saved everyone a lot of time and energy and trips to the prison quack. But on the outside, exercise wasn’t very high on Mickey’s list of priorities, meaning he tended to slim down a bit after a while in freedom.

Not now, though. Almost a year after being out of prison, and he was still as built as ever; if anything he seemed to be developing more muscles, in spite rarely engaging in anything more taxing than vigorous fucking. (Okay, so there was a lot of vigorous fucking, but still. If anyone ought to be building their biceps from the sex they were having, it should be Ian.)

Mickey didn’t mind being inexplicably ripped, though. He felt great, looked great – and Ian seemed to be pretty into it, too. Then again, Ian seemed to be pretty into Mickey whether he wore dirty clothes, sported a beard, sported a dress, or hadn’t showered in a week, so maybe that wasn’t saying a lot.

But even given all that, maybe Mickey still wouldn’t have thought too much about it (he was, after all, very busy being on his honeymoon, which required lots of determined sleep-ins, dedicated beer-drinking, and – obviously – lots and lots of banging) if there hadn’t one day come a knock on the front door. At first he ignored itm in the hopes that someone else would get it, but when it became apparent that a, he was alone in the house, and b, whoever was at the door wasn’t giving up anytime soon, he grabbed the family baseball bat (even big soft ass Larry would react to Mickey opening the door with an extremely illegal gun in hand) and went to answer the insistent knocking.

Outside stood two women, looking an unsettling mix of sober and apprehensive and eager. One of them reminded him vaguely of Angie Zago; the other was taller and darker and quite possibly brooding.

“Can I help you?” he demanded, not quite as rudely as he might have. He didn’t think they were social workers, but one never knew; they’d been checking up on Debbie and Franny ever since Debbie pleaded guilty to statutory rape.

“Mr. Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich?” Not-Angie inquired in a polite sort of tremble.

“Who’s asking?” Mickey demanded, feeling a little thrown by the use of his full name. The only people who pulled that out was law enforcement, and neither of these ladies had that feel about them. Especially since they seemed to be… excited to meet him, which wasn’t a reaction Mickey was used to getting. Particularly not from ladies looking like they ought to be out collecting for the fucking Red Cross.

They better not be asking for donations for the Red Cross.

“I’m Tania and this is Dreamweaver,” Not-Angie said. “Can we come in? It’s really best if we talk in private.”

Mickey didn’t move. “Dreamweaver? You kick your mama too many times in the kidneys before you were born or something?”

The women glanced uncertainly at each other. “Mr. Milkovich,” the one improbably called Dreamweaver began, but Mickey cut her off:

“You with the police?”

They quickly shook their heads. “No, we— “

“You here to give me money?”

“No, you see, it’s— “

“Okay, thank you, bye.” But as he moved to close the door, Tania – displaying more spunk than he’d have given her credit for – took a step forward and blocked the entrance.

“Have you been experiencing any strange body phenomena lately, Mr. Milkovich?” she blurted. “Wounds healing very quickly, perhaps, or increased muscle mass?”

Mickey stilled, eyes darting between the two women. Small, small smiles on their faces now, as if they knew they had him. There was a hint of hunger to those smiles, making Mickey feel uncharacteristically uncomfortable. The urge to push Tania back and slam the door shut was strong, but…

“Fine,” he said at long last. “Come on in.”

They better not be fucking cannibals either.

---

They called themselves The Guardians, and they wanted him to save the world.

Mickey asked what numbers they were talking and, after getting bored of their uncomprehending stares, clarified: “How much is it gonna pay? What’s my cut?”

Dreamweaver frowned. “You mean… money? As in a… salary?”

“Yeah, sure. What’s my salary?”

“Mr. Milkovich, saving the world is a higher calling and a duty, it’s not something that– “

“Uh-huh. So, just to be clear, you’re not gonna pay me?”

They weren’t. Mickey laughed in their faces, stood from the couch, and told them bye and good luck with that and don’t let the door hit ya on the way out.

They reasoned with him. They pleaded. They explained, again and again, that after the evil society USCH destroyed The Guardian’s headquarters in a devastating attack, the two of them–and Mickey–was the only thing standing between the world and utter destruction. Surely, he must understand that it was nothing less than Fate that had brought the one remaining Bestower Bot into the Gallagher basement and his path? Admittedly, injecting Mickey with the bio enhancer might have been the result of a malfunction – Tania and Dreamweaver had found the bot dead down the street a couple of nights ago – but didn’t he see that he had been called to serve as a warrior in the fight against evil?

“Yeah, no thanks,” Mickey told them, and then he picked up the bat and waved it around until they took the hint and left.

When Ian returned home a few hours later, Mickey carefully didn’t mention the curious visit or any of what Tania and Dreamweaver had told him. Ian was pretty into saving people and had all these lame ideas about service and honor, and Mickey found it more likely than not that his husband would both be upset that Mickey, rather than Ian himself, had been called as a warrior (it’d be Lip and West Point all over again, Mickey just knew it), and demand that Mickey answer the call and run off like some loon to get himself killed by evil technomancers.

Mickey didn’t particularly feel like dying and he didn’t like the idea of hurting his husband’s feelings either, so he kept his mouth shut and skillfully derailed all of Ian’s attempts at asking about his day by giving him a blow job, teasing him about being a grunt, and allowing himself to be wrestled to the floor when Ian decided he’d had enough of teasing. It was a good evening.

As he lay in bed that night, back against Ian’s chest and with those strong arms wrapped around him, Mickey wondered if it would be worth risking Ian’s reaction by going public. Okay, Tania and Dreamweaver had mentioned how he’d probably gotten a pretty small dose of the bio-whatever-the-fuck, lending him nothing more exciting than enduring muscle mass and enhanced healing, but that should probably be enough to turn him into a cut above the rest, right? He could hire himself out to the highest bidder and make a fortune doing private security or collections or stuff like that. Fuck, he’d even consider taking on jobs for The Guardians, if they just agreed to pay him.

It was a fun thought to play with, but in the end a long life in the shadows made Mickey wary of putting himself out there like that. Besides, he’d seen enough movies to know that it’d probably wouldn’t be long before he mysteriously disappeared to some secret government facility to be experimented on. He’d had enough of the state’s hospitality to last him a lifetime, so thanks, but no fucking thanks.

And that could have been it. Should have been it, but of course Tania and Dreamweaver wouldn’t leave well enough alone. They started showing up at the Gallagher house at all hours, whenever they knew they could get Mickey alone. They accosted him on the way to the Alibi, they sat down next to him on the L, and they left him pictures of puppies with little notes saying stuff like “Only YOU can SAVE him from BURNING. Have a HEART”.

It was exhausting. Fearing the retribution of the cartel hadn’t anything on fearing seeing Tania and Dreamweaver’s disappointed-yet-still-somehow-hopeful-and-terribly-determined faces appear in a crowd, or round a corner, or on the porch when he went out for his evening smoke.

Mickey began to lose sleep. He’d spend the nights tossing and turning, which led to him staying in bed half the day to catch up on much needed rest, and he was often so tired he couldn’t bring himself to put on proper clothes or go outside the door the whole day.

Ian was on his ass about getting a job; he didn’t get that Mickey had a job, and that job was not getting lured into sacrificing his life for the greater good. If Ian didn’t like the prospects of being a prison widow, how offensive wouldn’t he find the prospect of being an actual widower, after his husband got blown to bits by some big bad villain?

It got to the point of Ian initiating a sex strike to force Mickey to get “a real job”, which struck Mickey as really fucking unfair, considering how all he was trying to do was make sure Ian even had a husband to refuse to fuck.

Enough was enough. Something had to be done. Fortunately for Mickey – and unfortunately for Tania and Dreamweaver – Mickey had a guy for everything. As annoying as The Guardians were, Mickey didn’t have the heart to see them killed, but he figured that having them kidnapped and shipped off to some sweatshop on the other side of the world would serve the same purpose. He felt a little bad about it, sure, but he had given them plenty of chances to fuck off. Not his fault they couldn’t respect a fucking boundary.

Mickey called Johnny, told him the score, and a few night later Johnny called Mickey to tell him it was done.

It was done. Over. Mickey would finally be able go about his life in peace again, giving all his attention to his husband and doing his outmost to make him the happiest man alive every single day, even when Ian was annoying as hell and started asking pointless fucking questions about how Mickey was in such great shape even though he never did as much as one single curl up.

I see. So… you’re telling me that you have secret superpowers.

Yeah. Except, not actually secret anymore. ‘Cause, you know, you told me we shouldn’t have secrets.

… yeah, that was three months ago.

Guess it must have slipped my mind, huh.

Must have. But let me get this straight: you couldn’t get a real job because you were busy dodging secret agents, and your muscles are the result of you getting bitten by some magic robot—

Radioactive motherfucker bug from hell.

—and not you sneaking down to the basement to do weights and cardio almost every day?

… oh.

Yeah, oh. Carl told me about it, asshole. He noticed you using some of the stuff down there. Don’t get why you’d wanna keep that a secret though?

…

Mick. We have to be honest with each other, remember?

Jesus Christ, I don’t know, okay? I don’t know.

Okay.

Guess the first time was back when you had that dip a couple of months after the wedding. Few times after that, if we had a fight or whatever and I needed to let off some steam. Then you started working and sometimes I got bored watching TV all day but you were all mopey about your shitty job and me not having any and you have this thing about your body—

I don’t have a thing about my body.

—so I didn’t really wanna rub your face in me having all that time to work out when you could barely squeeze in dozen push-ups in the evening. And I guess I didn’t really want anyone to know that I… cared, or whatever.

Cared? About what? Being healthy? Looking good? Being strong?

Whatever, man, I told I don’t fucking know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, ‘cause it was a radioactive motherfucker bug from hell that did it.

Of course it was. Come here. Show me what that bio enhanced body of yours can do.

---

Ahahahahahaha, would you look at that. I tried to meta it anyway. 😭😭😭

You might reasonably ask about Mickey’s visit to Kev Fit – how does that fit? WELL, I rather imagine that whatever Mickey does in that basement is enough to keep him fit but still not SUPER hardcore? So when he starts worrying about Ian thinking him weaker than, he decides to take it up a notch and do it properly in a real(ish) gym? And his comment about “not remembering how much working out sucks” is part of the whole “not wanting anyone to know this is something I care to do on the regular”… Yeah, it’s pretty weak. All in all, I’d say the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell is still our best bet. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

This is probably the last time I have one of them tell the other a story this week, but I make no promises. These little ficlets don’t tend to go as planned. (Ha! She said, as if there was a plan to begin with. Oh, well. I guess it’s working out so far.)

#gallavich #gallavich week 2021 #gw2021 #ficlet #my stuff

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kinetic-elaboration · 2 years

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February 23: Orphan Black 4x03

Took a nap after work but then DID rouse myself to make a real dinner and watch Orphan Black. This was a very good, but very BUSY episode. So far S4 is keeping up the quality for sure.

It seemed like just about every character had at least a scene or reference in the episode. I’ll try to go through them story line by story line as I remember them:

Rachel: I’m not the biggest Rachel fan but I enjoyed her today. Big 2020 feels: the isolation, the confusion...the online classes. I think her bionic eye or whatever is very cool. I don’t really care so much about Susan, or Charlotte, or Ira, but I don’t have anything against them either, and I enjoy seeing Rachel trying to troll everyone around her like an animal pacing around in a cage.

Sarah: Big horror vibes. I don’t remember what this implanted bot story line ultimately comes to but the ingredients are certainly all there: the vaguely sci-fi nature of it, the mystery, the grotesquerie of the placement of the implant, the body horror of it all. The scene where she’s trying to get it taken out at the dentist had me so tense I couldn’t move. I realized just how much I really do have a grossed-out feeling about mouth stuff in particular sdfasfjadsfjj. I absolutely didn’t trust that lady BUT I understood Sarah’s desperation, plus the casting was great: she looked trustworthy and innocent and sweet. Also, what must she have thought of Beth’s journey over the last months if that’s how she’s dressing and styling herself lol?

I’m glad we’re seeing more of Art. He’s the sidekick Felix doesn’t want to be! But in a good way. The series as a whole is really missing Art. And Beth is still haunting the narrative, though we didn’t get anything really new on her today.

Felix: I have vague bad feelings about this ‘finding his birth family’ story. The sister (”sister”) sure is annoying, and she brings out the worst of him. I’m not really compelled by the story but I appreciate that they tried it because I do think this is where Felix is in his personal story at this point: he’s been the sidekick and the “clone brother” for too long, and he needs to practice some self-care.

Kira: They’re really going all in on this Kira-has-powers thing, huh? Not gonna lie, I like it.

Cosima: As often happens, Cosima was more a side character today, just kind of showing up to prop up other people--Kira, Alison--but I’m looking forward to her getting to play with Leekie’s severed head next time.

Alison, Helena, and Donnie: Obviously my favorite story line. I loooooove the Hendrixes being their insane, unapologetic selves. Like I don’t even have anything to say about it other than it’s always fun and it never gets old. I waited so long for them to be on the same page but now they always are; they are the Ideal Marriage. The scene in which they explain their ‘find’ to Cosima is probably the best thing to ever be filmed. “An occurrence...occurred.” “Anyway one thing led to another and I did shoot Dr. Leekie and bury him in the garage.” (It’s that “did” that really gets to me, like he’s already anticipating someone arguing or disbelieving) “You killed Aldous Leeikie?” / “Boy did I ever!” And Cosima’s fish-eye-lens, grainy face staring at them over Skype the whole time, mouth open, staring in an unfocused way because of the nature of video calls.

It’s only because of this scene that Helena wasn’t the humor MVP of the episode because she was especially on point today. It’s so bizarre to me to get a reminder, through the shot of the wing pattern scars on her back, of her character in S1. Even though they did the transition well, if you think about just that season and then just this... off the wall. Anyway, I especially liked “Doorbellings,” “Husband Donald,” “I will continue to be hostess,” “Did you meet them?” / “No, they died,” and in particular “Can I offer you some breads?” She’s trying so hard. Also, her short conversation with Sarah about the twins was adorable.

I know I’ve talked before about what exactly is the horror of Neolution, like why they are compelling victims, if they are, and... again, it really could all fall apart at any moment, but I do think there’s something disturbing in a primal, visceral way (versus like...the evil of corporate greed) about eugenics, human experimentation, body modification. The ambition of a “perfect” or even better human is understandable, I mean people have a penchant for self-improvement, and they also like power, which a perfect human could get you, and it’s also less abstract than “money.” But at the same time, there’s really nothing more invasive and viscerally horrible than the idea of someone altering or changing or invading your very body, as they’re dong. It’s also less abstract than cloning; it takes the bodily-autonomy horror that was hinted at before and brings it home, while also taking it to 11. Basically my way of saying that I’m really digging the creative choices the show made this season--at least, dun dun dun, so far.

#the year 2022 #2022: fandom thoughts #2022: orphan black

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

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Someone Left to Save (12)

Cal Kestis x Reader

Requested by Anon

Summary: The Mantis crew arrives to the capital of Ulfin, in the planet of Pevera, under siege. They meet the local rebel cell spearheaded by the former Republic admiral, Jax Beneb, who seeks to destroy the Empire’s occupation that was aggressively imposed upon while exploiting the planet of its natural resources. A plan is devised to destroy the Imperial’s main base of operations—as well as their influence—in the planet; however, it was a do-or-die mission that you and Cal had gotten yourselves caught in.

A/N: Editing and formatting this on the mobile app is straight up HORRIBLE. I know it’s an old thing now to know that the mobile app is not recommendable for content creation, but hey I’m making do with what I can. Also, I’ve already posted this chapter yesterday on AO3, it only delayed because like I keep saying, editing on the app is horrible.

Tags: Force-Sensitive! Reader, Inquisitor! Reader, Jedi! Reader, Fake Death, Jedi turned Inquisitor, Seduction to the Dark Side, Turn to the Dark Side, The Dark Side of the Force, Aftermath of Torture, Torture, Psychological Torture, Redemption Arc! Reader, Possible Redemption, Premonitions | Additional tags: Jeddah

Also in AO3

Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10 | Previous: Part 11 | Next: Part 13 | Masterlist

12 of ?

Cal ran as fast as his legs can carry him until he got to a significant distance away from the bridge.

His next problem was finding his way back to the Mantis, but that’s besides the point. He took shelter in an extension of the temple, to catch his breath, but eventually the toll takes on his body. All of the sudden, the exact wave of emotions when he saw you came back to him. He still couldn’t believe it, he simply can’t, not after believing for so long that you were alive.

Pressing his back against the cold, stone walls, he slides down and reduces into a curled up ball; not even covering his eyes with his hands stopped the tears from overflowing. They spilled through the spaces between his fingers, the edges of his palms, and trickled down on his forearms. His heart ached as he sobbed. Of all things, why did this had to happen to him? And of all people to deliver him the worst of news, why did it have to be you?

“I can’t believe it…” he sobbed, his breath shuddering as he exhaled.

“Bee… Bee, trill, chirp!” BD-1 urged the boy to stand up and find their way out before you find them.

Cal sniffled and struggled to bring himself up to his feet. This was much worse a battle than the duel that he just had with you.

“You’re right, BD,” he concurred. “Come on…”

The boy was awfully quiet during their trek out of the temple cave. If BD chirped, he’d be received with silence, or perhaps the closest the bot can come to a reply is an out-of-the-moment “Huh?” and a weak, indifferent hum. Eventually, he gave up until they found their way out.

End of the road for Cal and BD-1.

Both of them peer on the drop at the edge of Cal’s boots. The sunlight pierced through the cracks on the cave’s walls and ceiling, revealing a body of water. The redhead youngster wagered it would be twenty feet between the rock he’s standing on and the water. He took a deep breath and dived in.

A literal splash of cold water all over him and he’s still having it rough in accepting what you have become. He swam forward, until he could find dry land; when he did, he climbed up and shook off the water from his clothes and boots.

“Cere, do you read?”

“Cal, I read. What’s going on? Are you still in the temple?”

“Yeah, I am, but I’m trying to find another way out.”

“What’s happened?”

“Uh… Um, there was a… a cave in.”

“Are you alright?”

Cere won’t take Cal’s simple “Yeah” for an answer. Even from that single word, she heard how unusually warbly he sounded, his own voice betrayed him and she wanted in on it as to why he sounds odd--but of course, she won’t force the boy. The conversation abruptly ended from Cal’s line as he continued on to find his way out of the cave.

“I think there’s our light at the end of the tunnel,”

His exit was one of many from that temple cave. A different exit could’ve led to another place. In Cal’s case, he ended up in the south end of the mesa; a narrow ridge, wide enough for any species except a Hutt to tread on, wrapped around the wall. Cal hugs the wall, facing the open space, with his arms splayed and pressed against the hot rock baked by the sun, then shimmied until he could find a wider path.

Cal has already come around the corner, he can already spot the city and the Mantis—the dorsal fin poking out of the mesa—so he continued to shimmy the ridge until he could find someplace to safely land. Not long after, he reaches a rockwall where he can make the rocks sticking out of it as handholds. He struggled to scale it, as the heaviness of his body was making it harder for him; despite coming out of the duel unscathed, the manifestations in his mind was affecting his body. He exerted more effort, he worked up a sweat in climbing the remaining height and the Mantis was a sight for his puffy, sore eyes.

“There’s the Mantis!”

The boy comes sprinting towards the vessel, hot air filling his lungs, warming his throat, and the sweltering humidity pelting his skin. He’d love a shower when he gets there.

The entry ramp unfurled when its censors spotted him, he didn’t wait for it to completely fold out, he jumped in the first second he could plant his feet on the ramp. This is the second time he eagerly barged into the Mantis, surprising everyone—except for Cere, who was already expecting an explanation from the young Jedi Knight.

“There’s something you all need to know,”

The entire crew clustered around Cere and Cal. The older female Jedi hardened herself, a way of preparing herself for what she’s about to hear, and she inhaled deeply when Cal opened his mouth.

“[Y/N] is alive… and she’s an Inquisitor now!”

Much like Cal the first time, the Mantis crew couldn’t believe it. BD-1 got Cal’s back when he flashed a data scan of you in the middle of your duel when you were unaware of the little droid. That is when the crew finally took Cal’s word for it. Cere stared at the holographic image of you long and hard, she questions if her eyes are playing a trick on her… but no, they aren’t. It really is you.

Examining your image more intently, she notices the changes in your face even though they were subtle. The shadows under your eyes and the redness along its rims, she asks BD to enlarge the image, when the droid obliged she spotted bruises on your neck and jugular. All of her findings suggest the exact same theory in her head: torture.

“Cal, did you notice that she had bruises and small wounds on her neck and face?”

“W-Well… Not really. I was still kinda overwhelmed back there when I saw her again,” said the boy quite somberly.

“Hmm,” the older woman hummed. “Because there are typical wounds you’d get when you’re kept in an Imperial torture chair. I had the same wounds, except [Y/N]’s are more prominent. It could only mean they’d kept her there longer than they usually would to a prisoner, especially if it were Jedi.”

The thought of you strapped into the torture chair for a much longer period of time pained Cal more. He could only imagine the agonizing screams and cries that would have escaped your throat for every time they pulled the switch to turn the current on. Suddenly, he felt woozy and his footing failed; Merrin and Cere caught him in time.

“Your poor thing, you need to rest,” uttered Merrin.

“Yeah, I… I just need to clean myself up and some time alone.”

He politely shook himself off of the ladies’ collective hold of him and headed for the bath. The water rained on his head and then trickled all over his entire body, bringing the sandy gunk along into the drain; the shower felt like a prison cell, theres’ a gloomy peace in this glass box, but ironically so, that’s what he exactly needed to think it all through.

Cal gently thumped his head against the wall, still letting the water run on him while doing bare minimum scrubbing—droplets fall from his strong jaw, the tip of his nose and lips, he’d blink away the water that clung on his eyelashes. He closes his eyes until the hissy sound of the running water had dulled in his earshot.

How he had wished he would have snuck a single grab of your saber, your hand, or your cheek just to see what you’ve been through. He’d willingly go through the nightmares that reside in your head, playing in every waking second which fueled your anger and hate. Then the words struck his mind.

“You abandoned me, Cal!”

“That sounded like an accusation,” he pondered. His nails cracked as he scratched the glass wall. “But you don’t really mean that, do you?”

Eventually, the tears mixed in with the shower’s water that it’s hard to tell. But Cal’s shoulders shook and then relaxed as he begins to weep again.

“I missed you so much… if only I could’ve told you that, to let you know. Even if it didn’t make you turn back, to come back to me. I just wanted to make sure you don’t forget...”

Even through the fogged glass, BD-1 can see Cal’s silhouette succumbing to the floor and curling up, he can hear the boy sobbing and incoherent muttering altogether. There’s nothing much the little one can do, as well, except to sit by and trill sad chirps.

—-

Meanwhile, back in the temple cave, you didn’t waste your energy in trying to dislodge the boulder in the archway. Like Cal’s exit, you had your own where you stood. You followed the path and led to a tunnel; you’re let out to what ought to be a canyon, though you have no idea where you exactly are.

Referring to your gauntlet, the small screen indicated the signature of your TIE Fighter on the map grid. From where you stand, it’s almost a seven-mile trek and you’re thirsty and hungry. Luckily, your TIE had a function that allows you to “hail” it and let it come to you even without a pilot.

“Maybe a sightseeing trip wouldn’t hurt my objective,” you mused.

Your TIE Fighter comes flying over the canyons until it converged to your signal.

The ship hovered over your head, sending the coattails of your armor's top flapping like wild in the thrusters' hot wind. You didn't mind, you simply hopped into the cockpit and flew to the nearby Imperial garrison. As the distance shrinks, you ponder if you'll have any luck in this endeavor.

The Imperial scanners have picked up the signature of your ship.

"This is TIE Fighter TZX-2527, requesting permission to dock,"

From the other end, the operators recognize your voice. One of them previewed the flat image of your ship on their screen and turned their heads to the deck commander.

"Sir, this is an Inquisitor's TIE Fighter!"

A sudden chill pelted his arms despite wearing a full-bodied uniform. He gulped the nervous lump lodged in the center of his throat many time before he could swallow smoothly again. He turned to the cadet manning the computers who previewed your TIE Fighter and gave him the go signal to let you through.

"Your ship's been verified, Inquisitor, you may begin your landing phase in Bay 5."

"Excellent. I'll be on my way,"

The transmission ends and you make your way to the Imperial docking bay, you promptly prepped your TIE into its landing cycle and daintily put it on the ground. A pair of Stormtroopers escorted you into the main hold of the fortification. After a ten-minute walk from the landing bay to the command hall, you meet the person in charge peering at the dusty nothingness through the window.

He was an aging man—the lines drawn over his face proved that he had served before the Empire, his lowered brow gave off a permanent scowl over a pair of tired, old eyes. He turns around as he hears the door open.

"Inquisitor," he greets with a curt bow, he doesn't turn away from you.

"Captain Foros," you greet, though the coldness in your tone overpowers the politeness. "I should thank you for letting me stay here."

"Aye, no one would want to stay out there, where it's wretchedly sweltering,"

You joined his side, standing in front of the same window where he observes the land, it later dawned on him that you're so young—and yet you carried yourself in a mature regard in your stride and posture.

Slowly turning your head from the window to his face, you smile at his comment—regardless if he doesn't see it.

"I'm pleased we have something to agree on,"

Getting past the niceties and icebreakers, a minute lapsed before you began asking him. He walked with you to the holotable in the center of the room.

"Has there been any word about a Jedi running around in this planet?"

"As a matter of fact, Inquisitor, we have been receiving relayed reports in the neighboring town northwest of here. That's Sector J8 in the grid."

"I see," you hummed, intrigued. "What kind of reports have you been hearing from the northwestern town?"

The old captain sighed, preparing mental bullet list of Cal's activities in the main town of Jeddah; there's too much to mention and elaborate in detail, so he pressed a button on the holotable to present a series of surveillance images taken in different areas of the town.

Your eyes wandered from one frame to another. All of the cameras captured a clear picture of the boy—whether he idled in crowded public areas, running, or swinging his saber at Stormtroopers.

Yep, that's him. You tell yourself.

"Well, it started out with sightings which eventually caused some suspicion. When the troops close in on him, he tends to leave a trail of their bodies in his wake, and then he'll bolt away until he's out of sight!"

"Ahh," you purred, smiling again with satisfaction underneath that mask. "Yes. I know this particular Jedi."

You suddenly turned quiet. Captain Foros turned to you, confused after detecting the rather amused tone in your voice, despite the mood of the situation that he just narrated. He angled his head with a thoughtful expression as he tried to read you.

There was something else that you sense about that town. You stand still in front of the holotable, concentrating everything on that town, there was an unspeakable urge within you that prompted you to march back to the window and peer at the quiet, unbothered town.

Looks like your to-do list just got longer.

"Captain?"

He stiffens upon the call of his rank.

"I'm going to need a speeder. I think I'll give the quaint town a little field visit."

"Right away, Inquisitor!"

Two snaps of his fingers prompted an officer to scramble from their post and march towards him. He sternly gave the order to prepare an elite-type speeder bike for you. He obediently responded, saluted to the captain before turning away to proceed with the given task. Within half an hour, you were escorted by one of the officers to the hangar.

You hopped on and revved up the engine. The bike sped out of the docking bay, with your eyes set out for that town.

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elenariseventide · 5 years

Photo

The journey had been long and hard on the troops as they moved through the mountainous terrain to reach Lordaeron. The warchief, Sylvanas Windrunner, had called for the aid of the entire Horde and whether he approved of her or not, he still was a part of the Horde. He was lord of his home and had civilians that represented his banner. Those that were loyal to him and his name. The days in which they were stationed there were long though he managed to send a raven with his letters to Elenaris and his young daughter, Maevyn, daily. They were the fire that stoked his icy heart and his one, continuous tether to this living world. When the word had been given for the respective forces to return to this cities, their homes, and their families Cineas had ordered Ebonheart to inform the men and women that they were to pack up so that they could make their way to Ravenhill come first light. He found himself slightly shocked to notice that he was traveling back home with nearly half the soldiers that he had reported with. Those missing had either become casualties or fled the battle whether it was the former or the latter would only be determined once the battle fields were able to be combed over after the blight settled and no one entirely knew when that would be.

The ominous tower that stood atop Ravenhill could be seen on the winding mountain that it sat atop just outside of Quel’thalas. Being outside of the city allowed it to experience all of the seasons that the Ghostlands could provide. “Let us make haste,” he stated with a nod to the armored man at his side and spurred his horse onwards. The steed was tired and grunted uncomfortably but Cineas knew that there was only a small bit further before the horse could rest for some time. The large, wooden doors that stood within the wall of Ravenhill creaked loudly as they were opened by the doors winding gears and the caravan of troops had slowed as their hooves echoed along the cobblestone road. “Ebonheart,” Cineas directed as he now placed his attention towards the death knight at his side. “Inform the troops that they may go home to their families and loved ones. We will require no work for a weeks time for those that fought under this banner and every household, regardless of if man or women returned today, will receive a bounty of food on behalf of my household.” It was rare that Cineas ever did anything that did not benefit him personally and while one could argue that this did benefit, those that fought brought honor to him and his name and it would not soon be forgotten.

Without giving the death knight time to respond to him, Cineas spurred his horse ahead of the group so that he could make his way towards the castle that sat at the top of the hill where he knew that Elenaris had been alerted to his return. The few remaining soldiers that were among their personal guard stood at full attention as he crossed through the smaller wall that defended the castle and he dismounted the steed in the courtyard as he glanced around to take note of Cindel. His armor made a heavy clunking noise as he came into contact with the stones beneath him and he bowed his head to his wife’s attendant. “My wife?” He questioned however without a moment passing, his eyes flitted upwards to take note of the elegant woman who he called his home standing atop the stairs that led into the castle itself.

The nights alone had proven to be difficult and lonely when Cineas had left to heed the call of their Warchief. It was no secret Elenaris disapproved of most of the Horde’s actions and the Horde itself but Sylvanas Windrunner was a leader she could stand behind and her assault against the Alliance was one the dark priestess reveled in. It was odd, being left behind during such a time when she would typically be out lending her own hand in what was going on in the world but not this time. No, firstly she had to recover from her near release to the void plane following a rigorous child birth but even more importantly, she had to stay behind to be with her daughter. Little Maevyn was born with the lightest dusting of black hair, long raven locks were sure to follow.

She had been a bit of a fussy child, but now as she rested in her mother’s arms to greet the Lord of the house, her father, home, she was soundly quiet. “Welcome home, Lord Duskhollow. We’ve been eagerly awaiting your return,” Elenaris spoke in a low tone as she often did, her voice cooing down the stairs before she began to slowly descend toward him.

The ascent up the stairs was taken two at a time to hastily close the distance between the two of them. He had gone too long without the embrace of his wife and the feeling of his daughter in his arms. Now it seemed as though his only desire was to be back in their company without parting again. He knew that with the battle ending was only the beginning and that this war had only just begun. He feared for the status and safety of his family now. Ravenhill was not far from Lordaeron and in the back of his mind he knew that his family would need to strongly consider relocation.

“Lady Duskhollow,” he greeted with the faintest of smirks and a fluid bow of his body. Upon rising to his full height, he closed the distance between the two of them and removed one of the sturdy, leather gloves from his fingertips. His fingers delicately ran along the forehead of his sleeping child and they lightly tousled with her dark strands of her. “I trust our heir has been in good health in my absence as yours seems to be returning as well.” His hand moved from the child's head to affectionately cup the jawline of his wife.

Little Maevyn cooed softly as his hand met her delicate skin but she did not stir awake. Elenaris watched the affectionate encounter with a light smile before looking up to her husband and leaning into his hand once it came to her own face. “I am doing better and she’s been perfect. Missing her father, of course, as have I… it’s nice to have you home once again, my dear,” she leaned forward to press her lips softly against his own for a brief kiss despite how she yearned for more than the subtle gesture.

As she pulled away, her cradled arms lifted slightly toward him as she raised a brow. “It has been some time since you have held her,” it was only then with the slight movement that the small babe shifted in her swaddled nature and her eyes fluttered open to reveal the faint glowing hue behind her previously closed lids. “Seems she knows that you are home.”

Elenaris had been correct that it had been sometime since he held his daughter in his arms. It was as if Cineas would not let her go prior to his departure but war had no ties to family no matter how new the addition. He smiled, fully, as his arms extended and he took the baby from her grasp to admire the faintly glowing eyes of his child. No longer did the elves pass along their emerald colored eyes and part of him swelled at that. The connection to the fel at the result of his ancestors made him cringe outwardly. It spat on everything his connection with the void was to him. Though with the purification of the Sunwell and the Sin’dorei of the now not needing the sustenance from fel any longer, there was an overall sense of relief. “She seems to be powerful already,” Cineas jested as he nodded towards the top of the staircase and the large, wooden doors that were still held open by the guards. “Let us get inside and out of this chill.”

He hadn’t waited much longer for her to agree before he began his ascent up the stairs of the castle and into the place he had called home for all of his life. The halls were ever familiar, dimly lit by candles and, in some places, lanterns and he turned to face the blonde woman as the doors closed behind their entourage. “Mother? Has she been docile as of late, I hope.” He suggested and spun swiftly at the sound of the elderly woman’s voice coming from the dining room. “That’s no way to refer to the one who gave you life, Cineas. I’ve been more than helpful to Lady...Duskhollow since your departure to the war.”

Elenaris plucked the smallest bit of fabric from her gown between her fingertips to lift up her hem just slightly as she nodded in silent agreement to him before following in behind his steps to return just inside the door where some symbol of warmth greeted them. As they came to a rest, her palms smoothed out any wrinkles the action might have caused while she gave a soft sigh. Her brow rose at the request of Cineas’ mother and before she could reply, Synida arrived just as expected.

“Mm...yes, quite,” Elenaris said in addition to the elder woman’s words but quickly moved from the topic. “We heard news of the Warchief’s actions against Loraderon… is it true? Has the Undercity been completely purged?” The tone of her voice would be hard to decipher, it teetered on the edge of relief and concern and knowing her, she had a lue of reasons behind either emotion in regards to Sylvanas, the Forsaken, and their home.

Cineas held his daughter firmly within his arms as he rocked her gently, cooing in a calming manner as his mother and wife exchanged a few words. Elenaris’ question had caught him off guard momentarily and he froze as his eyes slowly moved upwards towards the woman. He had never been afraid at completely expressing himself and his thoughts to her but the news of the battle was something that left a lump in his throat. He was never entirely sure how he felt about the blight and he’d preferred if it wasn’t used all together. He sighed slowly before answering. “Yes, Lady Windrunner flooded the city with blight that would harm bot the living and the undead.” His gaze had dropped from her as his attention reverted back to the child.

“We had the upper hand on the Alliance until the arrival of Lady Proudmoore and we were pushed back. When the retreat had been declared, the blight was unleashed. The city will be uninhabitable for some time moving forward.” He smiled at little Maevyn after he finished speaking and gently ran his finger tips over her darkened hair. “I had wanted to have this discussion after we all had time to settle, but I think it best that we depart Ravenhill depending on the actions of the Alliance moving forward.”

Elenaris’ gaze fell to Maevyn with a soft sigh, her jaws giving away the tense feelings that his story had brought. She had heard rumors, even the faintest sounds of war from the distance, but she had no idea their warchief had gone to such lengths just to secure this victory. It was in that moment that Elenaris began to feel she could have more of a connection with and support the Dark Lady a little more than she had before.

Her lips twitch just slightly into a grin but it quickly moved disappeared at this final words. She flicked up gaze up to him in surprise and while she did miss her family’s manor, she had made a home here at Ravenhill that was just a deep as her roots in Quel’Danas. “You want to leave Ravenhill? Completely abandon it?” Elenaris asked as her eyes hesitantly looked to Synida and then back to Cineas. “We cannot just leave your home to rot and eventually fall to the Alliance… But Quel’Danas has been upheld if it must be done. If you think it will be unsafe for us, for her, then I think we should.”

Cineas inhaled rather deeply as he motioned for the entourage to follow him into the dining hall as he took as seat at the head of the table and he cradled his daughter in his arms. He bounded slightly, rocking her back into a slumber as a slight smile tugged on his features as he watched her with great admiration. “I do not want to leave it,” Cineas replied rather quickly as he glanced between his golden haired wife and his elderly mother. “The Duskhollow’s have occupied this land for generations and those that tend to it have lived here for just as long. However, I am not a stupid man nor am I green in the ways of war. When the Alliance come, and they will come, we are in a direct path to Quel’thalas.” He breathed as he gestured for one of the servants to bring him wine. It had been far too long since he had some of the Eventide stock at his disposal.

“I am looking into some rather…” He paused as he nodded at the servant and quickly grabbed the chalice to take a sip of the liquid. “Interesting magics with our newly acquired allies: the Shal’dorei.” He knew that Elenaris might have been disapproving of such alliances but they were elves and allies to the Horde after all and they were left with little choice. “However, to ensure the safety of our family, I would prefer that we move to safer conditions. You have not fully regained your strength, my love, and mother, simple magic drains your energy to the point of fragility and while I can feel the power within little Maevyn, she’s just a child. We must preserve this bloodline over this home.”

Elenaris followed behind him gladly, glancing over to Synida as they walked toward the dining room and eventually would take their seats. She looked down to Maevyn in his arms and smiled. It was a sight she had always thought would never be hers, a child of her own bloodline and that of a man worthy to make such a wonderful being with. When Cineas mention the Nigthborne elves, she raised a brow curiously as expected. “The Shal’dorei? What use of their magic do you have need for?”

When he had asked for a glass of wine, she too waved to the servant to request her own, despite the possible glare that she might receive from her husband. She then looked to Synida once more curious of what her thoughts were on leaving Ravenhill, the home she had known for years beyond her own. “If Quel’Danas is the safest place for our family then it is a decision that is not hard to make. We can leave a small force here to look after the estate and see that it is taken care of in our absence. If and when things settled in the surrounding areas, we can return.”

Elenaris asking for a glass of wine had brought a slight arching to his brow as he had been so adjusted to Elenaris avoiding the sweet liquid but he immediately began to smirk slightly at the image of her taking a sip from the wine. “I need their use of cloaking.” Cineas replied to her as he moved to take another long, indulgent sip of the wine. “Their city in Suramar was protected, yes, by a large barrier but they are rather skilled in cloaking magic that I feel could be effective in hiding Ravenhill from plain sight.” His gaze slowly transitioned between his wife and his mother before he flickered down to his daughter and gently rocked her as she made a content sound. “I do not want to involve the Council in Silvermoon as I do not trust those outside of this room, save for a few, to ensure our safety.”

With that, the door to the dining hall opened quickly and Ebonheart was revealed in the fullness of his plate armor as he bowed his head before taking his stance next to the door. “We must not instill fear into those that call this place home. I’ve already instructed Ebonheart to inform the townspeople that we will be providing them with feasts for the remainder of the week and something special for the families that lost someone within the battle. We can begin moving them slowly after that point, yes?”

“We have been living our lives here without the aid of the Council for enough time now and even longer before I came here. I see no reason to involve them, either.” Elenaris looked down to Maevyn in his arms and her gaze seemed to linger there up until the sound of the door and Ebonheart’s heavy steps pulled her attention away. She gave him a quick nod before glancing back to her husband. “I will send Cindel to give word to the stewards at the Manor to see that everything is in order for the household to full move and take residence,”

Yet again, Elenaris flicked her gaze to Synida, somewhat surprised that she had not yet spoke up on the matter. But then, a thought came to her, another reminder that there was a war waging between factions. It had been one that lingered for years but now it was coming to a peak and she was at home. “Will you be returning to the front? ...Where ever that may be now?” She asked as she looked back once more to Cineas.

Cineas had gestured for Cindel to come to his aside after she had glanced up from her hushed conversation with the death knight at the door. When the woman had approached him, he handed the baby to her and indicated that she bring the child back to Elenaris and requested that one of the servants in the room bring him something to eat. His food intake had been limited to things that wouldn’t spoil such as salted meats. He had taken a rather large sip of his wine and reached for the jug to refill it when his mother’s voice had grabbed his attention rather quickly. “This home has been in our family for generations, Cineas, and it stirs my heart with disdain to see that you are so quick to surrender this home.” Her green eyes had trained on her son for an extended moment before her wrinkled fingers reached forward to grab the jeweled chalice that held her wine. “At least unchain your brother to give him some sort of fighting chance with this war,” she added with a bit of a heavy sigh before finishing the remainder of the red liquid. Cineas seemed to be slightly betrayed by his mother’s words though he ignored her momentarily as his gaze returned to do the blonde woman who he called his wife. “It appears that forces of the Horde are searching for additional allies throughout Azeroth. I have received word that Lady Windrunner’s champion seeks aid from the Zandalari trolls and Etrigg has sought aid from the orcs on Draenor.” He rolled his eyes somewhat upon those that the Horde seemed to be wanting to ally with and then shook his head. “The forces of the Duskhollow and Eventide are going to remain with us until I am requested for them otherwise.”

As Cindel was beckoned, Elenaris looked over to the couple that stood a distance away which caused the briefest of grins to form on her lips. Once Maevyn had been returned to her arms, she began rocking slightly in a soothing manner as she listened to not only Synida but to Cineas as well. She fought the urge to roll her eyes at the mention of the other Duskhollow ‘Lord’ but her husband’s quick follow up made it easier to distract her attention from the statement. “Trolls and Orcs… that is just what we need,” She said with obvious distaste though at this point, if the Horde was making these choices she knew it was Windrunner calling the shots and somehow that made it slightly and easier pill to swallow.

Once the food had been brought to Cineas, she nodded to Cindel so that she may take her leave and carefully reached to the table for a sip of her own wine before she seemed taken back by her husband’s final words. “You expect to be called once more?”

After Elenaris had dismissed Cindel, Cineas had waited a moment and nodded to Ebonheart to dismiss him as well. He seemed to distract himself with the wine in his cup until a plate was placed before him and then two more followed after it. The larger plate contained a few slices of some sort of roast and vegetables and the smaller plates had one of assorted fruits and a loaf of bread. He hadn't wasted a moment before greedily digging in and carefully swallowing the large mouthful and washing it down with a glass of wine. “We need the Orcs and the Trolls. Who ever has a larger amount of bodies to throw at the other side will win this war. Both factions of beasts prove essential.” He murmured as he reached for one of the grapes and quickly popped it into his mouth.

He dismissed his mother with a few quick words and after the sound of her cane hitting the stone floor had disappeared, he rose from his seat and moved to kneel before the chair of his wife. His hand gently moved to up her cheek and he smiled in an almost eerie manner. “Between the Eventide forces and my own, I expect us to be utilized again in this war. Which is why I'm placing the utmost importance on getting you and our daughter far from here.”

Elenaris had been distracted with the awaiting for Cineas’ response to even care to see Ebonheart leave. She glanced between him and Synida briefly but her gaze found his and locked on as he stood and made his place now kneeling before her. The feeling of his hand upon her cheek was welcomed, it was a feeling she had longed for each night when he was away. She reveled in the touch for a moment before deciding to respond and she knew he was not going to like what she had to say. “I will see that she and our household are well secure and protected, but once that is done and you are called back to aid in the moments where we strike the Alliance down, I am coming with you,” Her words were stern , as always, it was simply how the Lady was. A woman of her own, an independent and strong mind, but that small traditional and respectful portion of her still managed to weave through as her tone ered on the side of caution when standing up to Cineas.

He chuckled quietly at her response. Elenaris was back to being bold and oh how he had missed her though he had more than understood the toll that childbirth had taken on his wife. His hand dropped from her cheek after his thumb gave an affectionate graze to her bottom lip. “My love,” he replied softly as he rose from his knees to take the seat next to her idly, his elbow resting on the table to prop his head up. “Perhaps there were once days of the brave and beautiful Elenaris Eventide leading her soldiers into battle. Inspiring morale at the chance for a random peasant to catch a strand of her golden locks for luck. But you have a child now, an obligation to her, to yourself and to this house. Battle is no place for you.” His jawline tightened as he finished speaking as his gaze narrowed at her slightly. They had always been a formidable pair but he, too, felt odd in a way standing up to her. “Plus, I anticipate that you will be quite entertained with my plans for the Eventide Estate.”

There was a moment of silence between his words and when she finally responded. Her features slowly drained of her enthusiasm regarding the current conversation. “Your plans for the Eventide Estate,” She repeated him before taking a slow breath and tilting her head slightly. “Am I to be expected to stay at home overseeing decor changes and projects, continue knitting for hours within the day and be a typical housewife?” Elenaris had always wanted a family but she never anticipated being put into this situation. Her own jaw clenched as she stared over at him expectedly. “Yes I am a mother, but I am anything but that day to day Lady sitting back in a rocking chair while the rest of the world is off fighting a fight I should be a part of.” Her arms tightened around the young one that she cradled, glancing down at her as she continued to sleep soundly. She somewhat felt guilty for wanting to leave her but there was a burning inside her that yearned for more. “Your heir will be safe there with or without me but this is something I need to do before… retiring completely.”

“And what of our heir should the both of us perish side by side in a cliche story trope on the battlefield?” Cineas asked rather quickly as he reached for her glass of wine and quickly took a large gulp of it. “Who then will raise our child? My aging mother? Your disobedient sister?” He ranted slightly but he only seemed to calm himself when he had taken another sip of the wine. Battle had tired his senses and he was far from his normal self that exude control in almost every situation. He rose from the chair with her glass in hand and slowly paced over to the fireplace as his dull eyes gazed into the flames for a lingering moment. The heat felt warm against his skin but when the fire crackled more to life it gave a slight stinging to his eyes and nose. He stepped back slowly before tossing the remaining red liquid into the flames causing them to flare higher and brighter than before. “Very well,” Cineas replied finally as he turned around and folded his arms loosely over his chest. “If we are summoned to war once more, I will permit you to come with me so long as Ebonheart is by your side.”

With the tense and rather rash gesture, Elenaris barely flinched but inside the outburst startled her slightly as she had become a rather calmed woman in her state of caring for their child while he was away. She watched from her stationary position and once he had finished his little rant, she rose to her feet, baby still cradled in her arms comfortably. “Cindel will care for Maevyn until she is of age to assume her rightful place as head of our conjoined Houses, that was always the plan of action should we ever meet demise before the opportune time and that is why we named Cindel and gave her lands.” Her words were reassuring but flat as she stated them simply without expecting any push back and with that, she grinned to herself as he looked to her from across the room and then nodded to her elder mother-in-law. “I suppose I have some preparations to make, then…” She said with a bit of pride in herself that she had won out in her aspirations.

#Eventide #Duskhollow #MaevynDuskhollow #BFA

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insomniac-arrest · 6 years

Text

Poppy

genre: humor, coffee shop, getting together

words: 3k

Summary: Alex has never seen anyone destroy their food like that before. And she never wants to see it again.

The woman tearing poppyseeds off muffins has her full attention, and internal wrath. They keep meeting like this.

She picked the poppy seeds out the muffin.

I think I hate her.

Her long pink nails dug into the soft yellow skin of the muffin top and picked them out. One. By. One. Setting them aside on the plate like she wanted to spend the rest of her life in my coffee shop doing the impossible.

It was the worst moment of my life, and I almost smokey-the-beared myself in the 6th grade (only you can prevent forest fires kids! Say no to lighter fluid and bad decision-making skills).

I wrinkle my nose and wish, not for the first time, that my sheer power of will could do some sort of Darth Vader magic on her. She was obviously already part of the dark side, you don’t forfeit your soul for nothing, and apparently, trade it for very bad taste in food etiquette.

“Alex,” I felt a coworker growing concerned, “Alex, there’s a spill on the corner table.” Abigail was snapping her gum at me like she was going to smack me into the next shift. It was one of those days.

Days when woman in bright pink scarves and fuzzy sweaters picked out poppy seeds from perfectly good muffins.

I keep my head stiffly pointed toward her as I make the rounds to the tables, delicately wiping them down as I imagined being a ship’s cabin boy scrubbing down the vessel. I’m not sure if that ever helps.

“Waitress!” I wasn’t a waitress. “Excuse me.”

I turn slowly, like I had wooden gears in my neck instead of tendons and a bad stress knot that may one day kill me- which was likely enough.

I walk stiltedly, stiffly over to the Poppy Woman table. She was smiling at me with the sheen of someone who used chapstick.

I bunch the rag up, “How can I help you?” I smile, all of my training had been preparing me for this. Poppy woman.

She looks both ways, “I was just wondering,” she holds up her small plate, “where could I throw this out?” In all fairness we did hide our trash can under a low overhang, obscuring the mouth of it with no concrete sign to tell people, yes, yes, we are a reasonable business that wants your money. That sign would be good.

I lift my quaking finger, “over there.” I reach my hand out, “I could take it.” My voice was still crowded with sugar sweet customer service. But it was fading, my willpower was compromised.

“That’s very considerate, I mean, if it’s no trouble.” She reached for her purse, I stand there frozen.

I chew on bottom lip like a dog toy before opening my mouth again, “was...was there anything wrong with the muffin?” My strongest defense was a bold offense.

“Oh,” she looks down and then back up again, she tugs on her purse. “I just think there was a mixup.” She smooths out her long honey-colored ponytail, “I little hiccup.” “Uh,” I blink a couple times and tilt my head, “I’m so sorry about that. What was the matter?” The woman lifts her chin, still exhuming sunshine like I was a solar panel. “Well, you see. She asked for my name. But I think she wrote down what kind of muffin I wanted at the same time.” She woman flattens her skirt out. “So… it was an easy mistake.” “She wrote down poppy muffin?” I could feel question marks forming above my head like I was a cartoon character.

“No, no, my name is Poppy.” “Your name is Poppy?” “My name is Poppy.” I feel a creeping embarrassment crawling up my neck, I just made the woman confirm several times that she was named after a flower/muffin.

“I am sorry about that, again.” I hurry to take the plate away and get back to the authority of my station. “Can I get you a blueberry one instead? On the house.” The woman beams, “Really? I didn’t want to start a fuss.” I shake my head and I’m a little annoyed with her again (who doesn’t try return the muffin??), “It’s no problem, that was our fault after all.” She followed me smoothly over to the case and I see her round figure and practical shoes.

I take the tongs and fish a blueberry muffin out, “there.” I turn, “I hope you like this kind.” We were running out.

“I do,” she cheers and reaches out. “I’ll have to come to this shop more often.” I want to tell her no, never come back here again and forget that we exist, but it was a little late for that. I smile, creating an ecosystem of renewable energy around my face. “We’re happy to have you! We love our guests.” If I was a programmable bot I imagine that’s also along the lines of what they would say. She laughs a little bit and waves, “goodbye then Alexandra.” I wish I could throw my name tag out the window, I still holding the carnage remains of what used to be a muffin.

My coworker glances at me and whispers, “why are you so dramatic? Stop staring.” I turn around and fluff my curly hair, “I was threatened.” “No. You’re a theatre major.” I stick my tongue out and turn back to the case, I hoped didn’t find her way back.

----

Flower women all across the globe were determined to ruin me- though it was mostly this one.

“What is she doing?” I whisper, ever so softly, holding the attention of our newest team member, Mike something.

“Is the cappuccino machine supposed to foam like that?” He was sweating, voice cracking like the san antonio fault line.

“She is ruining that cake.”

“It’s making the whirring noise, Jeff didn’t mention anything about a whirring noise.” Mike something was holding a cup like it was a life support system on a flooding lifeboat.

I keep my eyes focused on the real issues, “you can’t just literally cut off all the icing and eat the middle part. You might as well just eat bread! Bread!” Poppy was back. Muffin woman, her rompage unending.

“Alex-”

“Against the geneva convention.” “It’s making that sound.” Mike sounded like he wished he was still living on his mother’s couch.

I hear the rumbling of the machine’s behind me, no doubt planning it’s own self-destruction and trying to bring us with it.

“Yes yes,” I turn back to my job, slinging another rag over my shoulder as I go to dart behind the counter. “It’s just overheated, give it a moment.” I see more of the morning crowd gathering in line, Maisy was brushing them off easily as she explained that it might just be another moment. I go start on the second cappuccino machine.

“Let’s just fill the coffee orders first.” I say briskly, “And then investigate.”

“Didn’t you just say it was overheating?” I turn to him, “No. The lady.” Mike covered his face and rubbed her eyes a little bit, “I think…” “Chop chop,” we have drinks coming out and a hot cinnamon roll that someone yelled at us about, but I had worse mornings.

I wondered why she was coming in, and if I had just done this to myself to begin with. I tempted her with the blueberry muffin and like a tamed deer she became attached.

She sat upright with her computer in front of her, perfectly upright and focused. She was typing something and leaving the icing to the cake completely off to the side. Why did she order a cake? My eyes were getting red, she was still in my shop.

“Alex, if you get any more creepy I am going to apologize to that lady myself.” Maisy was tapping her foot, freckles popping out as she gave her a disapproving look. I turn slowly, “Yes. Before she takes you out. Soviet style.”

“What?” “Like a Soviet Spy? Who’s never been outside before. Or interacted with people.” Maisy flicks me in the shoulder, “please, either use that imagination to write a memoir, or sweep my floors this time.” I wrinkle my nose, I logically knew that the sooner we swept the easier closing would be. But that was still hours away.

And she was still here.

I go to start my routine of finding where an older gentleman had devoured a cookie with crumb casualties spread on all sides, I work my way up past the back tables and toward the front.

Maybe it would have turned out differently if I hadn’t already opened the floodgate, passed the line into her domain, already crossed the summoning line. I am almost right next to her, she was glancing at me, most likely for good reason.

I open my mouth, brushing my hair aside and smiling, “was that one better?” I point to the cake and try to speak casually.

She shrugs, “I like the inside of cake.” She moves it around, “so yes, this was very good.” “I see.” My smile was straining into a grand canyon. “Well, let us know if there’s anything we can do.” I turn away, thinking it was the best way to control myself.

“Can I ask you a question?” I freeze, this was the part where she asked me for American nuclear codes.

I clutch my broom and see the lights in the cafe brighten, the sun was going down.

I nod, “sure, of course.” Poppy sits up straight and takes out a notepad, “I didn’t want to ask you right away since you’re at work,” she shifts from side to side, “but I was looking for someone to get a couple brief questions from.” I tilt my head to the side, “why?” I couldn’t help it, this wasn’t what I was expecting. And had planned for a lot of different scenarios.

She clears her throat, “you see,” she glances up with large brown eyes, “I’m writing a novel and I need reference material. For working in a shop like this.” I resist wrinkling my nose, that didn’t sound like something I would want to read. “Shoot.” I finally say hoarsely.

She practically bounces in place, “how long have you worked here?” “Five years.” I look my nail beds as I say, disinterested, cool, “started in college and then… kept going.” I feel like a dog with its tail between its legs as I admit that.

“Perfect,” she was still jotting things down, “what’s the average morning like?” My theory was bridging from ‘soviet spy’ to ‘alien.’

“Well,” I am tempted to sit down, “well, where to start.” Her eyes dart out, “start at the beginning.” I can’t tell if she’s telling a joke or not, “first there’s the 5am crowd, sometimes it’s empty for a little bit before they arrive, but it’s a mix of bus drivers and mega-business people. The occasional college student.” “Good good,” she was nodding and I was sitting up taller.

“It’s best not to make eye contact with those folks, most of them have the fact that it’s 5am on their minds. In their beings.”

I hear a little laugh and look up, Poppy was laughing a little bit, she had the type of Real Smile that ate up sceneries and filled up poetry books. I gulp.

“You’re funny.” My eyebrows raise, that wasn’t that funny. My cheeks heat up, “well, then we have to get 6am-” “Alex,” I hear my manager calling out to me, “What are you doing?”

I make a face and realize that I had been absorbed in being actually interviewed. I turn my face away quickly and go for my broom like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

I glance back to Poppy who was writing things quickly down again.

I give her a little salute, she laughs. “Duty calls.” I jog back over to Maisy who wanted me to take the trash out early, “What were you doing?” I heave a sigh, Poppy was still caught in the corner of my eye like a stray piece of dust. “Do you ever flirt with the food devil?” “Stop talking, no. Go, trash.” I hunch my shoulders over and try not to play that scene over and over in my head. Poppy. Questions. Calling me funny. I walk like a wobbly fawn outside to the dumpster and stay there for a for a long time.

I was suddenly not rooting for her to get lost on the way through the door. I bury my face in my hands, I was apparently easy like that.

--------

I was at the counter when she came in again the next day. It was 9am, one of the busiest hours and I only numbly recognize that she had joined the line.

And then I really realized.

“Oh,” I say softly and my eyes find the end of her honey ponytail. “Oh?”

“Is my order too big?” A teenager questioned me and I questioned him in my head on why he was here on a school day.

I turn back, “3 frappuccinos, one with no whip to go?” I continue. I sort and press buttons and whisper instructions to Mike when he gets overwhelmed, I smile. And the menace, the pleasant menace draws closer.

I’m a little nervous, but for different reasons this time. Mostly I think it’s because I’m easy.

“How can I help you?” My voice almost cracks like a broken violin string.

Poppy stepped up to the counter, tilting her head and leaning forward. “Do you work here every day or is this just coincidence?” It was playful.

I look in both directions, “No breaks for me. Almost every day.” “I suppose it’s because I’m here a lot too.” She reflects mildly. I flick a half-smile up, a real one. “I assumed you just wanted to move in here. We have the room.” She laughs, “If you have enough coffee cups I can build something, I was awfully good at building forts as a kid.” Why was she like this? I was bad at keeping enemies.

I chuckle back, “I’ll join you, an inhouse sick day. Even though I don’t get sick days.” It was almost a grumble, I notice the people in back of Poppy getting ancy.

“That’s a shame.” She seemed genuinely concerned.

“It’s okay. What can I get you then?” I take a deep breath, “nothing with poppy seeds I assume.”

She grins, “not this time. I’ll have a latte and everything bagel.” I nod and punch it in before I can open my mouth to keep this going. She waves, “good talking to you Alexandra.” “Alex,” I correct her before she leaves, “It’s Alex.”

Her smile was so slow and warm it felt a sunrise, “Alex then.” I was dying in new and interesting ways each second.

--------

“Why?” I was finishing up emptying the coffee grounds as I stared, “Why would she…?” Our war of attrition was back.

Could I outlast this temptress though? She was cutting up her bagel like it was a delicacy, with a fork and a knife and putting cream cheese on the little triangle bits. My jaw was almost on the ground.

“She’s so cute… but so wrong.” “Are you mumbling to yourself again?” My second manager, Jeff, was squinting at me.

“Alex has been doing that.” Mike was not on my side, I shoot him a warning look, he takes a step back.

“I’m just saying,” I try not to point, “that’s the worst possible way to eat a bagel. Possibly not human.” My alien theory was coming back into play.

Jeff rolls his eyes, “isn’t that the one you held up the line for?” Mike mouths something that looks like ‘flirting’ and I mouth something like ‘snitch.’

Jeff nods at me, “You should talk to her, your shifts almost up, right?” I start to sweat, “kinda.” Jeff wags a finger, “I’ll tell Maisy you couldn’t go through with it.” “I’ll tell Maisy about your huge crush then.” He whacks me gently on the side of the head, fair enough.

“Alright, alright.” I straighten my shirt just as the clock ticks by. “I’ll go clock out.”

My heart was beating loudly, et tu, bodily functions?

I take my time taking off my smock and punching in my employee number like I had forgotten the combination.

I take a deep breath, hoist my bag on my shoulder and wonder if she’s still even sitting there.

Poppy was sitting perfectly in place with her computer in front of her when I leave the back room.

I creep toward her general direction, like I was just going to pass her and exit through the back way, she looks up, her round eyes flashing.

“Ah,” she grins, “I was hoping I would catch you.” I stop in place, she was hoping things.

“Why do you destroy our foods?” I blurted out because I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

Her face goes slightly slack, “what’s that?” I point down at her bagel remnants, “food…” She glances down and suddenly feel terribly out of place, “why.” “Oh,” Poppy seemed taken back.

I backtrack, “not that it’s totally a bad thing.” I look for forgiveness in my heart.

I’m about to apologize again and leave when I hear her little laugh again.

“You were upset about the food, oh my God.” She pushed her ponytail back, “I thought...well I guess it doesn’t matter.” “What did you think?” I sit down in the seat across from her. She shuts her laptop.

“I thought I either offended you beyond belief or…” She fidgets from side to side, “Well, I was being silly.” I reach out like a dying man reaches for water. “Tell me. I’m game.” “I don’t really know you.” “I know you don’t like poppy seeds,” I smile, “and that you’re writing some sort of novel.” Her face pinks gently and she ducks her head for a moment, “well, you make all your drinks with extra foam.” “I try,” I shrug.

“And studied theatre at Metro.” I sit up straight, “I mean, I did,” I eye her, “how did you know?” Her eyes go wide, “I wasn’t stalking you.” I snort a little bit, “And I thought I was the off one… well, good to know.”

“I just saw your facebook.” I laugh again as she looks like a deer in the headlights.

“Go on,” I lean forward, “what is it that you thought?”

“That I shouldn’t go on Facebook any more.” She puts her face in her hands.

“Don’t worry about it.” I wave a hand in the air, “I am still curious though.” I prompt her again. She shifts from side to side, “Well, it was a very intense stare…I was being silly, like I said.” “Uh-huh,” I lifted an eyebrow, “I like silly.” She groans, “Look, I thought you liked me and that’s what was with all the looks. There. So I came back.” She puts her laptop quickly away and I have to grab her wrist like an impulsive skydiver. My face heats up, “I don’t not not like you back.” She gives me a coy smile, “spoken like a true wordsmith.” I wanted to roll my eyes, “okay, now I don’t not not not like you.” “I’m teasing,” she pushes on my shoulder, “This is why I thought you were cute.” “You thought I was cute?” “If you’re into it, then yes.” She straightens up, “if you’re not into it, well, my name is Catherine Heigl and you never met me.”

I laugh, “Catherine Heigl?” She twists her hair up, “or Laura Bush. Anyone else really.” “How about Poppy?” I offer, “no seeds. And I’ll take you out to dinner.” She beams and starts to scribble something out on a napkin, “am I ever going to live that down with you?” “Never,” I say hotly, “you’ll have to make it up to me.” “A tough customer.” She pushes her number over to me.

I giddily pick it up and look over at her, “You’re a better one.” I reach my hand out, “walk you home?”

Poppy accepted.

#fluff #wlw #sapphic #coffee shop #original story #original writing #humor

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ael-xander · 6 years

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The Darkening and the Lightening

Chapter Twelve

Sanctum training room

Ael slammed her sword against two bots, then shot a bolt of magic against a third, sending it spinning into another. Without stopping, she spun on her heel, ducked under a blow aimed at her head, and took out another attacker, disabling them with only a twist of her hand and a small shock of electricity. A voice called for the training to stop. Ael paused, sheathed her sword on her back, and bowed to Wong. She turned to the student on the floor, kneeled, and used her ability to bring him awake. “Hey there, great move, but next time, keep at least one hand with a shield.You never know if a person knows how to use or wield electricity.”

The young man, who had spiky black hair, green eyes, shrugged away from her. “But you don’t wield a shield.”

Ael nodded. “I don’t often, but I do shield with my sword or with my free hand, I can conjure a shield. I can do it in microseconds. You haven’t learned to do that yet. Have you discovered which weapon is your best yet?”

“No, mistress.” The voice was sulky, though Ael ignored it. She realized the young man hadn’t been defeated by many, which was why Wong wanted her to fight against him, showing him what more he had to learn. “Jonathan, listen to me. You have talent, but you’re trying to rush. I’ve been trained as a fighter since I was eight, Jonathan. You had no chance against me.” She gripped his chin and forced him to look at her. “No matter what you tried, I’ve faced some of the worse things in this universe and in others. You have just begun your journey. Don’t think so much of yourself that you fail to see the chances before you. Understand? And I’m just Ael. I’m not a Master or Mistress of anything.” Ael released him and put out her hand. He took it and she helped him to stand up. “You’ve got some good takes on movement. Have Master Wong or even Master Hari teach you some of the bo staff techniques. I think you might just excel with the reach on it.”

Jonathan bowed and left through one of the other doors. Wong approached her. “Stephen would like to see you in his office. Seems Lady Lark is here about Oliver Queen.”

Ael looked at Wong. “Ollie? What’s happened to him? Never mind.” Ael raced out the training room, taking the stairs two at a time to the bottom, then turned right, meeting Cloak. “I need to see Stephen, Cloak. Something about Ollie. He’s a friend of sorts.” Cloak tried to block Ael from the office, but Ael knew how to dodge Cloak from times past, easily sliding past it and opening the door.

There she saw Stephen speaking to a beautiful woman, tears scoring her face. But what had her standing still was the sounds surrounding her. The resonance from the woman threatened to overtake Ael’s personal shielding. The woman’s voice wasn’t like anything she’d dealt with here on earth, but reminded her of a person she tried to forget from her childhood. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, as she tried to step forward. Stephen looked up. “Ael, come in, this is Lady Lark. Lady Lark, this is Ael Xander, healer and someone very special to me. Lady Lark is here because Oliver Queen has been taken by Dr. Decibel.”

The room swayed as the name echoed in her mind. The horrors of ages past came back with full colour in her mind. She shook her head, stepping back. “I’m sorry, Stephen.I need to get Wong for you.” She stepped back out the room, ignoring Stephen’s look of dismay and Lady Lark’s concern. Cloak shut the door. Ael dropped to her knees. “Get Wong, now, Cloak. Please.”

As Cloak floated off, Ael slowly made her way toward the stairs, further away from the office, as she put distance from Lady Lark and her, the dissonance eased enough for Ael to sing to the Sanctum’s shields, strengthening it, by adding counter resonance to what Lady Lark’s voice brought. Ael immersed herself, not caring what happened around her, not noticing the shadows or the light shifts, just watching the colours of the shielding brightening and strengthening. Only when the Sanctum itself completed the resonance, singing back in harmony did Ael fall forward, landing on a planter, shattering it.

She blinked, her eyes slowly adjusting to the area, noticing Stephen just inches from her. “Ael, my love, are you okay? I called and called, but you never responded. What did you do?”

“That woman, her voice…it hurts. The shielding of the Sanctum, it was being torn, the resonance was ripping apart. I reset it. Deepened it.” Ael tried to stand up. Stephen put up his hand. “Don’t move, Ael. The planter is in a million pieces, I don’t want you cut any more than you are. Give me a moment.” Stephen used his ability to shift all the pieces together into one pile, away from Ael, then stepped forward and took her into his arms, carrying her upstairs into their suite. “Why did you leave like that? Wong came to me, he said Cloak brought him there, not you.”

“I couldn’t go near her. I’m sorry. Something is off about her voice. It hurts me.” Ael didn’t mention about Dr. Decibel. How could she mention the pain she endured at his hands by the order of her Gram. The horror that no child should ever endure, having no choice or say so.

“She lost her voice, her true voice to Dr. Decibel years ago. Oliver said he’d stand by her side, no matter what, and they’ve been friends and more ever since. Dr. Decibel took him captive about two days ago. She knows I’ve dealt with him before and wants my help to get Oliver back.”

Ael nodded. “Wong will have to do this with you. I cannot.” She let him tend her wounds, removing the splinters of ceramic planter and cleaning the wounds and bandaging them up, knowing they’d be healed within a short time. “My control is not all there, Stephen. Plus, every time she cries or has a sharp emotion, it comes out on a sonic level that hits me. I literally cannot block her. I’m a liability.”

Stephen caressed her cheek. “I wish you to go with me. But I won’t risk you. Wong and I will be gone overnight, maybe part of tomorrow. Will you be okay?” He kissed her knuckles. “If you’re not okay, I won’t go. I’ll send Wong and a another Master.”

Ael shook her head. “She needs you. You know Dr. Decibel. I need to practice my skills, shielding better and controlling my abilities better.”

Stephen smiled and reached into one of his pockets. “I think I have something that can help with that, my dearest Ael.” He pulled out a small box, handing it to her. “This is for you. Think of it as a dating gift from me to you.”

She looked at him in wonder. “A gift? I don’t understand.” Carefully, she opened the box and saw a double ring, with large emeralds ringed by smaller emeralds and diamonds. “I cannot accept this, Stephen. This is too expensive, too beautiful.”

Stephen took it out and put it on her left hand. “It’s a sling ring. It’ll help you learn to wield your magic easier, control your abilities easier. As for the expensive aspect, let me worry on that. Just accept the fact that it matches your eyes and that I adore you, Ael.”

Ael wiped tears from her eyes, leaned forward and gently kissed Stephen. “Stephen, I adore you. You mean so much to me. I don’t know what to think on this. But I promise to practice and get better.” She noticed his smile, so she knew he clearly heard her words.

“I know, my darling. You have abilities and talents that we need in this world. That you’re here with me is something I’m beyond grateful for. You humble even the old arrogant me.” They both laughed, and Stephen hugged her. “I’ll let Lady Lark know it’ll be me and Wong going. Cloak will stay here with you.”

“No, you’ll need Cloak. Take him with you.” Ael shook her head. Her mind whirled. She needed some time to think, to deal with some personal issues. Cloak might prevent her from doing that.”I’d feel better if you do.”

“Promise me you’ll be here when I come home, Ael.”

Ael looked up at him. “I will be home when you get back, Stephen.” He nodded, his smile wide and bright, taking her words at face value. He stood up and walked to the door. “If anything happens, I’ll let you know via our link, okay?”

“I’ll listen for you, Stephen. Go now, get back Ollie.” Ael sighed. “It’s been ages since I saw him last. He’s a good guy.”

Stephen left the suite, leaving Ael to her thoughts. Her goal was to time herself to where she needed to go- the problem would be getting to all places without wasting time, and not being found out. The last thing she needed was Stephen realizing that she wasn’t referring to the Sanctum as home. It had been, once upon a time, but right now, it kept her from things that needed to be done- like giving notice to a job she was quitting.

Prologue Chapter One: Chapter Two: Chapter Three: Chapter Four: Chapter Five: Chapter Six: Chapter Seven: Chapter Eight: Chapter Nine: Chapter Ten: Chapter Eleven: Chapter Twelve: Chapter Thirteen: Chapter Fourteen: Chapter Fifteen: Chapter Sixteen: Chapter Seventeen: Chapter Eighteen: Chapter Nineteen: Chapter Twenty: Chapter Twenty-one:

#fanfic #Dr Strange #dr. strange x original Character #Dr Strange Avengers #Avengers #marvel #darkening & lightening

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lifeonashelf · 4 years

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CLARKSON, KELLY

Since we’ve already tackled a fairly diverse musical sampling in this tome, it may not shock you to learn that I sincerely think Kelly Clarkson is awesome-sauce. And I’m not just referring to her talent (which is obviously abundant) or her register of great songs (which is also obviously abundant), I’m referring to her essence—the authenticity she embodies, and how much more fundamentally likeable she is than any other pop star of her stature or epoch. I have not met Kelly Clarkson, yet her entire vocational ethos has been so blessedly free of pretention that I kind of feel like I know her, even though the only thing I know for a fact about Kelly Clarkson is that she is a singer named Kelly Clarkson.

I never viewed one episode of the American Idol season she won and I have never seen her interviewed as far as I can recall. The impressions I have of her character are intrinsic, based on nothing more than the calmative sound of her voice and the traits I instinctively suppose a person whose voice sounds like hers must surely possess (certain voices are just like that—I don’t think anyone on the planet assumes Morgan Freeman is a dick, for instance). By that criteria alone, I am led to believe Kelly Clarkson is a kind human being, the sort of gentle soul who gleans authentic happiness from making other people happy. I am led to believe she is a humble human being, the sort of grateful and unaffected luminary who lends her resources to numerous charitable causes without requiring any fanfare for it. I am led to believe she is a wonderful mother, although I am merely presuming she has kids since I don’t actually know anything about her personal life. And I am so innately certain of these things that if someone told me they have it on good authority that Kelly Clarkson bathes in the blood of kittens to preserve her youth, I wouldn’t believe that person for a second, even if they had pictures (conversely, if someone told me the same thing about Taylor Swift, they wouldn’t even need photos to convince me).

I have an anecdote which supports my hypotheses, even if the anecdote isn’t my own. My cousin Lauren worked at a restaurant in Hawaii for a few years, and on her last day at this café, a vacationing Kelly Clarkson happened to stop in to eat there. Since it was Lauren’s final shift, her co-workers were scribbling farewell messages on her uniform with magic markers throughout the day, inscribing it like the pages of a yearbook. My cousin’s engraved vestment drew the notice of the eatery’s eminent visitor, who amiably asked about its significance; when Lauren explained the circumstances to this world-renowned superstar in her establishment, Clarkson proceeded to gush about how delightful she thought the gesture was and asked if she could add her signature to the shirt. As a result, my cousin is now the proud owner of a decidedly unique piece of apparel which is autographed by a slew of her former hospitality industry peers… and Kelly Clarkson. When Lauren told me this story, I was acutely charmed and—yes, I admit—a little envious. But I was not a bit surprised, because that is exactly the sort of genial exchange I imagine everybody who meets Kelly Clarkson probably has with her (conversely, if Lauren told me that Taylor Swift came into her restaurant, wrote “fuck you” on her t-shirt, then defecated on the floor, she wouldn’t even need the signed garment to convince me).

While artists like Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj have allocated periods of their careers to embodying post-apocalyptic femme-bots or community-theater sorceresses or whatever-the-fuck, Kelly Clarkson has exclusively devoted her career to embodying a performer named Kelly Clarkson who doesn’t come across as markedly different than the self-effacing lass named Kelly Clarkson who curls up on her tour bus after her concerts to watch old episodes of Friends (granted, I have no idea if Clarkson is a fan of that particular show, but she sounds like she must be). The only way I would ever recognize Lady Gaga in the wild is if she walked up to me and said, “Hi, my name is Lady Gaga”—and after I nodded and remarked, “oh, that’s kinda neat for you,” I can’t imagine I’d have much else to say to her. Yet if I happened to be at a craft store and I spotted Clarkson browsing the yarn aisles (for some reason, I also presuppose she knits a mean sweater), I would instantly know who I was spotting because she would probably look exactly like Kelly Clarkson always does, and I’d feel duty-bound to approach her, shake her hand, and thank her for being all of the things I assume she is. And if she wanted to hang out for a little while and chat about patterns, I would totally hear her out, because listening to Kelly Clarkson extrapolate on the textile arts sounds like a perfectly pleasant way to spend an afternoon. I have a strong sense that if I were to meet up with Kelly Clarkson for coffee—actually, now that I think about it, she probably prefers tea—we would totally get along; I also have a strong sense that Kelly Clarkson is precisely the kind of celebrity who actually would meet up with a fan for tea (not me, obviously, because I clearly sound like a lunatic right now).

“The Girl Next Door” is such a tired trope (especially in my case, since the girls who live next door to me are a Goth lesbian couple), but that is indeed the model Clarkson educes: an ingenuous small-town gal-done-good who spent her teenaged weekends canning homemade jam with her grandmother and reading YA romance novels on her porch with a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade beside her (again, I’m not sure Kelly Clarkson did any of these things; regrettably, my insights into small-town living are limited to the saccharine tableaus represented in the Lifetime Original movies I’ve watched over the years—which, consequently, I presume Clarkson also enjoys). Her comportment evokes a high-spirited yet enduringly sweet kid sister you impulsively want to protect from the leering eyes of the world, and while she is certainly a beautiful woman, my attraction to her has never ventured anywhere near the realm of the erotic (my pop chanteuse crush is Demi Lovato, whose open struggles with bi-polar disorder, depression, and substance abuse—perhaps unfortunately—make her way more my type than Clarkson is). Honestly, I can’t envision making out with Kelly Clarkson; any fantasies my brain might entertain about her would be more likely to involve tracking down whatever scoundrel inspired the fervent pathos in her performance of “Behind These Hazel Eyes” and defending her honor by punching that fucker in the face.

I guess the word I’m really looking for here is “refreshing.” While Clarkson built her renown in a realm of play-acting, her career has been defined by an absence of artifice, which is ultimately a much more substantive thing to define oneself by than prowling around in spangled booty shorts. At her peak, Clarkson’s implicit message to the young women in her fanbase seemed to be, “you don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not; just be who you are and great things will happen.” I’m certainly no prig, but if I had a music-consuming daughter who looked to pop idols for guidance, I’d much rather her absorb that philosophy than the one proffered by, say, Rihanna—whose well-publicized turbulent coupling with Chris Brown would instead tacitly edify my fictional offspring that “ride-or-die” means sticking by your man even after he beats the absolute fucking shit out of you.

Of course, Kelly Clarkson’s ascent was predominantly reliant on her faculty—I doubt millions of people bought her records solely because she’s a nice person—yet in that respect also, she handily outshined her contemporaries. While most of the circa-aughts female pop icons were essentially sonically interchangeable, Clarkson’s soaring vocals always had enough distinctive character to render them unmistakably hers—surely, no amount of Auto-Tune could have endowed the bottom-scraping likes of Fergie with enough juice to do “Because of You” justice. She was also savvy beyond her years, and it was her refusal to let her handlers dictate the course of her career that ultimately allowed her to flourish when so many of her fellow American Idol graduates floundered.

Clarkson’s sophomore album—2004’s Breakaway—turned out to be the best-selling entry in her discography, and will likely forever remain her most iconic opus. But she had to fire her manager and battle just about everyone else in her camp to make that disc happen on her terms. After riding the wave of Idol worship which lifted her safe and satisfactory debut Faithful to its logical ceiling, she was tenacious in her resolve to transcend that threshold and announce herself as an artist capable of achieving far greater heights than triumphing in a televised popularity contest. As preparations for Breakaway began, Clarkson insisted on being heavily involved in the songwriting process—disregarding the protests of her mostly-male producers, who myopically deemed that a twenty-something woman couldn’t possibly possess any insight into what the twenty-something women who comprised the largest audience for the record they were making wanted to hear. She was also adamant about integrating more diverse and dynamic elements into her sound instead of simply settling upon another cycle of tepid pop-contemporary numbers. The result was a monster of a record that offered up five chart-igniting classics and a supporting cast of remarkably strong deep cuts. As evidenced on Breakaway, Kelly Clarkson’s vision of her craft encompassed something much weightier than a series of Pez-dispenser singles and shark-costume dance numbers. She clearly wanted to make a cohesive album that never gave the listener occasion to reach for the Track-Skip button, and she succeeded brilliantly. Commencing with the anthemic title cut, the feisty “Since U Been Gone”, the masterful “Behind These Hazel Eyes”, and the show-stopping apogee “Because of You” in immediate succession, Breakaway is surely a front-loaded disc, but it’s nevertheless one that continues delivering gems long after it exhausts its radio bait: “Addicted” is as solid as anything else on the record, “Walk Away” brims with irresistible quirk, and despite being buried near the tail-end of the track listing, “You Found Me” is more indelible than most other artists’ biggest hits.

This, too, illustrates a refreshing component of Clarkson’s mien—she made an entire record worth listening to, a feat which regrettably few artists on the pop landscape ever seem to bother themselves with. None of the tunes on Breakaway resonate as throwaways; each has something to offer beyond a hummable chorus, and each is solely Clarkson’s domain, firmly entrenched in her esthetic wheelhouse and blessedly devoid of any posturized pandering or blundering Ja Rule cameos. Even at this early stage of her artistic development, she possessed a seasoned understanding of the clear difference between making a song marketable and making a song memorable, and a keen awareness that those two things are not mutually exclusive. Surely, Clarkson was just as aggressively promoted as any of her peers, but her product wasn’t aimed at the audience hungry for gyrating, hypersexual caprice—peddlers like Christina Aguilera already had that demographic covered. Kelly Clarkson wasn’t selling her navel, she was selling a much more durable commodity: fantastic songs performed by an exceptional singer. And the grandeur of her vocal acumen elevated her wares beyond the disposable and into the timeless—indeed, as of this writing, Breakaway remains a thoroughly satisfying listen; meanwhile, nobody would bother spinning an Ashlee Simpson album from start to finish today, not even Ashlee Simpson.

And unlike far too many of her colleagues, Clarkson didn’t require a force-field of studio trickery to bolster her transmission. The organic nuance and passion in her voice floated atop the reverb rather than drowning in it, and the intricate, exquisite descants she conjured revealed hours spent mining her soul for the best way to communicate the emotion each track called for instead of pondering what shoes to wear in the eventual video. Which is probably why “Since U Been Gone” still makes me pogo around my apartment every time I put it on, while every Katy Perry song sounds like it was specifically written for a lipgloss commercial.

Clarkson’s output has waned in the last decade or so—though “Stronger” is a notable high-point—but even if her most significant work is destined to remain behind her, the legacy she built for herself transcends her standing as the first and most successful American Idol victor (at press time, that is; I’m willing to entertain the possibility that Lee DeWyze or one of the seven other winners whose names nobody remembers might still create the most amazing record ever made). After weathering an era replete with shameful moments like the skinhead meltdown of Britney Spears, The Pussycat Dolls pledging the drooling males in their litterbox echelons of filthy sluttery their lowly mortal girlfriends could never aspire to, and Lindsay Lohan being Lindsay Lohan, Kelly Clarkson emerged with her class, her dignity, and her career intact. The reality-TV platform that introduced her to the world is now a footnote, but her catalog continues to stand the test of time. And even though I actually shook Randy Jackson’s hand when he ate at the restaurant where I work (take that, Lauren), Clarkson will always be the American Idol alumnus I feel most closely connected to.

Speaking of… Kelly, if you’re reading this: my last shift at Eureka is on Monday, January 28. If you happen to be in the vicinity of Claremont that night and feel like swinging by, I’d be honored to have you sign my shirt. Just don’t invite Taylor Swift, please; I heard she does some really gnarly shit to kittens.

January 17, 2019

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