#our implausible existence au

[canongoesboom]

sometimes a family is just

you

7.5 ghosts

your mom

your villain dad

your adopted villain brother

your other mom

your four step-siblings, one of whom is legally dead

and that’s okay

#our implausible existence au #haunted ofa #midoriya izuku #afo #all for one #dad for one #dad for two #shigaraki tomura #midoriya inko #todoroki rei #todoroki fuyumi #todoroki natsuo #todoroki shoto #dabi #shigaraki yoichi #second #third #shinomori hikage #banjou daigorou #shimura nana #mist might #todoroki touya #inkorei

[with-my-murder-flute]

One of the things I really like about Alpennia's ~magic system is that it's historically coherent with Western history, where the Catholic church held total supremacy over much of Europe for over a milennium, BUT, you can definitely see the cracks that mean an alternate interpretation would totally blow the whole system wide open.

One of the things about being an ex-Catholic history nerd is, it's hard for me to really invest in "our world, except magic" AUs where magic is this totally separate branch of institutional power in Western society, where there is the monarchy/government, there is the Church, and then there is The World of Magic—because the Church, being the largest branch, has always tried to eat its lesser kin; there has been so much warfare about whether the Roman Catholic Church holds precedence over secular governments, or whether secular governments can tell the Church where to GTFO. So it is very fundamentally implausible that, if magic truly exists, the Church has not annexed it and claimed to be its only true source.

Daughter of Mystery is about the "mysteries" of the saints, where "mystery" means both "a secret ritual" (like the Elusinian mysteries) and "an act of religious ministry" (like medieval "mystery" plays). It's an adaptation of things that exist in our world, where Catholic veneration of the saints has always included asking different saints for different things, and honouring them with specific actions, prayers, pilgrimages, and items. That means everything from walking hundreds of miles with bare feet to worship at a shrine, to sighing and chanting, "Anthony, Anthony, turn around, something's lost that must be found" while spinning in a circle, before continuing to look for your car keys.

In this world, the mysteries work. Not all the time, not for everybody, but just often enough to be miraculous. And the Church traditionally holds that God and the Saints are just very choosy about when they bestow those miracles, and it's the job of ordinary people to pray humbly and dutifully and bow their heads when the blessings fall down.

But slowly over the centuries, theologians, philosophers, and eventually, thaumaturgists, have been observing that there is a pattern to when and how the mysteries generate miracles. There are some people who are especially sensitive to seeing or hearing the working of miracles, who can say whether a prayer was answered or a mystery was successful; and there are some people who, much more reliably than others, have their prayers answered. If they work together, they can use trial and error to create far more effective mysteries that produce more reliable results.

This has led to the creation of "mystery guilds", because the guild was the medieval framework for a closed group of people who meet to work together for a specific cause; in this case they were not tradesmen regulating a profession or philanthropists raising money for a cause, but people working to celebrate mysteries in hopes of creating a desired miracle. (I don't know if it comes up in later books, but I imagine the Freemasons in this world are buck wild.)

The Church officially condemns what is called "the mechanistic heresy", which says that miracles don't come from God, but are the sum of the people involved and the thoughts and words and actions they perform. Thaumaturgists have to step very carefully around this issue, because it is actually pretty clear that either case is equally possible, but they want to not die at the hands of the Inquisition. So there's this very real tension where thaumaturgy that was scandalous and near-heretical in its day (which I'm guessing to be the 12th century?) is now essential to understanding modern philosophy, so a nun who disapproves of the field as a whole nonetheless has to teach parts of it if she wants her student to understand why Christian thought and worship of the early 1800s is the way it is—but she won't give that student access to the entire book, just carefully chosen excerpts. And even if that book can be obtained from other libraries, other books of thaumaturgy are so at risk of being deemed heretical that reputable printers won't print it, and reputable booksellers won't sell it.

It reminds me a lot of the practice of human dissection in European history. During the Early Middle Ages, the Church discouraged the practice, which had been more common in Ancient Rome; it held that human bodies were sacrosanct, and could not be in any way damaged or altered after death, because when humans will be given our "new flesh" on the day of the Resurrection, it will be our actual physical bodies that will be revived—so your body had better be in a revivable state, and not cremated or taken apart or anything else.

But slowly, in the 11th and 12th centuries, it became clearer and clearer (thanks in part to physicians from Jewish and Islamic traditions) that dissection was a necessary part of medical science, because doctors and surgeons will just be fundamentally worse at their jobs if they don't have the kind of detailed knowledge of anatomy that only human dissection can provide. So in fits and starts, various regions and bishops and popes made the procedure more legal, even as they limited who could be dissected to those least likely to be deemed fit for the eternal hereafter.

Which, like... it is completely off the chain for us to live in a world where autopsies are performed on everyone, good citizen and hardened criminal alike, in the case of suspicious death; where it is routine to take the vital organs of a dead person out of their body and transplant them into a new one. We couldn't imagine law enforcement without forensic pathology, and we're comfortable with medical science experimenting with the human body in a way that treats nothing as sacrosanct, except knowledge and truth.

So Alpennia is at the jumping-off place for this brave new world. They've been a solidly Catholic country, wedged between France and Switzerland, only slightly touched by the wilder excesses of the Enlightenment and the French Revolution; Napoleon's wars ravaged them somewhat, but a new generation that barely remembers them is coming of age, with the knowledge that all the old truths can be thrown down—if you throw hard enough.

These books are so deeply nerdy. So very much. I love them so.

#daughter of mystery #heather rose jones #alpennia

[dotthings]

No, Dean in TW is not AU Dean. And Dean from Heaven can wear what he wants and change his clothes.

TW has world hopping (timeline hopping) and time travel in an Impala that can magically jump from the afterlife to one of the earths and back and people think it’s implausible Dean could wear one outfit and have short hair in one scene and then another scene—which took place some time later—have longer hair and an outfit he put on to blend in with 1972.

It’s Dean at different points in time, I believe that is the intention there. All the same Dean. Our Dean.

Dean is not AU Dean. Our Dean went to earth and caused a different timeline. A “multiverse” but it was really a split off timeline. For all intents of purposes, an AU world. He made it. When Mary was in the world between worlds she saw all the different versions of herself, the path different choices could cause. These branching timelines all exist at once. Just like from Heaven Dean can access any point in time.

Our Dean did not just drive aimlessly around Heaven doing nothing while he waited for Sam to show up at the bridge and that’s hard for certain people to wrap their brains around because the only way they can relate to Dean is if he’s all about Sam. They loved a projection of Dean, not canon Dean. Because Dean being worthy in his own right is something canon Dean caused. The work creatives did on the show, the canon concept of Dean, the sum total of all the work done on a tv series to create Dean.

Dean whose only value and existence=Sam is a fanon idea.

#Dean Winchester #the winchesters #spnwin #spnwin meta #dean meta

[tcfactory]

I would absolutely read that ffxiv x svsss fic if you ever did it! I love the world building you so would love to what would when you smack them together!

I don't have anything really defined as far as ideas go, but dropping someone on QCMS for a while would be really funny I think because like

Compared to whatever is the norm in the SVSSS verse, people on Etheirys (the world ffxiv is set in) are practically made of qi. Or have so much of it anyway that they might as well be made of it.

Which, as far as I can tell, is extremely not normal in a cultivation setting. Even the Garleans are made like that, they just can't control the energy. Imagine a person with more qi than some cultivators ever amass in their entire life who at the same time can't even circulate it. They are capable of manipulating it in other objects to a degree, but their own boundless qi? Completely inaccessible to them.

Also just asking anyone to talk about where they come from would be a trip. "One of our moons fell, the dragon imprisoned in it got out and wrecked shit, caused wide-spread environmental destruction and now one of our city states is stuck in permanent winter and this is just a thing that happens every now and then" would be wild to listen to for someone who is not used to the concept of Calamities.

Or take "well we don't actually know if our gods even really exist or not in the form we worship them, because when we try too hard to commune with them all we get are fakes that enslave the minds of people and drain the land dry".

Lots of very wild concepts in ffxiv that would make MQF think that he must be having a qi-deviation or a fever dream, because there's no way this person (demon??? most races would get mistaken for one. oh god can you imagine an Au Ra or a hroth or god forbid a lala getting dropped in there) is actually saying all these things with their full chest in complete sincerity. You don't even need to bring the WoL ("Hi, so my dayjob is to fight and kill fake gods?"), basically anyone would cause A Stir.

Like, the opposite of it would be less funny I think, because whatever a cultivator can say would probably go the way of "huh, there sure are some strange things in those far eastern lands" because you need to go very far to hit the threshold where things start sounding a little implausible for a better traveled person in the ffxiv universe. And even then if you get someone who's fully informed they might just break out the "have you considered you that might hail from another planet altogether?" and yeah no, that's not better at all.

A cultivator might get sick from all the aether all around too - it's Lingxi caves turned up to a hundred, in everything and everyone, without any filter on the energy. And as of Endwalker, we have Dynamis, which is a force that acts in the absence of aether and reacts very strongly to emotion...

#shut up tc #I wouldn't bring my WoL because my WoL is an OP bastard even in setting #but Percy could kick LBH's ass almost effortlessly protag halo or not #I will say this much

[harpagornis]

The Three Multituberculate Earths

There are three iterations of this project (four if you include the Nyctosaurid Earth AU):

The original google sites version (A or White)

The original wordpress version (B or Black)

The post-Urtron et al 2022 version (C, Current or Gold)

The first is irreversibly lost due to Google being a bitch and terminating my account for no explained reason (they’ll compensate me monetarily for this and several important legal files lost on my drive due to this). This brought me a lot of despair, but I’m nothing if not resillient and I kicked back, and soon I had something ultimately better than the first.

Then it was science’s turn to kick me in the balls.

For years I’ve been pushing the mainstream accepted narrative that early mammals were highly altricial due to epipubic bones constraining the mother’s torso. This was proven wrong by the aforementioned 2022 study, great for the paleontological community but offering a great setback for a speculative evolution project.

In the end, this wasn’t as dramatic a shake-up as I’m making it out to be. I was always of the mind that a marsupial-style reproductive system never set mammals back, so I got to creative inventions: bandicoot-style umbilical chords, yapok-like sealed pouches, nest-confined young. In the end, all turned out moot as multituberculates and other mammals wouldn’t have been limited by these, and so could develop hooves and flippers and wings and all that without “bio-Bond” gimmicks.

Still, from a creative standpoint it is disheartening to see all the creative solutions go down the drain, and I had a lot to re-write.

So in essence, ME Black and Gold co-exist; the “third version” is essentially just a disclaimer pointing out that the creative innovations I came up with were unnecessary. Allowing me to eat the cake and express it creatively too.

On the polar end of the spectrum, this is reassuring in a way. It makes it clear that a world dominated by multituberculates would not be “constrained”; life would find a way eventually, but now it could do so without the risk of it “biologically implausible”. And man, how I wish this reality came to be, so see these unique creatures thrive much as our placentals did.

Oh well, can’t wait for the google money.

#multituberculate earth #multituberculata #multituberculate #speculative zoology #speculative biology #spec evo #speculative evolution

[ao3feed-izuku-midoriya]

Our Implausible Existence

Our Implausible Existence by canongoesboom

When Izuku woke up in Recovery Girl's office after breaking three of his limbs in the entrance exam, it's to a strange woman's voice cussing out someone named Toshi for his horrible advice. ~ AKA the haunted!OfA AU no one asked for but everyone got! Also, Daigorou is an enabler, Yoichi is a gen Z, and Nana needs to stop encouraging Izuku to punch people, please and thank you.

Words: 1221, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Shinsou Hitoshi, Yoichi | First One For All User, Second One For All User, Third One For All User, Shinomori Hikage, Banjou Daigorou | Lariat, Sixth One for All User, Shimura Nana, Original Characters

Relationships: Midoriya Izuku & Shinsou Hitoshi, Midoriya Izuku & Past One For All Users, Midoriya Izuku & Original Character(s)

Additional Tags: One For All Quirk Haunted by Past One For All Users' Ghosts, Midoriya Izuku & Shinsou Hitoshi Friendship, Midoriya Izuku Gets Therapy

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40430337

#AO3 Feed #FanFiction #AO3 Izuku #♠ #Izuku Midoriya #Hitoshi Shinsou #OFA Users #A:Canongoesboom

[ao3feed-hitoshi-shinsou]

Our Implausible Existence

Our Implausible Existence by canongoesboom

When Izuku woke up in Recovery Girl's office after breaking three of his limbs in the entrance exam, it's to a strange woman's voice cussing out someone named Toshi for his horrible advice. ~ AKA the haunted!OfA AU no one asked for but everyone got! Also, Daigorou is an enabler, Yoichi is a gen Z, and Nana needs to stop encouraging Izuku to punch people, please and thank you.

Words: 1221, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Shinsou Hitoshi, Yoichi | First One For All User, Second One For All User, Third One For All User, Shinomori Hikage, Banjou Daigorou | Lariat, Sixth One for All User, Shimura Nana, Original Characters

Relationships: Midoriya Izuku & Shinsou Hitoshi, Midoriya Izuku & Past One For All Users, Midoriya Izuku & Original Character(s)

Additional Tags: One For All Quirk Haunted by Past One For All Users' Ghosts, Midoriya Izuku & Shinsou Hitoshi Friendship, Midoriya Izuku Gets Therapy

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40430337

#AO3 Feed #FanFiction #AO3 Shinsou #♡ #Hitoshi Shinsou #Izuku Midoriya #Yoichi #A:Canongoesboom #Ghost AU

[turanleach36]

The 2008 Election and the Republic of Iraq Warfare Riffle

Clock time recovers entirely wounds. That's an old expressing. On the other give how well clip? It virtually probable relies upon on the offend. In the lag, cypher throne sound out that the Conjunct States is more or less the ennead/football team round. The assail, the Afghanistan war, and the Irak war, make notwithstanding unexpended a pit that wish experient and historic period with us, every undivided calendar twelvemonth, President of the United States equitable after Chairperson. Either you knew a function or a firemen comrade WHO passed scatty in the Total universe Sell Rivet, or you hump a soldier WHO went beyond the sea to a warfare they're scarcely e'er ever so future day in reply from. And instantly we have got to digit out, with no whatever help at all, regardless of whether how we vote in the 2008 election volition intimate we shake off Interahamwe Thomas More persons. The Combined States is a ground of fractured lines and strain nerves. At that place are rich state of war lovers. Lash out for good! 殡葬服务 is the means to observe risk-release. There are the war protesters. Barely ever outrage formerly Sir Thomas More! That leave yield no 1 a principle to outrage us. In that location is the 9/eleven Realism Movement. They recollect we were organism altogether deceived. They mightiness even out be allow, but the throng fury would create it ambitious to convey to. No two men and women surface to concord any lengthier on just what occurred, what the finest issue to do is, and even out whether or not it wish go on once again. This tends to bring in the 2008 election betwixt the near decisive at any clip. The citizens WHO offspring the surveys presently wish not be the identical Saame kinds WHO lightheartedly selected a medical prognosis and shrugged prior to 2001. They device characteristic a intent. They volition hold close their tallies in their manpower, not even out implausibly confident if they tooshie faith the Federal governance disposal with their ballot any longer, and they wish non let out their choice the right way up until the last min. For the reasonableness that they do non make love that survival of the fittest on their have boulder clay the identical live on moment, probable. Deficiency of consider in in Federal politics is hardly around everywhere. It made use of to be that the public questioned principally the money reportage as foresighted as they experienced tasks and households and automobiles, they loved. All the same the anterior 7 age give ascertained us a side of meat of our Federal Union political science that a duet of us are surprised around. In that location is the concern of excruciate offence a 10 age agone, right away it genuinely is but only one and only often to a greater extent prove-boxful on the surveys. Are you anti-torture or business-rack? Moldiness we manufacture a wall just about the United States? Ought to we enable spies in our houses? Penury to we desolate anything simply the armed serve, and remainder up leftover a express at elongated-idiomatic expression warfare forever? Does whatever case-by-case give sound rights? nirvana address at completely? And exists certainly that budhhist funeral package 'tween the celebrations whatever lengthier? A heap of allege that in that location isn't in reality we bear two extreme point sound rights and no remaining. The Libertarian celebration is where the lefties are, now, and they're downcast for the count. The Populist and Republican River facet are the accurate exact face, with close to handicap out-bins numerous. Until you might be talking homo kinship and then no a someone, not eve the farthest-left Libertarian, testament differ. We are definitive on eliminating homosexualism from our high society, and a au naturel minimal of that wish disembarrass us of jovial terrorists. The Conjunctive States, as a Carry Amelia Moore Nation, leave hold its corporate temperature taken this November, 2008. It is not possible to inform what bequeath seminal fluid just about. One special thing is particular by December, 2008, we will, at selfsame last-place, realize what we were believing. We Hope that we stool look game once more on what we were considering, and be well-chosen of ourselves. The ravish, the Islamic State of Afghanistan war, and the Republic of Iraq war, feature in essence nonetheless remaining a pock that leave meliorate up and addition Thomas More suppurate with us, twelvemonth right-hand later calendar year, Prexy straight off later Chief Executive. Both you implied a firemen or a do the subcontract consort WHO passed forth in the Major planet Swap Nub, or you rich person an intellect of a soldier who went abroad to a warfare they are in no path of all time approaching backward once more from. In that location are tough warfare supporters. There are the warfare protesters. Ought to we godforsaken every thing still the army, and close up being a state of matter at irreversible war forever?

#fu gui nirvana

[shurisneakers]

shut in [11]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: cursing, anxiety, ptsd, abuse

Word count: 2.7k

A/N: just to clarify, there are 14 chapters and an epilogue!! also you guys are so nice, thank you for letting me know what you think about this <333</p>

i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!!

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

The wait was taking a toll. It was clawing at you from the inside, and paired with the occasional flare your anxiety gave, everyday was like spending time in an hourglass that was steadily filling up. 

Sam helped; making sure the both of you ate after spending hours planning out and revising every detail, introducing you to the world when you spent too long indoors. 

The constant rap of your finger against the table and pen tucked behind your ear was the position you found yourself in more often than not. Different scenarios listed themselves on a sheet of paper so you could go through the process of elimination, sorting each loophole out with proper backup. 

Going to New York, 3rd floor of 32nd Street, only cash-

“I’m goin’ on a run.” Sam poked his head in from the doorway to the kitchen. “I’ll be back before Ransone calls.”

“What?” you mumble, not paying attention. You scratched out another implausible scenario, leaving you with many more to go. Everything had to be perfect.

“Going out. Be back soon,” he repeated. 

It still took a minute to register but you found yourself shaking your head once it did. “No, don’t.”

“Why?” he straightened up, no longer leaning on the wall. “Something wrong?”

“It’s not safe.” 

“I checked the cameras. No one’s out there,” he sounded confident but you couldn’t shake the feeling of skepticism around the situation that was beginning to return to you. “I’ll be careful.”

“You could be careful by not going.” You shouldn’t have to explain this to him. “It’s not safe.”

“Nothing’s changed yet-”

“They have.” You whip around to look at him. “Things are different now. We don’t know what’s out there.”

You both know that he had already been seen once. Who knew how many people were waiting forty feet away from the house? Risking his life for a jog was ridiculous.

“I can handle a 20 minute run,” he challenged. “I’m not even going that far.”

“You’re being reckless.” You could see the rebellious streak he had warned you of before making an entrance. Though you found his spontaneity endearing, the rashness that accompanied it you weren’t fond of.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It is, Sam,” you exclaimed. “We can’t fuck up the plan with you dying.”

He looks at you with his head tilted and annoyance on his face. A wave of tense silence washes over the both of you and only then do you realise it’s the closest thing you've had to an actual argument before.

“Is that really what this is about? The plan?” he questioned, arms crossed over his chest.

You hesitated.

“What else would it be about?” You know he saw it, the brief moment you took before you answered.

“I’m going for a run,” he said decisively. It stung more than it should have. “But I’m not going far. I’ll circle the house.”

That eased it, somewhat. You would prefer if he didn’t at all, but you were at peace with the compromise. A middle ground. 

You nodded, looking away from him. He left soon after, but seeing him run past the window every now and then made you feel better. 

Your mind replayed what he implied. You knew what he was saying, you weren’t completely dense. But you would never let emotions get in the way of work.

It had never worked out well for you before, not while you were still stuck with the organization. Like always, you could feel the familiar ache build in your chest, faces you prayed to forget flashing in your mind. 

You exhaled, forcing yourself to not relive it again. You were thinking an awful lot about it for someone who supposedly didn’t care about it.

Stupid Sam with his stupid cute face and stupid good heart. Fuck him.

____

“Y/N.”

“Ransone.” 

You nodded at Sam who was standing beside you with a glass of water in his hand, leaning his body weight on the table.

“Wilson there with you?”

“No, he isn’t.” Lying to him had become a habit by now, even though you were well acquainted with the consequences of doing so. “What’s the update?”

“We think we found them,” Ransone reported.

“Found who?”

“The people who shot at you.” 

Your body tensed.

“Who is it?” you asked slowly, peering at Sam through the corner of your eye.

“Serpentine,” he said coolly. Sam scoffed, taking a small walk in circles to calm himself down. “Trying to establish themselves at the top again. Went for one of you but we don’t know which, found both of ya instead. Killed Pierce then waited for you to show up.” 

Your eyebrows quirked up. You could see the muscles in Sam’s jaw tighten.

“How’d you find out?” You place your hand on his, urging him to calm down. He visibly softened, closing his eyes and letting out a silent exhale before nodding for you to continue.

“People talk. You know that Y/N,” Ransone sounded bitter.

“Not personally, no,” you mumbled. 

“Well, they do.” The way his tone shifted back to normal like the conversation you just shared didn’t happen almost gave you whiplash. “That’s all on our end. What’s happening there?”

“Nothing. No updates.”

“Y’know, I’m surprised you haven’t killed him yet,” Ransone commented. “He tends to get… mouthy.”

“I don’t see him much,” you lied blatantly, ignoring the insult to Sam even though you wanted to retort. 

“That’s a good thing. Can’t have you getting attached now, can we?” 

You barely looked at Sam, only zeroed in on the fact that his thumb was absentmindedly tracing circles onto your skin while he paid attention to what Ransone was saying.

“I’m not.”

“I’m sure you’re getting sick of him,” Ransone chided, pushing this conversation far longer than you wanted him to. “After this I’ll make sure you never have to see him again, don’t worry.”

“Why?” Your eyebrows knitted together. You wondered if you responded too quickly.

“I’ll have him stationed somewhere else. Away from you at all times. Won’t have to interact with him again.” He was doing it again. Ruining any fucking form of a relationship you could have. “You can thank me later.”

“That won’t be necessary,” you bit back. He knew what he was doing. He was drawing it out of you.

“Well I thought you’d be more grateful consideri- oh,” he stopped abruptly. “Unless you’re already attached to him.”

You pulled your hand away from Sam who only looked concerned about where this conversation was heading. The sudden chill that took its place didn’t make you feel any better.

“Oh, Buttercup,” he laughed pitifully. “You know it would never work. Don’t you remember all the others?”

You didn’t say anything. Only folded your arms together and forced yourself not to go down the path he was trying to drag you to. If you hung up now he’d only take it as a confirmation. 

“You two shouldn’t have been friends in the first place. Your lives would have never intersected if this didn’t go wrong.” You hated how he was pointing out things you had overanalyzed time and time again. 

You hesitated for a second, forgetting the fact that you knew he was preying on you on purpose. 

Because these were thought you’d already had. Thoughts of whether you were growing on him only because you were stuck together. Of course if he was forced to co-inhabit a safehouse for this long with anyone he’d like them. 

And as much as you despised to even think it, Ransone was right. How would it even work once you got out? 

It couldn’t. 

And you wouldn’t let yourself even consider the possibility that it might because it was just wishful thinking at best. The line between friendship and something more were merging together so fast, you weren’t even sure they existed anymore. 

“He doesn’t care about you, Y/N. I’m sure he’s charmed his way into making you think you’re important to him, but you’re not,” he sounded sympathetic, almost like he was patronizing you. “You’re just his way out of there, honey.”

Sam opened his mouth, ready to launch into a tirade. You held up a finger to silence him, praying that he wouldn’t do something stupid. You couldn’t lose the only communication you had with Ransone over this.

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way-” What a truckload of horseshit. 

“I’ll send you my location,” you broke in, words faltering. “Just have someone come get me.”

“If that’s what you want.” You could tell that he was barely hiding the joy he had gotten out of completely fucking with you.

“Don’t look for me directly. I’ll come to you. Just have someone ready to bring me back.” You couldn’t bring yourself to look at Sam. You had too much going through your head at the moment, things that had specifically to do with him.

“Are you sure? Someone can be at your doorstep within an hour, you know that.”

“I need time to sort some things out. I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”

“As you wish.” You wanted to smack him.

“Bye,” you say shortly, trying to wrap it up.

“Y/N,” he cut in before you could end the conversation. You wait for him to continue, not saying a word. “I’m sorry you had to hear it from me. I just didn’t want you to get hurt.”

You roll your eyes and hang up, not letting him get another word in. The minute you got a second to breathe, everything he said began crawling its way back into your head. 

“What the hell was that?” Sam fumed.  

“I don’t know.” It was the truth.

“That wasn’t a part of the plan.” You want to tell him to calm down because you had never seen him this infuriated before. 

“I don’t know,” you repeated, feeling more drained by the second. You fucked up by talking to him for so long, you knew it. 

“That sick, abusive piece of shit,” he continued furiously, but you only looked down, tuning out his droning. 

It was fucking humiliating to think that you could have a normal life. It just wasn’t possible. You were in too deep. Staying here with Sam only confused you, made you long for things that weren’t attainable. 

“He’s right,” you utter quietly, effectively shutting him up.

He stared at you incredulously. “What?” 

“He’s right.” You pushed yourself away from where you’re leaning on the table.

“About what?” 

“You know what, Sam.” 

“No, I don’t,” he retorted, “He said a lot of shit so I’m going to need you to specify.” 

“I’m going to take a nap.” Your head was spinning; you didn't know how to tell him. “I’ll talk to you later.” 

“Don’t run away from this conversation,” he sounded annoyed, rightfully so. “Tell me what he’s right about so we can talk this out.”

“About this,” you relented, spinning around to look at him. “Us.”

“He was just trying to get into your head, Y/N, like he always does,” Sam exclaimed, letting his arms fall beside him.

“This could never work, Sam. We’re friends because we see each other every single day, constantly.” You gestured back and forth between the both of you. “What happens once we get out? When you’re not stuck with me twenty-four-seven?”

He knew what happens to people when they get too close within the organization; he had first hand experience with Riley. They never survived long enough to tell the story themselves. They were ripped away from you, time and time again. It was so tiring to start all over from the beginning, every single time and for nothing. 

You didn’t want it to happen again, not to him. You just wished he’d believe the other anxieties you deemed less important than this, and dropped the topic. Another death is not something you’d be able to handle. 

“We deserve a bit more credit than that, I think,” he said defensively, taking a step toward you. “If our relationship was built solely on proximity then it wouldn’t affect you this much. We’re beyond that.”

“Well, what if we’re not? What if we realise we only tolerated each other because we didn’t have a choice?” you fired back, crossing your arms. 

“Speak for yourself,” he huffed. “I would never let that dictate my choice.”

He sounded so confident, so assured that it wasn’t circumstantial. How could he be so sure?

“I don’t get you,” you whispered. “I can’t figure you out.”

“What don’t you get?” He looked like he was on the verge of pleading. He stopped right in front of you, a temporary barricade between you and the hallway. 

“Why you treat me the way you do.” 

He looks taken aback for a second. “Did I do something wrong? Did I upset you in any-”

“No,” you interrupt him, realising that it didn't sound the way you wanted it to. “Why you’re so… good. To me.”

He doesn’t say anything in return and you can’t even look at him, feeling your cheeks burn with embarrassment. 

You had tried for so long to figure out what his motives were. Every time he did things that went beyond common courtesy, your gut would scream at you to find a hidden motive. No one was ever this nice to you unless they were put up to it. You’d had enough experience to realise this.

When you couldn’t find anything it only confused you more. You had shoved it away a while ago after he never displayed any other reason. You let yourself believe it for once.

But it was back; the incessant need to know everything. It was gnawing at you along with everything else because Ransone knew exactly what buttons to push. There had to be something. 

“Y/N,” he called out softly. You felt his hands on your shoulders, urging you to look at him. 

“It’s stupid,” you murmur, trying to ignore the fluttering in your heart. 

“It’s not. And I need you to look at me when I say this,” he says slowly, drawing your attention to his face. “I care about you. More than you think I do. You’re not some means to an end. He’s wrong and I need you to believe me on that.”

He waits for it to set in. You get why he wanted you to look at him now. There wasn’t an inkling of deceit in what he was saying. You had seen him lie, seen him try to bluff his way out of a petty situation. It wasn’t this. 

He cared about you because he wanted to. Not because he was forced to; whether it was because you lived together, or because of something else. 

There was so much more you wanted to ask him but nothing got past your throat. It was too heavy. You needed help.

There was barely any distance between the both of you. You could feel his breath, skin tingling from where he was holding you. 

You unconsciously move in, drifting towards the warmth he radiated. Your hands find a place on his sturdy chest, and you let his heartbeat tether you. 

His eyes close when you lean your forehead against his, forcing himself to control his breathing that was threatening to get away from him.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, forehead pressed against his, trying to make your peace with what he said. 

You want to kiss him, much stronger than the last time you had the same thought. Just to see what it’d be like. 

You instead pull away gently. Your hands still rest on his chest. You need time to figure out where your head's at.

“I trust you.” Is all you can say, not tearing your eyes away from him. 

He presses a kiss to your forehead, letting it linger there for a second and you revel in the flips your stomach does. “I trust you.”

But for now, maybe you can be content with where you are.

Next part

#sam x reader #sam wilson x reader #mcu fic #sam fic #sam wilson fic #sam wilson fluff #sam wilson angst #sam wilson series #falcon #falcon x reader #the falcon x reader #hitman!sam wilson #hitman!au #shut in fic #marvel fic #marvel #mcu #sam wilson #the falcon #sam wilson fanfiction #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #sam wilson imagine #sam imagine

[prettywordsyouleft]

To Be Continued - Part 4

Summary: As an author, you had created Brian Kang for your current trilogy series to represent the ultimate man that everyone would love, along with Charli Evers - your female protagonist. What you hadn’t expected was for him to find a way out of the story and begin shaping up your world instead

Pairing: Brian Kang x female writer (ft. Park Sungjin)

Genre: writer au / romance / fantasy

Warnings: fictional characters coming to life / a bit of angst here and there / Sungjin as a cop (or does that only affect me?) >_>

Word count: 2262

Preview | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | Epilogue

When you eventually came around again, you let out an immediate giggle when you found yourself on your living room’s couch, a pair of concerned eyes peering down at you. They widened with your sudden noise, blinking some to try and figure out why you had laughed.

“The hallucinations are continuing,” you mentioned with another laugh, this time sounding more desperate than the first.

“I’m really here, though.”

“Of course, you are.” Sitting up, you flinched when Brian’s hand reached out to help you do so, your focus snapping down to where he had touched you. It had felt normal, as if a human had supported you just now.

But this wasn’t humanly possible. No one ever in the history of mankind had written a novel and their characters came to life!

… Had they?

“Stop overthinking it,” Brian mentioned, observing you carefully.

“Do you read thoughts too?”

“No.”

“Then I truly did well to create you as someone who can pick up on most moods and emotions,” you replied, nodding again as you chuckled. You then clasped your face within your hands and whined loudly. “I’m going insane!”

“You will go mad if you keep this up,” Brian pointed out, and you peeked through your hands, stilling from your dramatic outburst. Staring at him, you lowered your barrier slowly and took him in.

There was no plausible explanation for how this had happened. And yet, you were there when it did. Nothing made sense, aside from how well your description had brought Brian to life. You marvelled the man over, instinctively reaching out to touch the mole on his neck. Directing your gaze up to his, Brian tipped his head with encouragement.

“Keep exploring,” he urged. His permission seemed to snap you out it, your hand returning to your lap hastily. Brian sighed. “This wasn’t how I imagined our first meeting.”

“No?” you asked, a little detachedly. Your mind was still whirling at a fast pace over all of this.

Could you have come across this man before in your life and subconsciously modelled your character off of him? That still didn’t explain how Brian had gotten into your home in the first place. You were grasping at straws here, trying to rationalise the situation.

Even if you were a dreamer by nature, this was something else.

“Should I explain how I came to exist?” Brian offered, and you nodded once before holding up your hand to stop him.

“Wait. I need to some supplies first!” you announced, getting up with a bit of a wobble and headed back to your office. Snatching your phone and a pen and paper off the desk, you dashed back into the living room, where you stopped suddenly, Brian staring back at you.

He’s still here, you thought to yourself in disbelief, walking at a much slower pace back to the couch Brian now sat cross-legged upon. You eyed him warily as you sat down.

Looking at your supplies, Brian smirked. “What are you planning to do?”

“Take some evidence,” you answered, quickly snapping a photo with your phone’s camera. Brian was disorientated, leaning away from you as you took another two.

“Can’t I at least prepare for the photos first?”

“Don’t go giving me any crap about needing to present your best side. The Brian Kang I created doesn’t have one. He looks good all over,” you muttered, opening the gallery and clicking through the photos you had taken. Even if the pose was awkward, he still looked handsome.

You laughed incredulously once more. He actually appeared in them. After inspecting them as well, Brian rolled his eyes. “I’m not a ghost. Of course, I’d appear in them.”

“Okay,” you said, opening up the voice recording app on your phone and placed the device between you both. Brian shot you a look of annoyance, and you challenged it back as you picked up your pen and paper. “Now, you can start.”

“I think I began to have conscious thoughts at the end of Encounter,” he admitted, and you scribbled down the title of your first novel with him, circling it for effect. You blinked away from your note-taking to look up at him.

“What do you mean? Conscious thoughts?”

“Well, you’re the writer, aren’t you?” Brian smiled, and you tried not to become too captivated by how perfect it was. “I’m not supposed to do anything unless you direct me to, right?”

“Sometimes the story seems to write itself, but I’m still in some control of it.”

He nodded. “The end of the story meant there was nothing else for me to do. Whilst I was frozen in place, my mind continued. Why did everything stop there? Who was I and why couldn’t I continue to live through all this?”

“You had thoughts like that then?” Brian nodded, and you let out a shaky breath. “Woah.”

“Then you must have started Captivated because, for some time, I was too busy fighting my way through to Charli. However, it would be during the scenes where I wasn’t present that I would find myself wondering why I was chasing her around. Just who was she to me? Even though I could move, and my reactions felt sincere, I couldn’t fathom why it had to be her. My life was already hard enough, and yet I was forever looking towards a girl who came from another world than I had.”

You smiled fondly. “Charli Evers is the daughter of a conglomerate in power of changing the nation. Meanwhile, you’re her bodyguard from a less than desirable background.”

“Let’s not visit my dark past right now, shall we?” Brian mentioned with some unease, and you nodded before you gasped. Brian frowned. “What?”

“You really do know the story!”

“When are you going to stop freaking out over my existence? Don’t you want the so-called proof?” he wondered with an impatient tone, causing you to snap your mouth shut. Brian sighed before continuing. “As I waited for scenes to change, I realised I couldn’t understand my world at all. Why did I have such a troubling back story? Surely, if I were real, no one would have faced what I had in one lifetime, let alone in ten years of my life.”

You didn’t quite meet his eyes then, looking at his shirt button that was undone to avoid the accusing tone that was laced within his latter sentences.

“And of all the men in the world, why was Charli so drawn to me?”

“That’s how star crossed lovers work, Brian,” you told him in a quiet voice. He merely scoffed and you gaped at him. “Look, I’m sorry that for you to be seen as a troubled protagonist I gave you some hard experiences but this is my story and it’s loved by thousands around the world.”

“Really?!” he asked as his eyes shot open, soon shaking his head. “The outside world is really strange.”

“You’re telling me,” you mumbled as you looked him up and down again. Brian cocked his head to the side, and you waved him off to carry on.

“It was then when I started to try and find ways not to do as I felt I had to. And there were a couple of times where I succeeded.”

“The gala!” you mentioned, and Brian smirked with acknowledgment. “I had such a hard time reshaping my plans because you stubbornly wouldn’t seem to get into the right mood!”

“That’s when I realised the people around me weren’t real.”

“They’re very much so real in that world!” you countered, and Brian shot you an unamused look. You glowered at him. “I haven’t worked hard all year as I have for you to sit here and say my characters aren’t realistic!”

“I didn’t mean they weren’t realistic, simply that they’re what you just called them, characters.”

“Be careful, you’re one too,” you grumbled, and Brian clapped his hands together. You gaped at him once again. “You do that when you want to keep Charli on topic! Are you treating me like her right now?!”

“You’re going off on a tangent. I offered you my side of things, and you’re too busy trying to defend people who don’t even know what they really are.”

“I once watched a TV series about characters in a comic book coming to their senses,” you murmured, turning pale. “How did that end again?”

“Y/N.” Glancing up at Brian, he shot you a comforting smile. “Please let me finish before you start trying to find ways to blow this out of proportion.”

“Because talking to you right now and being in your presence is completely logical.”

“I’ll ignore your sassy remark,” he warned and cleared his throat. “I started to grow aware of your presence. As if you were in the background of each moment pulling all the strings. I yearned to know more about you, and sometimes I would hear you talking to yourself about the scene you were struggling with.”

“You heard me?”

Brian nodded. “Quite often over the last couple of months, I believe it’s been.”

“How did you find your way to getting out here and helping me when I was sick?”

“Admittedly, I guessed there was at least a script somewhere controlling us. Then you got sick and left your computer on. It was the first time you had left the document open like that.”

“So let me guess. Whilst I slept, you found a way to find the script, realised there was another world outside of yours and reached out for it.”

“You called me out, Y/N.”

“Okay, now we’re really getting to the implausible here.”

Brian didn’t react to your disbelief. Instead, he stared at you in earnest. “Don’t you remember? You wished for me to help you take you to bed.”

“You… picked up on that?” you breathed out incredulously, and Brian couldn’t help but allow some amusement to curl up his lips further.

“Dream men are just that, Y/N. Brian Kang would never exist in this world,” he recited as if he had heard it in the past. Your hands rose to your mouth when you realised you had said that. Brian grinned. “Be careful about what you wish for, Y/N. Looks like I can exist in this world after all.”

You needed some fresh air, and after telling Brian so, you dashed out into your backyard, blinking rapidly when you realised how late into the night it was. Staring up into the inky world above, you tried to find some clarity within your situation.

Brian, in some form, seemed to exist. And he had not only looked after you when you were ill but had been messaging you somehow from within your computer. The document seemed to change because of his influence and all of this had started with your lack of energy to follow your usual pattern of shutting down the device at the end of the night.

Glancing back towards your house, you shivered. Had you left it open earlier, could there have been a chance Brian would have somehow come through the screen then?

“The concept of him coming out of such a small laptop is laughable,” you told the universe above, and yet it didn’t show you any signs to debunk the evidence you had either.

Although you were troubled and had so many more questions for the man inside your home, there was a sense of comfort that came the longer you spent your time with him. You had done so for countless months so far as his writer, and after the initial shock of the situation, you realised he felt like a home to you.

You then gasped noisily. Could this have happened with Jinyoung in Destined too, had you let it? Were all your characters out there holding different truths than the ones you had given them or was Brian the only one?!

Marching back inside, you walked into your office and opened up the first Destined document. And then you raised your hands to the heavens and nodded firmly. “Come out, Park Jinyoung!”

“What on earth are you doing?” a voice called from the doorframe, and you squealed with fright, stumbling over your desk chair and reached out for the table to save yourself. Brian’s hands quickly encircled your waist and pulled you upright, breathing heavily after moving to your side so fast to save you.

Staring up at the man who held you, you searched his face for signs of this being a trap. Perhaps the warning bells were muted in your mind the longer you appreciated Brian. He truly was the biggest self-indulgence you had succumbed to. And as you took him in for the umpteenth time tonight, you realised he was incredibly dangerous for you.

There was a reason you had dreamed him into existence in the first place. He was the person you had wanted to fill your world. And now that he was here, physically here, and holding you, some of the parts in his story didn’t need to add up anymore.

“You okay, Y/N?”

“You saved me,” you spoke, and Brian nodded.

“I wouldn’t let you fall if I could stop it,” he told you, his lips spreading out into the most beautiful smile you had ever witnessed in your life before.

You knew in that moment that you would blur every line there was to make sure Brian Kang didn’t go back to wherever he had come from.

You wanted him to hold you like this forever.

_________________

Part 5

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#kwritersworldnet #young k #young k fiction #young k fanfic #young k fluff #young k romance #young k au #day6 #day6 fiction #day6 fanfic #day6 fluff #day6 romance #day6 au #pwyl; to be continued #kpop fiction #kpop fanfic #kpop fluff #kpop romance

[fuckyeahharryhart]

KINGSMAN: THE GOLDEN CIRCLE, IN MY AU, HARRY HART WOULD STILL BE A BADASS WHEN THEY FIND OUT HE’S ALIVE. HE’S JUST A BAD ASS WITH NO MEMORY

IN MY ALTERNATE UNIVERSE - this is what happened when they found Harry. And Roxy is alive, cause “what the hell?” And basically is an excuse for me to thirst on Colin Firth as Harry Hart, who will always be a badass gentleman spy, memory or no.

Merlin, Eggsy and Roxy survived the explosions that destroyed Kingsman. Following the clues from their doomsday protocol, the three of them traveled to Kentucky to Statesman HQ.

They are confronted by Agent Tequila where they try to explain what they are doing there. Tequila does not believe them. He disarms and disables them. The scene begins in Statesman underground holding room. Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin wake up to find that they are bound and restrained.

(apologies in advance for grammar, spelling, format. First draft, secondish draft. Just did one quick read-through and fixed most of the glaring errors.

PS I kinda nerded out with the amnesia and weapons research) 

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

The room remained vague and shadowy. Eggsy fought against a heaviness that kept his eyes closed. He tried again to blink them open. No such luck. They were uncooperative. Moving on. Assessing what little he could, he tested the restraints that bound him to a cold metal chair both at the wrists and ankles. Zip ties. Cheap and easy, but harder to release from than traditional handcuffs. He tried anyway. And then a second time, only with more force. Nothing. He willed himself to relax. If he couldn’t get free with brute force, it was time to get creative. Switch to strategy and problem solving. At least try to figure out what the hell was going on and why a souped up cowboy was holding them hostage. 

His training, his instincts wanted to kick in regardless of the fact that he was restrained. He ran through his checklist anyway. Scan and clear the room. Assess the threat. Spot entrances and exits. Locate the nearest weapon. It didn’t necessarily need to be a gun. Any object that could possibly disable an enemy would suffice.

It was infuriating that he was unable to proceed with his training. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It was a moot point anyway, nothing of him seemed to be responding to his commands. His surroundings remained a bleary haze. His brain still foggy, was trying to catch up.

The renegade cowboy that had disarmed and disabled Eggsy, Roxy and Merlin, was waiting rather patiently for them to wake up. That is, until the point he was no longer patient and decided to empty a bottle of perfectly good whiskey on Eggsy and Merlin. As he considered himself a gentleman, he spared Roxy.

 It was unsettling how he took the three of them down so easily. Eggsy reasoned that they certainly weren’t at their best. Shit had gone down in the last 24 hours and they were damn tired.

Eggsy and Merlin sputtered in protest. 

“So good of you to join us.” The cowboy’s tone was relaxed and untroubled.

He took a casual stance and leaned up against the wall like he was just waiting for something interesting to happen.

His head cocked to the right. “Now where was I?”

 Nodding to himself, “Oh yeah”, he said, as if he just remembered something fascinating. His fingers snapped together with a sharp click. “You were just about to tell me who ya’ll were and how the hell you found us.” He mentioned this as if he were waiting for them to describe what they ate for breakfast and whether or not they had enjoyed it.

The disparity between his gregarious tone, his friendly manner, and the slightly hostile glint in his eyes was disconcerting.

He crossed his legs on the other side and tipped his head to the left.

“Anytime ya’ll are ready to start talkin’, Im all ears.”

They had already tried to explain what happened to their headquarters. Well, their tailor shop backstop. How likely was it that generations of tailors had passed down a secret doomsday protocol for survivors in case of complete destruction? Of their tailor shop? Eggsy had to admit, as a story, it positively wreaked implausibility. But it was true, aside from replacing their secret intelligence agency with a bespoke suit business. 

From the cowboys perspective, it would seem kind of insulting that they expected the him to buy their story. Actually, It would seem pretty insulting to expect anyone with the most basic cognitive skills believe it. The problem was that, as ridiculous as story was, it was, in fact, the truth.

Eggsy didn’t have any more to say. Roxy, who would probably take him down if given half the chance, wisely remained quiet. Merlin’s furrowed brow meant that he most likely had a bloody lot to say, but nothing that would improve their situation. 

They had reached an impasse. 

The cowboy regarded them thoughtfully from under his Stetson, wide brimmed hat. 

“We don’t have folks from your neck of the woods in these parts that often.” His lips pursed in thought.

“I would reckon once every year or so, some might pass through here that sound like y’all. Why,” nodding his head confirming his own information. “I think it was just about a year ago, we had someone drop in unexpectedly.” 

He gazed up and to the right, as if recalling a memory. Maybe y’ll know him.” He said, his eyes falling back on them.

Merlin. “I highly doubt that.”

The cowboy drew back slightly, irked by their obstinance. These brits were stubborn as all get out. Did they seriously expect him to believe their doomsday protocol story? What was this? Were they on some kind of scavenger hunt?

“I just find it awfully convenient that you just “happened” to find this bottle of whiskey with our name on it. Right after your entire “shop” exploded with ALL it’s employees and everyone who worked there. Every single person who knows you, gone with it. That would be mighty upsettin’ if I was in ya’lls shoes.” He tried on a little sympathy for size. Nope, didn’t fit. He continued with his slight undertone of sarcasm. 

 “Can’t even make a call to see if anyone can vouch for y’alls.” Such a shame, he thought. Alrightly, he’d just keep talkin’ at ‘em until one of them slipped up or said something interesting.

He could talk into the night for all he cared. “Not even anythin’ left to take with you. Except a couple of watches that can unlock a biometric security system.” Now this was legitimately irritating. 

“Why would some little ole tailors shop need to have a biometric security system? I mean, ya’ll look mighty fine in them suits and spectacles, but sorry to say, not that fine.”

He used this opportunity to break out one of his favourite southern idioms. “You see, that dog don’t hunt.” He amused himself.

“Look.” Said the Scotsman. “We have no idea what you are talking about. The only reason we are here is because we found one of your bottles.” 

He nodded his head in understanding, before pressing his lips together, this time doubtfully twisting them to the side.

“See, here’s the thing. Lots and lots of folks have our bottles. Ain’t none of them ever broken into our maximum security “warehouse” before.”

“You’re looking for the Brit, ain’t ya? “His eyes narrowed. “And now why would that be?”

Merlin’s brow furrowed even deeper. “We still don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was reaching the far ends of his exasperation. “We do not know anyone here. Quite sorry to say, but we have never heard of Statesmen before. In our part of the world, we prefer a single malt scotch. No offence.”

“None taken.” He said pleasantly.

The cowboy pushed himself off the wall.

“Well,” he huffed, “It seems we’re at a stalemate.”

The cowboy continued to study them as he spoke.

“Ya’ll telling’ me a story you say is the truth.”

He shook his head in disappointment, feigning sadness. “And I just don’t believe ya. Now we could go round n round like this until we’re all blue in the face. But that sounds like a waste of time to me.”

“If we ain’t getting anywhere like this, might be time to switch things up a bit?”

“Ya’ll say you don’t know the Brit. But I’m thinkin’ y’all should talk to him. Might be able to make some sense out of what’s comin’ out of your mouth ‘cause I just don’t get it.”

Silence from the three of them. Well, weren’t they a stubborn bunch. 

The man sighed dramatically and shrugged his wide shoulders. 

“Well, it appears you wont be cooperatin’ with me. I think it’s about time ya’ll talk to someone else cause I sure aint getting’ nowhere with ya. But I don’t know if you’re gonna wanna talk to him.”  

He regarded them sympathetically. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be on the other side of that table when he’s the one asking questions. Ya’ll might be wish’n to see my pretty face again.”

Three almost identically frustrated faces looked back at him.

“Word is round here, don’t matter what you won’t say to me.” 

He started ambling across in front of them, from wall to wall in slow, measured steps. 

“What matters is what y’all gonna to say to HIM.” He stopped mid-stride, turned toward them. 

“Now, I’ve seen him doin’ his thing, right?  Believe me, he’ll have ya talkin’ in ways you can’t even imagine.” He continued along his thoughtful line, turning away from them.

He began to let the heel of his boots scuff the floor with every step. “You wont even be able to shut up, ya’ll talk so much.” He spoke over his shoulder. “ Tellin’ him things you ain’t even tell your mama.”

No response from the three Kingsman.

He turned toward Roxy. “My apologies little lady, but here at Statesman?  Guys and gals? We’re all on equal footing.” He had the gall to wink at her. “No matter what our name says.” 

He hooked his thumbs under this belt and hitched the whole get up, flask holster and all, up his non existent hips. 

“I hate to see a pretty miss like you have to go down with the likes of them.” He tilted his head in the direction of Merlin and Eggsy. “But, at Statesman, no special treatment for the fillies.”

Roxy proceeded to murder him with her eyes.

Absurdly, he decided it was a good and proper time to dial up the charm.  “Say, you don’t wanna tell me what you and your boys were up to here? I’m pretty sure you’re the one keeping these fellas in line.”

Her eyes were wide and fierce. It turned out that Roxy no longer needed to blink. 

“That’s quite a look you’re thrown’ at me.” The cowboy smirked.

“Well, I’m really sorry. I apologise for this, but ya’ll don’t give me no other choice.” 

He turned toward the side and pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses from his shirt pocket. The lenses were shaded to a dusky gold. He unfolded them, put them on and tapped the side of the lens. 

“Ya there?” He spoke into the air.

Evidently the glasses were a communications device and he received an answer in return. He nodded to himself. “Yep, affirmative.” 

There was another brief pause as he listened to the person on the other side. “Roger that.” He turned off the communication by tapping the side of the lens a second time. 

He looked at them almost sympathetically. “It looks we ARE gonna find out what happens when we change things up a bit.”

He walked over to the frosted panel window and flipped a switch.

Roxy, Merlin and Eggsy were momentary blinded by a brilliant white light. So bright and unexpected that they had to turn away. They squinted against the flare as coloured spots tripped behind their eyelids. They continued to blink until their eyes adjusted to the intensity of the new light. 

What they saw as the opacity of the glass dissolved… Well, to say they were ill prepared would be the understatement to understate all statements.

It couldn’t be.

It was utterly impossible.

But there he was. 

Outlined by a dazzling white light. 

Unmistakable.

It was Harry Hart.

—

The agents tried to gather their collective wits like they were trying to herd cats. It was nearly impossible. Harry disappeared from view. Sharp, tell tale footsteps could be heard walking down the short distance from the viewing area to their holding room. 

Between the three of them, none had taken a single breath from the moment Harry Hart appeared behind the glass.

For Eggsy, a white hot wave surged through his body and seared him from his finger tips to his toes. He could even hear the heat ringing in his ears. It was a high pitched whine that reverberated from one side of his head to the other. He had no control over his physical response. Any authority that he may have had, dissipated with the frosted glass. Apparently, his body knew exactly what to do, because it was doing its own thing, without any input from him. He set his thoughts aside and let his body do whatever it felt the need to. He was fairly certain he was exhibiting the physical signs of shock. He felt pale, his hands were damp and clammy. He felt weirdly mortified. He might as well be naked, for he felt exposed to the deepest, most secret recesses of his soul. Places that had no business being brought to light. 

He felt laughter bubble up through watery eyes he didn’t even know if he could call tears. For joy? Sheer bewilderment? Whatever the reason, his eyes were leaking. The buzzing in his ears wouldn’t stop and he felt sure he was about to pass out. He wanted to drop his head between his legs, but he didn’t dare pull his gaze away from the door he knew Harry Hart would enter from. He didn’t dare blink. Let alone look away. 

His ears burned, his cheeks flamed red and splotchy. It was as if he was caught off guard doing the most embarrassing thing he could think of, just times a billion and witnessed by everyone from his mum to his kindergarten teacher, not to mention every famous person that he had a crush on or looked up to and the whole mortifying episode was being televised live around the world. 

Whatever he was experiencing, it was nearly unbearable. Like suffocating and hyperventilating at the same time. Was that even possible? His heart had either stopped or was beating so rapidly that it felt as if it was hardly beating at all. Which seemed feasible as most of his blood had pooled in his cheeks and the tops of his ears. Surely, there was none flowing to his brain. It had signed out for the moment. It certainly wasn’t sticking around to see what was coming next. 

 He tried to arrange his face into the shape he thought would be appropriate for when his mentor, who he saw get shot point blank in the face, a man who died over a year ago, who he had spent what felt like a lifetime grieving, materialise as an interrogator for a covert cowboy secret agency in Kentucky. He couldn’t imagine what an acceptable face would look like in that situation, so he assumed that his face had no expression at all. It was the best he could do. 

He didn’t even posses the wherewithal to see how his partners where faring. He hoped that they were in a more presentable state. He moved his mouth to form words, but nothing came out. He tried clearing his throat, but it was dry and papery. Apparently, whatever autonomous system that controlled his salivary glands also decided that this whole situation was bullshit and decided to check out, too.

The track of the footsteps, even now so familiar, paused at the door. The handle turned with a weighty click. 

He didn’t have the brain capacity to even imagine what would happen next.

The only thing in his head were three letters. And they weren’t  ABC. 

They were W. T. F.

The door opened. 

They saw the man who had once been the foundation of their agency. 

The man who had once been its living and breathing heart and soul. 

How long had it been since he last thought of Harry Hart? After the initial grief, the denial, the anger, and finally, the acceptance, the loss became a dull ache.  Though tolerable, it never went away. They never found his body, but he didn’t have hope that Harry would ever return. He saw the shot that took his life. Even the best agent had no way of possibly surviving a point blank shot to the face. Harry fell where he had once stood. He didn’t get back up. And like that, Harry Hart was gone.

In the aftermath of V-day, Eggsy and the others didn’t have a chance to even stop and think about what happened to Harry, let alone process the loss. That came after. In the moments when time slowed down, things got quiet, and they no longer had the urgency of missions to distract them from the loss or to use as a vehicle for their anger and rage at the unfairness of it all.  

Eggy’s pain was not only due to the loss of his mentor, but also from the fact that he never got to tell the man just how important he was to him. Their final conversation repeated in his head, over and over, on endless loop. The last words that he had exchanged with Harry were harsh and accusatory. How much he wished that that conversation had not been their last. What wouldn’t he give to say the rest of the words that were caught in his throat. To finally release them. To say he was sorry. But the chance never came and the words clung to him, never to be spoken.

A tall man in a dark pinstripe suit entered the room.

At first glimpse, he was their Harry Hart. As perfect as they imagined and just as they all remembered him. Only on closer inspection did they notice small, but significant details that would indicate otherwise.

He was wearing what looked like the exact same suit he “died” in. But this one didn’t show any of the wear and damage that was sure to have happened in that final, brutal rampage. Either Statesman had an excellent tailor repair the original suit, or more likely, Harry had his suit replicated. 

The details were exacting as they had always been. The tie with the Windsor knot. The pristine white spread collar and crisp pocket square. French cuffs that were still held by the Kingsman cuff links. 

His standard horn rimmed communication glasses had been modified. The left lens was now shaded a solid black. There was an additional piece that covered his peripheral vision from the edge of the lens to the end of the arm on his left side.

How was it possible that he stood before them, as handsome and regal as ever? Hell, the man could even make a blacked out eye look distinguished. It added to his air of gravitas.

A curious pair of black cowboy boots with elaborate stitching, stood out from below the mid-break of his trousers. The footsteps they heard in the hallway didn’t come from his standard oxfords.

Neither did they see the familiar Kingsman standard issue pistol he would always pack without fail. In his right hand, held down by his side, he toted a nickel plated Colt Single Action Army revolver modified with a double barrel. He carried it by its smooth, wooden grip.

But he did walk with the same measured strides, familiar in pace and sound. Harry took his place in front of them as the cowboy found a space off to the side. 

They wore their incredulity in silence.  Words were insignificant compared to this impossible occasion. Words that would adequately express their turmoil did not exist. Merlin looked like he was trying to deconstruct a complex algorithm in his head. Roxy looked, he imagined bizarrely, like she had just been denied an orgasm. Where the hell did that come from? Eggsy fairly certain he looked like a bloody idiot.

And so they waited. 

Familiar, golden brown eyes, well, eye now, gazed over them. Making and then holding eye contact with each of them in the way they had always remembered he would when he required their full attention.

They searched his eyes and face for recognition. To see any kind of dawning realization that he knew who they were. Merely seeing Harry, alive and mostly whole, was something that was unfathomable to them. 

Finally, Harry spoke.

The vibration of his voice was able to resonate through their shocked and dampened senses. It was a deep and calming sound. Smooth, measured tones with an aristocratic accent that clipped his words. Vibrant. It was a voice that was warm, safe and familiar. It was a voice that sounded like home.

What was completely baffling were the words that beautiful voice said. 

“Please excuse my dreadful manners. But I don’t believe we have properly met.”

They turned and glanced at each other in confusion. What the hell? Surely there had to be some part of Harry that recognized them. At least Merlin, with whom he shared a history going back over twenty years. 

“Harry. It’s us.” Merlin implored. “We’re not undercover. Right now, we’re not anything. That’s why we came here.” 

“Harry.” Merlin’s voice was touched with sorrow. “Kingsman is gone.”

Harry’s face remained impassive. The spark of recognition remained unfired. There was no hint of softening, no warmth, no glint that told them, “Not to worry. Everything is under control.”  

Harry confirmed. “Yes, I had the pleasure of hearing your story.” He leaned back against the wall and took a casual stance. Crossing his legs in front of him much like Tequila did.  He placed a hand in a pocket. The other gripped the Colt lightly.

“It’s quite interesting.” He looked thoughtful. “And particularly unfortunate that this Kingsman Tailoring “Agency” that you speak of, was completely and utterly destroyed. How unfortunate that the three of you happen to be the only survivors.” 

Time paused with him as he contemplated this thought for awhile.

“It would seem rather convenient, on the other hand, for that gives us absolutely no way to possibly verify your doomsday scenario.” 

The disappointment on his face hit them with a guilt that was worse than his impassivity. 

“And why, all of a sudden, after a year, would not only one, but three mysterious Brits arrive here at Statesman, of all the places in the world, for no other reason than a bottle telling them to.” 

Beseechingly, Eggsy replied. “Harry, we don’t understand what’s happening. We thought that you had died when Valentine shot you outside the church.”

Harry’s face suddenly hardened. Slowly he pulled himself up to his full height.

“How could you possibly know that?” The air around them became sharp with tension. 

How did they end up on the wrong side of the interrogation table? They had never seen Harry from this perspective. But they had witnessed him work targets before. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

As Harry continued, his voice remained very calm and very steady. 

“No one. Pardon me. I should clarify. No one alive except Statesman has that knowledge. Not even I had that knowledge in the beginning.”

Instantly, it was crucial that no one speak out of turn. Harry’s voice had taken on a tone that was flat and affectless.  They had rarely heard it before, but they knew it was dangerous to be on the receiving end of that dull and indifferent voice. 

Harry was walking his edge. And Harry on the edge was not someone you wanted to push. To anyone else, he would have appeared unchanged. But he had the sharp glint in his eye, the set to his jaw, and the steely note to his voice that betrayed he was very, very angry. They only knew this because of their history with him. It was critical to tread very lightly. 

Eggsy words were dressed with caution. 

“Harry, you were at the church, “he emphasised, “on behalf of Kingsman.” He carefully walked through a minefield of words, wary of any misstep that would trigger Harry’s anger in their direction.

“We knew that Richmond Valentine was up to no good. You were assigned the mission to find out exactly what he was planning. You flew to Kentucky. Valentine was testing his SIM card transmitter on the people in the church. You were there as well. Even though you didn’t have a SIM card, the transmission was strong enough to affect everyone, whether they had a SIM card or not.”

 “Merlin and I were on the communication feed. We saw everything…. You were affected by the sound waves, too… You had no control…” He wasn’t sure how to continue, but he definitely didn’t want to mention the number of people Harry had killed.

Merlin spoke on his behalf. “Eggsy’s right. We saw you confront Valentine. We saw him shoot you in the head. We thought that you had died. The bullet destroyed the communication feed or else it would have transmitted…” he paused. “Proof of life, or confirmation of death.” 

Harry reflected. “Yes, I did almost die on that day.”

Eggsy and Merlin flinched.

“It was only through, whatever would like to call it, luck, perhaps fate. Regardless, it was Statesman that located me. They were able to save my life. I owe them. I am a man who honors his debts.”

The room prickled with silence. They dared not say more until they were able to see more of the landscape they were trying to traverse. It was littered with threats.

Harry, now pacing in slow, steady strides, continued. “With all the resources you say this Kingsman agency had, how surprising that it had to be strangers that came to my aid. Otherwise,” he recalled, “I would be, quite dead.” 

The three of them realised they were on eggshells atop a minefield. Never before had they been confronted by Harry in this manner. Never before had they even witnessed Harry in this state. They were uncertain of what to do when faced with this degree of suspicion and mistrust from a man, who in the past, would have given his life to save any of theirs.

When no one spoke, he began to ruminate. “At Statesman, we knew that it was Richmond Valentine who shot me. Confirmed by two of their agents.” He turned back toward them. “Though the question of why still remained unsolved.”

Coming closer. “But you three, now, are here with that answer,” He paused in-between his points for effect. 

“But you are here, completely by chance.” pause 

“Only because of a doomsday protocol scenario.” pause 

“A scenario that led you to Statesman.” pause 

“And I just happen to be here as well.” pause  

“Do you know what the odds are of that happening?” pause  

“Rather extraordinary, don’t you think?” pause  

“I must say, you are quite the interesting trio. Unassuming.  Not quite what one would expect for this sort of operation.  Perhaps that is the point. Disarm me with your improbability, with your accents, so familiar to my own. Here to deliver stories of how I was part of an organization that no longer exists. And you are the only other individuals who know what occurred the day I was shot.” He stopped in front on them. He turned to face them and drew tall once more.

Looking at each other was a dare none of them were willing to take. They knew that the most important thing at that moment was to maintain eye contact with Harry anytime he looked in their direction. If they couldn’t offer him any answers, at least they could show him that they had nothing to hide. Now was not the time to look or act guilty.

No matter how many tactics he used, regardless of how hard he pushed them, their story would be the same because they had no other story. Was there no memory of Kingsman at all? What about Harry’s moral code, that Kingsman only risked a life to save a life. Was that a credo he still followed? The did not know what to expect.

“Regardless. Questions for another time I suppose.” He waved his hand as if brushing them away.

“The pressing issue still remains.” He was firm and unyielding. “Who are you and how did you find us.”

 What could they possibly say at this point? They remained silent.

“We welcome our visitors and our guests. However, we do not take kindly to trespassers. You say you have nothing to protect, but your honor. If the three of you are the only survivors of your organization and you are as close as you say, I would assume that you would, at the very least, protect a third of what remains of your agency.

Eggsy suddenly found himself on the business end of a Colt Single Action Army revolver. 

Staring down the barrel of the gun, he felt drunk, off balance, like he had fallen into an alternate universe. Where the laws of physics no longer applied. 

“Harry, it’s me.”  The only thing he could think of that could reach Harry was the guilt he had carried with him for over 17 years. The guilt that made him reach out to Eggsy in the first place. 

With self-possession he did not have, he composed himself as well as he could while being threatened by the mentor he once thought was dead.   

“My father saved your life.” He spoke quietly and deliberately and without hesitation.  “But you had made a mistake that cost him his. You were trying to repay him by helping me find purpose, to do something good with my life. You recruited me to Kingsman. You changed everything for me.” 

The look Harry returned for these words was almost kindly. 

“I’ll give you the following three seconds to prove that to me.”

Fuck. Eggsy was drawing a blank.

He could hear Roxy and Merlin, as if they were underwater yelling to Harry anything they could to make him stop.  

What felt like a lifetime later, the door burst open. Apparently, he had lost the ability to count, because that brief passage of time felt like much longer than three seconds. 

“Stop!” a woman yelled urgently. She tossed Harry a black umbrella. He caught it deftly with one hand.

“Their story checks out.” She held her palms out toward Harry. Please stop.

“I checked our doomsday scenario locker.” She explained. “Only to be opened in the case of a catastrophic event that cripples the agency to the point where we cannot rebuild on our own. It was established by a network of international intelligence agencies, forged when they first began. Since autonomy was the goal for each agency, once the protocol was put into place, no agency was to uncover it unless absolutely necessary.” 

“Take a look.” She nodded to the umbrella in his hand. “Kingsman. It has our logo on it.”

Harry paused to inspect the handle. Sure enough, the Statesman logo replaced the “s” in Kingsman.

He handled the umbrella in a way that seemed familiar to him. It almost seemed like he was looking for other recognisable features. Eggsy has seen plenty of Harry handling the umbrella like it was an extension of himself. He had saved Eggy’s life with it. It looked so natural in his hands. Like it completed the final picture of their Harry Hart and he was hopeful that this might be the final piece of the puzzle.  

Harry looked at the umbrella thoughtfully. It was difficult to read his face if he didn’t want it to be read. After a pause, he tossed it lightly back to Ginger. 

“Not good enough.” The gun swung back toward Eggsy.

They froze, unable to move, speak or even breathe. They were at a loss, nothing in their training prepared them for this. Roxy and Merlin could only watch helplessly as Harry cocked the revolver at Eggsy. Was it a live round? Or was it blank?

What kind of FU world would allow something like this to happen? Eggsy thought. He grasped for any hope, any last play that he could make, but the only thing within his reach was empty space. It simply slid through his fingers, without purchase, without substance. There was nothing that he could hold on to.

BUT… his eyes darted towards Harry’s right hand. The gun in his face was blocking his view… Fuck it. He squeezed eyes shut as he opened his mouth. The words ran together and toppled over each other as they spilled out without pause. 

“you wear a gold signet ring on your right little finger gentleman are traditionally supposed to wear the ring on the left hand but you wear yours on your right because a Kingsman always wears it on whatever hand happens to be dominant and you are right handed”

Nothing happened. And it was quiet.

Cautiously, Eggy peered from one eye. He wasn’t dead. He opened the other eye.

Harry regarded him from along the barrel of the revolver. Eggsy flinched away from its deadly mouth.

Harry deliberated. His mind took a step back and a step to the side. He looked at the situation from a different perspective. Because he was wearing a signet ring on his right hand, not on his left, as was the gentlemen’s  tradition. He was wearing it when he was shot. He could not recall where the ring came from, or its significance. Researching the insignia came up with no leads. But he continued to wear the ring, for no other reason than it felt right to him. Like he insisted on wearing his suit, rather than Statesman’s tie and jacket. 

His eyes let go of some of the hardness. Eggsy hoped that he saw a little softening at the edges. 

Harry’s voice, so familiar it made his heart hurt. Not accusatory, but with interest, he asked, “How do you know that?” 

Eggsy, with great effort willed his gaze to leave the barrel of the gun and meet the face that had once meant so much to him. He caught Harry’s eyes and didn’t flinch.

He took a deep breath. “I know,” he said with a calmness and a clarity he did not feel, “because I’m wearing one, too.”

Harry, without breaking eye contact, nodded to Ginger. She hurried to Eggsy’s side. After a quick glance, she confirmed, indeed, he was wearing a signet ring exactly like Harry’s.

Harry lowered his gun. There were three consecutive sighs of relief.

“My apologies.” He said as he holstered his weapon.

“It seems as if we have much to discuss.”

———

They found themselves in a massive great room at Statesman HQ, the top floor of a huge structure the shape of the Statesman signature whiskey bottle. Floor to ceiling windows circled the entire room, providing a 360 degree view of the rolling hills of Kentucky from every vantage point.

The centrepiece of the space was a leviathan of a conference table. Elaborately carved, solid hard wood. The trees that created that table must have had lived for years to grow to such a substantial size.  It had space to sit 12, but only few of the spots were occupied.

One of which by a larger than life, genial, vintage cowboy of a man. A little flashy, a little ostentatious, more than a little gregarious, he was the head of the Statesman outfit. With a place at the head of the table, he leaned back in his plush armchair with aplomb. He introduced himself as “Champagne” or Champ as he was known affectionately by his agents.

Roxy wasn’t surprised that, aside from Ginger Ale, she was the only female present. Hell, Ginger was the only other female that she had seen since they had entered Statesman HQ. Well, technically ‘broke in’, but still. They had an invitation, even if it was only in the shape of a whiskey bottle. A bottle that they had emptied while wallowing in self pity. Even Merlin was a bit maudlin, at one point, sobbing into his whiskey and singing Country Roads a little off key. Roxy had side-eyed him until Eggsy spotted the secret message hidden behind the label. She wondered they they had made the clue unnoticeable until the bottle was emptied. They could have quite possibly missed the hint. Being under the influence of, admittedly, very smooth whiskey did not enhance ones ability to spot decades old subtext on the back of whiskey labels. Whose clever idea had that been? 

Once again, she found herself in the odd situation where she wanted to be taken seriously as an agent, but Agent Tequila’s insistence on calling her sweetheart, miss, darling, filly of all things didn’t give her much confidence that Statesman would be any different from the old boys club that was Kingsman.

Even back at HQ, she was often, dear, dearest, or darling. The only person that she tolerated those endearments from where Eggsy, who used them in jest, and surprisingly Harry Hart. But Galahad, and Galahad Sr. calling her dear was much different than a two-bit, over the top, slick cowboy secret agent she had just met calling her something as intimate as “darling”. 

Would it kill him to call her Lancelot? It miffed her that he used Eggsy’s handle and not hers. Looking at the head of their organisation, she didn’t expect him to be much different. 

She took a seat the near end of the table, between Eggsy and Merlin. Agent Tequila walked in with Ginger, followed by Harry. She was surprised when he continued past them and walked around the head of the table to the other side, the Statesman side, and took a seat next to Ginger. He pulled out his chair, as smooth and as graceful as he sat thousands of times at the head of the Kingsman table. Even unbuttoning the last button of his suit so it wouldn’t crease and smoothing the back of his jacket before he leaned into his chair. The crossed legs, the hands folded on the knee. The authoritative, yet relaxed posture. It was all so familiar. What she couldn’t reconcile was the inscrutable, impenetrable expression that fell over his face every time he glanced in their direction. There was no warmth, no familiarity, no flicker of understanding. It made his face look unfamiliar and she did not like it one bit. 

To add insult to injury, Ginger had leaned over and whispered something in his direction. The small hint of a ‘not quite smile’ that pressed his lips together, his mouth just barely turned up at the corners, meant that she had shared an observation that confirmed something in his mind in a bemused sort of way. It was the look Harry had once made, when inquired about Eggsy’s tardiness, she revealed that he was running late because it was JB’s birthday party later and he wanted to get the dog “pupcakes” to celebrate. The memory tugged at her heart.

She didn’t turn her head to see how Eggsy was faring, but she could almost feel his dejection. She hoped it wasn’t so obvious on his face. Sometimes he was a little too earnest for his own good. Not that her other side was an improvement. Merlin was seated directly across from Harry. Only a distance of several feet, but it might as well have been lengths of the world for as distant Harry was from them. The furrow between the Scotsman’s brows had appeared the moment they discovered Harry alive. It took up residence on his face. Harry Hart, the man who was the only person close enough for Merlin to consider a friend, was now a mystery to him. 

The loss, between Eggsy and Merlin, was a cold empty space that Roxy had the unfortunate pleasure to be seated between. She was determined to warm up whatever mood vacuum that had sucked her in. Or at least not make it any worse.             

 And why did she always have to be the mediator? The men had elected Roxy as their spokesperson as neither of them thought that they would be able to speak without laughing, crying, shouting or hitting something. Predictably, she found herself the voice of reason. To be fair, she WAS the one with the least emotional involvement. Not that she hadn’t adored and respected Harry Hart, like everyone that worked under his guidance, but she had to admit, Merlin and Eggsy must be twice as confused and devastated by the recent turn of events. She mentally steeled herself against any additional revelations that might be thrown their way. But at this point, if there was something that could top this most recent turn of events, they might as well just blow up this joint and let it all burn down, too.

After everyone had settled in, and to her amusement, a pour of whiskey was set in front of each of them. She decided to get this “rodeo” started. She nodded in Champs direction. He tipped his chin, tapped his glass with his pen to get everyone’s attention and announced the opening of the meeting. All the Statesman and Harry, emptied their glasses. From her peripheral she saw Merlin and Eggsy follow suit without hesitation. Did all agencies revolve around the consumption of alcohol? She had already developed quite a tolerance from her brief stint at Kingsman so far. Well, if it brought these two agencies on familiar ground, who was she to argue? She tipped her glass back. And the welcomed the warmth after the initial burn, though still much smoother than could be expected. She appreciated the added touch of liquid courage. She cleared her throat. 

“We find ourselves here, under what we,” she gestured to herself and her colleagues, “believed to be the most difficult of circumstances. Only to be faced with another impossible situation. As you can imagine, the revelation that Harry Hart, our Sr. Agent Galahad,” she nodded in his direction, “who we believed had been killed over a year ago by Richmond Valentine, that he is still alive, has been shocking for us.”

In Harry’s direction, she continued, addressing him directly. “Harry. If we had believed there to be even the most infinitesimal chance that you could have survived Valentine’s bullet, we would have not hesitated to garner all the forces of Kingsman to find you and bring you back.”

Harry, respectfully listened to Lancelot, attentive, but without revealing anything aside from simple interest.

She faltered a little under his gaze. And she, too, wished for that little wink, the small tilt of his chin that would encourage her to continue. Just as he first did when she joined Kingsman, nervous over her first debriefing. There was no comfort to be found in his direction. She took a deep breath and continued. 

“Both Eggsy - our current Galahad - and Merlin witnessed the events of what we thought was your death.” She forced herself to face him, eye to eye, without hesitation. After all that he had sacrificed for them, it was the least she could offer him.

Her voice was clear and firm, her words meticulously thought out. “They saw you get shot, point blank, in the face, by no more than a distance of 10 feet, by a 9mm semi-automatic Heckler and Koch P30. The bullet destroyed the communication transmission via the left lens.”

Both Eggsy and Merlin were looking down. Both remembering all too clearly the events from that day. The details were painful for them to hear, especially when the man who they thought had died, was in fact, sitting across the table. Even though they had every right to call time of death, they couldn’t help but feel they had left him behind. 

Roxy continued. “Merlin, our communications and technology strategist and Galahad, who was at the time, your protege, had witnessed all the events up to the point the bullet severed the transmission. We could only deduce, at that point, that a bullet of that caliber, from that distance, would have shattered the lens.” She took a deep breath, “and continued through the left eye and exited the back of the head. Resulting in immediate death.” 

She could sense Eggsy flinch by her side. He had seen the whole thing far too clearly. 

“As much as we wanted to, we were unable to collect the body at the time of death. Due to unforeseen circumstances regarding treachery within the highest ranks of our agency, Merlin, Eggsy and I, had to straight away address both the source of our internal corruption and abort the plans initiated by Richmond Valentine. We were successful in both, but not in time to prevent casualties, both enemy and civilian.”

In speaking so intimately regarding what they thought was his death, she decided to switch identifiers from “the” to “your”. The man was sitting right in front of her. She spoke with a new earnest note in her voice. Rather than distancing herself from her words, she decided to speak from the place that had felt the same grief and loss as Eggsy and Merlin.

Harry’s eyes took on a different note as he heard the emotion in Roxy’s voice. 

“In the immediate aftermath of V-day, after the initial threat was neutralised, we flew to the States in an attempt to find you, identify you, and bring you home for proper internment, but we were unable to locate your body. We tried over weeks, through every channel, every resource, we followed every lead, with no success. We didn’t hope to find you alive.” 

She fought against the wave of emotion that threatened her composure.

“But we hoped that we would be able to properly commemorate your bravery, your integrity, your sacrifice, with the honour, dignity and grace worthy of your life and your legacy.” 

Roxy had stop for a moment, but she did not look away. A small tear rolled down her cheek without her noticing or bothering to wipe it away. It was as if the loss was new again. This pain was fresh. For all of them.

Harry’s eyes finally softened and they caught a glimpse of the man they remembered. But whether it was empathy for Roxy, clearly struggling to continue as her emotions caught in her throat, or understanding how they felt and what they had to do in the most difficult of situations, they did not know. 

And whatever amnesia he was experiencing had to be temporary, right? Surely Melin could devise a plan to help jump start his memory. Now that the were there, they could help him remember.

—

Roxy was determined to continue until the end. 

“After the events of V-Day, we had to recenter and regroup. Our agency had clearly been compromised. We needed to locate and close the leaks and tie up any loose ends.  Our losses were felt across the board. We had to rebuild what we could from the ground up. To recapture the integrity of our organisation. The immediate need to clean up the aftermath was one of the few things that we could focus on to help us come to terms with your loss. We knew, that if you had survived, you would have taken the mantle of Arthur. And that it would be your highest priority to rebuild the agency beyond reproach.”

“After several weeks, in which we continued our search for you, we felt that it would be best for us personally and professionally to move on. We held a private memorial for you, and honoured you as best as we could. After that, we could only move forward. It was a difficult time for all of us.” 

“We found ourselves here, after our organisation was levelled again. This time with only the three of us as survivors. Our HQ, our foundry, our storefront.” Her eyes flared with anger at this point. “And all of our agents worldwide aside from Galahad and I, were all taken down as targets.”

“Merlin was the only surviving handler and tech strategist and the only one of us that had been with the agency long enough know that a Doomsday protocol existed. With all of our resources destroyed, we had no way of protecting ourselves, to find out who had organised and carried out such a coordinated attack. Our last and only option was to see if this protocol existed.”

“We found the Statesman logo. Located your distillery here in Kentucky. At this point, we really had no plan beyond finding your organisation and hoping that you would be able to assist us.”

“We still had some tech in our possession, which I admit, looked suspicious for a group of tailors to have, let alone know how to use. That’s when your agent found us. We meant no ill will, but we had no other way to get into contact with your organization.  We didn’t even know if you existed. We had nothing to lose but to continue to follow any clues that we might come across. We had no protocol for a circumstance like this.”

“You can only imagine our bewilderment to be taken as adversaries when we were looking for help. And then our shock of finding Harry Hart. Finding him, not only alive, but with no memory of the agency he was devoted to over 30 years. It still is an unthinkable situation that we were not prepared for and obviously, are still trying to process.”

She had been speaking for a long time. She paused, took a sip of water, swallowed, before continuing.

She addressed the table. “Everything that we have said is the truth. We were also an independent intelligence agency with headquarters in London.” 

She turned again to Harry. “You were an integral member of this agency for most of your adult life. You know each of us well. Merlin has been your colleague for over 20 years. You knew Eggsy’s father, he saved your life in a mission that had gone sideways. That was seventeen years ago. You had recruited him as a way to repay his fathers sacrifice. My uncle was also a long time colleague of yours and our families go back many years.”

“We are so grateful that you are alive. We are sorry that we left you behind. That would never be our intention. We are forever indebted to Statesman for saving your life and taking care of you. But as you can imagine, we have questions of our own. How did you get here? How did you survive? Do you have no memory of Kingsman at all? What can you remember? Obviously, you have retained your skills, but to what extent? If you honestly don’t remember, then we can see how unbelievable our story is. But I think if you are still a man of honour and integrity, then you have to feel that we are not hostiles or adversaries. We pose no threat to you. Your instincts must tell you we are offering you the truth.”

She could tell that Harry was processing the information, she just couldn’t tell whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Roxy concluded. “And that brings us here to the present. I think our most pressing question is “how did you survive?”

Harry nodded to Ginger to answer the question. He seemed to want to observe the conversation. His attention had never wavered from Roxy while she spoke, only widened at times to include Eggsy or Merlin. If he had come to a conclusion, there was nothing that they could see.

Roxy gladly handed off the meeting to Ginger. Harry’s unwavering gaze was getting a little unnerving. Without the added scrutiny, she could get collect her own thoughts and feelings. Kingsman recruitment training had been brutal, but nothing could have prepared them for the last 48hrs. Nothing in the Gentleman’s Guide had a blueprint on how to behave when your agency gets blown up and your dead mentor, comes back to life, has amnesia, and then almost shoots you.

——

Ginger spoke up.

“I would like to confirm that we now have proof that your story is legitimate Which means, Harry, what they are saying about your history with Kingsman is most likely the truth.”

Harry tilted his chin slightly in her direction in acknowledgement. 

She spoke in the direction of the three Kingsman. “We have just received corroboration from several independent sources that the events did occur as described and that your agency was the target of a massive strike against organisations such as ours. We are sorry for your loss. You will have full access to our resources to investigate this adversary and we will provide you with support. This is a threat that affects all of us.”

Merlin spoke up. His voice was rough with concern. 

“Harry, what happened?” 

Harry’s voice, deep and a with familiar, crisp authority, suddenly filled the space.

“At this point, I believe Ginger will be able to recall the events much more clearly than I. I have no recollection of events immediately following the shooting.” He turned to her. “Please, continue.”

Merlin gaze remained fixed on Harry and worried there for several moments, before he turned his attention to Ginger.

“The day prior to V-Day, we detected the transmission of a very low frequency sound wave. Much lower than what is normally used for any legitimate communication. This frequency, for the time and location, was suspicious to say the least and it was imperative that we investigate. Agent Tequila and I helicoptered to the spot, about 10 miles away.”

“The frequency stopped right about the time we were closing in on the location. We had already pinpointed the source so we knew where it originated from. Even though the transmission had stopped, we could still find clues to its origin.” 

“We were just flying into the zone when we witnessed the shooting. We saw Valentine and his accomplices depart. They didn’t confirm death. I expect they thought that shooting someone in the face.. well, there are not many outcomes. Our timing couldn’t have been better planned. We had developed what we call “alpha gel” to use on our own agents in the case of a head shot. Previously, a head shot meant immediate death. Body armour can only protect so much. We’ve lost very good agents.’ 

But depending on where the bullet entered the skull and if there was minimal damage to the actual brain and spinal cord, the gel could potentially save an agents life. 

Harry was still alive when I checked his vitals. I applied the alpha gel immediately. It’s crucial to activate the gel to prevent tissue damage and accelerate the nannites that are used to repair neural pathways. I won’t go further in depth at this point. The main issue at that moment was to preserve life. 

Of course, because of his glasses, we knew that he was intelligence, we just didn’t know whose and we had no way of finding out without compromising Harry’s safety and our anonymity.  

Harry suffers from retrograde amnesia, which could be from the injury. But it can also be a side effect of the alpha gel. However, when life it at risk, the benefits outweigh the possible negative outcomes. This kind of memory loss, you lose existing, previously made memories. This type of amnesia tends to affect recently formed memories first. Older memories, such as memories from childhood, are usually affected more slowly. 

She motioned to Harry, while he listened closely to her explanation.

“So while Harry was whole as a person, personality wise, function wise, cognitive and behavioural skills in place, he had no memory of who he was aside from what could be observed. He had no memory of his past, people, places, events. This was an interesting case because usually with retrograde amnesia, there can be the regression to the younger self. The skill set and knowledge and the growth that occurred during the time of memory loss can also be lost as well. Such as, if you learned French while you were in college, but you lost the memories of this timeframe, in most cases, you would no longer be able to speak French. In fact, the whole memory that you learned it to begin with would be gone. In these cases, the knowledge and skill learned during this time would also be forgotten. However, in some rare cases, the ability to remember the skill remains, while the memory of the past when it was learned is lost. 

“In Harry’s case, it was obviously the later.” 

The slightest shift in the landscape of Harry’s face indicated that we was thoughtful and reflective. How must it be to wake up and not know who you are.

Harry, while still maintaining full concentration on Ginger, set a small part of him free to revisit the day he regained consciousness. Which technically, would not be regaining consciousness, since he had no recollection of losing consciousness to begin with.

——

POV HARRY HART

“My name is Harry Hart.”  It was the first thought that went through his head.

Secondly, “Caucasion male, 6’2”, brown hair, brown eyes, 58 years of age. 13.5 stone” That all sounded perfectly reasonable to him.

Thirdly, wasn’t a thought, it was a feeling of emptiness. Not as if he was missing something. It did not feel like loss. It did not feel as if he was lacking. That would imply that there was something present to begin with.  It was not a feeling he could identify or that felt familiar or could find a word that was representative. It was unusual for him. He never found his vocabulary lacking. Perhaps if it could be called a non-feeling. He was a vessel. Neither empty, nor full. And no desire to be either or. An interesting sensation. 

When he first woke up, he had not realised that he was suffering from amnesia. Due to the amnesia there were no memories that insisted he should be a certain person. That he had to exist in a certain place. Doing something specific. A curious circumstance. There was no sense of surprise waking up in the condition he found himself to be. He did whatever he would do in a circumstance like this. Assess the situation. 

As he entered a conscious state, his mind automatically shifted into overdrive. But without moving. Without betraying any kind of change. He felt the need to remain unnoticed. He did this from where he rested. He first determined if he had sustained any injury or damage that had caused permanent physical disability or bodily harm. He had full function of all of his appendages. He did not know how long he had been in this state, but he did not notice any signs of muscle atrophy or joint stiffness. They must have a system that stimulated muscle tissue and nerves to prevent deterioration or he had not been in an immobile state for any length of time. Blinking his eyes was like scrapping sandpaper and his throat was a desert of sand. He attempted to make any kind of noise and found it difficult. That meant he had to have been out for at least some meaningful period of time. His head did ache something awful, and he noted a bandage or some other type of patch over his left eye. The use of only one eye would change his perception of depth, and the range of his peripheral vision, but he did not doubt that he would be able to adjust accordingly.

He had no reason to question his cognitive function. He processed information unhesitatingly and with ease. Without a sense of doubt, without faltering, he scanned the room and began to examine his surroundings. He was being held in some kind of hospital or medical ward. Not civilian. It was either private or for research. Maybe military. Hi tech, advanced equipment. Everything was in pristine condition. Two exits on opposing sides. No windows. A complex ventilation and filtration system suggested an underground location. No immediate threat that he could ascertain, but that could change at any moment. No apparent weapons. Some medical instruments that could possibly work. He was not restrained so he was not being held against his will. Or there was no need if he was unconscious the entire time. He did not feel any urgency or sense of immediate danger, but he did not question his need to assess the situation .

He heard two people approach the door to the left. Judging from the echoing quality and the gradual volume and clarity of their foot steps, from a fairly long corridor. 

His eyes remained closed, his breathing shallow and steady, his heartbeat was slow and rhythmic. He concentrated on the sound. One set of footsteps was clearly male. The stride was longer, more pronounced, in heavy shoes, presumably boots. But an easy pace. Most likely 6’, 13 stone, physically fit. His gait was even, balanced and light. Not the walk of someone that led a sedentary life. The second set of footsteps he concluded were female. Lighter, but not timid. A confident woman. Just a smaller stature. Medium height. Slight frame. Like her partner, fit, alert, competent. 

He did not know why or how he came up with these deductions, but he did not question them. He held the information in his mind so it was easily accessible. The voices, once they became decipherable, were relaxed and easy. Their tone was jovial and non-threatening. Younger than he was. American accent, with a southern drawl. He could be in the US, but anywhere was possible. While he did not expect danger, he still prepared himself for the risk. Mostly, his need was to understand the where he was, how he got there and have leverage over the situation.

The door opened with a heavy swooshing sound. He did not hear the click of a lock being turned, so he was not being held in high security setting.

The two individuals were still conversing, and he could just almost decipher what they were discussing. The man remained on his right hand side while the woman walked around the foot of the bed to inspect the instruments and diagnostics panels to the left. Her back was turned away from him. The man remained at his side. A quick glance in his direction. A holster was slung around his waist, it held a nickelplated SIG-Sauer P226 with wooden grips. A quality weapon. To his advantage, the strap securing the weapon was not snapped in. That would have been a trickier maneuver.

He guessed the woman was in medical, the man, based on the weapon and the fact that he was not actively participating in the tasks, that he was a guard or protection of some sort. With their relaxed tones, and familiar interactions, possibly a friend or colleague. 

Not one to overthink a situation, he decided now was as good a time as any. No use in waiting, expecting a better scenario. Best to address the situation you know rather than wait for one you don’t. Never a guarantee for a better set of circumstances. Only guarantee is time lost.

He waited patiently for the moment to proceed. Just a small distraction was all he needed. It arrived sooner than he anticipated and under better circumstances that he had the right to expect.

“Tequila, would you be able to hand me the print outs right behind you?” 

Harry saw him turn away from the bed, his hips rotated in his direction, the angle ideal for him to grab, cock and point. He only hoped that his deductions regarding his physical state were correct, or it would be a moot point. He might not even be able to sit up, let alone hold a weapon.  Take the out, the told himself. 

These thoughts occurred within fractions of a second. Without hesitation, in one fell swoop, he grabbed the gun, pulled back the slide to load the chamber. Thankfully his body responded without any resistance or weakness and he slid himself back into an upright position. 

He judged the distance between the three of them. The man called Tequila, was close enough by his side to possibly disarm him, so he swung the weapon in the woman’s direction. She was far enough away that the gun was not within her reach. He centered the sight at her chest. It was not the aim of a stop shot. It was the aim for a kill shot. Might as well show them he was not a man to underestimate. He did not want to shoot her, but he did want to make it very clear to them that he was a man to take very seriously. 

Once he guaranteed that he had their attention. Though he had many questions he wanted answers to, he asked them the two questions that were the most urgent.

His voice was gravelly, but still clear enough to understand. 

“Who are you?”

“What am I doing here?”

For having a gun aimed at her chest, the woman was surprisingly relaxed. She held up her palm towards the other man. She would handle this. The man shifted his weight back to a holding posture rather than the offensive stance that prepared him to take action. 

“You have a British accent. That’s helpful to know. How are you feeling?”

“My first two questions still stand.” He regarded them impassively, but kept any notes of aggression from his tone.

—— 

Gingers POV

“My name is Ginger Ale, I’m Head Strategy Executive and Director of Medical here at our outfit.  This is Agent Tequila. Welcome to Statesman, our whiskey distillery. You’re at our HQ in Kentucky.” 

She handed him a cup of water. “Sip. Don’t guzzle.”

She was succinct. “As for what you are doing here, we were waiting for you to wake up so you could tell us. We found you outside of a church about 10 miles from here. You had been shot in the head. You were still alive, so we did everything we could to keep you that way. You’ve been unconscious the entire time here. Your vitals were strong. We were just waiting for you to wake up. We have some questions for you as well.” 

Her voice was gentle, but firm. He did not catch any inflections or hesitations that would indicate she was lying, or with holding information. Her tone was honest, forthright and it put him slightly more at ease. 

“I answered both of yours. Would you be so kind to answer mine?” She asked politely.

He did not refuse, but he didn’t say yes.

“How are you feeling.” she asked again.

“Would you care to clarify?” He asked in return. “There are multiple ways I can respond to your question.”

So he was witty.

“Pick one.”

“At the present moment, tolerable. Though this persistent ache in my head leaves something to be desired” He equivocated. 

“That’s to be expected with a headshot. You did lose your left eye. There will be residual pain/discomfort until the injury is completely healed.”

“What is your name? 

“My name is Harry Hart.”

“Do you feel comfortable enough at the moment to answer some questions for us? Is there anything that you require immediately? 

“More water would be appreciated. Otherwise, feel free. Fire away.” He looked amused. He reached over to return Tequila’s gun. “Perhaps a poor choice of words in my case.” He revised his response. “Very well then, proceed.”

She refilled his water and pulled a chair next to his bed. Tequila found a place strategically viable to intervene if things went sideways. He wasn’t one to get caught off guard twice.

“Now, since we are on a first name basis, can you tell us why you were at the church that day? Why would someone would want to kill you?”

“No.”

“No?” 

“I simply do not know.”

“Why you were there? Or why someone wanted you dead?”

“Neither.”

“Where are you from?”

His face remained blank.

“That may be a little vague.” Ginger specified. “Where do you live? Where is your home?”

No response.

How old are you?

“58” 

“Do you know what you do for a living? Where do you work?”

An almost imperceptible turn of the head.

“Can you remember where you went to school? Secondary or university.”

He squinted his eyes. But no answer.

“Do you know who the current world leader is? President? Prime Minister?”

Her regarded her impassively. She started to form her own understanding of how he was communicating. She could play along. Any form of communication was good for her. It didn’t have to be words. There was more than one way to impart information. It would all get her to the same place. Plus, she would have the chance to read his non-verbal cues. That would be a challenge. His expression was nearly inscrutable.

A slight turn of the head meant I don’t know. His impassive face meant maybe, but he can’t know for sure. The blank disinterested stare meant that he had no idea what she was referring to. She was already intrigued by her patient. She was becoming more fascinated by the moment. 

Changing tactics, she asked. “Can you play the piano?”

A slight tilt of the head. This was new. That meant the question sparked something in his mind. It was a possibility, but he couldn’t know for sure. Interesting. She went further down her tangent.

“What’s pi to the tenth decimal?”

Without hesitation, he rattled off. “3.1415926535”

“Parle vous français?”

“Oui”

How many languages can you speak?

“Six ”

“What are they?”

English, French, Spanish, German, Italian, Arabic.

Hmmm. Arabic was interesting. She filed that away to look at more closely at a later time.

“Do you know were you learned Arabic or why?”

He was taciturn.

“Are you right or left handed?”

“Right.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

Impassive.

“Do you own a car?”

Impassive.

“Do you know how to drive.”

“Yes.”

Now they were getting somewhere, she thought to herself.

“What was your favourite game as a child?”

He furrowed his brow but answered.

“Chess.”

Were you good?

“Yes.”

“Did you compete?

No answer.

Hmm. Retrograde amnesia, she pondered.

“Can you shoot a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever killed someone?”

A tilt of the head. Possible, but can’t confirm.

“Do you think you’re a good person?”

“I have no reason to doubt that.”

“Do you know what orange means?”

“The color or the fruit?”

Good. “The fruit, what does it remind you of? 

“Winter. Christmas.”

Excellent. “Do you remember a Christmas from your past?”

Blank stare.

“Do you think you’re attractive? Good looking.”

He huffed, amused. 

“It’s not a trick question.”

“Not to seem chuffed, but I’ve never had any complaints in that regard.”

“Can you remember any specific compliments that you’ve received in the past?”

Thwarted.

Good. “So you know that other people think you are attractive and desirable. But is that how you see yourself?”

 “I was attempting to be modest.” 

She waited for his response.

Reluctantly, “Yes.” He admitted. “I know that I am attractive, handsome, good looking. However you would like to call it.” 

He continued even though he had already answered the question. It was his first moment of revealing information on his own.

“I would go out with myself if I were able, but unfortunately, that is not an option. I am not a narcissist. However, I would say that I regard myself with a healthy and acceptable amount of vanity. “ 

Did Ginger just discern a bit of sarcasm?

His good looks have been a point of contention in the past. Not that she could blame him. She was curious to know how his appearance either hindered him or helped him. She did note that there was no wedding ring when they found him. She couldn’t complain. It didn’t hurt her daily check ups that he was extremely easy on the eyes. Even his hospital issue gown made him look handsome.

Ok. Time to move on. She switched her line of questioning. 

“Where are you right now?” She asked.

His expression was doubtful. Of her, not of his answer. His face asked the question. “Didn’t we just discuss this?” Nevertheless, he answered her with a bemused sigh.

“Kentucky, United States. Apparently 10 miles away from a church where I was shot in the head.”

Ginger nodded. She was encouraged. 

He didn’t see why. It wasn’t difficult to recall. She had only just told him.

“Do you remember our names and what we do?”

He found the helpfulness of these questions debatable, but if it would accelerate his process, he was willing to comply. And participate, if it made this whole interaction a tad more interesting.

“Your name is Ginger Ale. After the beverage, I can only assume. Your colleague, here, is called Tequilla, after the alcohol. I am under the the impression that these are code names that are assigned by the intelligence agency that employs you. Statesman. With a distillery as a backstop. Hence the libation themed code names. 

“Ginger Ale, I gather from your code name’s slight variation, you are in an essential, but supportive role. Whereas Tequila, a right tipple, would be classified as an agent. Of your independent organisation. I would believe, comparable to the CIA, but without the restrictions that often hinder government run spy organisations. And with more interesting code names.”

There was just the slightest hint of cockiness in his tone and in his expression. She found it equally amusing and charming at the same time. Now they were making progress. More than she could have hoped for.

He was obviously intelligent, well mannered, well spoken, though taciturn. Understandable upon waking up with no memory of where he was and why he was there. It was a very promising discovery. He seemed to accept his situation without resistance. He was alert. No hint of confusion. Just a desire to understand the circumstances he found himself in. 

He was emotionally stable, if not a little irritated, by his current state. He took the loss of his eye as a matter of fact. Overall, his ability to acclimate was nothing short of remarkable. 

He folded his hands on his lap, one over the other, tilted his chin in her direction. His posture said. “I’m waiting patiently..” He was throwing shades of a personality she was already warming toward. 

There was a momentary pause. They regarded each other with interest. 

 Finally Harry spoke. “I have amnesia.” He wasn’t asking a question. He was stating it as a fact.

She confirmed. Nodding. 

“I would like to perform some additional CT and MRI scans, and EEG, but judging from the traumatic brain injury you’ve suffered, you most likely have retrograde amnesia. Just based on this conversation alone. To be more specific. Focal retrograde amnesia. 

She continued to explain. “Focal retrograde amnesia, also known as isolated or pure retrograde amnesia, is when someone only experiences the loss of memories that have already been made. Anterograde amnesia, on the other hand, is being unable to form new memories.

He listened to her with a new interest. 

She continued. “So, it appears you have retrograde amnesia, but no anterograde. This means that the ability to form new memories is left intact. You easily recalled information from a short time ago. That is very good news.” She paused, looking for his understanding.

“Please, go on.” He said.

“This kind of isolated memory loss doesn’t affect a person’s intelligence or ability to learn new skills, like playing the piano or affect previously learned skills, like driving a car, speaking different languages. Most likely, if we sat you at a piano, you would be able to play, based on your response to my question.”

“What is the prognosis?”

Ginger, equivocated, a little hesitant “With amnesia, it’s difficult to predict. Retrograde amnesia can result from damage to different parts of the brain responsible for controlling emotions and memories. These include the thalamus, which is deep in the center of the brain, and the hippocampus, which is in the temporal lobe and the cerebellum. There are many variables involved.”

“Thats is all very interesting, but doesn’t quite give me any predictions for my future.” 

“To be completely honest, for the injury you sustained, the amnesia is surprisingly less severe than I would have predicted. Most traumatic brain injuries are mild, resulting in concussion. But a severe injury, like a serious blow to the head, or a bullet for that matter, can damage the memory-storing areas of the brain and lead to anterograde amnesia as well. Depending on the level of damage, the amnesia could be temporary or permanent. I know that’s not very helpful.”

“Ginger, there is no need to “hedge your bets” as they would say. I am quite prepared to accept any answer you provide.”

“The fact that you can remember new information is promising. Your cognitive and behavioural skills are, as far as I can tell, excellent. I would be interested to test your knowledge further. You may have skills that you don’t know you have until you have a need for them.”

“If I were to summarise… “ Ginger concluded. “And please let me know if I go too far off the beaten path as I find this area of research very intriguing.”

She stole a glance at Tequila. “Many would find it boring.” 

Tequila gestured with a shrug of his shoulders..”So what? I think it’s boring.”

Ginger turned back toward Harry.

“Are you comfortable?”

“As much as one could hope.”

“Please understand that I’m generalising here. Just the fact that you are interested in this subject and can process information is extremely promising. The questions I asked you, though random, I asked for very specific reasons.” 

“Our memories” she explained, “can be separated into two groups: Explicit and Implicit. Each of these categories can then be further broken down. If I can use your case as an example?”

Harry nodded.

In the clear and assured tones of a professor, she explained. 

“Explicit memories, or declarative memories, are those we consciously try to remember and recall. When I ask you a question, such as, “Where were you born?” to answer, you would navigate through your explicit memory.

“Explicit memory stores events and facts. This is your conscious memory. You know that you have them and can remember them when you need to. In your case, I asked you to recall a derivative of Pi. You did that easily. That would be an explicit memory. Your knowledge of different languages also taps into your explicit memory.” 

Harry was still, but receptive.

Encouraged by his attentiveness, she broke the concept down further.

“Of these explicit memories, there are three different types. The first two are episodic and semantic memories. Do you know what semantic means?” She asked him.

“Of course. That which is related to language.”  replied Harry.

Ginger was pleased.

“Exactly. Our semantic memory stores knowledge about words, concepts and language-based knowledge and facts. Knowing the definition of “Semantic” is, in fact, a semantic memory. So is your knowledge of Pi in relation to the numerical expression, and the ability to speak different languages. This part of your memory seems to be unaffected.”

She checked in with Harry. She had the tendency to explain way beyond the interest of the listener. He confirmed. Go on.

“The second kind of explicit memory is called episodic memory. This is information about events that you have personally experienced. For example, if something looks or feels familiar, you’re probably trying to pull from your episodic memory. Times in your life, people, places, emotions and context that make up the events in your life. The what, when, where, how and why of your memory.”

“This seems to be a large part of your memory that has been affected and it seems to go back for a very long time. Typically, when you see lapses in episodic memory, it’s usually the more recent memories that can’t be accessed. Memories of childhood are still there.  In your case, your entire past seems to be wiped.

He asked his first question. Well, other than the first two, but that was at gunpoint, so they didn’t really count.“Then how is it that I still have all of this knowledge.”

“Yes, just getting to that. Now we move over to your implicit memories. These memories are not part of your consciousness.”

She took a breath. “These memories are based on behaviours and movements. Memories that are retained through practice and repetition. A learned skill would be part of this memory.”

She had vast knowledge of memory loss due to brain trauma and she welcomed the opportunity to share. “There are two types of implicit memories. Procedural and emotional conditioning.”

“Procedural stores information about how to do things. Why you are able to perform actions without consciously monitoring the sub procedures that need to be pieced together in order to perform the task. Or, more simply, it’s the reason you can brush your teeth without a second thought. It is the memory for skilled actions.”

“This part of the memory is why you can do things without thinking about them. You know how to drive a car. But you don’t know if you own one. You can play chess, but you don’t know if you played competitively. Same with the piano. You can shoot a gun, but you don’t know if you’ve ever killed someone. Even something as simple as brushing your teeth is part of this. You don’t have to consciously think about every sub action you have to make, or the motor skills involved. Probably the same way with a gun. If I asked to take apart and reassemble Tequila’s gun, you could probably do so without knowing how or why you possess that skill.”

“Lastly is Emotional Conditioning.  This can be a little trickier to identify. I would have to ask you more questions to see how this part of your memory was affected. These memories are made through classical conditioning, associations made through stimuli. You know what an orange is. You know what they smell like. It reminds you of Christmas. This is emotional conditioning. But you can’t remember any Christmas that you’ve had. That is your episodic memory.”

Harry looked openly thoughtful. He was no longer guarding his expression. The softness took years off his face. It was hard not to just stare at him. 

“There’s one more category of explicit memories that is important. Autobiographical. This memory system is made up of both episodic and semantic aspects of your memory. It’s a collection of memories specifically related to the self. This could be how you look, your height, specific meaningful points in your life, or the general idea of your concept of self. Which is why I asked you questions not just on how you look, but how you, yourself, viewed your looks.”  

“You know what a gun is. Semantic. You know how to shoot a gun. Procedural. You don’t know if you’ve ever killed anyone. Episodic. Killing someone is only acceptable under certain circumstances. Emotional conditioning. But without knowing whether or not you’ve ever killed anyone, you believe you are a good person. Autobiographical.”

“In regards to the actual landscape of your brain, your cerebellum and prefrontal cortex seem to be the least affected.  In addition to contributions to implicit memory, conditioned responses, fine motor movements, posture and coordination, the cerebellum also maintains internal representations of the external world, which allow you to move in darkness as long as the room or space is familiar to you, and how you would need to position your self to aim a gun and hit a moving target.”

Harry was still engaged, so she went on. 

“It seems the hippocampus was the most affected by your injury. This would make sense based on the entry point of the bullet. This part of the brain processes declarative and episodic memory, people, places, and things as well as recognition memory.” 

“I know that’s a lot to take in. I’d like you to rest in the meantime. You’ve only just woken up, in well, less than ideal circumstances. Even though you say you feel “acceptable” you are still recovering from a major injury.  We’ll follow up with you more frequently, now that you are awake.” She wasn’t asking.

Harry, for the first time, addressed Tequila. “I take it that she is always the voice of reason.”

“Without fail.”

“And I assume there is no sense in arguing.”

“None at all.”

——

For simplicity’s sake, they assumed that he was from the UK as many of his mannerism and idiosyncrasies were quintessentially British. Tequila had gotten into the habit of calling him Hart, or The Brit for short. Harry, who was not one for such informalities, was amused. He did, however, recognise that Americans, as well as Statesman, were more easy going and relaxed in their word, dress and interactions with each other, overall. 

——

“Was there anything, physically, or possessions that I had on my body when you found me, that would offer any clues to my identity.”

Ginger paused. “Well, Harry, we found you in quite a unique state.”

They had already been over the event numerous times. But Harry knew that little details were often overlooked the first time around and could surface after a spell.  Ironic, since his own memory wouldn’t be surfacing in any amount of time. He would have rather used a more elegant metaphor, but he was like a top notch computer with nothing to process. All of his files were wiped. Who knew if they were recoverable. No use in wondering. 

When Ginger Ale and Agent Tequila found Harry, he had made quite the impression. As the helicopter descended, Ginger and Tequila saw him closely for the first time. He was splayed out, flat on his back, unconscious, with a bullet through his eye, wearing of all things, an impeccably tailored, navy pinstripe double breasted suit. He was fully decked out with all the details. Spread collar, tie with a Windsor knot, suspenders, oxfords, even a tie pin, cufflinks, a pocket square, and a signet ring. It was a sight not often seen in their part of Kentucky.

While Ginger attended to the man, Tequila checked the church. It was the site of a bloodbath. This was no mass shooting. A mass shooting would be clean and simple compared to what he found inside.  These people had been slaughtered. Creatively. Luckily, whatever or whoever the threat was that had massacred the congregation, had departed. 

Harry had definitely been involved in the bloodshed, but to what extent, they did not know. The tell tale signs were on his suit. It hard to see the bloodstains against the dark wool, but there were unmistakable splashes of red on the crisp whiteness of his cuffs and collar. It was torn in places, whether from a weapon or some other object, one couldn’t tell. But mostly, the proof was on his hands. They were stained with blood and gunpowder residue up to his wrists. He did not have any weapons on his person when they found him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one inside. Nevertheless, a person doesn’t get that much blood on themselves from using a gun. Even at close range, the blood spatter would spray backward. 

Whatever he had been involved in, it was up close and personal. Rage sound waves plus the expert skill and killer instinct of a veteran assassin could definitely equal the carnage that was left behind. He was fitted with a shoulder holster, but no weapon. They didn’t have enough time to search for identifying evidence in the church. The object that they found the most interesting were his glasses. Handsome, squared off, dark tortoiseshell horn rimmed frames. But it was the lenses that revealed the most about him. The glasses told them he was intelligence. They just didn’t know whose.

Intelligence agents, as a rule, never carry anything that can identify them. Harry was no exception. His clothing, even his shoes, though exceptionally well made and no doubt very expensive, bore no labels. It was all bespoke, custom made to fit him, and him alone and as a result, no identifying markers.

They tried to reverse engineer the communications transmitter from the remaining lens. They also attempted to disassemble his watch, but both were designed to withstand and prevent external tampering. Whoever designed them was talented and had the foresight to put anti-tampering mechanisms in place. 

Of course, they had run a facial recognition and prints through their international database, but as they expected, there were no matches to be found. They couldn’t investigate thoroughly without compromising his safety. Obviously someone wanted him dead. It could even be his own agency. More than once, had an agent been removed by their own employer. The threat might still exist. Nor could they risk the anonymity of their own agency. 

They scanned news for anything surrounding the Kentucky event, who was involved, any unusual occurrences that happened at the same time, but they only found information on Valentine and his cohorts. They even kept their ears open on the secret spy wire, to see if a fellow agency was looking for an operative, or had an agent who had gone rogue, or had one go dark. They didn’t have any luck. It’s not like they could put out an “if missing an agent, please call” flyer. While Harry was recovering, they also put out feelers for possible missing persons that matched his description in the civilian world. Even if he was an intelligence agent, that didn’t mean he didn’t have a cover in place, a backstop that could possible lead to his identity.

His accent immediately suggested he was from the UK. However, his lack of a specific regional dialect, made it difficult to narrow their search criteria. Harry’s accent was that of the Queens English, or RP Received Pronunciation. Which might mean he was from Great Britain, or any of the commonwealth countries. Their contacts at MI6 and MI5 received a little exchange of information to see if they had any leads, of which there were none. Whatever agency that he was with, was not government funded. Of course there was the brotherhood of clandestine intelligence agencies across the globe. But in this circumstance, they did not want to broadcast that they were potentially sheltering an agent that could have possibly blown his cover, been burned, or been compromised in any fashion. The safest avenue for both Statesman and Harry was to remain inconspicuous until a tangible lead was discovered.

Because, at the very least, he was intelligence, and so were they, they were curious as to his specialty, his area of expertise. Handling a gun was part of every agents training, no matter where their loyalties lie. It was no surprise that he was comfortable shooting a weapon. All agents were. It was possible that he could be a clandestine officer, or focus on espionage, recruiting assets. He could be an interrogator. He was intelligent, well spoken, articulate. Psych-ops, psychological warfare or diplomacy could be just as likely.  His fastidious appearance, polite manner and gentlemanly demeanour would certainly lend itself to international relations. Certainly a man with his physical attributes wouldn’t be secluded to a desk in analysis. With his charming personality he could possibly be a raven, a male agent employed to seduce people for intelligence purposes. That would be effortless on his part. He would just have to show up. There were many ladies that had taken notice of the handsome figure who was a mysterious presence at Statesman’s HQ.

 It was also feasible that he had cross specialties. Some of the specialties would be more challenging than others to assess. Weapons were straightforward. You were either good or you weren’t. Once he felt both physically and mentally up to task, they brought him to their version of Hogan’s Ally or the Farm, the FBI and the CIA’s, respectively, tactical training facilities. 

When Harry’s health improved, they discovered the true extent of his abilities. They were far greater than Statesman expected.  As Harry’s strength and coordination returned, complex tasks became second nature again. His body began to respond to the stimulus and he gravitated toward the physical challenges that Statesman tested him with. What they learned on the shooting range, then in the Statesman tactical training facility and Special Operations Division, they did not expect and were not prepared for.

Harry found the whole process amusing. If not outright entertaining. Losing ones memory had its advantages. One need not worry about expectations, preconceived notions or judgement. He would either be good, or he would not be. Either outcome would be acceptable to him. No one, not even he, would know the outcome until after the fact. And he knew how useless it was to wish for one scenario or the other when anything was possible.

What did happen, was that the challenges of their tactical installation were not capable of quantifying his ability. His skills far surpassed the most advanced exercise they had.

He proceeded to excel at every exercise, drill, and challenge they placed in front of him. He performed without thought, without hesitation, with the grace and composure they had come to equate him with. First, on the shooting range and then finally on their full scale replicated “warehouse” where they would simulate real life combat situations, including the use of live rounds.

The first test was for speed and accuracy and his knowledge of different firearms.  At the shooting range, they laid out a variety of weapons in front of him. The guns were unloaded. He was tasked with loading the ammunition in to the proper clip or magazine and then loading the weapon. He was to discharge the all the rounds at the target at the end of the range. Aiming for a kill shot either at the head or chest, release the clip and return the weapon and then move onto the next weapon he was familiar with. 

Statesman didn’t know what to expect, but the certainly didn’t anticipate what they witnessed. 

Harry had insisted on wearing his full suit as he did every day. The Brit was calm, cool and composed. He was neither excited nor concerned regarding the proceedings. More than anything, he seemed relaxed, but slightly more interested in the tactical challenges than the cognitive behavioural tests that they had him perform. They explained to him what the task was. One by one, load the clip, load the matching weapon, discharge all the rounds, release and repeat. 

Without any visible effort on his part, Harry loaded the first clip, loaded the weapon, and then seemingly without aiming, pulled the trigger.  The first several shots landed off mark. He adjusted and then fired the entire clip, alternating between two chest shots, followed by one round to the head of the target at the end of the range, chambering each bullet between shots if there was a slide. It did not go unnoticed that his method was the one used by assassins. They all knew, when eliminating a target, it was without fail, two to the chest, one to the head. He was still completing his follow through on the previous round, while reaching for the next clip, before releasing the clip of the weapon in his hand and switching to the next. He did this smoothly, with ease, dexterity and without hesitation with the entire set of weapons. One after the other, shot after shot, hitting mark after mark without effort. No fancy moves, no showy stance, just incredibly efficient, accurate, skill and technique. With the reverb of gunshots echoing through their ears, Harry laid down the last gun in line with the rest, turned toward the observing Statesman. His precision was astounding. 

 There was no perceptible change in his demeanour. He could have been doing a crossword puzzle for all the exertion that was evident on his face. 

“Does this suffice?” His face was pleasant. There could have also been the tiniest hint of amusement. 

It was Ginger that spoke up first. “I do believe, yes, that will suffice.”

Tequila regarded him not only like he was from a different country, but a different species of man all together.

 “How the hell ’dya do that?”

Harry gave him a good natured smile. 

“Knowledge of the weapons.” He continued plainly while smoothing out the front of his suit and adjusting his cuffs to their proper length.

“One must possess an understanding of the moving variables involved when discharging handguns, especially for a significant number of rounds. One must focus on accuracy, which involves trigger pull pressure and control, proper stance, a secure but consistent grip, taking in to account grip tension and fatigue. Excessive trigger pull weight will cause muscle fatigue of the index finger and can ultimately lead to task failure during pistol marksmanship.”  

While opening and closing his shooting hand, he massaged the base of his trigger finger. 

“With the variety of weapons that were included in this drill, one must locate the front site alignment based on the make and model and identify the site picture, either combat, center, 6 o’clock hold, if adopting a classic stance. However, front site becomes irrelevant in situations where the target is not in front of you.”

The Statesman were surreptitiously glancing at one anther. Was this man for real?

“And then one must consider breath control, trigger press and reset, and naturally, follow through.  Of course, one must account for situational awareness. Needless to say, it is far less complicated aiming at a static bullseye in a controlled environment,” He gestured to the range. “rather than at a moving target under enemy fire.”       

He spoke with an easy nonchalance, as if he were describing how to serve tea. Incidentally, last week, Harry had already instructed them on the official rules of how to prepare a proper cup of tea. He had looked vaguely insulted when he inquired about tea and Tequila handed him a cold bottle of sweet tea from a nearby cooler. Following this incident he educated them on the finer points of afternoon tea.

“First and most importantly,” he informed them.” Select the appropriate English tea.”

Harry recommended Earl Grey, Breakfast Blend, or Traditional 100’s black teas. Slightly more bitter than American teas, he informed them.

“Always use freshwater for individual steeping. Boil water between 180-200 degrees.”

Harry stated that it was imperative that the water is at boiling point to properly release the flavours of the tea.

“Slowly pour into a teapot over a single tea bag or loose leaf diffuser. Let it steep for six minutes. Remove the tea bag. Do not squeeze the tea bag. Pour the tea into a proper tea cup, not a coffee mug. At this time, one can add milk, not sugar, unless you want to disrupt the flavour of the tea.” 

He was firm on the following point. “Only milk, if you are looking to make a proper cup. The color of the tea with milk should have a dark orange-brown hue, similar to American coffee. Once the milk is stirred, the tea should be at the perfect temperature to enjoy. If feeling especially British, one can pair with scones and clotted cream.” 

With the same casual, relaxed ease, he continued. “Naturally, it helps if one is familiar with muzzle velocity, air resistance, barometric pressure, humidity, air temperature and wind speed. The quantity and quality of propellant used in the firearm as well as projectile mass and length of the barrel.”

He saw the blank stares of the Statesman agents. He equivocated, “Or in more simple terms, front site, trigger press, and follow through.”

If he was this level on the shooting range, they were eager to see what surprises he had in store for the simulation. If his performance on the shooting rage was any indication of his abilities, his proficiency on the full scale replica could very possibly be stupefying. 

Word traveled with the wind on Statesman grounds. The following day, allowing his shooting hand appropriate time to recover, Harry prepared for the real life simulation.  A variety of curious onlookers, from fellow agents, handlers and operations support began to gather in small, inconspicuous groups at the control center where anyone watching would have full audio and visual of Harry the entire time. 

The immersive course was situated in two enormous warehouses with an open courtyard area in between.  It was devised to test Harry’s technical and tactical skill. So far, he had shown exemplary marksmanship. But like he had mentioned, it was much less complicated to shoot with accuracy in a range under a controlled environment. The ability to perform with the same accuracy and precision under pressure is what separated a good agent from an exceptional one. They were going to find out which category Harry fell into.

Harry, as an operator, would have to perform under the following conditions; unknown target distances that vary from close to extended ranges, identifying threats and non-threats prior to engagement, making decisions under pressure, speed vs. precision shots, tactical movements, utilising different types of cover and tactical shooting positions to accomplish the mission, which was to come out clean on the other side. Firearms ranged from pistol, rifle, shotgun, carbine rifle, AK -47, as well as improvised munitions. There could be an active shooter scenario. A hostage situation. Anything was possible.

The Statesman insisted that he didn’t have to wear his suit during the engagement and offered him combat gear. His suit was certain to interfere with his maneuverability. He showed up to the course, fully attired in his classic pinstripes, down to the cuff links. He couldn’t explain why, but it felt completely natural and at ease. 

“One should always be able to engage in life threatening situations while properly attired.”  He explained. 

 Call it vanity, call it pride, but he only felt comfortable in suits when he was in a professional role. Wearing anything else seemed sacrilegious. He wasn’t going to wear any less for an evaluation, no matter what the evaluation entailed. And he was very particular. About his suit specifically. He had several suits tailor made by a firm of Statesman’s recommendation. 

The one concession that he did make regarding his attire was to replace his Oxfords with the Statesman issue cowboy boots. Cowboy boots, of all things. But he had to confess, they felt good on his feet. It was easier to cover the unfamiliar terrain of the Statesman property, which included dirt, gravel, hay, barns, and stables and various other interesting outbuildings. At least the boots still made a familiar sound on hard surfaces. He particularly enjoyed the hollow, rounded quality his footsteps made when he crossed Statesman’s many hardwood floors. Particularly in the large storage areas the housed the enormous barrels of whiskey while they aged. 

He was also pragmatic. The boots were definitely more appropriate on the occasions they went horse riding, or other “outdoor activities” that his new keepers might engage in. While he might be fastidious in regards to his appearance, he still valued practicality.  For the landscape of Kentucky, the boots were more appropriate. And they did indeed, have a satisfying click that was comfortingly familiar. 

While the course was being finalised, he tested his right hand by creating a fist and then opening his palm wide. He repeated this several times. There was residual soreness from the prior days drill, but nothing that caused him concern. In the simulation, there would be a wide variety of firearms and weapons available in the course. Not every weapon would be a handgun. A shotgun or a riffle could be braced on the shoulder. Different weapons would require a different set of muscle and therefore prevent repetitive fatigue.

His shooting hand didn’t concern him, he was fairly certain he could fire from his weak hand as well. He was curious to find out. He decided to try even if the opportunity didn’t present itself. 

As he entered the course, the Statesman gathered around the monitors.

Even in a suit, he manoeuvred like an elite operator. His movement was refined, graceful, efficient. He held himself tall when he needed to check and clear areas, keeping his spine in alignment. His footing was sure and stable as he maintained a mid-foot drive with every step he took, balancing his weight between the ball of his foot and the heel.

He was not one to peacock. His skills and technique always had a specific goal and end result in mind. Ego had no place in life and death scenarios. But on the course, after he completed a task successfully, he could’t help but push the level of his abilities. Explore his edge. He began following up his kill shots with a second maneuver from a trickier vantage point, or with a more demanding technique, adopting more and more challenging strategies and unlikely scenarios. Each time, giving a little bit more than was necessary. He wanted to discover the full capacity of his skill. 

On the course, he felt a new vitality. Whether it be due to the physical exertion of being in the field, or the mental challenges that sharpened the edges of his mind, he did not question. He simply allowed it to flow.

He attempted to fire from his non-dominant hand when the weapon and the cover required it. He adopted a canted shooting stance, firing the gun from a 45 degree angle, aiming for a target that would be impossible in his position with a right hand grip. Well, that was confirmation he could shoot with both hands. When he needed to reload, he also did so with one hand, just to see if he could. He could. With the slide locked to the rear, he placed the gun between his knees with the grip facing upwards. He slid the magazine and then locked it into place and removed the gun from between his knees. His hand hit the slide release and he got back into the fight in a matter of seconds. Some of those watching hadn’t been noticed. His technique and execution was flawless.

He fired on the run at a moving target who was using a “civilian” as cover and hit his mark.

He shot two weapons at a time.

He shot from behind his back. 

He could shoot through things and still hit his target on the other side. 

He could shoot away from a target, knowing that the force and angle of the ricochet would hit its intended target.

He used bullets as a tool, shooting items into place, to remove barriers, open doors.

He used bullets to adjust a reflective surface so he could see around a blind corner.

It was as if he was mapping the entire course and picturing it in his head while he moved. Once he scanned an area, he was immediately able to place the location in relation to his position and the rest of the course. 

Not only was he expert at weaponry, a top notch marksman, his physical capabilities far exceeded their expectations. He was physically fit, but it was beyond that. He was evolved. He had a body awareness, not only in control of his physical actions, but the awareness of his own body moving through space. (He would be one hell of a lover) At times his movements were economical, not wasting a single iota of energy on a motion that was unnecessary.

But the movements that he did come up with were impressive. One motion would seamlessly flow into the next like a dance. A dance with bullets and weapons, but a dance nonetheless. 

He could shoulder roll while aiming and discharging a weapon.

He could knee slide to dodge obstacles.

He could position himself to make a defensive position into an offensive one. 

He could use a target as a cover, while taking out the target at the same time.

He could practice hand to hand combat for close quarter contact, simultaneously hit targets on the periphery with his weapon. 

At one point he threw his gun forward in the air, while on the move, used both hands to catapult himself over a low wall while the gun was still traveling through space. He caught the gun, landed and then swung it around in his hand and used it as a cudgel to incapacitate a target before he had a chance to reload. 

Agent Tequila leaned in.

“Holy shit.”

“Mmm Hmm.” Ginger replied.

If they hadn’t witnessed it on the monitors, they would not have believed it. 

It seemed like the further he got into the course, the better he performed.

He moved faster, with more precision, solved problems more quickly, took out more targets.

His most valuable asset, even more than his marksmanship and his physical and tactical expertise, would be his sheer creativity and his ability to improvise on the fly. It was as if, when faced with a problem, there was always a solution. You could almost hear him say, “Well, let’s find out.” The methodology that he used could be seen as unorthodox. It often purposely put him in harms way, but that same method enabled him to open a door to a solution that previously had not been possible. It wasn’t that the proposed solution was not feasible. The solution did not even exist until he created it.  He was confident enough to trust his own judgement and took risks in only the most challenging situations.

Agent Tequila, “If there was a soundtrack to go with this, that would be some kickass music”. 

Ginger nodded. She had to agree. Watching Harry move the way he did in his suit? It might seem silly or old fashioned or traditional to think what she did. He looked noble, gallant, honourable even.

Harry Hart was never one to disappoint. When he was expected to deliver, he delivered and then some. He completed the course while beating Statesman’s record time. To the observers, it felt like he had been in the warehouse for a lifetime. Hadn’t he been moving in slow motion? Some of them even forgot to breathe. 

He burst through the exit on the other side. The doors opened to the sound of cheers and applause. The breeze was cool on his skin, while the sun provided an inviting warmth. The air was fresh and crisp. It was a beautiful day to feel accomplished. He left any residual stress or tension behind. He felt light.

This was not a sight that Statesman was accustomed to seeing after a course was completed. More often than not, the agent would appear dazed, distressed, a little shell-shocked, a little traumatised, perhaps even rethinking his chosen career. Not many were cut out for this kind of work. Rarely did you ever see one, not just capable of the work, but made for it, thrive on it. Harry Hart was the latter.

Harry was exhilarated in a way that he hadn’t felt since he regained consciousness. The calm, cool, collected, focused, deadly Harry Hart from the warehouse gave way and a new man took his place. His expression opened up with a vibrant laugh that changed the very structure of his face. Hell, it changed him into a different person. Whatever, walls, barriers he built had fallen aside, revealing his true authentic nature. He was a man who enjoyed being alive. When he grinned, it was easy to imagine that he would have no problem winning hearts. Certainly most of the females that had watched him take the course were left a little breathless, a little enchanted. And actually, the men didn’t look that much different. 

Why did he seem so attractive at that moment?  

Why did he look so charismatic as he stood, tall and confident in his pinstripe suit, outside the warehouse with an easy smile and warm brown eyes? What had changed from the time he entered the course on the other side? 

The man who started the course had been handsome. The man that came out at the end? It would be easy to fall in love with him. That man was beautiful.

They were seeing a man in his element.  

They were witnessing a man finding his identity.

He seemed more present, more there, more alive. 

He finally felt like he had a place and a purpose. 

When he woke up in the medical ward, his first thought had been:  “My name is Harry Hart.” 

It was different now. There was a connection, a new realization. 

Now he was awakening outside the warehouse.

This time around, he thought to himself.

“I am Harry Hart.”

His brown eyes appeared even more golden in the sunlight. They were warm and inviting. No longer cold. No longer closed off. The light wind tossed a lock over his forehead. In a rare gesture he ran his hand through his hair.

He slung the communication headset around his neck, but not before jesting.

“All right.” He said definitively.   He paused for a moment.

He grinned. “Would you like to see that again?” 

——

What they discovered when Harry completed the course. …Whatever past Harry had come from, he had advanced tactical and technical skills that had muscle memory and strategy so ingrained into every fiber of his being that he didn’t need to think–he simply acted. In the face of immediate life threatening danger, he didn’t merely react to a situation. He took charge. He didn’t make decisions to survive. He made decisions to win.

They had to assume an agent of his caliber would be missed by his organisation. His talent, skill and expertise, if found in an agent, you very well make sure that agent stays in your employ. It was even likely that he was a senior agent or a director. They could certainly imagine him in a leadership role. A complicating factor could be that he was presumed deceased, and therefore, there was no chatter on the wire where you could find information, if only you knew what to look for. 

——

After Harry had literally triumphed over the course, there was a new aura about him. Before the trials, though he was always the perfect gentleman, he was reticent, distant, not quite aloof, but definitely keeping himself an arms length away. Both physically and metaphorically.

He wasn’t one to participate in any activities that weren’t directly related to him. He certainly didn’t spend time in the lounge, conversing with the others or stopping in for a cocktail. He didn’t socialise with any of the others. He would politely participate in conversations that happened around him. Could be quite engaging when immersed in a topic he was intrigued with. There was an unspoken invitation that he was always welcome. In addition, one of the Statesman usually asked him to join directly. Harry would always politely decline. Not offering a reason or excuse, but simply turning down the offer in his quiet, but firm way.

He answered questions that were directed to him, but when the conversation took a turn away from work and into more personal areas, he would offer his apologies and depart for a quiet location. He could often be seen a little aways from campus, sitting in the sun, an open book in one hand, a cup of tea in the other. 

He never spoke of his past unless he was questioning Ginger or Tequila for any information that they may have overlooked when they initially found him. By all appearances, he seemed to be handling himself well. Especially under the circumstances. But since they didn’t have a frame of reference, they didn’t know if he was usually so reserved, or if this was a result of the situation he found himself in. 

They found that he could horse ride. Once he brushed up on tacking and the most basic fundamentals of horsemanship, he was able to recall the rest on his own. He only rode alone. He never left the campus unless it was required by Statesman. He wouldn’t have anywhere to go besides. The only time he was away, was when he was on horseback. 

He did make an exception regarding his attire when it came to this activity. The Statesman all rode western style. A suit wasn’t the most appropriate. If they rode English, he would have requested a riding habit. His compromise? A pair of trousers, and a button down shirt. No suit, no jacket, no tie. Regardless, he did make a striking figure on horseback. Once he was, quite literally, back in the saddle, he handled himself gracefully. He was both firm and gentle with the animals and they responded to him in turn. He seemed more at ease and communicate more with the horses than with people. It was auspicious, though, seeing a cowboy hat perched on this head. 

They kept an eye on him, at least from a distance. Making sure that they caught any signs of undue stress, mental or emotional problems, disassociation, anhedonia, or displacement. The side effects of amnesia were hard to predict. If a person is unable to reclaim their lost memories, they would have to start rebuilding their history from scratch. This was easier for some than others. The older the person was when they suffered memory loss, the more difficult it became to let go of a past they no longer remembered.

With Harry being older than most of the Statesman, he may be having a harder time assimilating. Even though upon waking, he was coherent, intelligent, adaptive, accepting of his situation, once the realisation sets in that their condition is permanent, there may be a later period of denial that was similar to grief. Suffering the loss of their identity. 

Looking at the person that he was before the physical trials was like looking through a window that was covered with a thick film of dust. You might be able to discern that there was something significant, meaningful, worthwhile on other side of the glass, but it would always be a shadowy, vague, dim suggestion of what it actually was.

The tests had cleared away the dust and debris until the glass was clear, crystalline, perfectly see-through. And what had been behind the glass suddenly shone through. That person was the real Harry. Not the shadow form that you would occasionally see, always crossing from one place to the next. Hardly ever still. Never comfortable to remain in one place for long.

After the trials, he was more open, quicker to smile and engage in conversation. Though he would still refuse invitations on occasion, he would be more willing to accept with equal frequency. They discovered he could be quite the conversationalist. His dry wit and biting sense of humour was a welcome change to the often crass or juvenile comments from the male agents. 

If he wanted to, he could easily hold court. His accent and his deep voice were as captivating as his words. But never did he dominate a conversation. He always made a conscious effort to include everyone’s remarks and would even ask the opinion of those who looked like they wanted to say something, but were hesitant for one reason or another. He was more than willing to have someone else take the lead in a conversation, but if the conversation veered in an uncomfortable or inappropriate direction, he always managed to guide it back to civility. Not that he was opposed to a healthy debate, but he did believe that some words should be either said in private or not at all.

He was just as expert at navigating social situations as he was the field. This was a surprise to them since he was so withdrawn at first. They discovered that he was just someone who never wasted words. 

Not only did he become an increasing part of the fabric of Statesman’s front, he also participated more in the intelligence side of the agency. His insight was valuable, his strategies were sometimes unexpected but always effective, and his analysis sharp and concise. He didn’t go out into the field on operations, but he often assisted handlers and their agents with more demanding, complicated missions. Many times he was able to foresee an obstacle that they could avoid, or lead them out of an operation that had gone sideways. At first, the teams were hesitant to request his assistance, whether they were averse, intimidated or just nervous to approach him. But as he led teams into more successful missions, with less loss, less injury, less risk, he was often sought out, his time claimed in advance.

If he missed the field, it didn’t show. They still didn’t feel comfortable sending Harry out on assignment and he never requested a mission. They feared that the lack of direct action, the kind that he had participated in during his test course, would revert him back to the state where he was listless, closed off, removed. But he did not regress. If anything, he become more. It was difficult to explain to someone who didn’t know him during his transition. But with every passing day, with every new interaction, with every mission that he assisted, with every training session he held for advanced weapon and tactical skills, which he did have to admit, he particularly enjoyed, he just become more himself. 

By the end of the year, he was The Brit. Everyone knew him. Everyone adored him. He was free with his smile, his laughter, with a kind or encouraging word. His pinstripe suit was now a common site on campus. He had his own group of women that would pine after him, though he remained firmly unattached. His opinion was respected, his advice valued, his critiques, though sometimes harsh, were always considered constructive. 

He was not exactly gregarious, but he was a very skilled conversationalist. He could exchange witty repartee, as well as engage in topics with depth and you could trust that there was always something interesting on his mind. When he excused himself for any reason, you were left knowing more, feeling more, thinking more. However, by nature, they learned, he was a reserved and private person. But whatever walls or fences that he had constructed at the beginning of his stay, had slowly but consistently been deconstructed. On that bedrock, he wasn’t rebuilding his history. Without even thinking about it, he was fashioning a completely new one. 

The last year had been spent laying down the foundation for his new life, accumulating building blocks, each experience a new row of brick and mortar. He had let go, completely, of who he might have been in the past. The exercises that he and Ginger went through to try to recover his memory, from hypnosis, light therapy, trauma induced memory retrieval, did not work. After not even a modicum of success, felt that he spent an appropriate amount of time trying to regain his memory. He accepted the fact that his memory was gone. That he would be best to move forward. Not to look back. It was simple really. There wasn’t anything to look back on. So he began his life at Statesman.

—-

His awareness circled back to Statesman HQ, to their stateroom and fully to the present moment.  Ginger was explaining the last of the progress he had made during his year at Statesman.  He had finally reached a point of satisfaction with what was his life. Was he looking for more? Perhaps. Contentment wasn’t a natural state for him. There was always room for growth, for learning new things, and having new experiences.

However, ironically, not just because of the amnesia, he was not one for looking back. He felt that he had always been this way. Now, here were three individuals who were asking him to do just that. Asking him very earnestly, sincerely, and genuinely. 

Like the girl had said, his instincts would be triggered if they were being dishonest or withholding information.  He believed they were telling the truth and had nothing to hide. But for once, he was at a loss.  What was he to do with this information?  Was it even possible to be the person they wanted him to be? He was looking for an answer, but could find none.

He tested the weight of his questions. Was this a burden that he wanted to carry? Does a past that you can’t remember even matter? Should it even? Perhaps the only reason would be to recognise the relationships with those who still remembered you. Where was the honesty in that situation? Wouldn’t faking a past that you can’t remember be just as bad as pretending that you are the person that you used to be. While organising these questions in the folders of his mind, he kept his face calm and neutral. He didn’t have to decide anything at this moment. But he did need to establish boundaries.

He couldn’t give an answer to these three individuals. But what he could do was help them in their current situation. Help them find out who had destroyed their agency, what they were planning and how to stop them. At least, that he could offer. That, he could do. The rest would still be there. Problems, if ignored, only became more vexing. He would look at them later. Perhaps the answer would come to him.

“My sincere apologies.” He started. 

“Ginger is correct. I suffer from amnesia and I recall nothing about my history. Nothing prior to my time recovering here at Statesman. While I retain the skills and knowledge that I possessed in the past, I do not have any memory as to how or why I have them.

“We have tried every means available to recover my memories, with no success.” 

“But we are here now.” Merlin interrupted, encouraged. “We can remind you. Perhaps trigger something that makes you remember.”

“We can help. He’s right. “ Eggsy added. “Who knows more about you, than Merlin?”

Roxy nodded in agreement.

It was probably the first time the group looked somewhat enthusiastic.

Ginger interrupted. She was worried about this. She would have to be the one to grab their hopes and tether them back to reality. 

“Not to discredit your suggestion. If this were a different case, then yes, there is the possibility that it would work. But when someone is suffering from retrograde amnesia, unfortunately, their memory cannot be recovered by simply being informed about their personal experiences and their identity. What you are referring to is called the reminder effect. This would consist of re-exposing the patient to past personal information. This can work for other types of amnesia, but simply giving Harry details of his life won’t help him retrieve memories.”

Eggsy eyes narrowed. He was dubious. He was convinced something they said or told him could surely open up the gates to Harry’s memory. They just needed to try.  They just needed a chance. They hadn’t even had the opportunity to say anything to him at all. They looked toward Harry, imploringly.

Harry was his usual respectful, attentive self. But his expression was guarded and he was quiet.

Their frustration limped across the table in his direction. Ginger needed to redirect.

These people had been through hell and back. But Harry was her patient. And he was Statesman now, regardless of his pinstripe suit, his accent, or his British mannerisms. As much as she sympathised with their situation, there was the risk that Harry’s progress would stall or that he could relapse. The worst thing they could do would be to insist Harry be someone he no longer was under the misguided notion that they were helping him. Harry would be trapped, defeated and they would only face disappointment.  Ginger arranged the words carefully before she spoke.

“Memories are exceedingly intricate. But to simplify, making a memory involves storing information in the brain as a specific pattern of electrical activity.” she explained.

While avoiding excess jargon, she wanted to emphasise the complexity of Harry’s memory loss. If only it were as simple as forgetting something and not being able to remember.

“When we recall a memory, we recreate the pattern of electrical activity that formed it in the first place. This information is then distributed across different regions in the brain to retrieve the memory.  Injury in any part of this circuit can fracture memory function.  It’s not that the synapses, the path, necessary to make these connections, is blocked. It’s much more than that. There’s nothing at the end of the path. There’s nothing to retrieve. It is as if the memory was never made. It’s not hidden. It’s not in the subconscious. It’s not filed somewhere deep in his psyche. It simply does not exist.”

Disheartened. Dejected. Depressed. The three of them were the dictionary definitions. Ginger sighed. Being the bearer of bad news was never a party, but this was less than enjoyable.  However, she wanted to explain as much as she could so Harry wouldn’t have to. He had made so much progress in the past year. It had to be unsettling to face an unknown past, when you had made so much effort to be in the present.

Getting to her point. “Unfortunately, there is no established cure for retrograde amnesia memory loss. There’s no magic drug or deep-brain stimulation that jolts memories back into the mind. I wish there were. If recovery does happen, it largely occurs on its own.  With amnesia as a result of brain trauma, If you're really lucky, new pathways form among the remaining brain cells, like in stroke victims, or other parts of the brain take over from the damaged areas in what we call neural plasticity. But that is very rare.”

“Sometimes, the reminder treatment is more than ineffective, it can also be harmful. Too often, the stories people tell amnesiacs sound like someone else's life and it can be unsettling to them. Witnessing the disappointment of past friends, colleagues, and family when they can’t remember, or be the person who they used to to be, can be emotionally damaging. Having people tell you how to think and feel, or that you’re not who you are supposed to be can be distressing.”  

 “I don’t mean to be discouraging or unsympathetic. It’s crucial for us, for our own sakes, but most of all, for Harry’s,” she placed her hand on his forearm for emphasis, “ that we are realistic.” She wanted to be very clear as she drew her hand back and made her final, essential point “Do not make expectations that can only result in disappointment.”

As Eggsy, Merlin and Roxy discussed Harry’s future with the other Statesmen, Harry claimed this time to examine the three faces across the table. He set aside any of their mannerisms, agitations, conflicts that were due to the current circumstance and concentrated on what he believed to be their true and natural state. He didn’t try to analyse them, judge them or question what he saw. He tried to feel them. To feel the look in their eyes, to feel the expressions on their faces, to feel the quality of their movements.

He closed his eyes for a moment and just listened, not to their words, but to hear the sound of their voices. He felt their vibration.  Not only to see if anything sparked in his mind, but viscerally. A reflex, an intuition, a sensation that stirred something deep rooted in his bones. 

But his mind and his body were quiet and still.

It was time for him to speak up. Before he addressed them directly, sat up even straighter. Tall and silent. He did not make any of the usual gestures he did when preparing to take over a conversation. Familiar movements of brushing something non-existent off his suit, adjusting his cuffs, running his hand along the back of his hair, adjusting his glasses. He was still. His hands were clasped and rested on the table. 

Only seconds ticked by until everyone quieted along with him. Their heads all turned in the same direction. Harry could always pull attention to him without saying a word. 

He was also not one to hold back words that needed to be said. Time would be lost and nothing would be gained.  He did not want them to get their hopes up. He did not want to them to expect something from him that he could not deliver. 

For the second time, he opened with an apology. “I’m very sorry.” His eyes were sympathetic. 

They had the feeling he was preparing them for bad news.

His words were sure and resolute. There was no hesitation. No wavering. When Harry made a decision, he was firm.

“I do not remember Kingsman.” 

He shifted his weight forward in his chair, resting his elbows and forearms on the table and folded his hands together. It was a gesture of familiarity. He spoke directly to them, as if they were having a conversation. It wasn’t just reciting a statement. He knew, full well, they would be affected by his words. He knew that they would not be the words they wanted to hear. He knew it would be painful for them to be on the receiving end of his words, not matter how gently and honestly he delivered them. He would serve them by being unguarded, unreserved and up front.

He paused so they could process what he was telling them. 

“Prior to your arrival, I was not even aware of its existence.” He added frankly.

“I do not recall any relationships I may have had currently or in the past.” He spoke plainly.

“As much as you may want me to, and I recognise that you do, and I understand where that need comes from, I cannot say, in all honesty, that I know you.” 

Harry was nothing if not direct. 

His eyes held each of theirs. He saw the dejection in their faces. He could not help but feel empathetic. It was obvious that, whoever he was in the past, these people cared for him very deeply. Perhaps even loved. But for Harry, he was never this person and he was never one to fake an emotion he didn’t feel. 

He was compassionate, but firm. "I’m unable to say I even recognise you. I want to make it abundantly clear that I am not the man you used to know. I may look like him, I may sound like him, at times I may even act like him. But I am not him.” His voice was kind now. His face was gentle. His expression no longer guarded. 

“However meaningful your relationship was, no matter how strong the connection, I am unable to reciprocate in a way that would honor that bond.”

With an honesty and an openheartedness that touched all their raw wounds, he offered.

“It’s not that I can’t remember the Harry I used to be. Or that I do not care. It’s obvious that your relationship with this man was very important, very meaningful, to all of you.” 

He softened both his voice and his manner.  

“It is, that this person you used to know, in my eyes, he never existed.” His face gentled. Became grave and solemn, almost tender. 

“Do you understand?” 

And for Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin, that perhaps was the most painful moment of all. Because with the kindness they heard in his voice, and the softness they saw in his eyes, the way he held his concern for them, on his sleeve where they could see it, he was in that moment, everything that they knew and loved. He was their Harry Hart. He was their Galahad. 

-----

Whew! If you got this far thanks for reading. Let me know what you think, good, bad, funny, dumb, sad, WTF? Whatever.  

Always feel free to reblog, share with someone else who thought TGC had sooo much more potential. Or was pissed that they killed off Roxy. And don’t even get me started on Merlin....

#kingsman #kingsman fanfiction #kingsman fanfic #kingsman the golden circle #kingsman the secret service #harry hart #harryhart #harry hart fanfic #galahad #agent galahad #kingsman au #kingsmanau #colinfirth #colin firth #hartwin #merlahad #fan fiction #fanfic #kingsman movie #alternate universe #fandom

[canongoesboom]

bakugou: *bullies izuku*

nana, the violent one: punch him!

en, the former assassin, signing: then you should break his kneecaps and stab him

daigorou, the enabler: fight! fight! fight!

yoichi, the izuku fanboy who believes he can do no wrong: yes! beat his ass, kiwi!

izuku, who is just sitting there, in class: *thinking* hey guys what the fuck

#our implausible existence au #this is between the entrance exam and the first day of yuuei btw #so izuku isnt super chaotic #yet #haunted ofa #midoriya izuku #en #shimura nana #shigaraki yoichi #banjou daigorou #bakugou katsuki

[anongrapes]

@regulusarchieblack Tumblr wouldnt let me send the rest of my asks to finish what I was sending you so in just going to put it here

The huge au I made consists of my inability to not make more aus where Regulus lives and my deep want for Sirius and Regulus to get along and "so what if Sirius actually became Lord Black" so its ridiculous and very implausible but basically it follows Arcturus realizing how full of shit Walburga and Orion are when it comes to raising HIS HEIR and he takes custody of hid grandkids in the summer of 75 before the 75/76 school year.

Basically I wanted to write "so what if Arcturus is a good person" I have a scene somewhere where Arcturus is just so *appalled* that Sirius thinks he's the 'shame of the family' or _whatever_ Orion and Walburga had been telling him. That it is his *birthright* to be lord and while /yes/ he is a Griffindor it is simply a school (and while yes Dumbledore is a griffindor and he hates him he also hates a good number of Slytherins you would not BELIEVE the nerve of some people) and why does that even MATTER in the context of family?

He is p much like "Sirius you are the PERFECT HEIR simply because you EXIST and ARE YOURSELF. So many heirs of other families are weak minded puppets of the past who will have no backbone in the wizengamot. They won't stand for themself once they are old without elders to pull their strings. They'll look for someone to tell them what to do and how to vote. I do *not* want that for our house. You are strong willed and the perfect heir. What are you TALKING ABOUT?"

Andromeda is un-disowned after much pleading on Sirius's part. I think. I know she's back in thr family because Regulus is around young Nymphadora enough to call her solely Nymphie and nothing she does can stop him even when she's older.

This au ends up with Regulus being a Hogwarts professor in the future. He starts in the 87/88 school year (Tonk's 5th year) as DADA teacher because he was offered and was like "not much else to do currently why not" and realized he liked teaching so he started teaching History Of Magic in 88/89.

He switches to Theroy Of Magic after Dumbledore dies because he has Opinions and Thoughts on how the class was taught previously (as I fully support the dark magic and light magic are genetic magical traits fanon idea) he immediately is like Time To Educate Children On This Subject That Is Commonly Known In Every Other Country But Not Here Because Ye Olde Griffindor was Ye Olde).

Anyways, the Potters still die, and Sirius raises Harry. But this also leads to Regulus and Harry having funny interactions in school. Its sweet.

Also Draco and Harry are raised as cousins in this au because Narcissa is on friendly terms with Regulus and Sirius I guess, so this leads to Harry trying to mitigate all the fights between Ron and Draco during Hogwarts.

Draco is less of a brat I think but also I havnt put much of any thought into Harry's time at Hogwarts other than a few scenes.

Such as Hermoine not realizing Regulus is Harry's uncle and being Angry that Regulus is so unprofessional to Harry and how he always calls Harry to pass things out and she's like "it's discrimination!!" And Harry is sitting there confused and she gets even more frazzled when Harry is so nonchalant about it and then she learns he's his uncle and its like "..oh." And another where Regulus is like, high key panicking because why the HELL WAS YOUR NAME IN THE CUP, HARRISON POTTER idk. Also after the philosopher's stone Regulus is just "what are you doing?? Why??? Why did you do this why didn't you tell me???? Draco I am WRITING NARCISSA ABOUT THIS and RON. Molly will be DISPLEASED with you and HARRY. I AM TELLING SIRIUS WHAT YOU DID" but in actual writing

I forget what I was even talking about really but anyways Arcturus. Arcturus in my thing was alot like Sirius in Hogwarts. Not entirely tho. I had Dumbledore start teaching 5 years early in this because I just thought it would be funny if he could see Sirius his first year and feel terror in his heart because Oh God No He's Just Like Arcturus.

Arcturus was entitled, had a wand, and the headmasters grandson and he *knew* he was exempt from half the rules simply because most of the teachers refused to punish him (headmasters grandson) and he was great. He was brilliant in class (he is heir he has so many tutors) so he hardly needed to even try. He could stay out past crewfew because he was exempt from the rules. Phineas didn't really even know of his grandsons antics as almost everyone was far too afraid to report them. He was very loud and was very open about how much he adores Melania in every way. He would sneak off to hogsmead to buy her chocolate. They're adorable.

Anyway, yeah? -🍇

[raggedyblue]

WILLIAM, Sherlock,Scott, OF BASKERVILLE

Accepting the fact that Sherlock BBC is, among other things, a summa and reworking of all (let's say many because all would be honestly impossible) the previous adaptations of Doyle's creature, we cannot ignore THE NAME OF THE ROSE. Defined here (x) brilliantly a medieval AU because in other way it really couldn’t be done, considering that being a novel it is indeed a work of fiction (fiction). Furthermore, we can’t ignore how Eco was a fan of the sleuth, he wrote also essays about him and also edited a collection of pieces by various authors about the deductive method of Sherlock Holmes. The book is  THE SIGN OF THREE, and this should already get  our attention and I think that the Moffits have paid some attention to the Italian scholar (the book is about logic and semiotics and that are not exactly my cup of tea, so I will avoid talking about it further so as not making  me more ridiculous than it normally does, but you have to know that it exists). This is to say that probably Eco himself wouldn’t be too offended by being placed among fan fiction writers. But even this in the end is totally irrelevant, because as he himself says, once a book is complete, the author disappears, and the relationship that is created is between the reader and the work. The reader is free and obliged to draw his interpretations.

Obviously THE NAME OF THE ROSE is much more than a medieval transposition of Sherlock Holmes, it is a treatise on theology, philosophy and semiotics. A compendium of medieval history and an allegory of Italy in the 1970s, a set of puzzles. The readings that can be made of the book are many and this was precisely the intention of the author.

But obviously what interests us is Sherlock Holmes (always).

The protagonist of the book is called Guglielmo/William of Baskerville. The names are important, and this is a lesson that the Moffits have learned well. Stat rosa pristina nomina, nomina nuda tenemus. We may never come to know the true essence of things, the truth maybe  is unknowable, but at least we have the names and possess their knowledge. William  (don’t ring a bell?) as  William of Ockham . There's a lot of Ockham in Holmes's method. Occam's Razor for which for the solution of a problem the simplest solution must be applied among the existing ones, it is easily applicable to the Holmesian method. Once the impossible has been eliminated (cut off like a razor) the improbable (the complicated, implausible and unlikely solutions), even if unlikely, what remains, must be the truth. And the search of truth is a constant throughout the book, the truth about the crimes of the Abbey, but above all about the Truth as an absolute concept. A truth that, as William says, is liberty (THOB), but which escapes to the point at the end we/Adso/William are doubting its existence as an absolute concept. The William in the book is blatantly Sherlockian. English in the first place, higher than the norm, but which appears even higher as he’s very thin. He has a sharp and slightly hooked nose, his face is elongated with an expression that is both acute and alert. Very agile, endowed with inexhaustible energy in moments of activity, which alternated with others of complete immobility. We see him several times completely lost in his thoughts, with his eyes closed and his mouth following inaudible speeches. He is described  as being able to remain completely still on his bed, with vacant and silent eyes for long periods. Who describes him to us wonders if by chance it was not possible that this state was induced by mysterious substances, and at least once we see Guglielmo chewing mysterious leaves that help him to think. Easily inclined to give up sleep and food if the case dictates.

He has an extraordinary delicacy of touch if necessary. He is a man capable of fantasizing about a future in which boats will be faster and will go without the strength of men or sailing, a world in which flying and submarine vehicles will exist, because the things that are not there yet are not said not there will be. I would venture, not even that much, and call him a man out of his time. 

A normally mild man, he can become brusque and often, to bring an interrogation to a successful end, he takes advantage of a moment of weakness for the interrogated. This is one of those traits that I don't remember being canonical but that we certainly see in Sherlock BBC.

At talking about him is his young disciple, his blogger scribe. All we know of William and the affairs of the Abbey we know thanks to a manuscript that speaks of a manuscript which is then the manuscript of William's disciple. How many holmesian pastiche use the expedient of the rediscovered manuscript? I lost the calculation. This young disciple is called wADSOn, he looks to his teacher with affection and unspeakable wonder, and with his observations that seem irrelevant leads  Guglielmo on the way to solution (light conductor). He admits that once his master gives an explanation of his deductions, everything seems so clear that he regrets not having understud it alone. The function of Aso from the poetic point of view is to put a distance between the author and what is narrated. It is not the author who writes the story, but a young Benedictine from the 1300s. The narrator is young and still unaware and amazed at the things of the world, so when he tells about them he doesn't do it in a didactic tone, but as if it were something new for he as it is for us. Adso records events without completely understanding them, and this helps the less educated reader (I believe 98%) to navigate between these complex pages. If there is something he doesn't understand, it is probably something that Adso did not understud before him. This kind of trick is the same one used by Doyle that through Watson allows us to understand how the mind of Holmes works, step by step. This does not mean that wADSOn is stupid, on the contrary, only that he is learning. It doesn't even seem a coincidence that William is a monk. A man who has chosen to dedicate himself to the intellect, repressing and suppressing everything that is carnal. Adso is young, still impulsive and inexperienced, and will yield to the temptations of the flesh (once only).

A curious feature of Guglielmo is that, having now at least fifty years and presumably being presbyopic, he uses glasses, an unusual object for the time. It could be nothing but I like to read it a reference to Doyle as an ophtalmologist. And in a narrative space  the glasses are lost and the monk finds himself unable to read. We can say that this is a moment in which he sees, but can't observe. William reads the signs of reality to look for possible truths. In the first moment when we meet him he deduces the existence of a horse from simple signs left in the woods, he is actually a detective. But in his life he was also an Inquisitor, a position he left. We see him in the book confronting an inquisitor Bernardo Gui and we see the difference in attitude. The inquisitor is more interested in punishing the defendants, while Guglielmo wants to discover the culprits, "unraveling a beautiful and tangled skein". The same attitude that we see in Holmes that always looks a little beyond what the police do  and absolute justice does has more value than secular justice. In his search for truth, Guglielmo says that no hypothesis, even if extraordinary, should be overlooked. He himself tells that he aligns many elements that apparently have no connection and makes assumptions about them. But to arrive at a solution, he has to pretend many hypotheses, some so absurd that he is ashamed to tell them. The elimination of the impossible by staging. This sounds a lot like MInd Theater, doesn't it? Among the other references to the Canon, the most obvious is the use of a burned plant that creates visions. There is also a moment in which Guglielmo states that God must be good if he generated nature. Holmes will instead say that nature, its beauty (a rose!) Is proof of the existence of God (BRUC). The story of the novel unfolds inside an Abbey on the top of a hill. Inside the walls, barely contained, overlooking the rocks there is a construction called the Aedificium. It is divided into three parts. There is the Kitchen, the Scriptorium and the Library. An absolutely symbolic place. The kitchen is the body, it satisfies the needs, it prepares food but it is also the place where a carnal congress is consumed (food / sex metaphor). The Scriptorium is the space of intellect, of knowledge. The Library instead is conceived as a labyrinth, a place where knowledge is kept, but at the same time it is made inaccessible. Something very similar to the unconscious, which in the BBC Sherlock we see buried under the ground, while here it stands out against the sky (like a plane maybe). The curious thing is the shape of the building, built on a rigid symbolic and mathematical basis, it looks like this:

We find a similar shape both in the Mind Palace (Moriarty's cell and probably operating theater) and in Baskerville.

In the Library the books that are the sum of human, licit and illicit knowledge are jealously guarded, in fact the librarian reserves the right to keep some of them hidden. A structure that seems very similar to the human psyche, to the eternal struggle between conscious and unconscious thought, between memories and removed that in BBC Sherlock seems to be recurrent. The relationship between master and disciple is among the most platonic and there seems to be no doubt in this regard. Adso loves Guglielmo, loves his intellect but also his features, he argues in the purest way (not that the admiration imbued with sexuality cannot be pure, this is a heavy Catholic heritage from which we have not yet freed ourselves, but it is a meta for another time), but also he need to clarify unnecessarily  the concept and in later life he will confess to let the gaze linger longer on the young novices.

Guglielmo on his part is never if not paternal regard to Adso. Their relationship, however, seems weaker than that between the two original characters that inspired them, but that was probably not the point of the novel. This doesn't mean that the issue of homosexuality is not treated. If we want we can also say that all the dead involved had had homosexual relations and all had somehow had had to do with a forbidden book. The story takes place inside a convent, the characters involved are all men, apart from an external exception, feminine, which will seduce Adso, even if this fact is susceptible to interpretative doubts. Being a faithful chronicle of the times, homosexual relations are doomed, but after all even heterosexual ones it's just condoned. We are talking about friars. But if heterosexual relations are tolerated, they are part of heterodoxy, homosexual ones are decidedly condemned, like heretics. It is no wonder that in so many heresies sodomy is an integral part. It falls within the fear and condemnation of the different, the different is a heretic, the homosexual is different, homosexuality is heresy. An easy syllogism. In the name of the Rose the feminine is ephemeral. There is this unique beautiful girl with whom Adso will be joining the same night he had previously had an apparently innocent encounter with a friar. We see she only for a fleeting moment. The feminine seems to be an allegory of all that is seductive. Devilishly seductive because we are among men for whom the pleasures of the flesh are a weakness. 

Friar Ubertino, the one with whom Adso meets before giving in to the girl's flattery, speaks with desire of the forms of the virgin Mary, but he does so by holding the young Adso to himself. Every time a friar, which will then be indulged in homosexual pleasures, is described to us,  a feminine characteristic is added to him. The feminine is not something that exists in this context, but desire, love, jealousy, in its best and worst aspects, yes. And all this is represented, but only allegorically by the feminine. Besides, Adso will tell about the girl that he didn't even know her name. One wonders if he didn't know it or maybe he just didn't dare to name it. The debate between orthodoxy and heresy runs through the whole book. It is a mainstay. And if under a pure textual meaning we can read an other, political, one (the Italian Brigate Rosse as heretics) a further level of reading is possible, halfway between the subtext and the surface. Then again the relationship between homosexuality and heresy. And heretics were burned. Adso tells that he experienced a state similar to ecstasy in witnessing the burning of an heretic, an ecstasy that reminds him the fleshly one that he will then experience firsthand. A connection that amazes the friar himself, but that tells us a lot about the real nature of what he lived.

Guglielmo's antagonist is an old blind man who will eventually lead to the destruction of the Library. Their relationship is love and hate, admiration and repulsion. Difficult not to see the Moriaty / Holmes relationship. Towards the end we see the same old man in the middle of the Library which is actually a labyrinth, a labyrinth that is described as a web. Throughout the book the two tease, provoke themselves, do a dance that has a lot of seduction. All caused by a book that the old man wanted to keep secret and when this was no longer possible the Library ended up on fire before the water managed to extinguish its flames. "Guglielmo wept". (water/emotions). The theme of the book is the  laughter. It refers to a hypothetical lost Aristotle's book concerning the Comedy. In short the meaning of the book is that laughter has its own dignity, its cognitive value. Comedy, the comedian, saying things differently, ridiculing them, forces us to look at them more carefully, and we end up seeing the hidden truth. At the same time, even the most fearful things, when turned into comedy, lose their terrifying power. Laughter free from fear (and it is the main reason why it is feared) The thought is immediately at every moment when John and Sherlock are represented as homosexuals in BBC Sherlock. These are always jokes, ridiculous moments. But as we are told in the fictitious book in The Name of the Rose, laughter conceals the truth. A book in a book that talks about books, because, it is repeated several times, all books speak of other books, each book is a reference to a previous book and from obvious books it is possible to arrive at occult books. As if to say that to understand a book it is enough to have another one. London AZ for Sherlock and our still unknown book. Unknown probably because not unique. A set of books (code booKs), but just because Sherlock Holmes has left the sphere of books and has expanded himself into other media. The Name of the Rose is a book about books, a complex labyrinth of intertextual quotations, but also a use manual of books. The books are something that involves the author and the text in the first place, but once it's finished,  the relationship is the one that is established between the reader and the text. And the texts are meant to be interpreted. "Books are not meant to be believed but to be subjected to investigation. In front of a book we must not ask ourselves what it says, but what it means ... the letter must be discussed even if the supersense remains good. " *I humbly apologize but I don't have a reference text in English, so this is a horrid, as usual for me, translation of the perfect Eco's Italian  (sooner or later I will learn English .... maybe when I won't lose so much time on a certain author ;-P) A licence for those like us who want to go beyond the visible, the admission that a text is more of what appears, which is susceptible to generate always different readings without ever running itself out completely. And this is true for some books more than for others, because in some the subtext presses towards the surface, barely contained by metaphors, mirrors and allegories. Since ancient times methods for expressing truth. Metaphors, puzzles, word games, which sometimes seem put in a text out of pure delight, often hide truths that want to be kept silent, for various reasons, to most people. A book on books that talk about books hidden in books, books that hide the truth under layers of words. A book about a medieval Sherlock Holmes and rarely the universe is so lazy.

@sarahthecoat @possiblyimbiassed @gosherlocked @ebaeschnbliah @sagestreet

#the name of the rose #sherlock reference #code books

[toonstarterz]

BECAUSE I’M NOT POPULAR, I’LL READ WATAMOTE: CHAPTER #141

The first half of Golden Week is over, and Tomoko has found herself the object of “platonic" affection for four different suitors. And as our intrepid heroine muses over the which of them to pursue, out of nowhere comes the dark horse. Once thought to be missing in action, this little girl, having been there since the very beginning, threatens to overtake the competition in one psychotic swoop. 

Chapter 141: Because I’m Not Popular, I’ll Go to School with Kii-chan

The things that Stuffed Yuu-chan and Pals have seen...

Ah, the classic Introvert Burnout. I had a feeling Tomoko would be drained after having what may have been the most socially stressful time of her life. Not simply for being social, but for how much she had to navigate as a fish out of water. Each “date” involved a new experience for Tomoko to address, and that much effort at once can be really exhausting for a layabout like her.

That my friend is what we in the TvTropes community call, “Tempting Fate”.

Heeeeeere’s Kii-chan!

Can’t even begin to tell you how much I love this entrance. We all know who Kii-chan is. But even those outside of the loop would get a feel for who she is. Adorable and sweet-natured, but disturbing due to an apparent lack of negative emotions (even when appropriate). Ah, Kii-chan, it’s been far too long. 

Nothing to say here, really. Just think it’s a particularly lovely picture of Tomoko. 

Because the popularity of a manga series is largely dependent on real-time reception, it’s very common for mangakas to add new, “popular” characters, or give the spotlight to characters who’ve been out of focus. Watamote is no exception. It may seem contrived to bring Kii-chan back after being gone for a while, but it works here because it relies on Kii-chan’s character to it, instead of a series of implausible plot developments. Kii-chan is just considerate of her cousin’s schedule–that’s all we need.

The first hint of Tomoko’s reawakening as the role model onee-chan. 

One of the perks of being a sporadically-appearing character is that you can really see just much the art style has evolved since the character’s last appearance. For Kii-chan, she hasn’t really changed much design-wise other than being a little taller. But even then, the linework is much cleaner and consistent this time around, which compliments the more “everyday slice-of-life” approach Watamote’s been embracing. 

If only she could grow a nose.  

The best thing about this type of censorship is that you don’t necessarily have to understand what's being censored. All you really need is a bit of context to put the pieces together. The outlines are detailed enough that we can see the characters as some kind of humanoids with animal features. And given what we know about Kii-chan, it makes perfect sense.   

Y-Yeah, I...I’ve totally heard of that show.

Other than the whole Ucchi situation (which is slowly becoming an unintentional blessing), this is the last of the misunderstandings that still needs resolving. It’ll be hard, though, since this particular issue isn’t that troublesome. For now...

Look at that platonic sibling bonding.

Perhaps I’ve been conditioned by manga/anime, but I find it refreshing how Watamote has managed to develop the Kuroki siblings’ relationship while avoiding any incestual subtext. Lots of series oversell the sibling relationship by having them be overly affectionate and clingy. With Watamote, their bond feels organic because they don’t have to be touchy-feely. An unspoken quality time is all there is to it.

It’s hard to get a read on Tomoko’s emotions here, but at the very least, she seems troubled. It could very well be that Tomoko just realized that she’s changing in regards to the media she consumes. The former her would’ve probably jumped on the Kemono Friends bandwagon, but the reality is, Tomoko’s otaku interests are being compromised by the mainstream, at least as mainstream as rap battles get. 

But the kicker is...she realizes this change isn’t all that bad.

Of course, nothing beats watching anime with your psychotic cousin. 

The whole “pet-sitting” relationship they have here is a tricky one since each side is trying to accommodate the other based on “flaws” that don’t exist (or no longer exist). This usually results in an endless cycle of misunderstandings that lead to nowhere, but this confusion has transcended that cycle to develop into a progression of sorts. Similar to the Ucchi situation, the absurdity became so frequent that it just became reality. One that each side has been influenced greatly from.

With her constantly adorable face, you forget that Kii-chan is a middle-schooler and is therefore old enough to know about things like sex and perversion. Like Yuu-chan, she may look innocent, and while she was aware of such things as a kid, she didn’t really get it until they approached high-school age.  

You know, I read this really good manga called Kaguya-sama: Love is War (shameless plug, I know), and they actually had a chapter about a rap battle a while back. Given that both series tend to be up-to-date on contemporary trends, it makes me wonder...has rap suddenly become a hot thing in Japan? Or has it always had its niche audience?

I’m sure many fans knew that this was going to be an inevitable development whenever Kii-chan showed up again. Unlike Tomoko’s school friends, Kii-chan wasn’t there to see the slow, gradual growth of Tomoko’s character, so it must have hit her like a ton of bricks to see her precious onee-chan go from helpless loner to mature teen in the blink of an eye. 

Sometimes I wonder just how pitiful Kii-chan thought Tomoko really was...

Why would you censor Disneyland now of all times?

Those of us who were clamoring to get close-ups of the photos taken in the Disneyland arc finally get their wish.

The Kowarith photo is my favorite, even though two-thirds of the people in it are faking their asses off. While that may be my personal bias towards the Tomoko-Yoshida-Yuri trio, I think it reflects a better sense of kinship between the girls. The effort is there, phony as it is, to support each other in an awkward situation, which is fundamentally what the series is all about.

The assumedly Fireworks photo is also pleasing, make no mistake. You can definitely feel more genuine emotions (or lack thereof) being expressed than in the other photo. But this focuses more on the individual than how they work as a collective group, despite there being more people. The girls ultimately look like six different colored Skittles–part of the same package, but each unique.    

Could this be the start of Kii-chan revitalizing her perception of Tomoko as a super popular girl? I sure hope so.

How ironic. Kii-chan’s perspective of Tomoko is starting to grow ever so gradually on the upside, whereas Tomoko’s perspective of Kii-chan grows more and more negative.

Hang on, is that supposed to be some fake Dragonite shirt? Neat.

At this point, people assuming that Yoshida as some kind of punk based on her looks is a dead horse of an issue. Some stereotypes exist for a reason, I suppose.

I see your game, Nico Tanigawa, using a deliberately vague line about “two girls” to make your readers overanalyze a single panel. All I have to say to that is that I am completely and utterly guilty.

One of the girls is probably Yuri, if only because she’s the only girl to appear in both photos. As for the second girl, your guess is as good as mine. I’m inclined to say Ucchi because if Kii-chan only has their appearances to go on, then Ucchi and her emoji-face make quite the impression.   

I’m getting Yuu-chan vibes here with the way Kii-chan phrases half-insults with a friendly demeanor. 

+ 1 TO THE HAREM.

Kii-chan is definitely that relative you leave a self-imposed boundary on. Fine in small doses, like at parties and family gatherings, but long-term exposure is unhealthy for the brain. This isn’t even a wholly exaggerated fantasy on Tomoko’s part. Okay, the eating bit is a little much, but given that Kii-chan allegedly dreams about treating Tomoko like a pet, the latter is right to be a little concerned.

There needs to be an AU one-shot of Tomoko, Tomoki, and Kii all going to the same school at the same time. Right. Now. 

I do appreciate that despite Kii-chan’s deteriorating sanity, Tomoko doesn’t view her as a lost cause and even tries to put a positive spin on it. Reconciliation Arc is a-go! 

Did Kii-chan really have that big of a growth spurt, or has Tomoko just reached her peak in height? Not sure how far the genetics will go, but Kii-chan becoming taller than Tomoko is only going to make her even more intimidating. 

This little scheme of hers is definitely reflective of the “old” Tomoko, but there’s a nice reversal going on here. Instead of Tomoko trying to make things sound cooler than they actually are, she’s trying to make things seem worse. Of course, Murphy’s Tomoko’s Law states that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Especially if Tomoko wants it to go right. 

Ah, Ogino. The only character whose relationship with Tomoko has remained relatively unchanged despite indirectly having the most impact on Tomoko’s life.

Better update her Wiki page now. 

It’s pretty telling how it’s these two who cause Tomoko the most grief. It’s not the delinquent who routinely bashes her face in, not the pervert(s) lusting after her little brother, and not the otaku who passive-aggressively teases her. As for why, I think it boils down to the fact that Ogino and Kii-chan challenge her comfort zone the most. It also doesn’t help that Tomoko doesn’t interact with them as often as the others, so she hasn’t really had the time to get desensitized by them.

This freakin’ teacher, man.

The second worst part of Ogino’s “help” is that she never actually lies. Sure, she exaggerates to hell and back, but it’s always loosely based in reality, like some cheap movie adaptation of a best-selling novel. 

But the worst part of it is...you can’t hate Ogino for it. Her personal assessment may be founded on largely suspect reasons, but it’s still an honest assessment. I have no doubts that Ogino really is proud of Tomoko, and that’s exactly why she’s the best worst teacher.

That’s true. If Ogino gave that spiel to people like Hijirisawa or Hatsushiba–y’know, people who don’t know her as well–they might actually buy that crap. But people who know Tomoko like Yuri or Nemo, people like us, can tell that Ogino’s sugarcoating the whole thing. Kii-chan, with her terrifying skill for knowing too much, is no exception.  

Ah, I see. This is one of those put-all-the-secondary-characters-who-we-haven’t-seen-in-a-while-into-one-chapter chapters. 

Can’t complain, though. I like Itou. 

“Or something” can also be translated as “lust after Tomoki”. 

We don’t really have much to go on for how Itou views Tomoko, but I think it’s reasonable to think that she may not see her in that good of a light. Not only did Tomoko give off a weird impression when she played off the whole fist bump thing, but Itou’s “powers of perception” probably made her aware of Tomoko and Komiyama’s frenemy-ship, hence her “warning” that Komiyama was around.

The Inherent Awkwardness of Second-hand Relationships: The Life of Tomoko.

Betcha’ no one saw this interaction coming. Whether it’ll lead to anything more remains to be seen. Itou’s still got the whole “friendship potential” going on with Futaki, but given that she has the tolerance to BFF Komiyama, I see no reason why she can’t befriend a psycho like Kii-chan. 

That desire to “loudly blow” is Kii-chan’s inner demons screeching out in desperation for release. I pity the fool who unleashes the beast.

That does sound like your typical amateur definition of a psychopath, doesn’t it?

For the record, I don’t actually believe Kii-chan is a psychopath, despite the jokes I made. There are way too many moments that discredit such a claim. Now, if you were to accuse Kii-chan as being some sort of deviant (sexual or otherwise) I might see that. But ultimately, I think Kii-chan was just a victim of having her innocence shattered too fast and too soon, which made her more, uh, crafty than Tomoko could handle. 

Man, it’s been a long time while since we last saw Dicky-chan, hasn’t it? Hope we get to see more of her (and Sayaka, for that matter) after this chapter.

I love how even when she’s collecting masturbation material, Komiyama has to hold her camera phone all lady-like. If the term “purevert” ever needed a concrete definition, this girl would be it.

Main Character privileges, that’s why. 

Get. The. FUCK. Out. Of. Here.

With each subsequent appearance, Komiyama’s standard for what constitutes a bitch primed to steal away her Tomoki-kun falls hilariously lower. It’s not enough that a girl in their class makes two seconds of eye contact with him, nosiree. Any girl with an inkling of a relationship with Tomoko is not immune, even if it’s his own damn cousin. Granted, I don’t think Komiyama would be so pathetically scummy as to confront Kii-chan about it like she did to Yoshida.

...I hope.

“Best friends” may be stretching it now that we’ve gotten this far in the series. However, there is one aspect of Tomoko and Komiyama’s relationship that triumphs over all the others:

Absolute candidness. Even now, the only one who gets to see the complete, raw package that is Tomoko Kuroki is Komi-something. While Tomoko has made substantial friendships with the likes of Yuri, Nemo, and Katou, Tomoko still restrains herself just a tad lest she pushes them away. It’s only with Komi that Tomoko bears her full ugliness, which I think has developed into some freakish level of respect/understanding that none of the others can claim.

Damn, even the bishounen dude gets to make an appearance. All we need know is Lethal Chef Girl to make a cameo and I’m set. 

Nope. Any game is an away game when your “harem” shows up to cheer you on.

A few people have expressed discontent with how the chapter seems to end so abruptly, and it’s a fair criticism. It may be the lack of a “Next time...” tagline throwing people off, but while this chapter indeed ends at an odd point, it’s not that unprecedented. Some of the previous chapters ended this way, like that time Komi was all “Oi!” at Yoshida at the cafeteria, which indicates that this chapter is likely one of those series-of-vignettes that also doubles as a build-up chapter. 

On a positive note, while the chapter does feel prematurely ended, how the next chapter plays out if it is connected to this one is sure to be a surprise. 

#watamote #watamote review #chapter 141 #no matter how i look at it it's you guys' fault i'm not popular! #tomoko kuroki #kiko satozaki #ogino #itou #kotomi komiyama #akari iguchi #tomoki kuroki #that one bishounen dude #review

[yeoldontknow]

It Was The Night: 2

Author’s Note: welcome to part 2! again, please note this is not meant to be historically accurate lmao i cant seem to stress this enough Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: drama; historical au; romance; suspense Rating (this chapter): PG Word Count: 1,722

II.

It has never escaped my attention that Monsieur Park had, from the time I was child, better perceptions of my future and interests than I have ever been able to decipher. From the moment he saw me, singing to God and to the mass, he seemed to know me, seemed to see inside my soul, or, perhaps, heard my soul, and divined my needs before I could voice them.

My arrival at the Opera seemed, for all intents and purposes, a very long overdue homecoming. At long last I had found men and women, boys and girls, whose knowledge and passions so greatly matched mine. Their continual and profound sense of humour, wit, and imagination provided me with the endless hours of the entertainment I had so been craving.

Within weeks I had made a home of my new chambers, secret imaginary friends replaced with boys as talented as I, and girls with pink, smirking lips, glimmers of possibility contained in the bat of an eye or the flick of a skirt. In the seamstress, I had found the mother figure I had been lacking; in the various stagehands, teachers and playmates, limitless in their knowledge and boundless in their energy, their playfulness.

My first night, the older girls in the room, wickedness and mischief dancing in their rises, pushed our six beds together. As we clambered onto our thin mattresses, they began to tell us, the three new choral members, the story of the Opera Ghost. We sat cross legged, our night dresses tucked beneath our knees to keep out the draft, with a slight forward lean to our spine as we clutched desperately to every word Clara, the eldest in our room, spoke.

Keeping her voice low, she told of music in the recital hall from a grand piano without its player, of footsteps in the rafters of the chapel, dark shadows lurking in mirrors. Always the same shape yet existing wholly without a true form, a paradox of malintent that left a chill wherever it passed.

I drank every detail, eyes wide with curiosity. I imagined a gruesome hanging in the chapel, a suicide in the throes of the black death, and, perhaps most surprising of all, I did not blush for my indiscretion. In truth, I was titillated by the drama of these thoughts, giggled to myself, excited by the thought of what Father Ezekiel would think of me now so soon after my departure. Had I already succumbed to a Godless city? Given over to the temptation of the scarlet warmth of bloodshed? Excessive, theatrical, melodramatic, and turning from the watchful eyes of angels?

‘How did he die?’ asked a young, quiet tongued girl named Jacqueline, with whom I had shared my carriage ride.

I was so pleased she had asked the question begging release from my lips. Yes, I mentally pleaded, tell me if it was bloody, if it was silent, if his guilt is spread throughout the mortar of the stones.

‘That’s the thing,’ Clara whispered, forcing all of us to lean centimetres closer. ‘He is very much alive!’

The moment she said “alive,” Elisabet, Clara’s partner in crime, shouted with a howl so terrible, all the girls screamed. Clara laughed in the candlelight, her jaw seeming to detach with the force of her cackle as her cheeks and eyes suddenly became sunken, hollow. Our cries and their laughter only subsided when Madame Catherine, the caretaker of the grounds, opened our chamber door and demanded we turn out our candles with a draconian glare.

I stayed awake that night beneath the itchy cotton of my bedding, until the birth of the sun in our picture window, imagining a man draped in shadows and living without light. Would his skin feel like wax? Did he move along the river of plumbing, with the tide of the Seine and amongst the bones of fallen stone masons? His hands dominated my mind, the fingers of a pianist with the bones of a skeleton, strong, cold, and lethal.

But as wild as all these thoughts may have been, as scandalous and fascinating they were, I decided just before dawn that his existence was impossible, a fabrication in the minds of girls hoping to exert their authority.

Such a thing could not be real, I told myself pragmatically. Surely such a famous institution would know of a man living within its walls, either to hide from Parisian police inspectors or the slow starvation of poverty. No, such a thing would not be tolerated.

I lived, rather joyously, for three years with this notion, and I watched, yearly, as Clara, and eventually Elisabet told the story of the infamous Opera Ghost. Such experiences had never once happened to me, nor to any of the members of staff I had bravely asked on a December night when the wind held a particular musical howl in its blusters.

‘Your stitches are becoming messy, child,’ scolded the seamstress as I mended a torn frock.

I squeezed my eyes shut, then, tried furiously to ease their dryness and bring forth the sound of blood rushing into my ears. These things, I hoped, would distract mind from the sound of the wind.

‘Apologies, Madame,’ I said, attempting hastily to re-thread my needle. ‘It’s just...the wind…’

All further words died on my tongue before I could voice them, suddenly feeling terribly foolish for these worries, but still, in my childish mind, the possibility of an opera ghost felt terribly real, if only for this brief moment.

The seamstress scoffed, drumming her fingers on the mess of my table. ‘Fear not the wind,’ she stated, though there was some compassion in her tone. ‘It will bring you no harm.’

Still, though, these platitudes did not appease me. For it was not the wind that bothered me, it was the humming within, the pattern and its wistful qualities that brought a chill to my spine. My fingers fumbled with my needle for several moments, caught between the desire to speak and the desire to align myself with the adults around me, wanting to sound mature and ladylike in my beliefs. In the end, my fear won over, wanting confirmation or, perhaps, affirmation, that my suspicions were correct.

‘But the opera ghost, Madam. Does he not live in the wind? In the walls?’

Even as I said the words, I regretted them, wanted to slip beneath the stones of the floor because even such a statement sounded implausible, foolish in its sentiments. And, for this, I was reprimanded.

The seamstress laughed, although the sound was hollow, pressing a hand at the bodice of her corset to ease her breath before she spoke. ‘Ignorant child,’ she said as her laughter calmed, ‘that is simply a story. A story that has been told even when I was a girl in this opera. Don’t believe such tales. Head down and focus your energies on your stitches.’

These words silenced the conversation, made my back curl over as I diligently returned to my work. A sense of pride settled into my bones, glad for the assurance that this was impossible, unlikely, and that I, of course, had been correct in my suspicions. My stitches, then, became straighter, more taught, and no longer did the wind carry a hymn.

Like this, I lived in jovial contentment until the eve of my seventeenth birthday, when I was the last to bed as it was my turn to assist the maids in costume redressing for Les Abencérages. Under the cover of twilight and with one crooked candle as my guide, I made my way to the basins for my nightly wash. The halls had grown dark, shadowed high with the contrast of dark stones and the flicker of firelight. Alone, my footsteps fell in hurried patterns, carrying my body on the balls of my feet so as not to disturb the silence.

Sometimes, as I turned sharp corners, I felt myself being followed, heard scratches in the walls that felt animalistic or in human. As I walked, I reminded myself the building was old, that the foundation of the architecture had settled into the ground like bones. I imagined the building growing, a great maw behind the walls opening to shift around the stones, the structure of the opera house constantly expanding as though it were alive.

In the bath salon, I grimaced as I set my candle on the stand by the mirror to undress, the thought of bathing in the left over, cold water infinitely less than ideal. There was no rush in my motions, choosing instead to delay the chill of the dull water over my skin for as long as possible. My mind raced with music and lessons from the day, fingers still store from my grip on the needle, joints aching. Distracted, perhaps, is the best way to describe my mind, eyes sore and tired, and I think that is why I felt the truth of this evening was muddled in the mire of exhaustion. To this day, I sometimes wonder if I saw it at all, if the vision had been a truth, even though I have every confirmation that it was.

For as the light flickered, I noticed a shadow in the corner of the mirror. It appeared first out of the corner of my eye until I offered it my full focus, my full attention. I waited in stillness for the vision to fade and, when it did not, I became entranced.

I did not yell, I did not gasp. Instead I remained, still, trembling fingers poised on the drawstring of my bloomers as I studied it. It held the shape of a man, tall, and slim, distracted and paying no attention to me. I could only see the outline of his profile as he spoke, quite vigorously, with an unseen conversation partner. Finally, with a flick of his hand, he turned to face me and, in the dim light and the grit of the mirror, I could only just see full lips and a strong jaw before he slipped away through a corridor that did not exist behind me.

I left the bath salon, then, choosing instead to wash the following evening.

#chanyeol x reader #kpoptrashtag #kwriterskollection #noonanet #chanyeol au #chanyeol fanfiction #chanyeol scenario #chanyeol fanfic #exo fanfic #exo au #exo scenario #exo fanfiction #park chanyeol