#two of my players became the vessels of the gods of light and darkness and duked it out and fast forward a year or two | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hunterartemisanime · 4 years

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KnB commentary : Why Kuroko and Kagami make such a compelling Duo (The Astrological Angle)

In my previous post I made a brief discussion about how the KnB characters don’t fit in their Zodiac stereotypes and how they fit in quiet well with traditional Eastern (Vedic) astrological views. Here I need to discuss why Kuroko and Kagami are the “Light and the Shadow” of the series and how it is seen through their Astrological signs (Sun Sign)

Kuroko is born under the Second Aquarius constellation of Shatavisha (the constellation of 100 Physicians) Ruled by the North Node of the Moon and Kagami is born under the first constellation of Leo, that of Magha (the blessed one) Ruled by the South node of the moon. These two are very special signs under very special constellations. The nodes are shadow planet and that’s how the Vedic Mythology explains how these were created (trust it’s important)

Story time:

Okay... so eons back, in the ages of God: Indra, King of Gods and Master of Thunder pissed off a sage real bad. That sage cursed the gods to be bereft of “Shree” or “Fortune”--the entire universe fell into complete chaos because there was poverty, famine, weakness, petulance everywhere. So the gods and the demons gathered (for the first and final time) to churn up the oceans to bring the Goddess of Fortune or “Shree” (popularly known Laxmi) back.

The churning was done with the help of a great serpent and a mountain named Mainak, and the Demons pulled the snake from one side and the Gods from the other end. Long story short, a lot of things came out, including the Shree, and the Elixir of immortality. all the things were divided between the Gods and Demons by Vishnu the God of Sustenance and husband of Shree, but when it came to the Elixir, none of the groups wanted to share it with the other. So Vishnu meditated that both will get equal share, but he knew if Demons got it, they will destroy the universe with their dark powers. So he tricked the Demons into thinking that they were getting the elixirs, while the Gods drank it for real.

One of the Demon, Rahu, figuered the scam out and joined the God’s team in disguise; and who found him out: Surya (the Sun) and Soma (the Moon). whilst the demon was having the elixir and it reached only to his throat, Vishnu beheaded him with his Discus. The Head became Rahu: The North node of the Moon and the Headless body became Ketu: the South node of the Moon. Because the state were brought by two luminary bodies, they are still trying to kick their asses whenever these shadow planets conjunct with Sun and Moon in birth chart.

Kagami, the Ultimate light to Kuroko

In Astrology, Ketu or the South node represents hidden talents, detachments, things that gets stored as Karma and gets result later: be it good or bad. The Rahu or the North Node on the other hand signifies illusions, phantoms, big ideas, out of the box thinking, excessive desire, passion and immense gains. Rahu is the head, who is full of ideas but needs a vessel to fulfill his desires in the earthly life. Kuroko, from the very beginning had this very impossible standard to conquer his old schoolmates, The Generation of Miracles, who were vastly out of his league as basketball players: he is this “phantom” that is looking for a conduit because he cannot be alone as an individual to shine.

Kagami on the other hand is this prodigious player with his immense power and skill which comes naturally to him without even “trying too hard”: this is Ketu talking. Ketu sometimes gives people (especially in fire signs) the hidden talents or skills that they can do without trying too hard, and they think it’s natural. But Ketu being Ketu also creates detachment through it with other people who think that it is unfair when he gets to be so good, while they are barely scratching the surface. He is a power stored up and he practically has no direction other than “being no 1”--he has no clue how he will do it until Kuroko comes in picture.

In Kagami-Kuroko dynamics, Kuroko is definitely the brain of their duo: he is the one who puts sense in Kagami, puts stratagies in him in early stages, and Kagami is the body: with his talent he utilities Kuroko’s potential to the fullest. Incidentally, Kuroko’s birth constellation is ruled by the “Head” North node, and Kagami’s the “body” South node.

In the Zodiac wheel, the First Six Signs are: Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo and Virgo and on their opposites, respectively sit Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius and Pisces. It can be seen clearly that right to the opposite of Leo: “the House of Sun” sits Aquarius: “The House of Saturn”--polar opposites. One represents heat, passion, extravagance (sun) the other conservation, coldness and calculation (saturn)--they were meant to counterbalance each other: Kagami getting cooled off while Kuroko getting the warmth.

Why Aomine-Kuroko/ Akashi-Kuroko Didn’t become the thing

Both Aomine and Akashi are sun influenced: Aomine is born under the second Sun ruled constellation Uttar Phalguni (the younger red one) and Akashi is born under the final sun ruled constellation, Uttar Ashada (the undefead one). Sun born people are filled with energy and they radiate plenty of it. And because of the radiance, the Nodes influenced or Rahu and Ketu influenced people love to be around them, to bask into their light and warmth. While the Sun energy benefits the Node, (Kuroko, who is Rahu influenced), it makes the Sun energy either drained or combust: either they flare up too much with energy, or they just get exhausted. Even in Horoscope, whenever Rahu sits with Sun in the same house, it eclipses the Sun: it comes from the Vedic Myth that because Sun and Moon found out Rahu’s mischief, Rahu tries to swallow them up from time to time and Solar and Lunar eclipse occurs (please don’t @ me every culture has their own Mythic take on these things)

Aomine broke out into depression after he started playing with Kuroko as a duo. I am not saying it is Kuroko’s fault, but here some of Kuroko’s draining Nodal energy comes in play. Daiki became very good, almost combust with energy and suddenly he fell into this void of space. This is what Rahu does: it gives sudden gains and takes it all away.

Akashi on the other hand is complicated to understand from the first. I had my doubts, like why would he come to scout Kuroko all the way from his ranks and teach him the phantom passing technique? Then I understood something else when I started to do this thing: Akashi, born under the Last Sun Rule Constellation had already reached the maturity of the Sun energy--which means the Sun was wise enough to keep the draining nodal energy at bay. The budding rising sun is represented by the Krittika Constellation under which Hyuuga is born (Taurus), then comes the Youthful and vigorous midday sun Uttar Phalguni,Daiki’s birth constellation (Virgo) and then comes the Old and mature afternoon sun Uttar Ashada, Akashi’s constellation (Sagittarius) represent the Three Sun energies in Zodiac Constellations, and Akashi amongst them represent the light of the sun with it’s imposing and without the harshness. Perhaps it’s his stars that convinced him to give Kuroko a position that will maximize their “gains” (a domain Rahu represents, along with 11th House of Zodiac: Aquarius) through passes. But he would not be working with him 1-on-1 because the gains must be distributed wisely

Tags: @sidd-hit-my-butt-ham @yanderebakugo @kurokonbscenarios @kurokonobasket @kurokonoboisket @art-zites @idinaxye @sp-chernobyl @strawbe3ryshortcake @reservethemoon @rilnen @a-shy-potato @thirsthourdemon @animebxxch @edagawasatoru @akawaiishi-blog @reinyrei @chloe-noir @theswahn @ahobaka-trash @jeilliane

#kuroko no basket headcanons #kuroko no basket astrology #oha-asa horoscopes #anime astrology analysis #anime astrology headcanons #vedic astrology #astrological compatibility #rahu astrology #sun astrology #ketu astrology #Kuroko tetsuya #kagami taiga #seijuro akashi #aomine daiki #knb analysis zodiac style #Generations of miracles horoscopes

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nadziejastar · 4 years

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What are your thoughts on the various types of lesser Nobodies?

The members of the Organization each had their own distinctive weapons that didn’t exactly cooperate if someone else tried to use them, but Keyblades were even more particular. If someone else so much as tried to pick it up, a Keyblade would simply return to its wielder’s hand. Or so Xion had heard.

We should have gotten to learn how the members of the organization got their weapons.

Nobodies derived their personalities and abilities from memories of their human lives. But what exactly were those abilities? What gave rise to them? The answer that came to mind was the presence of memory itself. They were chained by their memory, and in those bonds was power. So it was probably fair to say that Roxas and Xion were bound by the same memory.

And we should have learned how they got their “personalities” and abilities, too. The Nobodies they control are one of those abilities, no doubt. They should be based off of specific memories from when they were human. Which means that the organization members should have gotten a MUCH more flesh out backstory than they got. I’m really disappointed that most of them remained so flat, even including the popular ones like Axel. He may have been very likable, but his backstory in KH3 left him very flat.

Sorcerer

A sorcerer, magician, or “witch” attempts to influence the surrounding world through occult (i.e., hidden, as opposed to open and observable) means.

There should have been a story/lore based reason for each of their fighting styles. There are no lesser Nobodies based on Vexen/Zexion. It probably means that those two did not have any fighting abilities as humans, which makes sense. But the rest of the organization probably did fight as humans, thus they can control Nobodies based off of that fighting style.

Sniper

A sniper is a marksman who operates to shoot people from a concealed position. Snipers generally have specialized training and are equipped with high-precision rifles and high-magnification optics, and often feed information back to their units or command headquarters.

Braig was a sniper when he was a castle guard.

Dragoon

Dragoon, in late 16th-century Europe, a mounted soldier who fought as a light cavalryman on attack and as a dismounted infantryman on defense. The terms derived from his weapon, a species of carbine or short musket called the dragoon.

Dilan was a dragoon.

XaldinHe has the image of a medieval Chinese military commander. He is excellent at strategizing, and a powerful soldier. I’m sure the players all know that he is a contender for the first or second strongest in the Organisation. I’m satisfied that I was able to depict that strength in his personality, too. I personally really like this character.–Nomura

But he was also based on a Chinese military commander. We didn’t get to learn much about Dilan. What was his motivation? Why did he side with Xehanort?

Watching that foolish beast flail about only deepens my disdain for humans and their incessant need to be pinned down by feelings. We became Nobodies precisely to avoid the shackles of emotion. It was only later that we realized the scale of that loss: that some things simply cannot be done without a heart. Nonetheless, I see nary a pleasant thing about it.

Why did he want to get rid of his emotions and why did he consider them a weakness? What was his opinion of Ansem the Wise, and how did he feel when he was banished? Did he want to take over Radiant Garden?

Samurai

The ideal samurai was supposed to be a stoic warrior who followed an unwritten code of conduct, later formalized as Bushidō, which held bravery, honour, and personal loyalty above life itself; ritual suicide by disembowelment (seppuku) was institutionalized as a respected alternative to dishonour or defeat.

Aeleus was a samurai.

LexaeusHe’s a character with strength to rival Xaldin. While Xaldin has power plus technique, I’d say to Lexaeus is more of a samurai, or that he has bushido-style strength. If you listen to his very last line in Re:COM, I think you’ll be able to see his spirit. I wanted to do more with this character.–Nomura

Nomura said his final words showed his spirit.

Lexaeus: You are the Superior’s—Forgive me, Zexion. This was a fight I should not have started.

In Re:CoM, these are his last words. He seems to have some honor and was loyal to Zexion.

Lexaeus gave him a cruel smile. “Hmph…so I must accept my defeat here. But do not make the mistake of underestimating the darkness in me! As I am destroyed, it will leave this ruined vessel and drown you!”

Then there was a terrible shock wave far greater than what Riku had felt from the darkness that Lexaeus radiated before the battle.

“Wh…what’s happening?!” A relentless swirl of darkness surrounded him, swallowing him up until he disappeared into it.

Lexaeus laughed madly. “This is my strength… I, number five in the organization… I who was once his favorite pupil!” Those were Lexaeus’s final words before he vanished into the darkness.

In the novel, there’s an extended final scene with his final words where he apparently commits seppuku and says he was “his” favorite pupil. Who’s favorite pupil? Ansem? Xehanort? We’ll probably never know.

Berserker

Berserker, Norwegian berserk, Old Norse berserkr (“bearskin”), in premedieval and medieval Norse and Germanic history and folklore, a member of unruly warrior gangs that worshipped Odin, the supreme Norse deity, and attached themselves to royal and noble courts as bodyguards and shock troops. The berserkers’ savagery in battle and their animal-skin attire contributed to the development of the werewolf legend in Europe. These Viking berserkers were infamous for fighting in a violent rage, recklessly charging at their enemies without armor or any other protection, and seemingly without concern for their own health.

Saïx is a strange case. Unlike the apprentices, we never saw Isa fighting as a human. He was just a kid. So how did he become a berserker of all things?

Prayers are uttered to Odin, as the object of contemplation. Why Odin and not the wolf, bear, or whatever? The berserk trance is brought about by Odin, he is the inspirer, that which brings something outside the self within the self. This is ond, inspiration, or vital breath. This triggers the wod, or fury and possession, which is where the wolf, bear, or whatever comes in. As a god, Odin is a “larger” concept than the animal, and so the effect he has upon the mind during the ritual will be the greater.

Berserkers worshiped Odin. To go berserk, they needed to meditate on him and receive divine inspiration. In other words, they couldn’t just go berserk at will. The needed to meditate upon a divine purpose to go berserk.

Do you know what happens to those who lose their true purpose? Inevitably, they destroy themselves.

I think Saïx was the same.

It infuriated me how you just exited our lives. I lost…all sense of purpose.

He needed a purpose to go berserk.

Yes, I thought you didn’t need me anymore. If you didn’t need me, then I no longer held meaning.

For him, it was Lea.

Saïx hesitated for a second, and Roxas ran at him.

He blocked the Keyblade.

Long ago—I remember, I didn’t hate fighting. Saïx flung his claymore at Roxas.

And so, Saïx remembered things from a long, long time ago.

My theory is that Saïx would need to meditate on his purpose before he could go berserk. Before he went berserk fighting Roxas, he thought back to a time before he hated fighting. Back when he had someone to protect and fighting actually had meaning.

Assassin

A murderer of an important person in a surprise attack for political or religious reasons.

One of the things I disliked about KH3 was its characterization of Axel/Lea and seemingly retconning his role as an assassin. On the clock tower, Axel and Saïx revealed their shared goal of finding Subject X. Saïx wanted to work his way to the top of the organization hierarchy so he could find out what happened to her. Axel said that he couldn’t keep up with Saïx and his willingness to do the icky jobs Xemnas wanted them to do to achieve that rank.

This flies in the face of ALL the hints from the previous games about their shared objective:

In order for Sora—no, for Roxas to live, and also for us to accomplish our own goal, Zexion is in the way. And, if it’s for the sake of our own goal, we already decided what to do, that time.

In the novel, Axel references their shared goal and how they decided to do whatever it took. Zexion was in the way and Axel killed him.

Given the right memories, the Replica could mimic the powers of the original. Which meant that if he were implanted with somebody else’s memories, he would, hypothetically, gain other powers. Somebody’s—or maybe even a Nobody’s. He had one particular Nobody in mind. All the members of the Organization were still influenced by the memories of their human lives.

Here, it references Axel’s memories of his human life as a reason he wants to use the Riku Replica to defeat someone and absorb their powers. Sounds like Axel was, at least partially, motivated by revenge.

Axel let out a breath. “Look, I knew Vexen and Zexion would cause trouble for you. That’s why they’re not around anymore.”

That sounded more like he was justifying it to himself, Axel thought. Their lack of hearts didn’t render their actions meaningless. It wasn’t as if they never thought carefully or acted without objectives in mind. Humans and Nobodies alike would pursue their own purposes.

“The dirty work doesn’t bother me,” Axel went on. “You just make for the top.” There was nothing false in that, and he looked Saïx in the eye as he said it. Saïx stared hard back at him. Right. We have our own agenda.

Again, it demonstrates how Axel was always the one willing to do the dirty work to achieve their goal.

“Everything is back to normal. Of course this is for the best, isn’t it?”

The reason I’m unable to answer Saïx is probably because I depend on him, thought Axel.

“Xemnas has also been irritated at the recent changes in plan. Everything has to go back to normal, for the sake of our goal too… Lea.”

Axel finally looked over at the sound of that nostalgic name. Saïx was looking at him. It made him think of his time as a human, and the memories came surging back.

Here, Saïx is trying to coerce Axel into killing Xion for the sake of their goal. He never even considers doing it himself. It sounds like Axel was always the one who handled the icky jobs like killing, not Saïx. Because, obviously, that was Axel’s job. He was the assassin.

I just did what I thought was the best thing at the time. For Roxas, for Xion, for the Organization—and for Isa. But most of all for me.

Axel was at first willing to kill Xion. And who was he doing it for? Isa. And for himself. Because he needed Isa. He emotionally depended on him. Saïx knew Axel needed him and manipulated him by calling him “Lea”.

Axel didn’t care anymore about what the Organization needed, what Xion or Roxas wanted, or even what was supposed to be good for the worlds. He had been using the Organization for his own ends from the start. The only thing that had changed in the meantime was who it was all for. Maybe Saïx would call that a betrayal. But his world had changed.

It doesn’t sound like Axel’s willingness to kill had anything to do with Subject X or finding information about her. It sounds like Axel was wiling to kill for Saïx. He and Saïx wanted to take over the organization for Saïx’s sake.

What were you really after, Lea? We joined the Organization at the same time, and formulated our plan. At this point, it’s just an idle fantasy. Everything changed. You, and me.

When Axel refused to do what Saïx wanted and left the organization, he apparently didn’t need him anymore. And Saïx couldn’t handle that.

Yes, I thought you didn’t need me anymore. If you didn’t need me, then I no longer held meaning.

Of course, Axel’s motivation was retconned in KH3. Instead of Isa being his reason for staying in the organization, it became Subject X/Skuld. And along with that change, Axel’s role as an assassin was whitewashed. Maybe the idea of the fan-favorite Axel being happily willing to ruthlessly murder people didn’t seem appropriate anymore. Especially if it was no longer not for his best friend, but for a girl who is basically a stranger to him. I dunno. But I think it’s BS.

Dancer

A warrior who dances across the battlefield, garbed in colorful raiments. Tends to have low stats and specializes in support magic.

Demyx was a dancer.

DemyxFrom the beginning he was created as a light-hearted character, but his voice actor really made him stand on his own as a character despite the short appearances he had. He is by no means strong, so I think it’s funny how you don’t see it coming when his abilities make him a formidable opponent. His line before exiting was something I thought of on the spot and had them add in.–Nomura

He is described as not very strong. We never got to see him as a human, but he was probably a performer.

Gambler

(Bakuto, 博徒) were itinerant gamblers in Japan from the 18th century to the mid-20th century. They were one of the forerunners of the modern Japanese crime gangs known as yakuza. Bakuto plied their trade in feudal Japan, playing traditional games such as hanafuda and dice. They were mostly social outcasts who lived outside the laws and norms of society.

Luxord has still not received a backstory. I think we can tell a lot about him with this, though.

LuxordIn all honesty he is my absolute favourite Organisation member. I like how he treats everything as a gamble, like Setzer from FFVI of old. I actually wanted to make him stand out more. At least I got him to say some things during the meeting scene added to KH2 FM+… but Luxord should have been able to do so much more…–Nomura

Nomura wanted to do more with him.

The nation of Lucis was said to have worked akin to a mafia crime family since the nation’s ancient beginnings, and despite its peace was said to have engaged in strict rule, including a ban on firearms and a lockdown in the capitol city. Noctis was the crown prince, and Regis the current king. Ignis, Gladiolus, and Prompto—Noctis’s team members—acted as his entourage akin to a Yakuza kyodai-shatei structure.

Maybe his gambler/bakuto job is the reason why he’s apparently going to have a connection to the Verum Rex world. In Re:Mind, Yozora’s driver sounded like Luxord. And Luxord’s wild card is apparently going to be what helps Sora return.

Reaper

Death is frequently imagined as a personified force. In some mythologies, a character known as the Grim Reaper causes the victim’s death by coming to collect that person’s soul. Other beliefs hold that the Spectre of Death is only a psychopomp, serving to sever the last ties between the soul and the body, and to guide the deceased to the afterlife, without having any control over when or how the victim dies.

The Reaper and Ninja Nobodies were introduced in KH3. I think Marluxia’s intentions were supposed to be known by the time KH3 started. He wanted to bring his sister back. That’s why he wanted to control Sora and the Keyblade and take over Castle Oblivion. That’s something that should have been explored in the Dark Seeker Saga, explaining how Marluxia became a vessel. Maybe Xehanort convinced him that if he helped open Kingdom Hearts, he could reunite with his sister.

Ninja

A ninja (忍者) was a covert agent or mercenary in feudal Japan. The functions of a ninja included espionage, deception, and surprise attacks. Their covert methods of waging irregular warfare were deemed dishonorable and beneath the honor of the samurai.

Larxene’s backstory is a Keyblade wielder from the age of fairy tales. But why was she a knife wielding ninja archetype character? What was her life like before she became a Nobody and tried to take over Castle Oblivion? How did she get so twisted and when did her hatred of men develop? What is the nature of her feelings for Marluxia? That’s what I wanna know.

#kh #organization xiii

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beerandpresentdanger · 4 years

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Something in the Water

These fragments are all culled from a larger piece of work about beer, family, place and memory that is still fermenting somewhere in my head. I was inspired to finally put out a flight of snippets in response to Boak & Bailey’s #BeeryLongReads2020 challenge

* * *

Say, for what were hop-yards meant, Or why was Burton built on Trent? Oh many a peer of England brews Livelier liquor than the Muse, And malt does more than Milton can To justify God’s ways to man.

A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad

* * *

The first sip of a pint of ale made in Burton upon Trent can be off-putting to a newcomer. There’s something intangibly difficult about it, a shrugging note of unpleasantness that many find unsettling - a mineral toned, brackish kind of scent, that most immediately brings to mind sulphur; that distinct, diffuse, almost rotten egg character that you find in the water of towns that marketed themselves as spas, and once sold their healing properties to gullible Victorians with chronic nerve conditions.

Connoisseurs have a name for it, likening it to the fleeting sensory overload of an old-fashioned match being struck in a dark, draughty room.

They call it “The Burton Snatch”.

* * *

My father’s family have always lived in Burton and its surrounding villages, nestled among the hills and valleys between Staffordshire and Derbyshire. My great-grandfather was a farmer and a money-lender, who kept a cast iron safe in the living room with a lace doily and a bowl of fruit on top. He would open it up on Sunday evenings to take stock, counting out the large paper notes on his scrubbed wooden table while the rest of the family looked on.

My grandfather, Jimmy, was a promising football player who did a stint with Burton Albion, before going into business in the town, setting up Farrington’s Furnishers in two large units on the Horninglow Road. It was the kind of traditional, rambling shop that doesn’t exist much anymore - a haphazardly laid-out assembly of sofas, beds, dressers and wardrobes, tables, chairs, footstools and chests of drawers. At the back, there was a room full of rolls of carpet, piled high to the ceiling. My father and his brothers were playing there when the news came over the radio that JFK had been shot.

* * *

Brewing has happened in Burton for centuries, but the process really began millennia ago, when the substrata of the Trent valley settled with deep deposits of sand and gravel, a unique and serendipitous combination of minerals that built the foundations for everything that was to follow. An unusually high concentration of sulphates from the gypsum, coupled with healthy reserves of calcium and magnesium and low levels of sodium and bicarbonates, meant that when springs eventually burbled forth from the land around the river, the water had its own particular and unique character, a distinct presentation that the French might call “terroir”.

Beer-making started in earnest when an abbey named Byrtune was raised on the banks of the Trent, and the brothers did as all good monastic orders did, growing their own crops, raising their own livestock, and brewing their own beer. Over the centuries, the reputation for the region’s fine ale grew and spread, until the secret could no longer be kept.

When the canals came to Burton they made it into a city of industry and empire. Tentacle-like, capitalism stretched and unfurled its penetrating waterways across, through and over Albion’s gentle hills, bypassing the wild weirs of the Trent’s natural descent, domesticating the landscape and bringing uniformity, neatness, and standardisation to what was a tangle of disparate places and processes. By the middle of the 18th century, the Trent Navigation had been connected to the Humber, to the mighty Mersey, and down through Birmingham to the Grand Union, and suddenly, Burton was now a central hub functioning as part of a single network that ran throughout the country and onward, through its bustling ports, to Europe, Russia, and all points beyond.

* * *

Once their children grew up, my grandparents also left for the continent. Nearly every summer holiday of my childhood was spent visiting them in Portugal. Their home, known only as “The Villa”, was an idyllic place, where my brothers and I learnt to swim, where the smell of barbecue smoke lingered over every evening, where the coarse Mediterranean grass hurt our feet when we tried to play football on it. When I was young, I only really knew my grandparents in this sunlit, bright blue light - tanned, shortsleeved, wearing hats. Their accents may have been rounded and roughened in the heart of England, but their very essence to me was more exotic, more glamorous, more European.

Some of my first memories of drinking come from those summer holidays. Sips of pungent sea-dark wine, acidic and overwhelming; a sample of gin and tonic, bitter and medicinal with a gasping clarity; and of course, beer - not ale, nothing my grandfather would touch - but lager, cold and crisp and gassy, a fleeting glimpse of adulthood.

* * *

Beer, like everything else in a free market of money and ideas, has been subject to fashion and changing tastes, and it was a fashion for pale ales that truly put Burton on the map. With the proliferation of the waterways, hops from Kent and barley from East Anglia could make their way to Burton where, combined with the local water, they were turned into a revelatory, and wildly popular beverage.

Breweries proliferated throughout the town. At its peak, more than 30 rival businesses competed for space, ingredients, and workers to keep the kettles boiling and grain mashing. Burton became the brewing capital of the world, home to emblematic firms like Bass, which by 1877 was the world’s largest brewery. Its famed pale ale was so acclaimed and copied that the distinctive red triangle that adorned its labels became the UK’s first registered trademark, a mark of its singular quality.

* * *

Even when my grandparents lived abroad, Burton still pulled my family to it. Christmas called us back year after year, or Boxing Day at least, catching up with uncles and aunts and first and second cousins, some removed, to sit in sitting rooms in front of three-bar fires, eating ham cobs, drinking flat Schweppes lemonade, watching World’s Strongest Man on the television. The arresting vision of a large man pulling a tractor down a runway or throwing a washing machine over a wall would be accompanied by the sound of adult chatter, long-delayed catch-ups on weddings, births, and especially deaths - distant relatives and long-lost school mates, old girlfriends with cancer scares, run-ins with the police.

One uncle, who worked in a brewery like a true Burtonian, kept terrapins. I would gingerly feed them sunflower seeds, holding my hand above the dark waterline of the cramped tank, waiting for the vicious snap to emerge from the depths. “Pedigree doesn’t travel well,” he once told me, referring to a renowned local bitter. Some things cannot leave Burton behind.

* * *

Burton’s skyline doesn’t have church towers, it has fermentation vessels. Over the decades, as companies have merged, collapsed, consolidated or been taken over with some hostility, the name on the side of the largest set has changed, so that what drivers on the bypass see reflects whatever corporate overlord assumes feudal control in that particular age.

In the middle years of the twentieth century, brewing, like many industries, saw the white hot intensity of competition eliminate all but the largest of breweries. Experts will tell you that the beer suffered along with it, accompanied by punitive taxation from the government and a nannying attitude to pubs and drinking, the hangover of Victorian prudishness being enacted by the grandchildren of those who first envisaged it. Tastes changed under the weight of global pressures, and ultimately, Burton lurched along with them, becoming, through a complex web of corporate exchanges, the brewing site of Canadian brand Carling Black Label.

In the ensuing decades, Carling would become the UK’s best-selling beer, a “domestic” rival to the traditional European lager brands that dominated in Germany, France and Denmark. The attritional battles left their marks on Burton though, as closures and collisions shuttered various facilities and churned through generations of workers, leaving tracts of vacant space even in the centre of town. Coming off the train now, you overlook the whole of Burton, and get the sensation of standing in the middle of a vast and scattered industrial facility, where smokestacks and grain towers overpeer gritted-teeth terraced houses, pockmarked shopping streets and vacant lots.

The make-up of the town shifted too. In the middle of the Midlands (Burton is linguistically and administratively part of the East Midlands, but geographically in the West Midlands) the town received its fair share of immigration. A town my grandparents knew as almost entirely white and Christian is now almost 10% Pakistani Muslim - a thriving community of teetotallers, in a town famous for its beer.

* * *

My grandparents celebrated their diamond wedding anniversary in 2014, flying back from Portugal to hold a party at the National Brewery Centre in the middle of Burton. It was a lovely evening, with a large cake and lots of happy stories, relatives and friends I’d never seen before and would never see again. After an early finish, my cousins and I went to a pub, drinking pints of milk-smooth ale, before ending up in a small, loud, nightclub playing cheesy pop hits. The next morning, hungover, I walked with my parents to Stapenhill Cemetery to stare at the headstones of ancestors I had never met.

* * *

There is a popular documentary series on the BBC which sees celebrity costermonger Gregg Wallace visit various sterile facilities around the UK to witness firsthand how automation and mechanisation has changed food production. Each episode has him walking through eerily empty factories, vast and cavernous spaces where robotic production lines operate 24 hours a day, speaking to the remaining human operators who exist now as mere caretakers, there to tend and nurse the machines like temple virgins, dressed in hairnets instead of togas. It is an uncanny sight. Every installment inevitably begins with drone shots, hovering silently above the landscape, showing the immense scale of these conurbations, raised in places where land is invariably cheap and generations of people have been bred into cycles of tireless shift work. But the workers are not needed any more. Efficiency has eradicated the need for fleshy points of failure.

Now, Gregg can skip through the barren hallways, silent save for the harmonic hum of perpetual machinery, flashing his blinding white overalls and quoting mind-boggling statistics about the weight of crisps the average British child eats in a year. Various natural products are ushered in off the backs of lorries and railway carriages, fed along whirring conveyor belts and pumped through pneumatic tubes, before being baked, frozen, cut, dried, soaked, dessicated, rehydrated and reformulated into whatever bland final product can now be ejected out into the world, via shipping containers and along motorways, all to sit on a supermarket shelf before making an appearance in your cupboard, a moment on your table, and a lifetime rotting away in some far-off landfill.

It was inevitable that Burton’s MolsonCoors brewery, the home of Carling, would get its chance in the spotlight. The programme highlighted the noble history of brewing, from its pre-modern farmhouse days, when fermentation was practically a shamanic ritual, to its domestication and commodification, where each step in the process was refined and perfected, to where we are now, when every aspect has been exactingly costed and painstakingly budgeted to ensure maximum productivity, and maximum profit, with minimal ingredients, energy, or intervention. There has been a backlash to this macro-attitude, of course - “craft beer”, an ill-defined, equally co-optable movement that alludes to provenance, quality, care, and a confused sense of heritage, has become a big business in its own right, backed by venture capital and crowdfunding campaigns - but industrial brewing is still the fixture in the firmament, the thing that keeps the lights on.

When one of the few remaining humans showed Gregg the tiny, almost homeopathic quantity of hops that would add a semblance of bitterness and aromatic flavour to a lake-sized vat of Carling, it felt almost like a knowing wink - look at what we can get away with - one made safe in the knowledge that their beer will still pour in nearly every pub and take up the most shelf space in corner shops and petrol stations across the country. Of course they’ll get away with it. They’ve always got away with it. They will sell us beer with barely a sense memory of taste in it, and we will literally lap it up.

* * *

My grandfather died in hospital, in Portugal, after an indeterminate period of undramatic but gradually worsening health. His four children took turns flying out to spend time with him and their mother in the hospital, sitting by his bed, holding his hand, finishing the crosswords he was no longer able to complete.

He was cremated there, but a memorial service to remember his life was held in Burton on a crisp, February day a few weeks later. Alighting at the railway station, I watched steam from the breweries crowd the startlingly cold air, while waiting for my parents to arrive and drive us the ten minutes to Rolleston Cricket Club where the small gathering would take place. On the way, we drove up Horninglow Road, past what was once Farrington’s Furnishers, now Zielona Żabkal, a Polish supermarket. We got there early and spent some time setting up, arranging the folding tables and stackable chairs, hanging up photos, and laying out some mementos of my grandfather’s happy life - a table tennis bat, some puzzle books, a golf club, his familiar white hat.

I was tasked with approving the beer for the day. There were two casks of Bass on the bar - one which had been there a few days, the other tapped that morning. “I’m a lager man,” the bartender told me, so I tried both to see which was in form. The first had the faintest tang of vinegar that suggested oxidation, a beer that was at the end of its life, drowning in the air around it. The second was lively, enthusiastic, a little overly keen and overripe, but would settle down through the afternoon as the long goose-necked pump poured pint after pint for the guests who shuffled in, in suits and raincoats, shiny shoes and walking sticks, to pay their respects. Everyone told stories. I read a letter on behalf of my cousin, working on the other side of the world. We drank many, many pints of Bass in good nick, then when we were finished, we went to a pub, and drank many more.

When I had to catch my train back to London, I staggered back through the freezing night, to find that the town was mashing in - somewhere in the vast floodlit breweries, a switch had been thrown and malted barley was being soaked in that famous hot water, and the streets were being filled with the scent of porridge and healthy, earthy grains; a warming, nostalgic tide that overflowed down the road and spilled through the centuries; riding, falling, on the biting cold air.

#beer #writing #beer writing #food writing #ale #hops #barley #burton on trent #burton #family #memoir #beerylongreads2020 #craft beer #bass #cask ale #real ale

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miximax-hell · 6 years

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Hey, guys! It sure has been long since my last new miximax, hasn’t it? The worst part is that I haven’t even run out of ideas--I’m just too bad and lazy to bring them to life properly. That’s what I get for never practising. Don’t be like me. Be like my coworker, who is a 3D artist and has decided to devote one day a week to practising HARD no matter how busy or tired he is, because he doesn’t get to model too often at work and he doesn’t want to get too rusty. Now that’s a good example to follow.

Today’s miximax is a bit of a surprise, as it’s the first time I’m giving a new miximax to a character who canonically got one in the games and the anime. Or, well, it would be a surprise if you hadn’t read my Characters tab, but I’m sure you have ALL done that. So, rather than a surprise, it’s more like an “oh, finally.” ww

While I most certainly have nothing against Shinsuke’s real miximax nor Liu Bei, I think he was lacking something rather important. And, all things considered, I felt like the best candidate to fill in for this position was Cao Cao. The name might ring a bell, but you might not be completely sure about whom I’m talking about. To refresh your memory, I’ll simply say that it’s the guy Zanark first miximaxed with. Yes, when he had that cool Keshin and the white hair. Yes, the evil man.

...Raptors! RAPTORS! NO, RAPTORS! LISTEN TO ME BEFORE YOU COME AND RIP MY NECK OFF WITH YOUR FANGS AS YOU SHOUT, “SHINSUKE WOULD NEVER MIXIMAX WITH THAT GUY.” OKAY?! PLEASE!!

So, as usual, you can listen to me under the cut.

Have you put down your torches and pitchforks, you stereotypical rioting citizens? Yes? Good. Then, let me explain this carefully. I swear it will make much more sense when I’m done.

First, let me explain why I think Shinsuke needed a new miximax and why Liu Bei alone simply doesn’t cut it.

For a second, and even if it’s my least favourite season, let’s think about the first season of Go, when Shinsuke was introduced to us. Even though he’s been consistently used as a goalkeeper in Chrono Stone and Galaxy due to the potential Sangoku and Endou saw in him (and his Keshin), he was a defender when Go started.

And I’ll go even further: Shinsuke has always had block hissatsus in every game he’s been featured in, even when he was actually labelled as a goalkeeper (aka, in CS and Galaxy). In fact, in the first game, he doesn’t even learn goalkeeper hissatsus throughout the story--he only gets God Hand at a pretty high level, way after completing the main campaign. Until halfway through Chrono Stone, and having been Raimon’s main goalkeeper since halfway through Go, he didn’t get his first catch hissatsu. And even though he has been in every single Strikers game, he only became able to play as a (reliable) goalkeeper in the last game. Until then, he was nothing more than a defender or a midfielder at most.

All these are cold, hard fact that I simply can’t ignore--blame it on my compulsive behaviour. Regardless of what his Keshin is best at, no one can question that, much like Endou, Shinsuke can function both as a field player and as a goalkeeper, and whether he should play in one position or the other should heavily depend on the situation.

It doesn’t, though.

Shinsuke is strong because of his goalkeeping resources. Sure, his natural abilities help, but those same abilities proved themselves useful in the field as well, so that’s hardly a valid excuse. However, the main difference between Endou and Shinsuke, and what makes putting Endou in the field MUCH more useful than doing the same thing with Shinsuke, is what Endou adds to the team by being able to move freely. Endou is a good player, but, most importantly, he performs roles no one else can perform in his team. He is part of many, many strong hissatsus that can lead the team to victory; he is the only libero the team has, and his natural strength and experience as a goalkeeper make him a force to the reckoned with when it comes to blocking opposing shots with his Megaton Head. In other words, he is not replaceable, as no one can do what he does quite the way he does it.

Shinsuke, on the other hand, while he has the uniqueness of his insane jumping skills, feels quite lackluster in comparison. He can use Kattobi Defense to block opposing shots, sure, but Kariya’s Hunter’s Net or Kirino’s Deep Mist do this too. He can use Buttobi Jump to block shots with his own shot, but he is completely outclassed by Tetsukado bby’s much stronger Dead Straight--and even by his own Kattobi Defense, really. He could use his Keshin to defend in a pinch, but its hissatsu is exclusively for goalkeeping, so Kirino, Kinako or Tobu would do a much better job at it. He doesn’t even have a Soul, so he can hardly compete with Earth Eleven players either. And considering Liu Bei is a goalkeeper, mixitransing really doesn’t help him all that much either.

In order to become a truly relevant defender again, Shinsuke must spice things up big time. He doesn’t just need something/someone as wonderful as his first miximax--he needs even more than that. He needs to kick it up a notch and get on everyone’s level fast and effectively if he is to put up a good fight. And, with goalkeepers as extremely strong as MamoDai (I’m totally not biased here ww) and the fact that they never know with whom they’ll be paired in a match, the more roles Shinsuke can effectively perform, the better.

Now, the question is: having every universe in existence available, why would Shinsuke settle for Cao Cao, who is the direct enemy of Liu Bei, whom Shinsuke comes to deeply admire? (And, most importantly, why give Cao Cao to Shinsuke when there’s a perfectly perfect Zanakurou lying around?)

First of all, let’s look at Cao Cao as an Inazuma character. You can do so too here. If you take a quick look at that page, you can see that, in the games, Cao Cao is a scoutable character. And not only that, but he’s a defender, so we’re doing good so far. ww

Cao Cao doesn’t have any exclusive and super cool hissatsus in the game, but he does have an exclusive and super cool Keshin: Gouriki no Genbu. You’ll remember it, since Zanark made use of it. Quite the odd choice, since Zanark is a forward and both Cao Cao and his Keshin are defenders, but that plays even more in our favour, as it wouldn’t be a good match for Zanakurou either. ww With the extra strength of a historical figure as strong as Liu Bei, and with a second and all-mighty Keshin at his disposal, Shin Cao suddenly becomes a much more interesting option. Good enough to scratch that itch in my head that repeats over and over, “HEY, IF A MIXIMAX WENT EVENTUALLY UNUSED THE ANIME/GAME, YOU OUGHT TO USE IT AGAIN. OTHERWISE, I’LL KEEP HAMMERING YOUR BRAIN WITH THIS NAGGING AND UNSHAKEABLE FEELING OF LACK OF ACCOMPLISHMENT.” Man, ain’t it fun!

Now, let’s remember one thing. In this project, the vessel chooses their aura, which means that Shinsuke would have to want Cao Cao in order to miximax with him. Which takes me back to those raptors who almost killed me before I even started talking and their shouting: “SHINSUKE WOULD NEVER MIXIMAX WITH THAT GUY.” As much as I and the itch in my head want it, it needs a certain degree of logic.

Let’s be historically objective for a second here. Winners write history. So they say, and they are completely right. Not to start a fire here, but if the N*zis had won (won’t risk being filtered because of this), we would all be N*zis now, and those who weren’t would be treated like N*zis are treated now. That’s just how it is. But that didn’t happen, and now we see those people as pure evil. I’m not saying that hatred isn’t justified--I’m just saying that things could be extremely different if the outcome had been different. Are we good, raptors? Are we friends? You won’t rip my neck off? You won’t call the cops on me? Good. Then, let’s move on.

Historically, Liu Bei and Cao Cao were, indeed, battling it up during the Three Kingdoms period. The most popular, although fictional, depiction of this period is the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, one of the 4 great works of classical Chinese literature (the other 3 being Journey to the West, Dream of the Red Chamber and Water Margin). In this novel, Liu Bei is depicted as the hero, and Cao Cao is depicted as the evil villain. This depiction can be seen in Chrono Stone too, as Raimon takes Liu Bei’s side and portrays him as a goody-two-shoes, while Cao Cao is so evil, cruel and tyrannical that Zanark starved for and stole his dark power.

However, prior to this less-than-positive depiction, Cao Cao was, and I quote, “praised as a brilliant ruler and military genius who treated his subordinates like his family.“ Not so bad, huh? And even more so when you consider that Liu Bei was one of Cao Cao’s generals and he betrayed Cao Cao out of the blue--and with great violence, at that. It’s all about points of view, as usual. When war happens, there is hardly ever a battle of light versus darkness. One party is not usually vastly morally better than the other. Chances are that, if war happens, both parties will believe they are fighting for what’s right, and history will ultimately grace the winner by saying they were right. Whether they have ulterior motives or not (and they usually do--greed is practically omnipresent where there’s war) doesn’t change the fact that they believe they are doing the right thing while the other party is wrong.

If Shinsuke were to see that not everything is black and white, which Inazuma is usually all about (”you thought it was pure darkness, but it was me, *+*+*Complex Character Development and Grey Motivations*+*+*!”), and tried to see things from Cao Cao’s perspective, he would probably find a ruler whose wits can compare to Zhuge Liang’s, who is caring and loyal to his people, who was so widely revered that he was given an important title after his death, and who possessed abilities that, according to our standards, are the polar opposite of evil and wrong-doing: martial arts and poetry. He would find that, while Liu Bei is righteous, hot-headed and charismatic, albeit a bit on the overactive side, Cao Cao is reliable, serious, intelligent and strong, although somewhat on the darker side (as depicted in the Inazuma universe, at least). Kageyama showed us that having darkness within you doesn’t make you inherently bad, though, so... there’s that.

Not only is Cao Cao Liu Bei’s polar opposite, but Shinsuke’s, too, and that allows for very, very interesting dynamics--especially when you compare how Shinsuke acts depending on whom he uses upon mixitransing. As such, Shinsuke gets a genuinely evil look in this case, but that’s just to match his actual in-game look and supposed attitude. But, well, those things come into the personality and design sides of this blog, respectively so they are matters I won’t discuss this time.

Okay, raptors, I’m done. If you’re still thirsty after all of that, come and get some of this.

#Nishizono Shinsuke #Inazuma Eleven #Inazuma Eleven Go #miximax #mixi max #info #settei #reasons behind the miximax #Shinsei Raimon #Chrono Storm #Earth Eleven

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sdhjxgctisd · 3 years

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matthewstiles · 6 years

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Mayhaven Botan Takes a Vessel

Mandor your Andor, reporting. Disclaimer: This may all have been a ruse. I’m not claiming that the real Botan of Mayhaven has appeared to me. I am, however, informing the community of what’s happened so that others might investigate the matter for themselves. It happened last night—February 19th. Someone (I won’t disclose the username, mostly because I don’t fully remember it) logged onto the Mayhaven server asking about some pricey purchases—namely, Beacons. I didn’t think much of it. I visited the dark tower the player was building. An obsidian monolith in the middle of a meadow, it contained four unlit beacons at its center. I left – again – thinking nothing of it. Awhile later, I was failing badly at first-tier parkour when the fellow chatted me up like – and I paraphrase (as with almost everything quoted hereon out) – “Hey, I’m about to destroy the solar system. Botan’s possessing my body and has forced me to build a large machine. All he needs is a button. If you bring me a button, I’ll be able to finish it. Would you like that?”

Context: Mayhaven’s Botan has been trapped in Ianite’s Quintessence bubble for quite a while now. His only means of (temporary) escape, apparently, is through the bodies of those who are or have been loyal to him, such as his disciples. Apparently, this player was one such vessel.

The player – being half himself and half Botan, I assumed – explained that the doomsday machine was virtually impossible to find and even harder to break. Hm... Difficult, indeed. I asked if the earlier obsidian tower might have anything to do with it. Indeed, that was the very structure, and the player had tried to warn me, but Botan had made the message unclear. Unfortunately, my /back history had expired; I had no way of finding the machine again, bar sheer dumb luck, and time wasn’t on my side; Botan warned that the machine would fire on the next full moon. Needless to say, I wasn’t sold. Parkour alone was proving enough of an impossibility as it was. Anyway, I called into question why Botan didn’t simply possess the player to go make a damned button. That seemed to go over well. Botan’s puppet proceeded to the redstone shop. Oh dear. I followed. And there he was, running himself into the doorframe, one half of his mind keeping him out, the other trying to shove him in. I watched the two sides of the poor guy war against each other (a bit comically). Then, I had a magical idea. “I’ll sell out all the buttons! With my ten million Mayhaven dollars, I can certainly buy them all.” I approached the clerk. The man didn’t even sell buttons. It told Botan. He didn’t believe it. He, too, approached the clerk, and upon seeing the inventory, flew into a seizure. He flailed around the shop, ran out into the street, and began trying to mow down the city guards with his bow and sword. Fortunately, they were protected by the gods’ magic. Eventually, Botan found his way to the prayer houses. My gut clenched a little when he entered Ianite’s sacred space, and then Sage’s. Both were important to me. Botan had done his homework. He didn’t try anything. He did, however, shriek a bit at the statue of Sage—something about being abandoned by her. The host became exhausted. I invited him to the fountain for a drink of water. Right then and there, he shifted. Botan’s dark, twisted face – which I had just recently noticed leering from beneath a diamond helmet – slipped away, revealing the pale, badly scarred face of a kind-looking man. This was the player’s true self. He couldn’t remember anything he had said to me, but he remarked that his hands were sore, as though he had been building tirelessly. I begged him to remember the location of the machine. He said he was normally good at delving into minds for information, but that in this case, he was, ironically powerless. He said he’d sleep on it. Then, he invited me to his home. We climbed a winding staircase past an elaborate treehouse. The stairs led to a cliffside dwelling with rooms bridged by scaffolds. Weary, the player fell a few times. He grumbled a complaint about the impractical stairs, to which I echoed, “At least it isn’t that damn parkour.” When we finally got to his bedroom, he collapsed onto his bed, entering a quick sleep. While he snored away, I reflected on a conversation we’d had moments before he passed out. I’d asked him if it was possible to remove Botan from his body by killing him. Of course not; he would respawn with the demon still inside. In that case, might it be possible to banish Botan along with the player? You know, “ban” them? The player considered it possible. So did I. But at the moment, we had no help, being the only two people online. I wished for a longer /back history. I also wished for the Nvidia sword the sky people had swung around in Ruxomar. Then, I realized that the player, in his sleep, had turned into a sheep. In a state of denial, I paced back and forth across the room. I pinched myself a few times, then hit the sleeping sheep with an ax. The player retook his human form, hit me back, and climbed back into bed as if nothing had happened. “Are you dreaming?” I asked, knowing that it was possible for a shape-shifter to unconsciously morph. The player responded, “No, but you are.” Thoroughly spooked, I waited some more. I set a home, went to organize something in my house, and returned to the player’s cliff home to find that he had transformed again, this time into a chicken. I considered whacking the chicken with my ax, but thought better of it and went to the shop to buy some seeds. By the time I returned with the seeds, the chicken was gone. I tried to coax the creature, but it seemed to want to lead me somewhere. I followed the chicken through the long halls carved into the cliffs. It rifled through chests, doing small errands, it seemed. Was this Botan’s work? Or was the player tapping into something? After a surreal few minutes, the player whispered, “Oh. Am I still a chicken?” Yes, I said. The player seemed ashamed, turning back to human form. Well, then! We found ourselves in a room full of machines. “Oh, right,” the player remarked. “All I need is /craft.” “What for?” I asked. The player was holding a wooden button. My finger floated over the handle of my ax. Just then, the player vanished. It was going down. “Dang!” said Botan. “I missed noon.” I breathed a sigh of relief. (And so did Chimalus.) Apparently, noon was another key time at which the machine could operate. I needed to find a way to Botan, but I was stranded. My only path was through the player. Hoping that he still had some control, I sent a teleport request. He tried to accept, but ended up typing something along the lines of, “/tpaccestp”. Botan was tripping him up. I sent another request, this time with an encouragement. “Just pretend it’s a word unscramble. Get those thousand Mayhaven dollars. It’s more than Botan’s gotten in his life.” The player loosed an unearthly shriek. I was getting through. “I just want to admire your machine,” I said. “You can admire my ax while it splits you in half.” My whole body clenched as I prepared to be teleported. Moments later, I arrived the same obsidian structure I had seen in the field. Botan – having wrapped the player once more in his dark, twisted skin – was at the base of the monolith, applying the wooden button to a console. But the beacons didn’t light. I still had time. Botan said he was waiting for the next sunrise; I took his word for it. I tried breaking the glass at the top of the spire. A magic barrier protected it. Past that thin layer, the tower’s interior was hollow; I could see the four beacons clustered at the base, surrounded by various machines. If I could just break that glass... “Trust me to build here,” I said. “You wish.” So it wasn’t that easy. Botan buzzed around the monolith, fine-tuning. I repeated the phrase, “Trust me,” throughout the afternoon. “What’s this machine going to do?” I asked. He said the machine was going to absorb the power of the sun and use it to destroy the entire solar system. In retrospect, it was a little bit like that new Star Wars movie I didn’t particularly like. Night came. “I’m bad at pvp,” I insisted. “Chimalus uses a trackpad.” There was more silence. “Trust me.” He wasn’t giving. I shot an arrow. He was protected from that, too. He stared back at me. I almost flinched. We continued the same song and dance until sunrise. That was when the beacons burst to life. Two beams red, two beams black pierced the sky. The entire solar system, huh? Just Mayhaven – heck, just one life – would’ve been worth me fighting tooth and nail against this Botan. Imposter or not, he was my enemy; at the very least, he was training for when I fought the real thing. Why was I shaking? Why was Chimalus shaking? If we couldn’t stand our ground against this fool in a mask, what chance would we have against the real, extra-dimensional monster? Suddenly, an arrow thudded into my helmet. I was shoved off the spire. I landed on my feet, barely injured; my armor and acrobatics were exceptional. Botan was positioning himself for another shot. I hid behind a tree. He returned his attention to the machine. When my flight was restored, I flew back up and fired. This time, it worked. Botan was knocked to the ground. I took a position in a valley while he got his bearings on a hilltop. He saw me. I fired, knocking him back. He brandished his ax and charged, but my arrows of slowness took effect, holding him at bay. Repeated shots pummeled him until he thought better of his approach and pulled out his own bow. He shot back, but I was the better archer (surprisingly). I ran out of arrows of slowness. He lifted his ax again. We met in melee. Our axes blazed, pounding against armor. The exchange went on for half a minute. Then, Botan withdrew. “Neither of us has taken damage.” So it was. Our golden apples had done their work. Perhaps our weapons were a tad too dull as well. And just like that, Botan said, “I have to go.” The player logged off. I flew back to the spire. The protective field was gone. I broke the glass, destroyed the beacons and surrounding machinery, and lastly, plucked the button from the exterior console. I left a note of apology in a chest containing all the griefed machine parts—all except one. Then, I went to my home village and placed my newly named wooden button – “Botan” – on the roof of my village breeder. Hopefully, that doesn’t come back to bite me. If anyone from Mayhaven wants to know the name of the player, I don’t know the full thing, but I remember part of it, as well as the player’s rank. Thanks for reading.

#mianite #mayhaven #botan #world historian #prince andor

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allthebeautifulthings9828 · 7 years

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Mary’s Kitchen - Chapter 22

(Note: This story is the sequel to Cas, You Had A Baby? which can be read on Tumblr or on Ao3. And you can keep up with Mary’s Kitchen on Tumblr or on Ao3 too.)

Tension thrummed through the new building's walls no matter where Castiel went. He eyed the human occupants, wondering if they felt it too. While they remained fixated on their children laid out in individual toddler beds evenly spaced through the ground floor, he pushed himself to focus on the bigger picture. The fledgling nest was in good hands under the care of Arturial and Sholitziel. It was his duty to find a solution, to find a cure, which he knew only came from getting The Order of the Fiery Sword off their backs.

Arturial and Sholitziel had moved quickly, he reflected, once Dean agreed to moving the nest away from Bobby's place. The two angel medics located an abandoned building in the wilderness ten miles west of Sioux Falls and converted it to a temporary quarantine facility for the sick. Upon entering the refurbished building, accomplished with the power of angelic grace, a person was prompted to put their coats on wall hooks and thoroughly wash up to their elbows in a pair of stainless steel sinks. People passed into the next room, much larger, featuring three toddler beds against one wall and three more against the opposite wall. An enormous rectangular table in the middle of the room provided people and angels alike with a place to consult books or maps while watching over six little patients. Taking the back stairs led a visitor to an identical room on the floor above where human patients were housed - so far only Molly and a few people who lived in her building. They were without a doubt much sicker than the fledglings without the benefit of internal grace.

"Find anything yet?" Sam asked, leaning over the work table.

"Nothing but an exemplary service record," replied Castiel with a dejected sigh. "There is no sign of why or how my sister got involved with The Order."

"Maybe the how or why doesn't matter."

Castiel glanced at Sam in the shadows brought on by nighttime. "I suppose that could be true."

"I only mean maybe it doesn't matter in the long run, you know, trying to stop The Order from spreading this influenza. I know it matters to you personally. It'd eat away at me."

"The key can't be with Limaneal. It has to be the leader, Claudiel." As he spoke, Castiel snapped shut the blue leather record book passed along from Gabriel days before. He wished Sam or Dean could read Enochian and help him review everything, not that anyone could pry Dean away from James' bedside. "I believe it'll soon be time to take a trip to Chicago. The truth is we aren't going to accomplish anything until we face the enemy head on."

"Are we ready for The Order to be so aware of what we know yet?" asked Sam. He pulled out a chair and flopped into it, limbs splayed in exhaustion.

"I don't know."

Dean's rough voice spoke up from the back corner by James' bed. "I'm ready to kick some ass."

It was difficult to ignore the red blazing condition of Dean's soul but Castiel avoided getting sucked into his blind rage. One of them had to maintain some semblance of an equilibrium instead of running into the night with their guns drawn and no real clue of what they faced. He felt Demiel's eyes on him from the front of the room as well. She, at least, had the sort of combat training that kept her boiling temper from spilling over the pot out of control. All of them craved the release that came with allowing grace rage to control them. Castiel included. Every time he watched Arturial or Sholitziel clean ruptured pustuals on James' arm and the new ones on his little chest, he fantasized about smiting The Order on his own. He'd take it slow and enjoy the sensation of their graces draining away.

"If we kill them too soon, we won't know what to do about this influenza," said Castiel as if all of them had been listening to his thoughts.

"The only way they'll give us the cure or whatever is if we agree to give our kids back to the winged dicks upstairs. I'm not giving my boy to a bunch of harp players ready to brainwash him five seconds after they get up there. No son of mine is gonna be raised to see people as animals beneath his dignity. I'd rather let him--."

Each of them knew what Dean was ready to say. The hum of voices and footsteps upstairs even paused as if the rest of the nest wondered if he'd actually say it out loud. Dean would rather let his boy die than see him in the hands of the old regime who still clung to the vision of God's obedient Heaven before Gabriel became king. And although he didn't voice it, Castiel found himself debating whether he too would rather see James dead than raised in blind obedience the way he had been raised. He couldn't entirely reject the most awful scenario. That was dangerous in itself.

Pushing himself up from the table, Castiel made his way to Dean and laid hands over his shoulders. He rubbed their breadth as both of them peered down at their fledgling lying in the little bed. A guinea pig wheel squeaked on the wall shelf behind them, breaking the tense silence. That was Dean's idea. He thought bringing the guinea pigs from home would give the nest a sense of familiarity.

"Sorry. I didn't mean that," whispered Dean hoarsely. He reached up to caress Castiel's hand on his shoulder. The rocking chair he occupied began to move in faint nervous bursts.

"No one believes you did," Castiel replied.

"I want their hearts on silver platters," Dean snarled after a moment.

In his gentlest manner, Castiel bent down and looped his arms around Dean's shoulders to speak in soft, private tones. "As do I," he admitted, "but we can't kill Claudiel only to make him a martyr to those in rebellion. He's holding an innocent soul hostage."

"Jeremy Batt."

"Yes," said Castiel, "and we're under orders not to kill. At least not yet. Gabriel doesn't want his reign marred by executing angels the way the old regime did."

With a scoff, Dean shook his head. "He's not my king."

"But he is mine. Your son's too."

Dean's jaw clenched. His profile turned severe as the dim light deepened the hollow appearance around his eyes. Since the sick couldn't tolerate the brightness provided by sunlight or electricity, Arturial and Sholitziel fitted the temporary quarantine building with wall-mounted oil lamps. It gave the building a chilling isolated sensation at night the way Castiel imagined it must have been like during the Spanish Flu pandemic during the first World War.

"I want you to call Gabriel here," said Dean.

At first, Castiel couldn't think of a way to answer him.

"I'm serious, Cas," he went on. "If he's the King of Heaven now, he'll know what to do about this influenza crap. You call him here and you make him fix our boy. Make him fix Molly before her body loses the kid we haven't even met yet."

"Dean, I--."

Bursting upright, Dean shook off Castiel's arms and stalked around James' bed with an accusing arm pointed at the little child. "Cas, you won't make me a father and then stand there with your thumb up your ass while my kids die right in front of me!"

"They're my kids too!" Castiel shouted with an unexpected wave of ferocity.

That was Sam's cue, it seemed. He emerged from the shadows across the room and placed himself at the end of James' bed exactly between his two parents. "Guys, not here," he said in a low voice.

Demiel, carrying the sleeping form of Evelyn in her arms, slid into the battle beside Sam but she lacked his compassion. She stared Castiel down through exhausted dark eyes, and then shifted her focus to Dean. "We're all at risk here. It's not just about you two," she spat. "I don't think there's a body in this building right now who expected to be part of a nest and raising fledgling angels but we're here and this is the problem at hand."

"We're sitting here wasting time when he's got a direct line to the throne!" Dean barked.

"Enough!" Demiel hissed. "Pointing fingers and sniping at each other isn't going to help our young. Most of them might be in deep feverish sleep but don't think for a second that they can't feel it when we start turning on each other. Grow up and stop acting like you're the only ones in anguish here."

Maybe it was the hard tone Demiel used or maybe it was the way she made her point but Castiel swallowed back his own accusatory tone. When he saw Dean's pointed hand drop to his side a few moments later, he knew she'd succeeded at dismantling the bomb. At least for the moment. Dean had a habit of picking fights with Castiel or Sam to let off steam in high-pressure situations.

It was the last thing he wanted to do but Castiel knew Dean was right. He had to go call for Gabriel now that the stakes were so much higher. Perhaps Gabriel knew of a cure for the mutated influenza and they wouldn't have to try and negotiate with The Order of the Fiery Sword after all. A gnawing sensation in the pit of his vessel's stomach suggested that wasn't the case. Still, he had to try before Molly or one of the other humans upstairs died. And down there on the ground floor, it was only a matter of time before the influenza completely drained away the immature graces in the fledglings' little bodies. Once that happened, according to Arturial and Sholitziel, the little ones would be mortal and the disease would eat away at their flesh and blood bodies in a matter of days.

"All right," he whispered. Being plagued by indecision had to stop.

Castiel bent over the bed and slid his ring finger into James' limp hand. "Daddy's going to get help," he told the sleeping child as he smoothed back damp hair from his feverish brow. There he noticed the glimmer of purple infection just beneath the skin, ready to burst. "DD's going to be here with you. We won't leave you alone. Hold onto my voice, James. Hold onto DD's voice. We love you very much and we're going to get the medicine to make you feel better. I promise."

On the other side of the bed, Dean leaned over with him. "I'm right here, buddy."

Castiel lifted the hair from James' forehead again and gave Dean a pointed look. He didn't want to announce the approaching rupture of another pustule in case the fledgling could indeed hear their voices while he slept.

"I'll watch it," answered Dean grimly with a sharp nod.

"I'll be back as soon as I know something," Castiel said in a tone that left no room for discussion.

Looking back would have been too hard. Seeing the scope of six beds all dependent on him for survival would have brought back the paralysis of indecision. Castiel squeezed Dean's hand in passing, unable to even trust his courage for a kiss or a simple embrace no matter how much he needed it. He considered calling for Hetanel but didn't do it in the end. Facing Gabriel when the anger still flared in his gut put him in uncharted territory. He wanted no witnesses to the possibility of having to set aside his pride to beg the King of Heaven to help his nest. It didn't matter that Gabriel never told Castiel there was a sister out there, nor did it matter that such a sister probably played a role in reprogramming him at some point. James mattered. His unborn child mattered. The nest mattered. Innocent human lives mattered. Leaving the quarantine building felt like walking to his own execution. As much as he hated himself for being that dramatic, he realized it amounted to the developing human emotions within - pride, jealousy, anger, sorrow. Castiel the angel achieved the darkest parts of humanity.

He walked for an hour. He pushed aside branches drooping low from trees dripping with recent rainfall. Not much of South Dakota was wooded but Arturial and Sholitziel managed to find an area shrouded by trees, which made it difficult for angels in flight to spot life on the ground. When Castiel's boots sloshed through a shallow creek, he gave it no mind. The balmy air of summer swept up from the south, making nighttime warm enough to hike without jackets in spite of being close to Canada. Moonlight dappled the narrow deer path ahead, although Castiel's angel vision didn't need extra light. He forced his vessel's pupils open wide the way a cat drew in light to move seamlessly in the dark.

The woods opened into a narrow meadow bordered by another branch of the creek he'd just crossed. It was as good a place as any, he decided. The risk of being overheard by The Order occurred to him as he stepped into the center of the meadow but he was armed and so were the angels left in the quarantine building. Under Demiel's leadership, they wouldn't breach the warding defenses she'd put in place. Chances were higher that they had no idea where Castiel had hidden the nest anyway.

A deep breath fortified Castiel's vessel but it didn't silence the prideful voice inside from going bitter toward asking Gabriel for help. His nest needed him though. As long as he kept the image of his feverish fledgling close to the surface of his thoughts, he could do it.

Castiel sank to his knees in the wet grass. Rain soaked through his jeans but that was the most common way he'd seen humans pray before he lived among them. Suddenly he wished Molly was well enough to be there with him since she was the most religious human he knew. She would know how to do it, how to make that connection with the celestial unknown. With his hands pressed together, he considered what to say.

"Gabriel....." he began with a halting sound at the back of his throat. "Um... Gabriel. I'm praying to the archangel Gabriel for help with my sick child. Please come to me and ... uh ... give me your divine guidance in our time of need." The prayer sounded ridiculous and he didn't feel like he was making any kind of connection to the divine. He began to understand what Dean saw in Molly's faith - emptiness and lack of reward. Human faith was never something he thought about in depth and he couldn't understand how their prayers ever reached his ears. But then he thought about all the times Dean prayed to him. He'd felt the hunter's faith, hadn't he? And there was nothing special in what Dean said - no magic words or antiquated biblical language. Castiel started again. "Gabriel it's me. It's ... Bean. I'm down here lost with a lot of sickness on my hands and I don't know what to do. It's going to get worse if I don't stop it. I need help. I need you." He swallowed hard as if blocking the words from creeping back down his throat. "Amen, I guess. Amen."

After a moment of silence and his sharp hearing trained on the smallest wilderness sounds, Castiel opened one eye and then the other. He didn't see anything different about the meadow. It didn't seem to work, he thought, arms dropping at his sides. Dejection began to fill his thoughts as he pulled himself off the ground again. Of course he could do a summoning spell on Gabriel but any kind of magic would have attracted The Order's attention. Prayer was the most clandestine way to go about it. But a summoning might be necessary in any event. He sighed, thinking of how much time he'd waste going back to his home where The Order thought he was so he could do the summoning there without leading them to the nest's hiding place. They were depending on him.

He swept the wet grass from his legs and turned, ready to retrace his steps and not at all ready to tell Dean the attempt failed. In the distance, just inside the tree line, a column of white skin glowed in a shaft of moonlight. Castiel stopped, startled at first, but then his heart beat faster when he made out the shapes of enormous wings arching high over the man's head. Familiar wings. Gabriel's wings.

Once he was sure it wasn't an illusion created to trap him, Castiel approached. He still had no idea what to say and the lack of a smile or an easy joke from Gabriel had him somewhat unnerved. Humor was such an intrinsic part of Gabriel's being that seeing him there looking back at him through such still features jolted Castiel into unfamiliar territory. He was used to being overly practical. It always fell on him to make up for Gabriel's inability to be serious when he was a young angel under the archangel's care. He'd been obedient and pleasing where Gabriel had been jovial and ridiculous. Now facing a celestial monarch in the dark of night who bore the weight of unexpected responsibility left Castiel second-guessing the father figure he thought he knew so well. Perhaps Gabriel absorbed more than he let on during Castiel's youth. Perhaps his flippant attitude was always a mask covering something much deeper.

"I think this is a first for us," said Gabriel when Castiel got close enough for them to speak without raising their voices too much.

"How do you mean?"

"You've never prayed to me before, Bean."

"I've never prayed to anyone before," Castiel admitted. He glanced around the woods. "Did you come here without your guard?"

"Yep."

Castiel slid his eyes back to Gabriel and studied the strain in his features. "The crown is getting heavy, isn't it?"

"They won't be happy I left without telling anybody." Gabriel shrugged. "My kid needs me. Whattya gonna do?"

A noncommittal hum rolled around Castiel's throat as he took measure of the archangel who raised him. Every cell in his being wanted to hate and spit and cry out at the injustice of the secrets between them piling up like bricks forming a wall. An abandoned fledgling was no laughing matter, just as it was among human children. He'd had a sister. There was another the entire time - someone he could have bonded with after Gabriel disappeared. But the trickster had robbed him of that too. The facts cycled through his mind over and over again until he clenched his fists at his sides and fed off the anger. Resenting Gabriel meant he wouldn't have to be abandoned again.

"Focus, Bean. Right here." Gabriel snapped his fingers. "You need my help. What's happening?"

Castiel took a breath and shifted his focus from resentment to his child's face. "The Order has brought disease to my nest."

"Disease?" Gabriel's eyebrow arched.

"Well, you ought to know about it. Limaneal stole samples of the mutated influenza from Heaven. Don't you remember?"

The skeptical eyebrow fell and Gabriel's eyes clouded. "I didn't know it was her. I didn't think the theft was related to this rebellion. The influenza was stolen almost a year ago."

"They've been biding their time, it seems."

"Your whole nest is sick?"

Castiel nodded. "Every last fledgling. Several humans have been infected as well. One or more of them specifically targeted Molly. We have her with the other infected ones in a quarantined building to keep the thing contained. It's an hour's walk from here."

Some time passed as Gabriel turned it over in his mind. He said nothing for a drawn out period until the silence nearly drove Castiel insane.

"What should I do?" Gabriel finally asked.

"You're asking me?" Castiel blasted back. "You're the King of Heaven! You're supposed to be my father! I prayed to you and brought you here even though I'd rather punch you in the throat because my nest is in deeper trouble than I can understand, and you ask me what you should do? Be a father! Be a grandfather! Be a king! Assert your power and say no more! Fix my family before I lose them!"

"I don't know how!" shouted Gabriel, cutting him off. "I can heal a sick human but I don't know how to heal an infected angel! No one does! The ones who knew are long dead thanks to dear old Dad and big brother Lucifer!"

The ground seemed to drop out from under Castiel as he stood there looking into the mystery of raw fear in an archangel. He never counted on Gabriel being utterly uneducated in the mutated influenza or any other problem Castiel might have laid at his feet. It was at that moment that he realized he did in fact look up to Gabriel the whole time, even in the centuries of silence. He truly thought if something dire occurred, Gabriel would know what to do. Every father was supposed to have all the answers. But Castiel was a father now too and he didn't know what to do either.

Scrubbing a hand over his face revived him enough to say, "You know how to heal a sick human. I tried but I'm not powerful enough. Let's start there. You can try to help Molly and the baby. There are other humans too. People who were living in her building. The Order released the disease into the water pipes."

"I--."

"--Gabriel, I'm begging you. Please come. Try. Just don't run away this time. You owe me that much. You owe James and my unborn child that much."

*****

Oil lamplight flickered on whitewashed walls as Sam cradled Noah in his arms. They all said Noah hadn't developed as fast as the other fledglings - whatever that meant - but now Sam was worried being behind schedule might spell out the little guy's demise. His weary eyelids felt like sandpaper every time he blinked but he didn't want to fall asleep until an angel came to relieve him. Noah had been crying every time they put him in bed. He wanted the warmth of a body in spite of his high fever.

"I was a little guy too," Sam whispered to the fledgling asleep against his chest. "Kids at school used to pick on me and beat me up sometimes but my brother always took care of it. I grew up to be bigger than him. Maybe you'll grow up to be bigger than all of your cousins too."

A breeze carried the scent of rain into the quarantine building, making the flames flicker against their wall sconces. Sam pulled his attention away from Noah and narrowed his eyes at the room and trained his ears on the smallest disturbances. They were well hidden. Castiel had assured him of that when the medic angels refurbished the building with just the power of their graces. Still, he was worried. Hadn't Castiel drilled it into their heads before that using grace left traces on the atmosphere that other angels could detect? He adjusted the quilt around the little bundle in his arms as if it would shield him from danger. The open windows allowed fresh air into their little makeshift hospital but they left Sam feeling insecure and unprotected. But when Demiel and Hetanel didn't stir from their rocking chairs, he began to relax a little. Across the room, Dean had fallen asleep while holding James' hand. He didn't dare make a sound. Dean hadn't slept since the influenza struck.

Sam needed to stretch his legs or he'd soon be asleep too. He slid Noah back into his little bed as carefully as he could without causing him enough pain to wake him. When Demiel met his eyes, he pointed to the floor above and she nodded.

The back stairs had been there since the building was constructed. Absent thoughts about its history flitted through his mind, pointing to its scattered and distracted state. Carrying sick people up to the second floor over such a steep nineteenth century stairwell had been rather difficult but the angel medics had insisted on keeping the angels and humans separated. Arturial and Sholitziel seemed to have taken charge of the entire nest since they had arrived the night before but no one had questioned it. If Castiel trustee them, Sam supposed he should trust them too, but his nerves were wrung out with so much sickness around him. He needed to get his hands on the rebellious angels responsible for infecting their children. He needed to break some necks. How dare they think they could do something so horrendous to innocent children?

Upstairs, much the same scene greeted Sam as below. The faint odor of feverish sweat seemed stronger from the grown humans than the little ones downstairs. He spotted Arturial and Sholitziel each leaning over Molly's bed.

"What's happening?" Sam asked quietly as he approached.

"We're trying to keep the fever down since she's pregnant," said Arturial as he draped a wet rag over her chest. She. Castiel had said something about that angel preferring to be a female. She spoke again. "The fetus is safe so far. It's simply a chore keeping the fever under control since a gestating human cannot take most medications. We're doing it the old way with cold rags to draw it down slowly as to avoid shocking her system."

"You can't heal any of these people with your angel powers?" asked Sam dubiously.

Sholitziel picked up the questions. "No. It's the same mutated virus as the fledglings have downstairs. It was designed to resist healing by grace. We believe the part that attacks angelic grace actually attacks the central nervous system in humans. I'm conducting tests. But do tell Castiel and his human that the gestating woman is safe for now. She appears quite ill, of course, but we are preventing her condition from worsening."

"Dean. Cas' husband is named Dean. And this is Molly. She's carrying a child so they could have a family," said Sam in a darkened tone. He hated the way angels reduced humans to mere animals even when they were trying to be helpful.

"Yes, of course."

As they spoke, Molly began tossing her head from side to side on her sweat-soaked pillow. Dark hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks in matted clumps. In spite of the pregnant swell of her belly, she looked wasted in the face with hollow cheeks and eyes rimmed in dark shadows. A weak arm reached out to Sam. He grasped her hand and leaned down so she could see him in the dim room.

"Dean?"

"No, darlin. It's Sam. I'm his brother, remember?"

Molly nodded faintly. "The baby...."

"The baby's all right," Sam assured. "You will be too. We've got good doctors looking after you and you're in a safe place."

"There were people," she said as if she hadn't heard him. "I saw strangers in the basement when I took my laundry to the machines. I couldn't make sense of why they were wearing hooded capes. Black hoods." Molly paused to work the muscles in her throat into a swallowing motion. "Castiel - he told me. Told me what he is. Told me to be careful. I was afraid of the hoods."

Sam held her hand. "Did they say anything?"

"No. Not to me. They spoke a different language. I tried to leave. Turned around and hurried. Door slammed shut without people touching it." Molly's forehead creased as her fear resurfaced. She began to wheeze as her breathing grew rapid. "Told me .... they told me to get away. Angels in town are evil. They spread pestilence among people. God isn't here anymore, they said. Couldn't imagine Cas being evil. I said so. One of them got angry and struck my face. That was a woman. The other one got antsy like her hitting me wasn't supposed to happen. Then they disappeared. Just like that. Gone. By nighttime I was sick. Why would they try to convince me angels are evil?"

"Well, there's a rebellion going on in Heaven right now and Cas is trying to stop it," replied Sam, measuring his words carefully.

"Like when Lucifer fell?"

"Something like that."

"Dear God," Molly whispered. Her eyes rolled back and she shut her eyes, overcome by fatigue.

"Don't worry. You're safe here." As Sam spoke in soft tones, he smoothed back her hair. She was carrying his niece or nephew. That made her family in his eyes. "We won't let anything happen to you. Just rest now. I gotta tell Dean what you saw but I'm only going downstairs. These guys here are doctors. They're taking good care of you. I'm sure Dean will be up to see you after you've slept some more."

With a quick nod to Arturial and Sholitziel, he retreated to the back stairs again. There wasn't much valuable information in Molly's story but it pointed to direct anger at Castiel for some imagined slight. If Molly could describe what the angels looked like, that would help a lot.

"Dean?" he said as he came down the stairs. "Dean, I just talked to Molly. She was awake for a minute."

The older Winchester brother blinked away the sleepiness from his brain and sat upright in the rocking chair. "What?" He directed the question at Sam but his eyes darted to the fledgling lying bandaged in the bed at his side.

"She saw a couple of the angels who did this," Sam said.

Before Sam had a chance to explain himself, the door at the front of the building flew open and shut. Two sets of footsteps and low murmurings drew Sam's attention from his brother. Both of them charged toward the front room ready to fight whoever entered their hiding place. There stood Castiel and Gabriel each washing their hands at the stainless steel sinks. Stunned, Sam felt his jaw hang open while Dean reached for Castiel and embraced him from the side. They weren't much for affection in front of other people but Castiel nuzzles him back, of course, without touching him with newly washed hands.

"I convinced him to try and help," Castiel said.

Both Winchester brothers peered at Gabriel as he dried his hands on a paper towel.

"Try being the word of the day," the King of Heaven said. "Show me where the pregnant lady is. I'll start there."

#destiel #deancas #supernatural #castiel #sam winchester

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