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grisailledreams · 5 months

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Never Enough

Astarion stews in a little jealousy while Brynne sings at a Gortash-sponsored party. (AKA Astarynne fluff is back deal with it)

EDIT: Lmao songfic bitches! Never Enough from The Greatest Showman

Title: Never Enough Word count: ~3108 words Pairing: Astarynne (Astarion/Brynne // Astarion/OC // Astarion/Tav -- can you tell idk how we're supposed to be tagging this?) Content Warnings: Light swearing

For a moment, there, Astarion thought he and Brynne had something special. He was the first person she spoke to in the morning. The last touch she sought before bedding down. The one she embraced hardest when that desiccated skeleton man in their camp brought him back from the brink of death, or when it was Brynne being ressurected instead. And yet, every bloody time she sang a duet, it was always with someone else!

Whenever the group came short on coin or supplies, a bard could magically make gold appear with a wiggle of the fingers and a pretty tune – even in a refugee camp. More collected in the hat if she had a partner and upped the performance value, so occasionally Brynne dragged one of their companions onstage and… well, sparks flew. Every time.

She and Wyll sang a romantic duet about defying fate, complete with wizard-made miniature fireworks.

Shadowheart begrudgingly became the other half of a musical business deal.

Karlach had a fantastic time bellowing out a dramatic, pining vow with her.

Gale often got roped into a windy, free-spirited call to adventure.

It was the Wyll number that stuck in Astarion’s craw the most. His ability to provide special effects made him an attractive partner, as did his surprising ability to carry a tune while doing so. That may have had a little to do with Brynne. There was something about her playing that seemed to draw music out of people if she wanted it to; unlikely that Shadowheart knew any music that wasn’t a psalm to Shar. But Brynne and Wyll fell into their show, casting doubts and aspersions aside to promise that they could be together in spite of the world telling them that they couldn’t. They danced in one another’s arms. If Brynne hung a length of silk from a high ceiling – a trick she pulled in the Last Light – she and Wyll performed simple aerial feats to add to the music. And, at the end of the song, Wyll always moved in for a kiss. Astarion always held his breath. Brynne always stepped away and again reiterated that they couldn’t be together. In song.

Afterwards, her duet partners might have said something friendly about how fun it was, or ask with bright eyes how much they managed to rake in, but the romance of it all never brought them closer.

Did it? The jealous fire in Astarion’s belly only made him believe that Wyll looked at her a little too long for the rest of the night, a little too dreamy-eyed, juxtaposing a little too much of a fairytale damsel’s aura over Brynne’s face–

Not once did the bard ever, ever ask Astarion if he’d like to sing with her.

He didn’t. Why embarrass himself in front of so many people the way their associates did? But an invitation might have been nice.

It took last place in the list of his concerns when Gortash invited – “Read,” said Astarion as they looked at the notice, “insists.” – Brynne to play at a dinner honoring the officials of the Flaming Fists and, in the interest of not having anyone throw them all into Wyrm’s Rock, Brynne agreed. She’d been playing coy with the new Archduke every time he suggested they work together. “Avoiding a fight” without making promises she didn’t intend to keep. Gods. Yes, he understood the intention of it and yes, he would have done the same thing for slightly different reasons, but now she was forcing him to go along with her idiot plans because he knew — he knew, gods damn her! — that if he didn't, she'd wind up in Wyrm's Rock with Gortash waving his hand for a servant to dispose of her corpse and mop the blood from his shiny, marble floor. And then what was Astarion supposed to do? Go to Withers? What lesson would Brynne learn, then, about doing stupid things?

When the night arrived, Karlach, Astarion, and Jaheira dressed up as much as any of them cared to – Loudly, Nicely, and “Fuck It” in that order – and concealed the weapons they were banned from bringing on their persons. Brynne didn’t seem worried. Her creepy lyre strung with spider silk, she insisted, was all the weapon she needed when Astarion asked her about whether she wanted her bow or her rapier and where she planned to put either.

“Where could I possibly hide those in this dress?” she asked, with far too much laughter in her voice for comfort.

In fairness, she was right. The fabric, a fetchingly deep shade of green that made her pink skin glow, had been clipped, stitched, and draped in a style reminiscent of Antiquity – one that exposed most of her back, especially with her green-and-brown hair teased into a careless updo laced with gold chains. Matching metallic flowers and insects cast in a modern style pinned the fabric into fanciful sleeves that fell away at the elbow so as not to get in the way of her playing. She’d even abandoned her daywear boots – leather and scruffy and certainly not a pair to go with this ensemble – for soft, thick-soled sandals with jeweled clasps and straps that ran up to the thigh. Decidedly unsuitable for a fight if one broke out.

Astarion’s judgmental eye only went over her once before he took a knee at her feet, took his dagger sheath entirely from his belt, and strapped the sussur blade just above the topmost strap of Brynne’s sandal where she could easily reach it.

When she began to protest, Astarion dramatically sighed and cut her off. “I’ll have to make do with my rapier. Do take care not to lose that. We went through so much to have it forged.”

He kissed her and called her beautiful so she’d forget to keep arguing.

Their party walked through streets that used to be so lively at this time of day, when the sun had just gone down and lanterns lit the way. Taverns and burlesque houses that typically stayed loud and merry into the first rays of dawn largely closed their doors before midnight. Anyone who still dared be out by nightfall cast suspicious glances at the adventurers, not knowing whether they were saviours or oncoming damnation. Thank gods Astarion need not hunt nowadays. Breaking down those psychological walls would have been exhausting. As he and the rest of the group approached Wyrm’s Rock, they found one of the few places with open doors, bright lights, chatter, and the smell of food wafting from the windows: the Flaming Fist officers’ barracks.

Even at a party – especially at a party, maybe – there were guards. A tall, muscular woman in full steel plate stopped them at the door to mean-mug them into giving up whatever anti-Gortashian plot they might think to hatch. In that sickeningly sweet, gorgeously manipulative way of hers, Brynne batted her eyelashes and flashed the letter bearing the Archduke’s signature.

Once the manip decided it wasn’t a forgery, the glare softened into boredom and she flatly said, “No weapons past this point.”

“We know!” Brynne chirped. “We came prepared!” She turned around to face her team, raising her brows. “Right?”

Karlach, Jaheira, and Astarion exchanged glances amongst themselves. With a shrug, Jaheira said, “Don’t look at me. What, you think I’m senile and forgot we weren’t allowed to bring blades? And this one,” she said, jabbing her thumb to Karlach, “wouldn’t be able to hide a weapon in a smith’s forge.”

“Hey!”

And then they all whirled on Astarion.

He groaned, hung his head back, and drew his fingers through his freshly-washed and touseled hair. “I’m hurt. I’m offended. You all really think so little of me?!”

“I could pick you up by the ankle and shake it out of you,” Karlach offered.

“Ugh, fine, fine…” Astarion opened his doublet, pulled out a cheap, tiny dagger from a hidden pocket, and waved it in front of their faces before he deposited it in the manip’s waiting hand. “There. Happy?”

“Astarion!”

The disappointment in Brynne’s voice might have broken his heart if it hadn’t been all one massive pantomime.

In Brynne’s flurry of impassioned apologies to the manip and offers to leave Astarion behind, not to mention Jaheira and Karlach muttering criticisms of him under their breath, the Flaming Fist never once thought to check the rest of them to see if they were also carrying concealed blades. Clearly, they cared deeply about being present for this Gortash-sponsored event. The other option likely involved a trip to Wyrm’s Rock for defiance. Who would think that sweet, freckled, spring blossom face could lie so perfectly? Clearly, not the manip waving them through the gate.

Officers enjoyed higher pay and more authority, but it seemed their buildings were still just too small to host gatherings anywhere other than their courtyard. Wait, there were hay mannequins crushed below the stairs. Training yard. Out-of-place tablecloths decorated shabby trestle tables, set with gleaming silver tableware for the officers and attending patriars. No one too fancy. High-ranking merchants, lower nobility, people who might have been invited to Gortash’s ascension ceremony but also would have been surprised and eager by it. Dinner smelled expensive; a far cry from even the fare at the Elfsong. Serving staff made rounds through the party with trays of hors d’ouevres and crystal flutes full of sparkling wine, but a bar had been set up opposite the stage. A few invitees spared the party a glance, but once they saw Brynne and her lyre, they lost interest. The band had to set up. They wouldn’t be interesting until later. Then again, they didn’t know that Astarion was about to go mingle.

He hung back for a moment, though, so he could fix her hair. One of the curls she left loose didn’t look as nice as the one next to it. “Singing with Karlach again?” he asked, trying to sound conversational; he failed to keep out the grumble. “Or are you forcing poor old Jaheira on stage with you for once?”

“Neither.” Astarion glanced up. “No duets.” And glanced down to fix the drape of one of her sleeves. “Gortash sent an incredibly specific set list for me.”

“Dictatorial even in party music. I should be less surprised.”

“Maybe if I do a decent job for his underlings, I’ll get to play for the man, himself!” They both laughed. Neither of them wanted to be in the same room as Gortash again unless it was to slit his throat. “Alright. Don’t pickpocket anyone, okay?”

“But darling,” he purred, briefly drawing his foreknuckle over her cheekbone and the elven knots tattooed over it, “you know how your pretty music makes my fingers itch.”

Again, she giggled, rolling her eyes, but her face glowed in that odd, warm way that eladrins seemed to do when they were happy. Absolutely blinding, sometimes, like the morning after that first night they’d spent together, or the one after their little celebration with the tieflings. Luckily, she’d been sunny in his direction often enough that he could stand its light. He liked that she saw their dynamic burglary duo status as something favorable. Even cherished.

Astarion kissed the back of her hand, demure enough in his gesture so as not to cheapen her presence in front of her audience, but also to enough eyes to make sure they all knew she was taken. “Break a leg, my love,” he murmured, right before he melted into the crowd. The strings sang to him before he reached the open bar.

The wine did nothing to relax the tension in Astarion’s legs and he’d sooner chop his own foot off before he jiggled a leg the way Brynne did whenever she felt restless. He wasn’t used to a task so full of nothing. They were always trying to infiltrate, steal, expose, kill, or save someone or something, typically with mixed results, and while they could have spent half that time doing something more worthwhile, at least it felt productive when they inevitably found gold, treasure, or new equipment. None of that, here. She’d told him so. But with all those eyes glued to her, easing into the music, Astarion spied no fewer than three purses he could cut and several pieces of jewelry easily liberated. On toetips, he could probably sneak into the officer’s chambers and rummage through their things before Brynne even finished the song. He’d done beautiful work with her in the counting house like this. She could play for hours. He hadn’t met a lock he couldn’t pick.

Instead, Astarion tried to listen to the music. War songs, mostly, an anthem to Bane, and multiple numbers clearly written by Gortash, himself, praising his new elevation in status… all ridiculous. The attendees listened politely and applauded with extra strength when Gortash’s name was mentioned, but for the most part, they spoke amongst themselves. Karlach and Jaheira managed to elbow their way into a table with a wealthy old married couple who were dressed far too formally and too old-fashioned to be anything other than family or donors. By the sounds of it, they were too deaf to be offended by Karlach’s occasional loud outburst. The wife in blue velvet patted Karlach on the shoulder while her partner, Wife in Green, launched into a rambling tale that Jaheira patiently listened to… or, at least, she seemed to nod periodically.

Servants served dinner and Karlach tried to wave Astarion over to join them, but he held up a hand. Being a vampire made his already limited elven diet that much more restrictive. The only hunger he’d felt lately was for… well. He didn’t need to say it, did he?

As Brynne wrapped up another song about Gortash – Jannath’s Ecstasy – one of the Archduke’s representatives, sent to the event as his stand-in, tapped a spoon to his glass and stood up. A thin little human man with a whisker-thin mustache and a curly-tailed coat. He cleared his voice and said in a reedy voice, “A few words, from His Grace, Archduke Enver Gortash…”

Oh, the droning. Blah blah blah, dawn of a new age, blah blah blah, thin steel line. The myriads pamphlets regarding Gortash’s policy plans were bad enough. Each syllable of this speech made Astarion want to dismantle his ears piece by piece from the inside out. He caught Brynne’s eye. She grinned at him, lips pressed tightly together so she could rearrange her expression if one of the Fists realized she wasn’t drinking in every word. Jaheira and Karlach did that. One, desiring to learn more about their enemy through the words he spoke through a puppet. The other, glowing red and barely containing her fury; the patriars at their table soon fanned themselves from the heat.

Finally, the human stepped down, bid the attendees to enjoy their meal, and flashed Brynne a signal to continue playing her set. She dipped her head with a sweet smile and dropped an inch as some kind of respectful curtsy that managed to not put her playing stance off-balance. Nothing more than background noise, no one could say that Brynne didn’t do her very best when it came to music. Even when she only had a true audience of one. Her eyes found Astarion again. That smile widened and warmed.

He couldn’t look away, not when her fingers danced over the strings and made the lyre twinkle like a starry music box.Her expression softened and Astarion knew this song was his.

“I’m trying to hold my breath. Let it stay this way. Can’t let this moment end.”

No one noticed that this wasn’t part of the preapproved set list for quite a while. Perhaps they were too invested in complimenting the food and wine selection and the Fists had long tuned her out by then. Fine. They didn’t need to. Astarion’s stomach squirmed in a more pleasant way than to which he was accustomed, letting the music caress him in the way Brynne clearly wanted to do herself. A clandestine little love note in the middle of a crowded room. A shame that it couldn’t last.

“All the shine of a thousand spotlights, all the stars we steal from the night sky will never be enough. Never be enough. Towers of gold are still too little. These hands could hold the world, but it’ll never be enough. Never be enough for me.”

Faces began to turn to stone. Laughs throttled and broke mid-throat. The attendees who weren’t entirely pro-Gortashian rule shifted uncomfortably where they sat. The rest glared. Brynne sang, her lyrics full of greed and reaching farther beyond what was reasonable, all packaged up in the sound of a gentle ballad that grew in strength with each iteration. Karlach groaned a little and when Astarion glanced over to their table, the tiefling was rubbing her temple with a single finger and Jaheira looked ready to garrote Brynne. Astarion shook his head, smirking. They were going to get run out of town if she didn’t stop soon.

Every person in that courtyard aside from Brynne and Astarion had missed the parts that solidified her song as one of love, and Astarion greedily hoarded them for himself.

You set off a dream in me, getting louder now. Can you hear it echoing? Take my hand. Will you share this with me? ‘Cause darling, without you…

No matter how many bank vaults they flawlessly emptied, no matter how fine the wines they stole, no matter how heavy their gold purses grew, it would never be enough without Brynne at his side, hand in hand.

Who else could be his partner in crime as well as in life?

The song ended as gently as it started and through the polite, if stilted, smatter of applause, Brynne blew Astarion a kiss. A pair of Fist gauntlets escorted her off stage. She laughed, waved off their worry, tried to assure them that it wasn’t any criticism of the Archduke or his loyal patriars, but to the gate she went all the same. Astarion gestured with his head for Jaheira and Karlach to follow, pocketing his secret smile.

He grabbed Brynne’s hand before she saw him exit the courtyard. Karlach and Jaheira launched into complaints about barely being able to eat anything or get properly drunk, or how they were having such a nice conversation with those sweet old Grans. Astarion and Brynne tuned them out. She squeezed his fingers. Heat bloomed in his chest.

Brynne never sang songs to any of the others the way she did for him. And he’d never get enough of it.

#astarynne #brynne of harlow #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x tav #astarion x oc #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction

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jeannereames · 1 year

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Hi! I wondered what Thessalonike's marriage/relationship to Cassander/Kassandros was like? She was clearly forced to marry him, but since he named a city after her and she had lots of influence with their sons, I really hope it wasn't particularly awful / it was, at the very least, manageable for her

Also, was she really killed by her own son? That's heartbreakingly sad.

I expect that, especially in the early years, it was unpleasant for her at best. He needed her alive to legitimize his rule by producing half-Argead sons. Otherwise, I doubt her comfort concerned him. Naming a city after her had less to do with her and more to do with emphasizing that his wife was a daughter of Philip II. It was the tie to Philip he wanted to emphasize more than to Alexander.

Once she had children, however, things may have got marginally better. She had at least four, the three boys and a girl who died as a toddler who we know about only because we got lucky and stumbled over her tombstone. We know Kassandros broke Greek naming precedent to call the first boy after his wife’s father, and left the second boy to be named after his own father (Antipatros). And the last? Alexandros—probably named by Thessalonike. That must really have stuck in his craw—and it might indirectly tell us both how much power Thessalonike had, and how much she hated her husband.

For more on Kassandros and Alexander, see my post below.

It’s always possible that Thessalonike hadn’t liked her step-family and was happy to marry Kassandros…but I doubt it. The details we know suggest otherwise, such as the name of that third boy.

Ancient sources only rarely tell us about the affective bonds between family members, and then only if really good—or really bad. Why? In antiquity, piety demanded that family members back each other up, so even quarreling siblings, or quarreling parents and children were expected to protect each other. To kill one’s siblings, much less parents was an especially heinous act. The Furies, among the oldest (and most terrifying) of the gods, had the job of pursuing children who committed matricide. But we probably don’t hear about whether Thessalonike loved her brother (or step-mother Olympias), because ancient authors assumed she’d be loyal to them, however she felt.

This matters because not only did Kassandros hate her brother, Alexander, but he married her shortly after he’d had Olympias murdered. Thessalonike had previously been with Olympias in Pydna. Several of us, starting with Beth Carney, believe that Olympias raised her after her own mother’s death 20 days after she was born.* So if technically, Alexander and Kleopatra were half-siblings and Olympias a step-mother, they were her family.

That means Kassandros forced her to marry him after letting a violent crowd tear her mother limb from limb. It was a common practice for a new king of a different line to marry the daughter/sister/even mother of the previous king he was replacing, often after killing him. Kassandros didn’t kill Alexander, but later Successor era gossip said he was involved in a plot to poison him. If almost certainly untrue, it may have been circulating by then and she might have heard and believed it. Certainly, he’d been an enemy of her family and had Olympias killed.

Her wedding night must have been a nightmare for her.

Yet as a symbol as Philip's daughter, she had a certain amount of power over Kassandros via her boys. We don’t know how she felt about the oldest, or how he felt about her, but clearly the youngest son loved her…and the middle son didn’t. That also points to a civil war in the royal house.

A king always needed “an heir and a spare.” The third boy was extra insurance, but by naming him Alexandros, Thessalonike pretty clearly marked him “hers.” Kassandros would have kept a close eye on the older two. As the eldest, Philip (IV) barely outlived him, dying from natural causes (a “wasting disease”). Chances are he was unhealthy for at least some years prior, maybe all his life, and Kassandros anticipated an early death for him, causing him to concentrate equally on the second boy, who he probably saw as the “real” heir.

In any case, Kassandros died (of illness) rather young, in 297, only a few years after the Battle of Ipsos had made him undisputed king of Macedon. Philip (IV) succeeded him, but then died himself just a few months later.

Then things got interesting.

Kassandros had married Thessalonike after 316/15—probably sooner, not later. That means Philip couldn’t have been born earlier than 315/14. Thus, when Kassandros died in 397, Philip was, at most, 18. But he ruled without a regency as Philip IV. When he died, both the younger sons appear to have been underage, if Antipatros barely. Thessalonike set herself up as regent.

And she insisted that Antipatros share rule with his younger brother Alexandros (V).

He probably assumed (perhaps fairly) that she intended to replace him with Alexandros eventually, so about two years later—when he was fully of age and newly married—he committed the unforgivable sin of killing his mother Thessalonike, and kicking his brother out of Macedonia.

Fleeing to Athens, Alexandros asked Demetrios Poliorketes for help. This was a golden opportunity for Demetrios (son of Antigonos Monophthalmos). He’d had really bad luck since Ipsos, where Antigonos had died (and they’d lost). He was a commander of…mixed…ability. He failed as often as he succeeded, but he shared Alexander the Great’s gumption, if not his raw talent. Now, he used Alexandros V as leverage, and brought his army up from Athens to expel Antipatros, returning Alexandros to Pella…but then he didn’t leave.

Meanwhile, Antipatros fled to the court of his wife’s father—Lysimachos, who’d been Alexander’s friend and guard. Killing his own mother was decidedly Not Okay, so Lysimachos had Antipatros killed in turn.

Demetrios still hadn’t left Pella. Alexandros knew damn well he had eyes on the throne, and tried to poison him. Demetrios “overlooked” it initially, but then murdered him and named himself king of Macedon, initiating the Antigonid line.

Gotta love Macedonian cut-throat politics.

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* We have no idea what killed Nikesepolis, but a very good bet, given the timeline, is a “retained placenta,” which caused either delayed hemorrhage and/or infection. This is, unfortunately, one of the more common causes of maternal morbidity after childbirth, happening in about 1-2 pregnancies in 100.

#asks #Thessalonike #Alexander the Great #Cassander #Kassandros #Philip of Macedon #Successor Wars #Diadochi #Antipatros #Alexander V

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thatslayer · 9 months

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semi-plotted thing for @dogtccth

It's a pretty fair night. Warm, barely breezy. Sun's not even set but by the way people in these meetings bundle up in hoodies and jackets, hunched over and drowning in their clothes, you'd think it was the dead of winter. God, it's depressing, but given the meeeting's subject matter? Makes sense.

Faith's been to almost every one of these gatherings for months. Battling addiction, from sugar to alcohol. It's the last stop on her neighborhood patrol because the poor schlubs in this room are lonely, invisible and easy pickings for the undead. She's put down two or three vampires at every one of these shindigs and tonight seems to be no different. The sharing portion, the part where Faith is conveniently hovering around the punch bowl at the back of the room, that's usually when you find your beasties. They talk in a code so thinly-veiled that it's almost transparent. About hunger, need. They stare down the other patrons and watch the ones they want as they leave after the meeting is over. It's getting pretty cliche at this point. Well, maybe not cliche.

The guy who piqued her interest this time, the way he talked about his vague addiction to something or other got stuck in her craw. Doesn't quite know what to make of it because the dude sounds like a vampire. The problem is? He also sounds sincere. Her days of stake first, ask questions never are behind her (thank god) so when she catches up with him on the sidewalk outside, she's more curious than anything, "Hey, wait up! What you said back there… you okay?"

#dogtccth #dogtccth ; stu #Hope this works!

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journalsandshit · 6 months

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03/19/2023 - journal

the other day, i told jack about all of the issues with his relationship with carolina. i told him about how they dont love each other, and how their relationship is purely sexual, and how they dont even fucking know each other, theyre not even friends, and how she doesnt let him talk about his feelings, and how she never really comforts him, and how she makes everything about herself, and how he never seems happier after having been with her, and how they dont treat each other well, like they dont listen to one another and they dont care about each others comfort or boundaries and how they dont take those things into account, and how they seem to only be in the relationship to meet societal expectations of what they should be doing at this point as opposed to what they actually want.

i told him everything. everything. and i think i ruined it all by doing that.

he told her about our talk last night. then he sent her paragraphs upon paragraphs of "i love you"s and "i want to be best friends with you"s. he told her he wanted to do things with her like he and i do, and that he wants to have silly matching clothes with her, and that he wants to know her and to love her and to be with her in a way that meant something, not in a way thats just about their bodies and physicality.

i cried reading the screenshots he sent me. i want to be loved by him in a way that matters, but he wants that with her. he was so proud of their conversation and how they had decided to be together more and to do things together and to bond, and all i wanted to do was run away and never see them near each other ever again.

i didnt see him much the following week, but thats for another post. then i was away and every night, when he finally got around to texting me, he would tell me about the things that they had done together. they had a water balloon fight. they made pasta. they built a blanket fort with his siblings. they had fun and i wasnt there and i was jealous and homesick and having a really awful time and i needed him but he wasnt there and i was blaming them but i feel like its my fault.

if i had just not told him what i see in their relationship every day, maybe they wouldnt be trying to fix it now, and maybe i wouldnt feel so god damned alone. maybe he would have spent saturday with me like he said he would instead of at a fucking craw fish boil with her, and maybe i wouldntve felt so alone when i looked back at our texts from the day and the whole thing fit on less that half a page. hed called, sure, but only when his fucking girlfriend wasnt paying enough attention to him at the event that she brought him to that he had no reason at all to be at.

i wish i hadnt told him about their issues, i think it means that i wont see him as much. i think i forced him away by accidentally making him want to spend more time with her, and i think i ruined any time that we do have together because now all he wants to talk about is the fun things their doing together and the bonding theyre doing and everything i see or do makes me miss him and their fucking instagram is throwing it in my face all the time but i cant even unfollow them bc he would know and it would cause some huge issue.

im just so fucking tired of this and im so sorry i said anything. i really fucked up and theres nothing i can do and i would do anything to take it back but its too late now and im stuck in this hell of being ignored but not actually being ignored just not being paid as much attention to as i was used to and its my fucking fault and im so sorry and i miss him so much

#03/19/2023 #from old blog #journal #jack #carolina

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brooklynislandgirl · 2 years

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@ronmanmob {{xx}}

Reg's needles ~pānini, the man is pānini~ get stuck in her craw as she tries to swallow him down. His words. And when she finally allows herself to taste them they come off as snake oil and sparks fury inside her. It isn't that he's dismissive. He'd never really taken a shine to her at first meeting and now that passing familiarity breeds contempt. It's almost enough when he mimics Ron's invited closeness of face to face that she almost takes a step back. Not as big as Ron in either height nor breadth he still outmatches Beth by several stone and many more inches.

Beth believes in passive resistance and non-violence at the best of times. But do her palms itch to scratch the hell out of Reg's face for his implications and mockery? Absolutely.

There isn't so much misunderstanding between them that she doesn't know the meaning of being fed 'a line', which she knows Reg means it to say that Ronnie's been lying to her. But he never would. That's something his twin might never be able to understand. Ron knows all too well just how much ink swirls when things like misunderstandings occur, when there is no transparency between friends, and he would never harm her like that because he lives it, even when there's no words to be had.

She doesn't flinch away from Reg's vulgarity but it feels dirtier than when Ron speaks them. Like there's a film of something nasty clinging to her skin that begs a good scrubbing.

"Wha' I like? Den why not call one spade, spade? I t'ink you sometimes very mean spirited man, Reg Kray. I t'ink ya one big moke, an' I t'ink ya hide behind ya baby braddah cause is his reputation dat brings shrieks an' terrors t' mortal man. An' I find it despicable dat you use his illness again' him same way ya use it as a weapon 'gainst oddah people. He struggle so hard between wishin' he could be still da one dat he use t' be, and wantin' ya t' have some patience an' understandin' of da man he is now. It's a horror, an' believe me like y' believe in God when I tell you I've been dere, an' how deeply I feel him. "So yeah, it's Kray land. An' ya might be da face of it. But he ya backbone. Ya muscle. Ya leg t' stand on. An' me? I'm gonna be his mo'beddah angel long as he let me, because da las' kine I evah hope t' see is him turnin' into you."

She lifts her chin up in challenge, daring him to say a word otherwise, as her finger pokes a tiny sharp point into his chest.

“An’ I don’t smoke.”

#ronmanmob #Pānini|Reg Kray #See Your Fire Spark|Reg and Beth #London Calling|Legend #The Trader After Hours

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lilydalexf · 4 years

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Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Slippin’ Mickeys

Only 3 stories by Slippin’ Mickeys ended up at Gossamer, but she’s written many more stories than that. She’s also one of the few authors who posted numerous stories during the show’s original run and then again in the revival years. I’ve recced some of my favorites of her stories here, including Last Chance Falls and Currahee. Big thanks to Slippin’ Mickeys for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)?

I would say that it does and doesn't surprise me. It surprises me that anyone would want to read something I wrote all those years ago, (only in that I was an actual teenager at the time, and had no chops at all -- I've grown a lot as a writer, and honestly have trouble reading my old stuff because I would have made much different creative decisions now). But the fanfiction that came out of the original run of the show -- from almost day one -- was so rich and varied and a lot of it so well written that I am not the least bit surprised that people want to read it today. I go back and read old favorites often, and am always thrilled to find something that's new-to-me, even if it's 27 years old.

What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it?

The first thing I think about when I think about my fandom experience are the friends I made along the way. The X-Files came up with the internet, and there was a whole new way of connecting with people that liked the things that you liked. To this day, I am good friends with many people that I met through the show back in 1997-98. When the revival came about, I dove back in, and made new, more recent friendships that are just as rich. I love the show, but I also love the people I met along the way.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)?

I first got into the show's online community on some random message board that I think I probably found through a Yahoo search one day in a computer lab on my university's campus. I connected with one woman from Greece named Fay that day, who invited me to join a group of women that chatted about the show after it aired on Monday nights. After the first time I hooked up with them, we talked almost daily via ICQ. Later, in the early aughts, I found the forums on Mighty Big TV/Television Without Pity, where some of the most intelligent discussion was going on. The forums were heavily moderated, and so they were always on topic, and it was just a smart, funny, great place to be.

Eventually, I started working for TWoP as both a writer and moderator (surprise! A lot of people don't know this because TWoP protected the identities of their mods so well, but I was the X-Files board mod after Jessica left!). It was my first paid writing gig and opened doors for me both professionally and personally. Two TWoP recappers were in my wedding!

What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general?

Fanfiction opened my eyes to storytelling as a medium. I'd obviously gone to school and read books, but it opened my eyes to words to could do and be. It was a heady time. There were stories of every stripe. Short, long, canon-compliant, AU, experimental, you name it. We had such gifted writers, too. To this day, I'd almost rather read a piece of well written fanfic than a good book. Fanfic made me want to be a storyteller myself.

What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show?

It was the 'ship. God bless the ship. My first episode was Never Again, but I didn't watch again until I was sitting with my college roommate freshman year and she was like "sorry, but I have to watch The X-Files on Sunday nights." That first episode was Redux. The next week was Redux II, and by then it was all over for me. The lengths Mulder and Scully would go to for each other? And the relationship wasn't even sexual? Here were two people who loved each other. Really loved each other. Selflessly. I was SO IN.

What got you involved with X-Files fanfic?

At first, I started reading it. This was back when you could only watch the show in reruns or on those VHS tapes that were sold in three packs that had two eps on each tape (I still have the trading cards that came with them), so after I burned through the VHS options (of which there were few), and set my VCR to tape the weekly reruns on FX, I needed MORE. I found fanfic. And in fanfic, Mulder and Scully actually like, kissed and maybe even had sex! I read everything I could get my hands on. Pretty soon, I wanted to write it myself.

What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom?

Things are tough these days. It's a hard world to live in, and politics aside, it just feels like everything is falling apart around us. When I first found the show, my life was in a bit of upheaval and I dove into the fandom to distract myself. I'm doing the same thing these days. When the show ended, I left the fandom and lived without it for about 15 years. But when the revival came (and really only after finishing season 11 -- season 10 didn't do much for me), I dove back in. I have quite a few more responsibilities these days, but when I can't watch the news anymore, I log on to XF Twitter (I use my fandom account far more than my IRL account) or Tumblr and get lost for a while. And most nights find me reading or writing fanfic before bed. When the world gets better (I'm cautiously optimistic) and the show has been off the air for years and years, will I leave again? Maybe. But for now, it's once again my happy place.

Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files?

Nothing hardcore. The X-Files is my ride or die.

Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully?

I do an occasional episode or movie rewatch. Not too often, but when I'm jonesing and have 45 free minutes, I'll put one on. But I'm writing fanfic again, and I get hit with inspiration at random and odd intervals, so it's safe to say I find myself thinking about Mulder and Scully probably more than is healthy.

Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom?

All the time. The old stuff, the new stuff, the good stuff. If I have five minutes and my kid is entertaining himself? I'll happy pull out an old favorite.

Do you have any favorite X-Files fanfic stories or authors?

I'm reluctantly abstaining from this question, as I'm still active in the fandom and I know that naming favorites will hurt some feelings.

What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise?

Of The Eight Winds is probably my favorite. I've had a lot of fun writing AU's lately. It's a nice creative outlet, taking our favorite agents and plunking them in a totally different world.

Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online?

Do I! I have a whole ass queue. It's frankly irresponsible.

Do you still write fic now? Or other creative work?

I was writing professionally before I had a baby, and I took years off to be a stay at home mom. Once my kiddo was finally in school full time, I started writing again. With the pandemic, that's for the most part on hold, as I just don't have the bandwidth to dedicate to professional work. Fanfic is easier to play with when you only have five minutes here or there, and it's also great exercise when it comes to plotting and prose, so I'm sticking with fic for now. When the kiddos are all back in school, maybe I can start getting paid again.

Where do you get ideas for stories?

I get a lot of prompts that I just adore. And honestly, a lot of times, I'll post a stupid picture or ridiculous prompt of my own on Twitter and get dared to write it. If the idea gets stuck in my craw, I generally have to exorcise the demon.

What's the story behind your pen name?

Bad Blood had just aired and I was obsessed with it. I wanted to pay homage to it, so took Mulder's "who slipped him the mickey?" quote and ran with it. Do I regret that? Sometimes.

Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions?

My husband knows and is supportive. He's a working writer, so he supports my endeavors, though I know he wishes I were doing something I could monetize. But it makes me happy, and ultimately: happy wife, happy life and all that jazz.

The friends of mine that I've made through the fandom all know and are super supportive.

As for the rest, well... I have a nom de plume on purpose!

Is there a place online (tumblr, twitter, AO3, etc.) where people can find you and/or your stories now?

All my newest work is on AO3. My old stuff can be found on various archives. Like the truth... it's out there.

Is there anything else you'd like to share with fans of X-Files fic?

I'd leave it with: we're a blessed fandom. The show we stan (even with the real stinkers, there's always something to love) keeps giving, the fellow fans are all some of the smartest, sweetest, and most dedicated people out there... we've been blessed for 25 years, and I don't see that stopping any time soon.

(Posted by Lilydale on August 11, 2020)

#new post #old school x #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #slippinmickeys #xf fanfic author interviews

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ponett · 5 years

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Welp... it’s over. After nine years, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is over. I just got done watching the series finale with Anthony and, just like I knew I would, when the credits rolled, I cried my eyes out

I should probably say something, huh. I’ve been sharing thoughts like this mostly on Twitter lately, but I started using Tumblr to blog about MLP, so I don’t think it would be right to post this anywhere else

I have a complicated relationship with MLP:FiM. It’s a show that got really hit or miss after the second season, and it has a fandom so toxic and so full of edgy libertarians that it scared me off from formally participating in fandoms for the rest of my life. But it’s also probably my favorite TV show of all time. There are other shows that are much better written, that have more to say, that are more consistent, even including several other cartoons from the same decade. But I think I’d be lying to myself if I said it wasn’t my favorite show

No other piece of media has had as massive of an impact on my life as My Little Pony

I grew closer to some of my closest high school friends because of our shared enthusiasm for the show. I started PonyPokey with Jake and Derek and made a bunch of bad videos and got invited to be on a wildly disorganized BronyCon panel with Jenny Nicholson in 2012. (We went on stage immediately after Lauren Faust’s panel. I barely said a word due to stage fright.)

After years of being too afraid to share my art online, I started putting more effort into learning digital art so that I could draw ponies. It started out rough, but with the drive to improve, I quickly got better. I started Fluttershy Replies. For the first time, I had an audience. I had people who cared about my work and supported me. Even as times have changed, many of you have been following me since way back then

Around the time I came out as bi in 2012, I got really into MLP shipping. Writing sappy comics and drawing sappy art became an outlet for my years of pent up feelings, and helped me sort out a lot of stuff. My Little Pony also completely changed the views on femininity that had been beaten into my skull since childhood. Suddenly, it wasn’t this strange, alien thing to be afraid of. MLP, at its heart, is a show about how there’s no wrong way to be a girl. That’s an incredibly powerful message. Rarity wasn’t a vapid snob. Fluttershy wasn’t a background character who got made into the butt of the joke. Pinkie wasn’t a ditz. These were characters written to be empathized with. And writing about my own feelings from the perspective of Fluttershy felt... right. It took me a few years to fully process those feelings, but eventually, I realized the truth. I was a trans woman. And a cartoon about horses was the first step on my path to realizing this

In 2013, one of the roughest years of my life, I decided to download RPG Maker on a whim to give myself a distraction. Naturally, my first instinct was to make a game where Fluttershy and Rainbow Dash kiss. What was initially supposed to be a short, Fantastic Game-esque playground of silly little jokes spiraled out of control and became Super Lesbian Horse RPG, a game that I poured my heart and soul into over the course of a year. And then, a couple years later, my desire to preserve the ideas from my copyright-infringing fangame also spiraled out of control, as all my creative projects do, and became SLHRPG’s successor: Super Lesbian Animal RPG. SLARPG isn’t really a reskinned MLP fangame anymore--it’s more like a new game inspired in part by my old project. The story has been drastically rewritten, the characters changed, the levels and gameplay redesigned. Most of the cast of the new game wasn’t in the original project in any form. There’s much, much, much, much, much more new content than old left in the game. And the original game had already strayed so far from the canon anyway. But I’m also not sure it would exist without MLP

I made a bunch of friends online, including close friends I still have to this day. I met the people like Bee and Thomas who I’m still working with on SLARPG. Most importantly, because we both blogged about MLP and had some mutual friends, I met Anthony, the love of my life. We’ve been together for five years now and supported each other through good times and bad. This is the lamest, corniest, stupidest thing I will ever say in my life, but he’s the Rainbow Dash to my Fluttershy

...

So what about the finale itself? (spoilers, obviously)

I have... mixed feelings on the finale. There were some things that really annoyed me in there. But also, like I said, I cried, so I think it’s safe to say they did good overall

I think the thing that stuck in my craw the most was Discord. Which I guess shouldn’t be surprising. I’ve been saying for years now how I hate Discord, how he spits in the face of everything the show stands for. He’s an obnoxious elderly manchild who constantly causes problems on purpose and torments his so-called friends the second they stop paying attention to him. But they have to put up with him and give him infinite second chances, because he’s a god and Celestia said they had to reform him

The overarching plot of the final season is that Queen Chrysalis, King Sombra, Tirek, and Cozy Glow (a Darla Dimple-esque filly villain from season 8) had teamed up with Grogar, a “new” villain taken from G1. While this goes on in the background, Twilight is making her preparations to become Celestia’s successor, as we’d known would be her destiny since the day she got wings six years ago. The villain team-up stuff was genuinely fun, and a highlight of the season for me. But then, in the three-part finale, it’s revealed that Grogar was actually Discord in disguise, and that he’d been intentionally trying to orchestrate a big attack on Twilight’s coronation so that she and her friends could save the day and get a big confidence boost going into her reign as princess. This is like... one of the most bafflingly stupid plot twist of all time. It’s literally the end of the show, and Discord has learned nothing. He’s “nice” now, but he’s still intentionally causing huge problems and putting everyone’s lives in danger to solve his problems. He freed four different villains they’d already defeated just so Twilight could beat them again, and in the process they literally blew up the goddamn castle in Canterlot and nearly killed everyone. And yet... they still forgive him, because they have to

I did, however, think that the last two-part adventure episode was fun overall. It tied a nice bow on much of the series, bringing back a bunch of old friends (including cameos from the movie cast!) to band together and save the day. Of course, in the end, they beat the bad guys with a big rainbow laser and sealed them in a statue. You know, even though a previous season finale was all about how solving their problems with a friendship laser and sealing the villains away never worked. Also, Cozy Glow might be evil, but she’s still literally a child? And now her petrified body is on display in the center of Canterlot? What the fuck????

I’m complaining a lot, but again. It was fun overall. It was nice to have one last big adventure, and to have the mane six reflect on how they’d grown since Twilight moved to Ponyville

...

And then we got the actual final episode. And boy did this one hit me HARD

I’m so glad that they ended on a quieter episode about the main cast’s friendships, because that’s what the show is actually about. The two-part adventures to save Equestria every season are fun, but that’s not the real show. We all came back every week for Twilight and her friends

There are things I can complain about here, too. Spike being a buff adult dragon with the voice of a child is fucked up. I’m still not used to seeing Twilight be Celestia’s size. But more than anything, I was always worried that we’d get a Harry Potter ending, where all the characters are paired off into arbitrary marriages so they can all have kids. Thankfully, this didn’t really happen. The only one who had a kid was Pinkie, who apparently got married to Cheese Sandwich (Weird Al’s character) at some point. Like, they literally shared two episodes together, with no hint of romance? But then they got married and had a kid off-screen??? What the fuck???? A lot of people also think that Fluttershy ended up with Discord, and I know I’m massively biased against that ship, but... I mean, they teased the FlutterCord shippers, but there wasn’t really any actual textual evidence that they were any closer than they had been previously. Y’all weirdos who ship Fluttershy with an obnoxious elderly man can interpret that as being “canon” if you want, I guess, but it’s not

The other relationship that shocked everyone in the finale was Applejack and Rainbow Dash, who... appear to be a couple? It’s definitely hinted at. I have... very, very mixed feelings about this. I mean, okay, obivously I’m the big FlutterDash fangirl. But I think AppleDash is cute, too! The problem is that, like... they’ve barely interacted in years? Like, they had a lot of episodes together in the first two seasons, but then the writers barely ever had them interact past that point. I can’t even remember when the last time we got an actual episode focusing on them was. And no, the one where Rainbow takes Granny Smith to pony Vegas doesn’t count

Like... yeah, it’s cute. It’s a nice gesture. Lyra and Bon Bon getting married in the background was also cute. But we can do so, so much better in 2019. We have so many explicitly canon lesbian couples in cartoons. Couples that actually kissed, or got married, or showed feelings for each other. Rainbow and AJ barely even fucking talked to each other in the final few seasons. I dunno, it just feels very hollow to me. Even the Equestria Girls crew admitting they were pushing RariJack felt more substantial to me, because at least they were given on-screen chemistry and lots of canon interaction

But in the end, complaints aside, the finale was about Twilight moving back to Canterlot, and worrying that her friendships would fade because of it. Honestly, I think this is what the finale of the show always would’ve been. It was the perfect story to end on. And boy, it hit really close to home

And then the last song happens, reflecting on how things have changed, but how they’re all still friends. And we see all the other friends they made along the way. And the camera zooms out, and the book from the opening of the very first episode closes, bringing the entire nine-year saga full circle

And then I started sobbing really hard in Anthony’s arms

...

I dunno. I just got done nitpicking a lot, but I still think that the last episode was a good and very emotional ending for the show

I’m going to miss this show dearly. I know it will be back in a new form, and that the leaks indicate that it’ll still star slightly different versions of the Mane Six. I’m also used to shows like this getting rebooted. Hasbro cartoons are honestly lucky to last past three seasons. FiM, on the other hand, got over 200 episodes, a theatrical film, a few specials, some shorts, a bunch of comics (which I still need to read), and a spinoff human AU series that was also really great. There’s no shortage of content, and I’m sure I’ll be returning to the series for years to come. I’m also glad that the show managed to go out on a high note

But still. It was a constant presence in my life for nearly nine years. Even as the quality got really hit or miss, even as they took the premise in strange directions, even as the crew of the show grew more and more dominated by men, it was still a show I could rely on to always be there, 26 episodes a year. I’ll miss it. I hope what comes next is just as good, if not even better. I also hope it’s gayer

I was going to end my ask blog, Fluttershy Replies, around the time the show ended. I’m not sure if I’ll do that just yet. I don’t know. I think that might be a bit much for me to process emotionally. Too many doors closing in my life in quick succession. But I do want to do more with it. These characters will be special to me for the rest of my life

I mean shit, I haven’t even drawn StarTrix yet. I’ve still got a lot of work to do with these horses, folks

#bobby thinks about horses

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allie1804-fan · 4 years

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At Last Part 3 Hard Times

Part 1

Part 2

warnings: babyloss described and grief

6 Months later

Karen gasped again as the pain constricted her stomach and she felt more blood dripping down into the toilet. A sob heaved her chest and she held her head in her hands, feeling panic rising.

“He’ll be back soon” she thought, “all ready to set off on his trip, how could I put him through this, what have I done?”

She heard the door slam and Keanu calling her name as he entered their home.

“Karen, I’m home. Honey? Where are you?”

“Here” she managed to shout, not able to keep her voice normal as another wave of pain ran through her belly and she groaned loudly.

She heard his steps coming quickly up the stairs now.

“You OK, I thought I heard you moan ……

He burst through the door and saw her sitting there, face red and puffy from crying.

She saw the horror stricken look on his face.

“Oh Karen, no, no, no, baby, not this, no”

He crouched down in front of her and took her face in his hands. All she could do is let out a stifled sob and throw her arms round his neck

“I think I‘m losing the baby” I’m so so sorry, so sorry” That’s all she kept saying as she held on to him. Over and over, “sorry, sorry, sorry”

He stayed still, rubbing her back but inside a maelstrom of emotions had been released, emotions he realised that had been building up ever since those 2 blue lines had appeared on the pregnancy test, probably even 2 months before then, when they’d said that ‘ yes’ they would try for a baby. He knew in his heart of hearts, he wanted to be a father more than practically anything else in his life and yet now part of him wanted to just flee, back to the workaholic days when almost nothing mattered other than his need to act. There, with no wife and no pregnancy, almost nothing could hurt him and he knew this hurt only too well. Knew you couldn’t escape it, not ever, because you were grieving something you would never have. You couldn’t look back eventually and give thanks for the time you did have because it was forever lost – in some other alternate reality where tragedy hadn’t struck.

He’d held it all back, for her. He hadn’t wanted to sully her enjoyment, her excitement at being pregnant with his ugly fears. That wasn’t fair. So he’d trawled the internet when she was asleep, searching for statistics on still birth. Spoken to the consultant privately who’d said how rare it was and how an early miscarriage was a much greater risk for a first time mum…………. “How right he had been” he thought bitterly. The memory of the silent hospital room that had plagued his sleep lately was not what he should have feared at all.

Another pain hit Karen and she screamed now in agony, making Keanu come to his senses.

“Karen” he said looking at her, tears streaking his cheeks “I think we should get you to hospital, yeah? We should get you checked out. Get you some help with this goddam pain.”

“But what about the film? Your flight? You’re supposed to be on set tomorrow.”

“Fuck it they’ll have to wait, shoot some other stuff first, re-organise. I’ll call them later. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you like this. Stay there, I’ll go get some clean clothes and we’ll go straight there.”

He left her then, moving into action mode, blocking out all the thoughts that had been rushing through his head moments before. “She needs me now, focus on that for now” he told himself. He managed to find some sanitary pads as well and helped Karen to dress then threw some more things into a bag and helped her into the Porsche. They’d called ahead so the consultant was expecting them. They went straight into his office to have an ultrasound, Keanu praying that she was wrong but knowing in his heart that the signs weren’t good. She should have been 10 weeks along, but where 3 weeks before there had been a tiny kidney-bean shaped form, its heart-beat flickering away like a mini lighthouse on the monitor, there was now just a still form, not much bigger than before, no longer flashing its signal of well-being. Silent tears rolled down Keanu’s cheeks and Karen just sobbed, gripping his hand tightly.

The doctor went through the treatment options with them both and Karen was booked in for a D&C as soon as possible. Keanu ensured that her room would be private and well away from the maternity wing, remembering that dreadful night where from their silent room, they had heard the cries of other women in labour and new borns arriving. Once they had settled Karen into bed and given her some pain killers, she drifted off to sleep and Keanu went and sat in a quiet spot in the hospital’s gardens to make a few calls – the studio to arrange his delayed arrival on the set, his mum, Rob and Kim, Karen’s mum. Then he sat and smoked his way rapidly through 3 cigarettes.

His head spun again with the pressure of those bottled up thoughts he’d been holding at bay for the last hour. “God damn fuck it all to hell!” he said throwing his head back in frustration. No one was there to hear his outburst or see the tears which overcame him again. He didn’t even really know what exactly he was crying about – “take your pick” he thought wryly, was it the loss of this baby, this fatherhood or the earlier loss of Ava, or fear of losing Karen just as he’d lost Jen. He fought to control his anger, knowing it’s destructive power – there was no-one to blame and he knew if he didn’t master it, if they both couldn’t master it, it would turn them against each other and themselves. He blew out the last puff of smoke from the side of his mouth. John Constantine flashed through his mind (“God I smoked like a chimney on that set!”) stubbed out the butt and took a deep breath. “I just need to go to her and hold her” he thought. “Do something positive Keanu” he thought.

When he got back Karen was awake but still woozy from the pain meds.

“Hey” she said “You OK?”

“Yeah, yeah” he said giving her a small smile, marvelling at her concern for him when she must be suffering so much herself”

She took his hand and squeezed it.

“I wish I could take it all away, this ……… Ava”

She knew something of his heart then without him having to say. Her understanding spread through him with a comforting warmth.

“Is there room for me up there?”

“ah ha”

“I just need to hold you, is that OK?”

“That’s just what I need too”

She talked softly to him then.

“Maybe in some other world, we will have that child, but in this one we have to wait a while longer. I remember reading an interview with you that made me cry for you – we were just friends then. It was with some famous author and he talked to you about death….

“yeah, yeah, I remember, he made me cry!”

“I know sweet-heart ” Karen stroked his cheek

“Well the thing I remember most is you saying that it stuck in your craw when people say ‘things happen for a reason…… and he said maybe they should just leave off ‘for a reason’”

“Yeah yeah, they should! – god I feel like a fucking jinx though”

“No, no, no, no one is to blame. How could someone as impossibly beautiful and kind as you be responsible for this?!”

He closed his eyes and touched his forehead to hers.

“Thank you. I love you so much you know”

“I know, me too”

“And you know”

“What?”

“You don’t have to put on a brave face, for me”

She cried and cried then, letting him hold her until the quakes subsided at last, knowing he’d be there for her when they took her again.

@fortheloveoffanfic @kindainlovewithkeanu @omg-imagine @keanureevesisbae @penwieldingdreamer @paperplanesandwallflowers @witty-wallflower @karlee1225@bitchyslut99 @toomanystoriessolittletime @ladyreapermc @kissmyromanticquote @tacticalchics @utterlynuts @kylosbitch @thebigbubowski @thelightnessofthebeing @donakamark @gatsbynouvel @keanuficfiles

Part 4

#keanu reeves fanfic #keanu #keanu reeves #keanu reeves fanfiction #miscarriage

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durrzerker · 4 years

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Taskmaster: The Line. Chapter 8: Submission

Hey everyone, I know it’s been a couple weeks since Chapter 7. There’s a reason for that! Chapter 8, the finale of Taskmaster: The Line, is supposed to reflect a mega-sized comic, so it’s a mega-sized chapter! Chapters 1-7 were between 2000-2500 words. Chapter 8 is over 7000! I hope you enjoy the final entry in this story, and there will be more to come soon!

The submarine was completely unmarked. No flag. No sigil at all revealing its loyalty. Ironically, these were all the details that Taskmaster needed to be sure that this was another one of Thunderbolt Ross's little projects. The old man had always been as secretive as he was brutal, and this reeked of his style. Without hesitation, Taskmaster drew his sword and shield and started towards the looming colossus of steel before him. "Ross! I know that's you, ya overgrown son of a walrus. Come on out of yer big metal cock and face me!"

Tony had to admit, he was a little surprised when the hatch swung open, its silence in doing so a testament to how well-maintained the submersible was. Rivulets of water continued pouring off the sides of the vessel, its hull extending so far that Taskmaster literally couldn't see past it. After a few seconds that felt like much longer, a large older man with an aggressive moustache and round face climbed the ladder out to stand on the hull. That was him -- Thaddeus 'Thunderbolt' Ross, perpetual thorn in the side of the Hulk in the distant past. These days, he seemed to have his fingers in just about every pie that you could imagine, from working alongside Captain America to forming his ridiculous Thunderbolts squads to do his dirty work for him. Briefly, Taskmaster wondered if the Wrecking Crew were supposed to be Thunderbolts; ultimately, he decided it didn't matter. They had hopefully drowned by now, every last one of them.

Tony wasn't in the kindest mood, which made Ross's first words all the more effective.

"Tony Masters," the older man called out coolly. "Amazing to see you walking -towards- a fight for once. I don't see the Scions with you, so I suppose this isn't the apology that you owe me."

"I don't owe you shit, Grandpa Genocide," Taskmaster snapped. "I dunno what all this is about, but those kids're safe and you ain't ever gonna see them again. The hell is wrong with you, Thaddeus? This is low, even for you; and that's sayin' something for a man who works with Zemo for -free-."

Undaunted, Ross took off his glasses and started to wipe them clean. "It's true, then; you really do have amnesia. I thought Fury was just full of shit, trying to get in my way. He still was, of course - but it seems he was at least right about this. Amazing. They try to call you the most dangerous mercenary alive, and you're just - what, a mindless enforcer for Merced? She always was the brains of you two. She whispering in your ear right now?"

Leering aggressively at Ross from behind his mask, Tony didn't respond for a moment. Apparently, he had to add yet another person to the list of 'everyone knows this shit but me' regarding The Hub...though if he was lucky, Ross didn't realize the woman was apparently his wife.

Man, he really was struggling to internalize that. It stuck in his craw like a piece of food that just wouldn't go down; could he call her? Promptly, Tony realized that was ridiculous to even be considering right now. He had bigger problems than getting his head screwed on straight, and almost all of them were right in front of him. "Gimme one good reason I shouldn't kill you right now, Thaddeus."

"Because if I'm even half-right about how your last few days have gone, you're too curious; otherwise, you would have thrown one of your ridiculous ripoff toys at me already. Come on, Masters. Just get in the sub and we can talk this out like the adult that I am and that you pretend to be."

Shrugging off the insults - when they came this fast they were pretty much just like a gentle rain, especially from Ross - Taskmaster made his way up onto the submarine. "Fine, but you try anything on me, and I'll run ya through. I know you can't Hulk out anymore, and the power of arthritis ain't gonna save ya if you pull yer usual crap."

"You really seem to resent the fact that I've lived to an old age, Masters." Ross sounded amused as he let the mercenary descend the ladder into the submarine first, following after. Despite his age, Tony marveled at how much of a tank of a man Thaddeus was; Tony was still a little taller than the not-so-good general, but Ross had to be nearly twice as wide as him, and he looked like he still had the strength to match it. Taskmaster made a mental note not to underestimate him if this did get violent - Red Hulk or no, this was a man who had tangled with the best and come out with his ridiculous facial hair intact.

"I think everyone on God's Green Earth resents you still being alive." Impossibly, the damned submarine seemed even bigger on the inside! The gargantuan seacraft's interior was more cavernous than he had expected; as soon as Taskmaster had set foot on the metal floor of the highest level, he could tell that at least this section of the ship was a single enormous hallway, wide enough to drive a tank through and sparsely populated with only a few men and women milling about reading reports, checking equipment, and saluting Ross as he approached. The old general led Taskmaster in a direction that he could only vaguely parse as towards the bridge of the vessel, if his itching familiarity was anything to go by.

"Hilarious. Remember this place yet?" Ross asked, sounding legitimately curious. Adjusting his cuff-links before leaning down to take off his glasses and get read by a retinal scanner, he straightened as a bulkhead opened, leading them towards a small fleet of what looked like sleeker, militarized golf carts. "Come on. I'm too old to be walkin' like this, and you're gettin' there yourself."

"...I don't," Taskmaster admitted honestly. "But I've been here, haven't I?" He didn't even need to ask the question, he could tell. When his specific memories failed him, the muscle memory didn't; he knew the layout of this place. He wasn't lost, and he could -feel- like he knew what was coming, which only made the mercenary more anxious as he stuffed himself into the cart that was far too small for both him and Ross.

"Been here? Son, you spent six months in this sub training the Scions. This here's the home of the United States' greatest super-soldier project since Steve Rogers himself; and if ya knew how many shots we've taken at that particular target over the years, you'd understand how impressive that is. Hell, even you were an example of the Krauts tryin' to get in on the action, until ya stole their big bad serum."

"I like to think I rescued it," Taskmaster corrected as Ross drove them through the submarine. The first few chambers were nondescript, full of nothing more than the extensive supplies and equipment that a vessel this size needed to remain underwater for months at a time. As they approached the bridge, however, things got a little more interesting. Tony caught sight of men and women in strange gas masks, with bulging muscles and aggressive body language, being herded by handlers into a series of cargo elevators; he saw tanks full of human beings being studied by scientists, readings being checked and one of them even awake and looking distinctly panicked. "Speaking of rescue, the -fuck- are you doing to those guys?"

"Saving their lives, believe it or not. If they weren't in those tanks, they'd be dying of oxygen poisoning due to a rare mutation they've developed."

"Developed during one of your little super-soldier experiments. Real noble of ya." Taskmaster sighed. This place was wearing him down more by the minute, aggravating his already explosive temper, and he wondered vaguely if Ross was hoping for that result. All the more reason to stay on his guard. "Look, quit baitin' me and spit it out. What'd I do here? And -why-?" Dread laced his words, even though he tried to avoid it. As much as Tony hated to admit it, he was a little scared to find his own history on this project, and with the Scions...

...But not enough to avoid finding the answer.

Pulling the cart up to the bulkhead outside the head of the submarine, a digital screen displaying the ocean around them and betraying that they were moving -quite- quickly through the water, Ross stepped out and gestured for Taskmaster to follow him. As the caped mercenary tread at his heel, the general flashed his eye at another retinal scanner, then his palm print at another. Whatever this was, it had even heavier security that the chambers they'd already passed through, and as the pair stepped into an elevator, Ross finally replied to him.

"Well, first and foremost, ya ought to know -- this is YET another one of SHIELD's old messes". The elevator didn't have even a single button; it clearly was designed to exclusively travel between two destinations, and if Taskmaster's experience with SHIELD told him anything, this was the -only- way in or out of the other location. Wherever Ross was taking him, it was the kind of government secret that even Nick Fury would have a hard time getting access to. "Well, SHIELD's and yours. You ever wonder about how much of a mess you leave behind when your memory resets, Masters? Or do ya really trust The Hub to clean up after you? 'Cause I gotta tell you, she does a fine job - but not a perfect one."

Tony didn't respond to the comment about his wife. He could tell he was being baited. Instead, keeping his eyes on the prize, he asked, "Get to the point before your heart gives out, gram-gram. What happened?"

"You happened, Masters. When you took that serum that gave you your photographic reflexes, it was when a laboratory full of the stuff was exploding. The kraut bastard who told you what it was capable of told you it was the last dose, right?"

"Fuck if I know," Taskmaster answered honestly.

"Exactly. So shut up and listen, boy. That facility was at the top of a mountain - and a great deal of that serum that was 'destroyed' in the blast actually leaked into the water supply. The Hub knew about this; something about a 'village of Hitlers', which I definitely do not want to know more about." He shook his head as the elevator opened into a dark hallway. In fact, it was pitch black until some overhead lights came to life one after another, exposing black walls and smooth floors that reminded him of what he'd heard of the Red Room. "That woulda been the end of it -- except it turns out about ten years ago, water from wells near the village was gathered en masse by the suppliers for some disaster aid groups. You figure out where this is going?"

For a moment he didn't, but as they proceeded down the hallway, Taskmaster's eyes widened down his mask. "...The Scions."

"Children from families in poverty or disaster-stricken areas across the last decade," Ross confirmed. "Each displaying unusual capacity for perfect mimickry of complex tasks -- photographic reflexes, previously only known to a select handful of individuals, including you, Masters. Your serum got out into the world, and now little Task-babies are sprouting up. Russia, Ireland, Brazil, even Wakanda after Namor wrecked the place. We found them and brought them here -- to the greatest training facility in the world."

They passed through a security checkpoint with a couple of silent, armed guards flanking them into a gargantuan arena that seemed too massive, too awe-inspiring, for even the gargantuan submarine that they were inside. Curved walls and ceiling reminded Tony of a stadium, right down to what almost resembled bleachers along the edges of either side. The 'field' was littered with what must have been a hundred different types of training equipment, from futuristic-looking weightlifting machines to obstacle courses that Taskmaster immediately recognized as his own design. He'd made them some years ago to test not his students, but himself and the limits of his photographic reflexes. To have them here meant only one thing:

"...So you brought in the best teacher to train them," Tony said with resignation. Had he really agreed to this? Had The Hub?

"Exactly," Ross nodded in agreement. "We might not get along on a personal level, Masters, but there's no denying your credentials. Given actual time and resources, you've sculpted some of the finest government agents we've ever had: John Walker, Spider-Woman, even Crossbones before he went rogue. Besides, there's no one else who's as much of an expert as you on photographic reflexes. Some of the other people in charge of this project wanted to bring on Echo or Finesse, but they were considered a little too...sympathetic."

"Yer flatterin' me," Taskmaster deadpanned. "So glad I'm the one you think of when it comes to tutoring kidnapped children." They descended a long ramp towards the training machines; was Taskmaster imagining something, or did he see a dried bloodstain in the combat ring? Before he could focus on it, the earpiece hidden in his mask came to life, a crackling signal of a few rapid, stuttering sounds. It was The Hub, reporting through an old Cherokee code that they used to send messages back and forth when the risk of being overheard was high. Translation?

'The kids are safe. Black Ant's coming to back you up.'

It was a good thing, too. TESS wasn't going to be the reinforcements he needed, she didn't fare too well at getting underwater. Eric, though...well, sometimes he wondered if he really did need to give the guy more credit. They'd have to talk about this once he was done here, if he survived his insane plan that was forming now.

"I'm not flattering you," Ross growled out, stopping in front of the combat ring. "I'm guessing that you've already figured out this didn't exactly end well. You know how long you were here, Masters? Three months. And it turns out that for all three of those months, as you were training those kids, you were preparing to abscond with government property. Remember that part, Masters? When ya tried to steal from us?"

Tony saw Ross rounding on him, sensed the agents approaching him from behind with batons in hand. It should have been a fight he could manage, even an -easy- one...but he couldn't move.

Suddenly his memory came rushing back, so powerful and overwhelming it nearly brought him to his knees. He couldn't even lift a hand to defend himself as he heard the attack coming, felt the rush of wind of the baton smashing into the base of his skull from behind. Stumbling forward before collapsing right onto his face, Tony looked up and saw Ross one last time before the darkness took him.

"Tasky."

When consciousness returned, it brought explosive pain with it, a shooting star that begun at the base of Tony's neck and erupted in every direction from there. He groaned and tried to bring his hands to his suffering temples, only to find that he was tied down; bound by steel cables to a stretcher, he could barely wiggle his arms and legs. That got his attention.

The mercenary opened his eyes, which felt bleary and unfocused. He was definitely still aboard the submarine, in what he recognized now as the interrogation room. Dim lighting, an assortment of torture devices nearby; this wasn't good.

"Tasky!" Came a tiny voice, directly in his left ear. He winced at the severity. It could only be Eric.

"Black Ant...?" He murmured. Had he been drugged? He felt sluggish, even moreso than he should from having gotten whacked across the dome. "How'd you find me so quickly?"

"I didn't," Eric replied; he was barely the size of an ant, really living up to his name, sitting inside Taskmaster's ear. "You've been here for four days. I had to wait for the submarine to surface at a hidden base near the Everglades before I could sneak on board. They really messed you up, man. You gonna be good to go?"

Trying to figure out what Eric meant, Tony looked down. His costume was gone; he was wearing...well, nothing, and a number of fresh wounds marked his skin every few inches. The effects of the drugs had exacerbated his amnesia, but now he remembered; they'd spent hour after hour torturing him, driving implements into his flesh and drowning him to get the answer to one simple question:

"Where are the kids?"

He felt a surge of pride, spiteful and strong, as he realized he hadn't told them a damn thing. "I'm fine. Can you get me out of here?"

"Yeah," Eric replied, "But it'll take me a few minutes. They really didn't take any chances; I'm gonna have to use my fusion cutter. Keep still, alright? I already looped the camera feed, and they usually only come in here once an hour. We've got plenty of time." He felt the tiny merc jump out of his ear and start to grow, pulling a device that looked much like a miniature welding torch out of his belt. As he started to cut his way through the cables with the intense blue laser that it emitted, Taskmaster spoke up.

"Thanks for coming for me, little buddy."

"Of course. Thanks for not breaking; would've been a real hassle if we had to deal with the Yellow Submarine here. Besides, it's my job."

Tony was grateful, but with his memory returned...he had to ask. "...And because you feel guilty, huh?"

Eric almost paused the cutting with the torch, he was so surprised. "What do you mean?" Taskmaster could sense some brief hesitation as he finished the job, cutting enough of the cable so that Tony could take the fusion cutter and free his own legs.

"You knew this whole time what happened here," Tony responded calmly. He didn't sound angry; he didn't FEEL angry. "...You were here, too. They brought you in for another job, figured since we were partners, it'd be fine." Now Eric -did- stop cutting. Taskmaster could tell the younger mercenary was stunned, that now, of all times, he didn't expect this to come up. "You came in and saw me training the Scions...found out from The Hub I was planning to help them escape. Together, we were gonna do it. We were gonna do something good for once in our lives, Eric."

"Tony..." Black Ant's mask came up, the automatic visor lifting to reveal his face. He looked terrified, legitimately so, even with his messy red hair covering half his face. Tony didn't stop, rising from his bindings. Something about his presence, despite the blood matting his hair and the fact he was naked, must have been striking; Eric backed away.

"...We were almost out, weren't we? We'd almost saved them when Ross's heavy hitter came. It was a tough fight. So tough, I had to use my photographic reflexes to stop her...and it fried my brain, as it tends to do. I forgot what we were doing. Forgot we were trying to -save- those kids." He advanced a step; Eric retreated one. Tony didn't sound angry.

But he felt pretty angry.

"...We had to get out of there," Eric accused. "You were suddenly operating on auto-pilot, Tony. You think I WANTED to leave the kids behind? But we were ALL gonna die, them included, if we didn't bail! You don't know what it's like!" Eric's fear turned into anger of its own now.

Eric was right; Tony didn't know. "...You could have told me later. We could have come back for them."

"And what, heard you call me full of shit? Your BRAIN. IS. BROKEN!" Eric roared. "HOW ABOUT YOU TAKE IT UP WITH THE HUB! IT'S HER FUCKING JOB TO KEEP YOU IN CHECK, NOT MINE! AND YET HERE I AM!"

"...Yeah. It should have been The Hub," Tony agreed, looking around the interrogation room. Damn; they hadn't been stupid enough to keep his equipment nearby. "...Or ya mean, my wife?"

Eric didn't respond to that, averting his eyes. A tense silence hung in the air for awhile between them before Tony finally spoke.

"We got pretty loud, they're gonna check this out. We...can talk about this later. You came for me, O'Grady. We're still a team. I'll do my best, but without any weapons, this ain't gonna be easy."

Happy to change the subject, Black Ant tossed something so small Tony's way that he barely caught it even with his uncanny reflexes. "Here. It's not much...but I was able to sneak this in." As he triggered the Pym Particles, Taskmaster broke into a grin. He hadn't seen -this- thing in awhile...

It was his energy generator, old SHIELD tech that could take any shape at the will of its wielder; he preferred to have a larger arsenal on hand, so he'd eventually abandoned it, but right now? It was exactly what he needed. Strapping it to his forearm, the mercenary straightened as he heard footsteps rushing towards the interrogation room. "Thanks, little buddy. Let's do this."

Relieved, Eric didn't hesitate to crack a joke. "Can that thing take the shape of pants, by chance? I don't really feel like staring at your glazed hams for this whole fight."

"Sorry, I'm going balls out for this one. Literally." With that, Taskmaster broke into a sprint just as the bulkhead door opened; the first thing the agent who entered saw was a very naked, very muscular brown-haired man leaping into the air, just before the jumping snap kick borrowed from Batroc the Leaper broke his neck. As he went down hard, another of the guards went for the alarm, but Black Ant was already leap-frogging over Tony's shoulder, shrinking and then growing in rapid sequence to slip right through the crowd and tackle him.

"Help!" The man cried out. "The prisoner's escap--" He was cut off as Eric's fusion torch was shoved into his mouth, evaporating his tongue and boiling his brain in seconds. "Ew," Black Ant commented, even as he leapt backwards and drove his elbow into another sentry who was approaching him from behind.

Taskmaster had the rest under control. He had a feeling these guys were trained to fight him; that was a mistake on their part. Instead of his first instinct to turn his energy generator on into the shape of Cap's shield or Black Knight's broadsword, he dug a little deeper. He could tell it had been a good idea when a heavily armored soldier reeled back in surprise as the form of Shang-Chi's nunchaku came to life, whirling like a tornado to deflect an oncoming strike from a stun baton before taking most of his teeth out with a vicious swat across the face.

The pair were a blur of motion, perfectly coordinated until the last of the guards had fallen. They'd come a long way from accidentally hitting each other like the first time they'd faced Spider-Man together, that was for sure.

"That's better..." Taskmaster breathed, dismissing the energy nunchaku. "I remember the layout of this place; we're dead in the center of the sub. Even if we fought our way out, thing's on the move right now, isn't it?"

Black Ant nodded. "Yep. We're back at sea; I barely had time to get on board before Ross was moving again. Even being able to track you, it was hard to infiltrate this thing...I can see why he likes it."

"Then escape ain't an option. We gotta commandeer the sub."

"How?" Black Ant asked. "There's hundreds of soldiers here, not to mention Ross himself and whoever he's hired as his elite security. We won't be able to hold the bridge that long."

Taskmaster considered this. "Good point. I'll head for the bridge. You go to the Engine Room. If we can't conquer the submarine, we'll hold it hostage. You can threaten to blow the engines, sink the whole thing, unless they let me take us to the surface. Even if they try to rush the engine room, you can shrink down and start causing trouble to get them to back off."

Eric thought about it, then nodded. "...Risky, but our best option. You'll be taking most of the heat, though; Ross is gonna be on the bridge, and he'll call reinforcements to save his wrinkly butt. You sure you'll be okay? You look pretty roughed up." The concern was touching; it reminded Tony he needed to give Eric the benefit of the doubt. He wasn't sure he could let what had happened slide entirely...but he didn't need to punish the mercenary for it.

"...I'm good. Thanks, Eric. We'll get out of this together, alright? See ya on the other side." He extended a closed hand.

Smiling, Black Ant bumped his fist with his own. "Yeah. We got this."

With that, they split up, unsure if they'd ever see each other again.

---

By the time Taskmaster ran into the next pack of guards, he wasn't even thinking anymore about the fact he was completely naked. At first he thought it'd be funny, surprising these assholes with some full frontal nudity before kicking their asses, but he was just angry. Angry, cold, and ready to show them exactly how big of a mistake they had made.

Two of the sentries had guns, high-tech air rifles designed to be lethal without risking the integrity of the submarine. He took them down first, generating shuriken and flinging them with enough force to go right through the men's hands and send them to the ground howling in pain.

A Bullseye special. A second later, he was bringing forth a little trick from Zaran the Weapons Master, cleaving through his assailants with the wickedly curved blade of a chinese hooksword. Hawkeye, Iron Fist, Daredevil; these men were clearly expecting those heroes, had trained and prepared accordingly. He could read it in their movements.

As the last one fell, gurgling as a hole poked in their throat surged with blood, Tony shook his head. "Fuckin' amateurs. You think I've spent my whole life doin' this and I only got five people's moves? I was bein' -nice- before." He was close to the bridge now. A little longer, and he'd knock Ross out, tie his moustache to a radiator or something, and be done with this.

"Nothing nice about what I'm looking at, Taskmaster." Tony nearly froze. He knew that voice. It was the only one Thaddeus could have hired to reasonably stop him -- the only mercenary alive he considered to be on his level...and the one he'd been forced to throw everything at just to survive last time.

Elektra Natchios, clad head to toe in black leather armor save for the red mask around the lower half of her face, stood between him and the entrance to the bridge.

"...You again," he growled. She didn't lose her composure at his obvious venom, though she did seem visibly amused.

"You remember, then. I suppose that means you know this won't end well for you. Give up, Taskmaster. You're out of your depth here; you don't even have that ridiculous suit of yours."

"...I thought you had a soft spot for kids, Elektra. This doesn't seem like your kind of job." Tony gripped the energy generator on his wrist, considering what to summon. What could he really use to surprise the world's greatest assassin?

"Don't pretend you know me," she countered. Unsurprisingly, her signature sai were her weapon of choice; she rarely -needed- much else, drawing them from her hips and twirling them in place. "Who are you to talk? You ruined those kid's lives already, blowing up that facility and letting them develop your powers. I'm trying to help them; -Ross- is trying to help them. Do you realize they're already starting to get your memory problems? I don't like Ross, but he's the only one working on a cure. Psychics, scientists, the whole nine yards; he's saving them."

"He's turning them into weapons," Taskmaster growled. "You're fucking deluded if you think he's doing anything because he has their best interests in mind."

"Not as deluded as a naked supervillain who thinks he's the hero here. No more words." Elektra rushed at him, her body little more than a black-and-crimson blur. Even having faced her multiple times, Taskmaster was always alarmed by her speed; it was like trying to battle a waterfall, all its weight bearing down on you...and just as useless to try and hit.

She didn't stop, didn't run into him; she dashed right past him, swinging her sai for his shoulder. Turning and summoning his Captain America shield on reflex, he realized immediately that was her whole plan, to push him into falling back into his faithful moves, his reliable ones. Too late; she was already pirouetting like a dancer, bringing her other dagger up and driving it into his back. It would have run through his kidney and ended the fight right there if he hadn't caught on, but he managed to turn and instead have it driven straight into the muscle group behind his ribs instead.

No time for pain. He swiped with the shield, missed as she deftly ducked, but he was back in control. On the backswing, the shield became a gauntlet, enveloping his fist. Elektra's eyes widened in surprise as she was clocked across the face by a classic move from The Destroyer; she recovered quickly, rolling with the momentum and whirling her leg up in a kick that stopped him from being able to pursue. Now on guard, she closed in once more, this time protecting herself with one sai while thrusting with the other.

A katana. A boomerang. A large, bouncing ball that rapidly whacked Elektra in the forehead and then bounced back into his hand to intercept an attempted cut. Taskmaster pushed himself to his limits, conjuring the most esoteric and obscure techniques he'd ever picked up, desperate to keep Elektra from overwhelming him. As her nose ran red with blood, the same red that trickled down his wounded back, the mercenaries circled each other.

"I always respected you for being able to keep up," Elektra admitted. "Put anything in your hand and it becomes a deadly weapon."

"Bit late for flattery," Taskmaster replied, preparing to summon the next energy weapon...but he didn't get a chance. Elektra dove in, went low with a stab for his thigh. When he stepped back to avoid it, she came up, smashing her skull into his chin and nearly making him bite his own tongue off, sending him staggering. Reflexively, he moved to summon his shield again - damn it - and she punished him for it. Instead of trying to stab his less vulnerable head, she shoved her sai right through the energy generator itself.

It sputtered, sparked...and died. Suddenly, Taskmaster was weaponless.

"It wasn't flattery. I was explaining your weakness. You're a mimic, Masters...a vague shadow, always one step behind those of us who push ourselves to be the best." She wasn't haughty, wasn't arrogant; just stating facts. Every word stung as true as her dagger as she started towards him. "You gave up everything to be the greatest fighter alive...and you failed at even that."

She lunged. It was all Tony could do to keep himself away from the vicious points of her weapons; he took a kick, a backhand, a pommel smack across the temple in his desperate attempt to block her myriad stabs and cuts. She was a whirlwind of speed and aggression, not reckless but wholly confident that he couldn't keep up with her without a weapon, couldn't spare himself getting run through and land a blow against her at the same time.

Realizing she was right, Tony took a deep breath...and charged head-long at her. He'd told himself there was no way he could truly copy someone like Wolverine; he'd tear his body apart.

But right now, that was a worthy price. As Elektra tried to guard herself with a vicious cross-up slash, Tony suddenly reversed his momentum, trying not to scream in pain when one of his ankles cracked from the sheer speed with which he re-directed his momentum. The assassin couldn't keep up as he whirled in a capoeria kick that smashed her across the jaw, sending her spinning.

She was correct. He couldn't copy his way out of this one. There was one thing, though, that Tony had that even she couldn't match. "You know why I'm the only merc who hasn't fucking -died- and come back by now?" He growled through bloody teeth, rushing at Elektra again. She caught him, intercepted his oncoming punch with her sai. Pain shot through Tony's hand like lightning as the blade punched between his knuckle like a sick inversion of Wolverine's claw, thrusting all the way down until it emerged from his wrist.

But he didn't stop. Taking advantage of his greater weight and raw, adrenaline-fueled strength, he used the fact her blade was stuck in his hand to -yank- her towards him, smashing his forehead into her nose. Elektra reeled, bringing her other sai up into his ribcage; he felt the sick, liquid heat of the wound opened in his liver, then swatted his right hand up with staggering force to box her in the ear, causing her to issue forth a scream of pain that she couldn't even hear as her eardrum exploded.

"Because for all the shit you talk about being better...none of you know how to -survive-. None of you know what it means to really be outgunned, to be against a better opponent...and to take them the fuck down."

Again.

He beat her. He savaged her. She kept ripping away, giving up on her sai embedded in his flesh and clawing at him with her nails, biting him like a wounded and angry animal, tearing flesh off a chunk at a time.

But he drove his fingers into one of her eyes, slammed his knee into her stomach, and ripped out one of her sai, finally shoving it into her gut. Wavering a moment, Elektra looked down at her wound...and finally collapsed.

It was all Taskmaster could do to not mimic that, too.

"You'll live," he muttered, wiping a frothy mix of his saliva and both of their blood from his face. "As for me...remains to be seen." Taking both of her sai, bleeding from a dozen wounds and running purely on adrenaline, Taskmaster advanced towards the bridge. One brave soldier, a survivor of the previous fight, took aim with an airsoft gun -- he never even saw the dagger that was thrown directly between his eyes, killing him on the spot.

The bulkhead of the bridge hissed as it opened. Thunderbolt Ross was on a mic, shouting himself hoarse. "NATCHIOS! COME IN! IS TASKMASTER--" Hearing the door, he turned around and cursed. "Fucking christ, Masters...you look dead already. ...Hey!" He didn't expect the sheer speed with which Tony closed the gap, driving the sai into his shoulder and literally pinning him to the wall. As he started to struggle, Tony twisted the weapon, narrowing his good eye; the other one was swelling shut, more purple than brown by now.

"We're surfacing. The Hub's going to pick me up. You're never gonna see those kids again. You wanted to know where they were? They're..." He paused, remembering Laura Kinney's last nod to him as she boarded the quinjet.

"They're with an -actual- hero. They're safe, and they're out of your reach."

"Who do you think you are, Masters?" Ross spat. "You'll bleed out before we even breach. You got no idea who the fuck you're messing with, Uncle Sam's--"

"--Uncle Sam isn't gonna do shit. I remember everything now, Thaddeus. This project? It's your little pet. Off the books. No accountability...but no backup. You'll be disowned; thrown out of the military if you're lucky, into The Raft if you're not. And ya know what? I came up here fully intending to bury this fucking dagger in your skull...but I've seen what it looks like to actually give a shit about human life, even worthless ones like yours. So I'm gonna let them."

He jabbed his thumb into a pressure point he'd picked up from Shang-Chi years ago, and Ross fell silent. Stumbling to the controls, he grabbed hold of the mic, even as his photographic reflexes took over and automatically went about commanding the enormous vessel to breach. It was optimized for Ross himself to pilot, all the sub-systems that would normally require a staff of dozens to manage redirected through this very console. A strength...and a weakness.

"Black Ant...this is Taskmaster. I got the bridge. You good?"

He heard gunfire, and for the first time, legitimately felt a pang of fear. Then the speakers crackled. "I'm good. No one else here. You sound like shit."

"Yeah, well...shove...shove it up yer ass, O'Grady."

Taskmaster collapsed against the control panel, just as the submarine began to gain altitude.

EPILOGUE

Tony woke in a stark white room, hooked up to so many machines that he couldn't tell where his arms ended and the needles and cables began. Nauseous with pain and barely able to lift his head, he was greeted with not only the faces of Black Ant and Wolverine, but even the hooded mask of Spymaster and Mara, the young leader of the Scions.

"No one was sure you'd make it," Laura said. "But I said you were pretty damn tough...for a supervillain." Her smirk was wry; maybe it was too optimistic to say it was fond...but it showed relief that he was awake. More than he'd expected.

"...Where am I?" He groaned.

"Albino's hospital," Spymaster explained. He almost collapsed again with relief. There was no one he'd trust more to patch him up after a fight like that. "Don't worry, you haven't been out for another four days...only one this time." Tony winced at the lost time, but it was better than being dead.

"...Ross? The sub?"

"I arrested Ross myself," Laura confirmed. "He's in the Raft awaiting trial. The Scions have agreed to testify, and with that, it's pretty much certain he'll never see the light of day again."

"Hell yeah," Tony replied, then glanced over at Eric. "You make it out alright?"

"Better than you," O'Grady affirmed, then lifted the t-shirt he was wearing to expose an enormous hole in his torso. Tony could see cables and machinery all around the wound. "Except for this. But sometimes being an LMD is kind of awesome, huh? I'm on my way to the repair shop now, but wanted to check in with you first."

"Thanks, buddy."

"...Well, we might not see each other for awhile, after all." Eric averted his eyes, then narrowed them at Laura.

"What do ya mean?" Tony looked curious, then felt a surge of panic as he realized that he wasn't too weak to lift his arm: it was cuffed to the bed.

Laura, her eyes apologetic but her voice firm, didn't make him wait. "...Ross isn't the only one I arrested," she began. "Elektra is also in jail...and you will be too, as soon as you're able to walk."

"Are you fucking--" Taskmaster started, but when Spymaster held up a hand, he stopped.

"Let her talk," Spymaster pleaded. Furious but silent, he nodded for Laura to continue.

"...You have to be tried for what you did, Taskmaster. For a lot of it. But this isn't supposed to be revenge. I told you the Scions are going to testify against Ross..."

Mara picked up where she left off, "...But we're going to testify for you, too. Spymaster explained everything on the Quinjet. About your memory issues. About how you really did want to help us...but you didn't know we existed after you fought Elektra."

Laura nodded at that, then added, after the first hesitation she'd shown this whole time, "...And I'll be testifying, too. I'll tell them about how much of a bastard you are...but also how much I think you can change, if you really try. If someone gives you a chance. You're not well, Tony." It was the first time she'd used his name, -really- used it. "You don't need to be in prison...you need help. And I think if you got it, you could really do a lot of good. But this can't keep happening. You can't keep forgetting who you are, then going right back to mercenary work. I'm hunting The Hub now. She has to account for how she's been controlling you...and if she really is your wife, if she's trying to help you do good as well...then she needs to do better. She needs to bring in professionals. You're not a good man, Taskmaster...but maybe you could be, someday. With help."

Tony tried to look mad, but it didn't work with the tears starting to well in his eyes. "...Why you? Of all people?"

Digging into her pocket, Laura tossed something familiar onto his chest. It was barely as big as his pinky. "After you shot my sisters and I took you down, I wondered about why you seemed so reluctant to fight me. I found the 'bullet' you hit Gabby with. Airsoft pellet...wouldn't have done more than knock her out even if she hadn't been wearing armor. I realized that on some level, even you know you can't keep going on like this...and you don't want to be the villain you let yourself be made out as."

Taskmaster didn't say anything. He couldn't think of anything -to- say. Staring at the deformed pellet, he just laid his head back on his pillow. Smiling faintly, Wolverine gently patted the side of his bed.

"Alright. He needs to rest," came another voice. It was Albino, a sharp-featured and white-haired woman dressed in a pristine lab coat and with a complete lack of fear as she entered the room. "If you want him able to attend this ridiculous trial of yours, I suggest you let him sleep. Out."

Tony watched them go, even weakly lifting a shackled hand to wave at Mara. Black Ant lingered, then leaned down to whisper, "And if they -do- try to put you away, I'll spring ya, buddy. We'll go on the lam together. It's win-win!" With that, he skipped out with the rest.

For the first time in ages, Tony was smiling - sincerely and wholly - as he fell back asleep under Albino's loyal care.

Black Ant had gone off for repairs, and Mara had already been escorted away; upon being informed of Akeja's location, Black Panther had quickly contacted Wolverine and agreed to bring all of the Scions to an Academy in Wakanda, where their burgeoning memory issues could be addressed and they could get the care and education they needed after the year they'd missed since their kidnapping. Attempts would be made to find their families, but they would be well cared for regardless.

Now it was just Laura and Spymaster, who stopped the heroine as she was about to leave. "Kinney."

"What?" Laura turned back to face the hooded woman, narrowing her eyes. "Just because I'm helping Taskmaster doesn't mean we're friends. We're finished here."

"...No we're not," Spymaster replied. "In fact, I suspect you're going to want to have a long talk with me." She pulled down her hood, then lifted her mask. Laura had never seen her before; it wasn't someone she recognized, a latina woman with a shock of black hair, stunningly intelligent brown eyes, and the most long-suffering, yet confident quirk of the lips she'd ever laid eyes on.

"...My name's Mercedes Merced. I'm Taskmaster's wife -- and The Hub."

#taskmaster #tony masters #taskmaster: the line #marvel #fanfiction #eric o'grady #black ant #elektra natchios #thunderbolt ross

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forestwater87 · 5 years

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So that new CC episode huh?

Listen I don’t wanna go into too many spoilers here (and also I’m a little emotionally drained) but the fact that no one is talking about how Max can tap dance is absolutely criminal. I assume it’s because no one picked up on it -- @hopefullypessimistic84 had to spell it out for me, though on rewatch there’s a couple clues that seem obvious in retrospect -- but like, how is that not the cutest shit in the world. Where did he even learn that? I assume his parents signed him up, but is it something he enjoyed? What the fuck even was that bombshell to throw on us, RT?

As for the David stuff . . . my god. It was just so good. Miles made me tear up a couple times, I refuse to accept the death of Wolfy and have decided she joined Muack as a camp mascot, and I’m so upset Gwen didn’t have a single fucking line and there was nothing about how freaked out she must’ve been back home. (Before anyone says I’m on those Gwenvid pills: even if she isn’t secretly in love with him like I want more than anything in the world, he disappeared without a trace and she’s stuck trying to figure out what happened and keep the entire camp running for who knows how long? Does she think Daniel came back and did something to him? Does she think the WS rallied and took revenge? Does she think he got eaten by a bear? How fucking stressful must that have been, regardless of how close you believe she is to her coworker?

So yeah. This was a killer episode and one with major rewatch value, David is a fucking star who must be loved and protected at all costs (even if he proved this episode that he’s not nearly as emotionally or physically fragile as we think he is), and yet somehow the two things that stuck most in my craw were about characters who were barely in the ep.

I know, I know. I contain multitudes.

#such a good goddamn ep #campcamp #cc spoilers #cc max #cc david #camp camp roosterteeth

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deborahkaya · 4 years

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You’re not Chirurgus. Chirurgus tells me I have to keep working until I finish my job.

The following preview is of chapter five of TIMELESS KEEPERS, the recently published third volume of our quanum fiction/magic realism quintet, THE TAMMABUKKU CHRONICLES.

http://www.amazon.com/Timeless-Keepers-Tammabukku-Chronicles-Book-ebook/dp/B07YRTNCJ7/

I feel my Daniel rage erupt when I think of the fate of Grayson Hall. Who was this strange Lev, and did he have anything to do with the fire? “Did Gabriel think that Lev might have been connected to what happened?”

Joanna nods. “Gabriel believed that the fire was deliberately set, but they couldn’t prove arson, despite our suspicions.”

“But who’d do such a despicable thing?” Lia asks. “There would have to be a motive.”

Visibly frustrated, Joanna says, “No Grayson gained anything by the fire that was for sure—it was only a devastating loss. All the money in the world could never replace Grayson Hall. It was the seat of our family for four centuries.”

“I heard they blamed it on using modern appliances with faulty wiring,” June comments.

“That theory was unsubstantiated,” Timothy replies. “I also heard that it was caused by a kerosene heater, but investigators found no evidence of an explosion.”

Joanna shakes her head. “There was no shortage of theories, but none of them could be proven. I remember Ralph, our valet, swearing that two of the other buildings were burning separately before the fire tore through the dry landscape and formed one conflagration. He said it was only as everyone started running outside that the fire spread, but because he was still awake when it started, he was positive that the manor house, carriage house and stables were burning separately before the three fires turned into one. The stable manager freed all the horses in the nick of time. My horse was found several kilometers past Thornton-le-Dale.”

“I remember that the fire started in the middle of the night,” Timothy begins. “Our father shook Rosalie and me awake, and we couldn’t believe what we were seeing—it all seemed surreal. It was drier than usual that year, which didn’t help, but something didn’t add up. Father was also sure he saw the buildings burning separately.”

“I’ll go to my grave swearing that the fire was deliberately started,” Joanna solemnly states.

Since hearing about Lev, my mind has been racing, and the story has left me disconcerted. “The arsonist to whom you’re alluding is Lev, isn’t it?”

“Well, I believe it’s noteworthy that Lev disappeared that very night and was never heard from again,” Timothy replies. “It has stuck in my craw all these decades. A week before my father died, we spoke about this subject.”

“The investigation couldn’t prove a criminal act,” Joanna says with a tinge of bitterness.

Lia’s expression turns incredulous. “Wasn’t Lev’s disappearing on the same night enough to raise every eyebrow?”

“Not to mention that two people said they saw three fires burning separately before they spread,” June adds.

“They took all of that into account,” Joanna responds, “but at the end of the day, it’s about what they find, not what they sense.”

“What about Lev?” June asks. “Did they ever find him?”

“They tried for years,” Joanna answers, “but he was never found. All the other displaced members of the staff gave their statements—only Lev’s was missing. The stable manager chastised himself for not asking for more background information, but Lev was a mere stable hand. Papa told him that he was the one who should chastise himself for listening to me by not firing Lev when he wanted to, but the stable manager remained terribly remorseful the rest of his life.”

“It was a different world back then,” Timothy explains. “There was less fear of strangers. We had just come out of World War II. The stable manager wanted to help kids like Lev who were obviously alone in the world. Unfortunately, in this case, it seems his trust was misplaced.”

“And if Lev was guilty, then my trust was also misplaced,” Joanna adds, “because I insisted he was harmless when Papa wanted to fire him.” She sips her wine before continuing. “The night before the fire, Gabriel and I were walking in the garden, while Lev was watering. He glared at Gabriel from a distance, and when I saw that malevolent look, I remarked to Gabriel that his crush had gone too far, and I would have another talk with Papa. This time I wanted Lev dismissed. When we passed by the area where Lev was working, Gabriel tried to be cordial by mentioning what a splendid sunset it was. I’ll never forget how Lev replied. He said that some people are not good enough at birth to enjoy a sunset the way they would like to. He never looked up from what he was doing, but we could hear the intensity in his voice. Gabriel suggested that he take the rest of the night off, and the stable manager would never question Gabriel’s decision. Instead of being pleased, however, Lev said, ‘You’re not Chirurgus. Chirurgus tells me I have to keep working until I finish my job.’”

I shudder. “Chirurgus? That name sends a serious chill down my spine.”

“Mine, too, David,” Joanna commiserates. “Every time I think about that name I immediately want it out of my mind. I even told Gabriel I didn’t want to talk about it when he tried to bring the subject up. All of that surprises me, as I’m not usually that way.”

June quivers. “I don’t think Chirurgus is a word in any language for the Creator.”

Timothy gives a bitter chortle. “Lev was not religious. He refused to go to church on Sunday, claiming that God never did anything for him.”

“I already knew that ‘Chirurgus’ wasn’t one of the seventy-two names of God.” I don’t have to look at Lia to know I’m not the only one drawing parallels with “Mrs. Graeber” talking about the Master.

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concerningwolves · 6 years

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Dear writers, don’t try and protect your readers.

I was raised on Shakespeare and Esop's Fables and folklore from around the world. I read Dracula when I was ten, knew dozens of obscure Slavic tales and could rattle off any Norse myth if you asked me to. Can I still do that? Not really. Or at least, not like I used to. But does that mean stories are any less important in my life?

No.

I’ve learned more from stories than I ever could from teachers, parents and every other guiding adult in my life. Most people were rather perturbed at the thought of a child being raised on Norse and Greek myths - both had their reputation - but it was the Norse ones that really stuck in people’s craw. The varied mythos of the Norsemen is not somewhere you would go for joy or fun. They’re dark, gritty and full of harrowing adventures. While at least the gods of the Greeks were petty, proud and insatiable, there wasn’t much to alleviate the cold truth in Norse myths. For the people of Northern Europe, the land itself was grown from an act of murder; Odin and his brothers killed Ymir and used his body to make the world.

Of all of them, however, Loki was the greatest teacher. He did terrible things and was often forced into redemption by acts of bloody threat. (I’ll never forget the line “If you do not get her back, Loki, I shall crack your ribcage like the wings of a falcon and flay the flesh from your bones.”). When he wanted to be kind, he was a force of loyalty and love; when he wanted to be petty or cruel, he was the biggest threat that the Asgardians would ever have to reckon with. He fathered the monsters that would one day end the world. He lay with giants and Asgardians alike, and at the end settled for the goddess of fertility and bonds as his wife. The people who breathed Loki’s mythology into being didn’t care whether or not he was problematic, or toxic, or how complex he was - and that made him the best of the Asgardians in my eyes.

We all knew from the very beginning that Loki would be punished for his actions, and we knew that none of it really mattered because whatever happened, fate was inevitable. As a child, I saw the Asgardians presented with this bloody, brutal end that they couldn’t escape, and was amazed by their indifference. The whole point was that good or bad, death came everyone. Ragnarok did not discriminate, and not everyone would be held accountable for their actions.

It was the truth.

All of that has made the basis for the way that I think and go through life. And you know what? The “child-safe” versions would never have had that same impact. If in school we had been taught that Apollo liked both men and women, that sometimes the good are punished for doing the right thing, that the right thing isn’t easy but usually worth it, that pride in your actions is not a sin but hating others for their pride is? Many children would grow up with a healthier view of the world.

How many of you knew that Arachne was turned into a spider, not because of her pride, but because Athena was too proud herself to accept that Ariachne’s love of her work was justified? Being turned into a spider was an act of mercy after Arachne’s fear of Athena’s wrath caused her to hang herself. “You can create beauty forever now,” read one line of this variation, with Athena torn apart by guilt. That myth taught children that adults are not infallible and that challenging them is okay.

People were given voices or helped to find them by thousands of years of stories, unconcerned by how appropriate they were or what the content was. They trusted one another’s critical skills and held no illusions, and looked to their tales for guidance. Those myths and legends weren’t there to make a point, but to explain the point in the clearest, most unapologetic terms possible.

So tell your story how you want to tell it; not how you feel you should tell it - and I promise you, it will change someone’s life.

#stories #thoughts #writebr #mythology #legends #folklore

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madscientistjournal · 5 years

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The Parts of Him That I Can Help With

An essay by Stephen L. Thayer, as provided by Gordon B. White Art by Errow Collins

My younger brother Cameron never understood what working from home meant, so when he called me at 2:30 pm, I was wrist-deep in a twitching half-cadaver. Normally I wouldn’t have answered, since I was practicing stitching a double set of lungs for an upcoming necromodding commission, but I’d been stymied by what to do next, and I also had to pick Dylan up from school by 3:30, so it was as good a stopping point as any. Besides, what is family for if not to answer your call?

I pulled my hands out of the writhing thoracic cavity and peeled off my surgical gloves. The talc inside always makes me squirm when I rub my fingers clean, so I grimaced beneath my paper filtration mask–which I never remove while in my garage laboratory–and swiped my cell phone to speaker.

“Cam,” I said. “What’s up?”

“I need your help, bro.”

“Are you drunk?” I asked.

He paused. “A little.”

A little was fine. We’re brothers, so how else were we supposed to talk?

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Do you remember my last serious relationship?”

I had to think back. I was pretty sure that was Brandon and that had been a year before? Two? Cam had never been good at relationships, but I’d forgotten how bad he was.

“Sure,” I said. “Tall, dark, possibly rheumatic.”

“You make him sound so sexy.”

“Not my type.”

“Anyway, I was out with Tyler.”

“Who?” I asked as I walked across the room, away from the twitching body and the faint burning smell rising from the wires in its cranium.

“Never mind with who,” Cam said, too quickly. “The point is that I ran into Brandon.”

“With your car, I hope?”

“Nice dad joke, bro.”

“Speaking of, I have to get Dylan soon.” An hour wasn’t really soon, but anything to give Cam a ticking clock. He’s the kind of guy who if you ask him what he did last night, he’ll end up telling you what he did this morning.

“Bro, this is serious,” he said. “Seeing Brandon reminded me of how terrible I am at everything.”

“What about this new guy?” I said, desperate to deflect the conversation. “Clearly you’re not completely unlovable.” Since launching my necromodding business, I’d had enough people calling me up for freebies that I was hoping to stem this off before it escalated. That double-lungs commission was the first paid job I’d had all month, although given how poorly it was going, I worried it might be the last, too.

“It isn’t going to work out,” Cam said. “I’m not good enough.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” I said, but I immediately regretted that brotherly sarcasm as I heard a glass hit the bar on Cam’s end. I could just about smell the booze through the phone. If I were there with him, maybe he could have seen on my face that I didn’t mean it, but what could I say?

“I need your help to get a boyfriend,” he said. “A serious one. A real one.”

“One who calls you back?”

“One who thinks I’m hot.”

“I don’t know any blind and deaf guys,” I said, unable to help ribbing him further. “Besides, I haven’t dated anyone in, well, forever. I really can’t help.”

My wife Cynthia and I had been together basically forever. We’d dated for almost a decade, been married for something like seven years, and Dylan was five, so contemporary hook-up culture or any online presence more than my freelance necromodding website were absolute mysteries. Despite the skills at my disposal and the bodies in my garage, I didn’t know what I could do to help Cam.

“Bro,” Cam said, “I don’t need your dating advice.”

Oh thank god, I thought, although I was also a little offended.

“Then what?” I asked.

“I need to be a different person.”

“Can’t help you,” I said. “Try therapy?”

“I mean, I need a new body.”

The half-cadaver twitched on the table, the crown of electrodes in its skull stimulating it into smearing its coagulating intestines across the metal gurney as its torn throat wheezed through the half-sewn double-set of lungs. Seeing how helpless it was, twitching there in the approximation of life, made me feel bad that I hadn’t had Cam over in a while.

“Fine,” I said. “Come by tonight after dinner. No earlier than seven.”

“Look who it is,” I said to Dylan as we opened the door.

“Uncle Cam!”

As Cam hoisted Dylan up, I took a moment to do my pre-clinical once over. Cam and I shared a party mix of the same genetics, so I didn’t think he’d been too let down, especially because if I’d received our parents’ brain Chex, he’d gotten the pretzel bits of good physique. Decent shoulders and long arms, a full head of hair that was mostly not gray as he pushed into his thirties. While beer had softened him up, his spare tire was a bike wheel at worst, not a full radial. I was noting that his glutes were adequate if not extraordinary when I realized that he was airplaning Dylan into the kitchen with Cynthia.

“Hey, Cindy,” he said, using a nickname she hates, perhaps accidentally.

“Hey, Ron,” she replied, purposefully using a nickname Cam hates. “Can you not steer my child into the Bolognese?”

“Into the Bolognese!” Dylan squealed, and I could envision the downward arc occurring in the other room. Suddenly, I was hit by the pungent tomato sauce simmering over the sweet fat of the beef. It’s funny how you don’t recognize some comforts until you’re just on their periphery.

“Ron,” Cynthia said.

“Cindy,” he said.

“Bolognese!” Dylan yelled.

I joined the family circle just in time and took Dylan from Cam’s outstretched arms. Dylan pouted, but Cam ruffled his hair and then turned to me.

“So, what’s for dinner?” Cam asked.

“Let’s talk in the lab,” I said, steering him towards the mudroom and the locked door to my lab in the garage. “We’ll give Cynthia some room.”

As Dylan latched onto Cynthia and I escorted Cam out, she gave me that look that asked “Are you really skipping dinner?” I shrugged in apology and hoped my eyebrows, wriggling like caterpillars on a hotplate, said “What else is family for, right?”

Out in the garage, the overwhelming smell of antiseptic spray is deceptive at first, but I offered a full respirator to Cam, which he wisely accepted. Whenever I open the storage drawers, the smell usually overwhelms the unprepared. It’s the primary reason that Cynthia made me spring for airtight locks, because while she’s fine with me being a stay-at-home dad doing freelance necromodder work, she doesn’t want to be known as that family.

“How’s business?” Cam asked, looking around at all the shiny equipment.

“Honestly, not great,” I said. “It’s really tough starting out. So far mostly just cranks and perverts.”

“But this is all so, so cool,” he said.

“Clients don’t trust necromodders without a deep portfolio.”

“I trust you, bro.”

“You have to say that,” I said, but I smiled beneath my paper mask. I didn’t know if Cam was being sincere or just trying to butter me up, but it was working.

“What’s that?” Cam asked, pointing to the halo of electrodes I’d been using to reanimate the half-cadaver with the double-stitched lungs. Cam had been in the lab enough to recognize new equipment, even though he didn’t know what any of it was.

“Sort of a test drive system for bodies so I can try new mods before putting them in living clients,” I told him. “The hope is to one day use it to amp up living brains, too, but that’s a long way off.” A very, very long way off, in fact, and not being able to get it to work stuck in my craw as yet another failure.

“No chance you can fix this then?” Cam thumped himself on the forehead.

“Nothing can fix that,” I said. “What’s Option B?”

“Bro,” he said, “I need a boyfriend.”

“Believe me,” I said, “that would make all of our lives easier.”

He ignored that comment, which was bigger of him than I expected. As the older brother, it was always both surprising and fulfilling to see sparks of maturity in Cam. Perhaps I sometimes pushed him too hard to find them–spraying his pants with water in middle school to teach him an ill-defined lesson about humility, for example–but whenever those moments emerged naturally, I could just about cry.

“I want someone to love me like Cynthia loves you,” he said.

I didn’t tell him that sometimes it takes a lot of work, but I was a sucker for romance. If I could help him, at least a little, wasn’t that my brotherly duty?

“So I need a new body,” he said.

“It’s expensive,” I said.

“It can be my birthday present.”

“It comes out of my pocket,” I said, but Cam looked pointedly at me, and I knew what he was being too nice to say about Cynthia in the other room. “Our pockets,” I corrected myself. “Do you really want to take the Bolognese out of your nephew’s mouth?”

“Birthday and Christmas.”

I stared at him.

“For two years,” he added.

I sighed. “And I can use pictures for my website.”

“Fine,” he said, “if I can also use them for my dating profile.”

“Fine,” I said. “I love–”

“Me?” Cam interrupted.

“A challenge,” I concluded. “So of course I will help you.”

There’s a sort of code that we necromodders undertake–whether it’s a full-time modder doing celebrity jobs in a fancy foreign clinic, or just a dedicated freelancer who left the hospital’s daily grind and whose wife supports him while he builds up a portfolio on low-paying commissions–that we’ll do our best to bring our clients’ visions to fruition, despite our own preferences. I’d seen plenty of things on the professional message boards–literal eyes in the back of heads, third arms in places arms don’t usually go–that I personally didn’t think looked good, but which somehow made the end users feel complete. Although I think of necromodding as an art, most clients see it as design, so far be it from me to deny anyone their aesthetic preferences. As a medical professional, however, I did have one other complicating factor.

“I’ll do it,” I said, “but as your doctor–” I trailed off, hoping to prompt him.

“Really?” Cam asked. “Again?” He knew what was coming, since I’d given him a new middle toe a year or so ago.

“Tell you what,” I said, as I punched in the codes to the cold storage. “If you can paraphrase the warning, I’ll consider that informed consent.”

“Let me see,” Cam began as he joined me to watch the various hunks and chunks of cadavers slide out of the freezer. “As my doctor, you have to warn me of potential health effects related to body modifications using deceased tissue.”

“And?”

“There’s no guarantee.”

“That?”

“That the process is effective or reversible.”

“And?” I asked.

“And what?” he asked

“You’re of sound mind to make decisions that could result in your death.”

He swallowed. “Yeah, bro.”

From inside the coolers, corpses and extra bits peered out. I didn’t keep a lot on hand, but I always had a few stock bodies–inoffensive types that were easy to cut and shape for after-market mods–so I could easily do a head swap, then touch Cam up afterwards. With our health care system, there was never a shortage of parts.

“Finally,” I added, “as your brother, and not your doctor, I think you’re great and have a great personality. Don’t fix a thing, blah blah.”

“I love you, too, bro,” he said.

“I never said that.”

I cut off Cam’s head and stitched it to the stock body that most closely matched his skin tone. He’d asked me about maybe trying out a different one, but that would just open up questions of bodily appropriation that I hadn’t the energy to parse with Cam. Nevertheless, we had gone over the alterations he wanted and, once his original body was safely wrapped and secured in Refrigerator B and his head was hooked up to the new one, I was ready to start.

He wanted bigger muscles, and although the stock body was fairly normal, Cam had picked out globs of the red ropey fibers for me to put in. The sizing was ridiculous, but the more I’d warned him, the more he resisted. Then he said it was okay if I didn’t know how to do it, which I’m pretty sure he did just to egg me on. Sure, a procedure of that level was just a smidge outside of my comfort zone, but I wasn’t going to give Cam the satisfaction of thinking he’d asked for something I couldn’t do, so I went to work snipping out the default tendons at the muscle heads and reattaching bigger ones. It was like trying to overstuff a batch of viscera dumplings, but I finally got it done.

When I finished, I brought him back out from sedation and rolled the full-sized mirror over to where he lay on the table. He grinned and flexed, and I worried that the glue in the skin wouldn’t hold, but although he bulged, he didn’t pop. I’d had my doubts, but seeing it finished, I swelled with pride, too.

“Isn’t this a little excessive?” I asked, even as I snapped a picture for the portfolio section of my website.

“You just don’t understand the male gaze,” he said and kissed his bicep.

“Come again?”

“Like, looking at stuff.” He paused. “Also, that’s what he said.”

“That’s so juvenile.”

“You’re the older brother,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be too mature.”

“I need to look more mature,” Cam said, back in my lab after less than a week. “I have a baby face.”

“You have a childish face,” I said. I was already twisting his face this way and that under the light, though, figuring out what I could do with the soft tissues. Normally I wouldn’t have been doing more work so soon after the first procedure, but working on Cam had really energized me. Prospective clients were contacting me, and in a spurt of inspiration, I’d finished the double-stitched lungs and even improved the corpse-animating electrode helmet. Besides, Cam seemed to enjoy coming over for the post-op check-ups, even sticking around to come with me to pick Dylan up from school.

“What do you want this time?” I asked.

“Thinner cheeks,” he said. “And maybe a beard.”

From Freezer A, I pulled out a box of frozen samples. Inside the compartments, little swatches of hair curled like sleeping gerbils in multiple hues of blonde, auburn, ginger, and black.

“You can have a beard of this, this, this, or this,” I said, pointing out some.

“What about that?”

“That’s a dog.”

“That?”

“Pubes.”

He considered it for a moment longer than I’d have liked, but then finally pointed to a nice normal brown swatch. “I’ll take that one,” he said.

“You sure?” I asked.

“Stop second guessing me.”

So I put Cam under again. I made incisions beneath the zygomatic bones, then slit all the way down the jaw and back around. I took extra time to stencil out around Cam’s lips before I peeled away his lower face, leaving him raw from closed eyes to throat. The yolk-colored globs of baby fat clung to his cheeks as I peeled them away, then laid them in the “Base” box to store in Freezer B alongside his original body. We were getting into alterations that weren’t as simple to undo as a head swap, but I’d given him the spiel and, since he’d used up his allotment of gifts already, he’d promised to pay in cash–just later, of course.

I unfurled the main roll of beard and skin, measured off a swatch, and then snipped it. The surface was itchy, and I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting it on their face or anywhere else, but according to the message boards, it was popular among other modders’ clients and, of course, the customer is always right. It was a pain to smooth down and arrange all the follicles the right way, but it felt good getting into the granular work again. The bliss of losing myself in the details reminded me why I’d fallen in love with necromodding in the first place.

Once everything was perfect, I woke Cam up and rolled the mirror over. “This is good,” he said, rubbing his new hirsute jawline while I took a picture for the site. “This is will be the one that does it.”

“The beard isn’t doing it,” Cam said at dinner. He’d shown up unannounced but had become a regular enough intrusion that Cynthia had a plate ready. He was still adjusting to his beard, though, and the egg from the fettuccine carbonara glistened in the hair.

“My problem is that I get too drunk,” he said as he took another swig of Primitivo. He was still adjusting to the muscles, too, and so all of his movements were outsized and reckless. “I need the alcohol to open up, but then it hits me too hard.”

“Drink less?” Cynthia recommended.

“Or he can give me a bigger liver,” Cam said.

“An enlarged liver isn’t healthy,” I said. “It’s pretty much the opposite.”

“I know that,” he said, although clearly he didn’t. “Then give me more livers.”

That might work and, if nothing else, would hopefully keep Cam away for a while. My work had been picking up recently–at first it was new clients looking for muscle and beard work after seeing Cam’s pictures, but referrals and repeats kept rolling in. Besides, I’d been working on my electrode helmet and was on the verge of a breakthrough. Cam just didn’t understand my need to work during the day or the importance of family time with Cynthia and Dylan afterwards. His continued interruptions at dinner and frequent calls just to chat during the day were reminders as to why I’d stopped hanging out with him so much.

“Fine,” I said to Cam. “Whatever you want.”

After dinner, I took Cam to the lab and sliced him open, then clamped the flesh apart to root around. I wasn’t shocked to see the paces he’d already put this current liver through. It looked scaled and pebbled, and oozed like a pickled beet. Even through my ventilator, the rich, briny smell hit me. Gagging, I took the extra livers–my Burke and Hare men had been coming through like gangbusters recently–and started wedging them in. The healthy organs were more pliant, but as I sutured them together, the knot of muscle got less and less manageable. In the end, I had to lean on them like I was packing a suitcase while I stapled the wound together. Despite being pleased with my innovation, this one wouldn’t get a picture on the website. Probably just a text description.

As I brought Cam back around, I told him, “Be careful.”

“I always am, bro.”

He sat up on the gurney, swaying under the new imbalance.

“Should we do shots to celebrate?” he asked.

Cam banged on the front door on a Thursday night at 12:30 am. Cynthia and I were in bed, with Dylan down the hall asleep, and she was none too pleased at the interruption.

“He needs to learn boundaries,” she said.

“I don’t disagree,” I said, but I was already out of bed and pulling on a robe. She wasn’t wrong, of course, but it’s hard to ignore family even when you want to. Besides, if I had to choose which one to deal with at that moment, Cam was probably the easiest.

Downstairs, I barely recognized Cam as I let him in. His body was getting strange; the muscles bulged in odd ways and all the livers seemed to be throwing him off balance. The beard hadn’t been trimmed in days.

“Do you know what time it is?” I asked, dragging him into the garage laboratory. At least the insulated walls would keep his disturbance to a minimum.

“I need one last one,” he said.

“Are you drunk?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he responded. “So? You going to judge me for that, too?”

“Someone has to.”

“Too bad it isn’t someone who ever has something nice to say.”

That stung. It took me a moment to respond. “I can’t,” I finally said. “It’s too late.”

“Please, I need it. You sort of owe me.”

“For what?”

He didn’t answer. “Just please. Do it and I’ll leave you alone. Forever.”

“Don’t be such a martyr,” I said.

“I just need you to make me taller, bro. Just an extra vertebra or three.”

“You dope,” I said. “It’s not your height. It’s not your muscles or your beard. It’s just you.”

“What do you mean?”

There are conversations that need to be had, and there are conversations that need to be had in a particular way. I knew this was the latter, but I was too tired. Besides, someone had to tell him, right?

“You’re a weirdo,” I said. “It’s not how you look or how big your liver is; you’re the kind of person who gets people’s names wrong. You don’t understand that you can’t show up late or that you talk a lot or ask too much.”

“Then fix that.”

“I can’t fix that,” I said. “That’s just you.”

“Zap me then.” He pointed at the electrode crown I’d been working on, the one that let me reanimate half-cadavers enough to test out mods before using them on paying clients. It had come a long way recently and I was sure it was going to launch me out of necromods and into actual biomodding, but it wasn’t ready to supercharge a living brain. Probably.

“I don’t care,” he snapped. “I already agreed you’re not responsible if I die.”

“It’s untested,” I said.

“I believe in you,” he said.

“It’s not about believing.”

“I don’t care,” he snapped. “I already agreed you’re not responsible if I die.”

“You moron.” I’d reached my limit, too. “Of course I’m responsible. I’m always responsible for you.”

“Stop treating me like a child,” he said. “If I could do this any other way, don’t you think I would?”

What was there to say?

“Just zap me,” he said again.

“Stop being so dramatic.”

“I’m sorry I’m not perfect,” he said. “Maybe if you didn’t leave me behind after you went to school, after you got married, I could have learned from you.”

“What was I supposed to do?” I asked.

“Help me,” he said.

“I didn’t leave you behind.”

“I feel like you did.”

“Fuck your feelings,” I said.

We didn’t talk as I put him under. Stewing, I drilled into his skull, then attached the headgear and pushed the little wire skewers in. That was it. If it killed him, well I’d warned him, right?

I pulled the lever, hard. Because he’d asked for it.

The lights dimmed like I expected as it warmed up; but then it hitched. The lights flickered, then everything surged, bathing us in the miasma of green and red LEDs. All the shifting colors made me nauseous and I shaded my eyes, squinting at Cam’s body under the waves of putrescent light.

Then it exploded.

Everything went black. As all the machines whirred to a stop, I couldn’t hear or see anything. I sat there, in the silent dark, wondering if I’d killed my brother. Wondering how I would explain it and wondering, afterwards, just how much worse it could feel.

Those were my first thoughts. My next was that the brain-charger was also an obvious failure. My equipment was a failure. My skills were a failure. Sitting there, unable to see anything, the whole necromodding pursuit felt like a vain delusion. I was a dinner theater actor, alone in the dark among the empty tables and the cold buffet.

Then the red emergency lights came on, but all the monitors were still dead. I wondered if Cam was, too. I couldn’t bring myself to check for life the old-fashioned hands-on way, so I waited by the machinery. Maybe by refusing to check for myself, I could wait and blame the instruments.

It was the longest thirty seconds of my life.

Then the backup generator kicked on. One by one the monitors popped back up, flickering open like eyes. They ran through their reboots. Cam’s heartbeat came up. His breathing levels stabilized. I brought him back around and he opened his eyes.

“What happened?” he asked.

“What do you think?”

He looked around at the red room and then down across his body and all the changes we’d been making.

“I gotta go,” he said, sitting up. “I’m late.”

And that was it. I glanced at the emergency report printouts and data, but I was too tired to deal with any of it, so I sealed the lab and went back to bed.

For the first day that I didn’t hear from Cam, I was fine with it. I needed some space and figured he probably did, too. I took Dylan to the park after school and just avoided the lab all together. After the second day without hearing from Cam, though, and then a third, I was worried. He didn’t answer his phone. He didn’t text me to ask for additional procedures or anti-rejection drugs. The kinds of modifications we had been doing had a fairly a short active life without follow-ups.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Cam. I’d really failed him, and not just as a necromodder–although that blow-up had me wondering if I should just give up, sell everything, and get a regular job again. No, I’d also failed Cam as a brother. It wasn’t the things I’d said, since I stood by those, but that I’d said them in that way. That I’d made him feel that way. That he was willing to risk dying with my half-baked brain overcharger rather than have to deal with me as a brother any more. That I’d been too proud or too stubborn to stop him. It was a dark time.

So I did what I always do when I have serious doubts and questions about life.

“What’s going on?” Cynthia asked as she answered her cellphone. I’d expected her voicemail, but apparently I’d caught her in-between meetings.

“It’s Cam,” I said.

“Not Dylan?”

“No,” I said. “Cam.”

She didn’t hang up. She paused, though, but then continued, “What’s wrong with your brother?”

“I don’t quite know,” I said. “I mean, I know you don’t like him–”

“I like him,” she cut me off. “I think you two have issues, but he’s family.”

“Right,” I said.

“Your family,” she said.

“Right.”

We waited for a second there.

“What about him?” she broke the momentary silence.

“I’m worried,” I said. “He hasn’t called me since that last thing.”

“Maybe it worked?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Regardless, there are these anti-rejection drugs that he knows he needs.”

“Shit,” Cynthia said.

“I know,” I said. “What should I do?”

“Go find him, of course,” she said.

I shook my head, even though she obviously couldn’t see it. “He hasn’t asked for my help.”

There was silence on the other end. Then Cynthia said, softly, “What do you think all of this has been about, then?”

“I mean–” I began.

“Go help him!” Whatever pristine office halls she was in must have echoed, because the reverberation carried onto my end of the phone

“But he might–”

“He’s our family!”

She was right.

So I drove to Cam’s apartment complex on the other side of town. I’d been there a few times before to pick him up for family events or to visit someone in the hospital, but it took some poking around and checking mailboxes before I found his building again. The door to his unit was unlocked, yet even before I entered I could smell the rot.

Cam was sitting in the dark, sagging in the center of his rent-to-own couch. The putrescence seeping out from around his midsection was soaking into the fabric. The muscles I could see–biceps, triceps, traps, and pecs–were purple and mustard yellow clots beneath the skin. The edges of his beard were peeling down.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I said. “Let’s get you back to the lab.”

“It’s not worth it.”

“Don’t start,” I said. “Not now.” I picked my way around empty silver tallboys swimming like fish on the stained blue carpet.

“I’ve just been thinking,” he said. “I can’t do anything but think after what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I said. I grabbed his arm and began to pull, but it was slack and, without his assistance, I worried my fingers would sink in and tear out big chunks.

“You broke my brain, bro,” he said and sunk down deeper. “All that zap did is made me depressed.”

“The machine didn’t do that, you dolt,” I said. It was true: when I’d reviewed the data that night, it was clear that the machine hadn’t worked. It had fried during the warm-up and although it blasted everything in the lab, there’d been no sign that it had any effect on Cam. “If you’re thinking about how shitty things are, then that’s on you.”

He had nothing to say to that.

I sighed. “And on me, too. I guess.”

Cam grunted.

“I’m sorry I said those things. For now, though,” I said, “as your doctor, I need to get you back to the lab before you have catastrophic organ failure.” I pulled again, but although he didn’t actively resist, he didn’t move his bulk to accommodate me either.

“What do you want from me?” I finally asked.

“You could tell me you love me.”

“Well, I won’t do that,” I said. “But, as your doctor–as your brother, I’d be pretty upset if you had caststrophic organ failure.”

The lab door is triple-sealed so that smells don’t seep into or out of the house, which is why it wasn’t until Cam and I opened the door that the wave of rot pushed out past us. The sweet and sick burst curled into my nostrils and even Cam–decaying from the neck down–winced at the ripe odor.

We stumbled into the lab, but I already knew what had happened. The power surge had blown the freezers and they hadn’t reset with the other equipment. When I opened Freezer B, as the smell had foreshadowed, everything was ruined. Cam’s original body was beyond salvage.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

Somehow in this tragedy, Cam had found equanimity and so he shrugged, one of the seams around his neck popping loose and green pus oozing out. For a moment, I felt that swell of pride in how mature he was acting.

We moved over to the table and I sat him down. All of my lab equipment seemed to be working fine, but there was nothing in the freezers I could use. What a pair our mismatched reflections in the full-length mirror made–me standing there slicked with gore and my younger brother falling apart like a poutine. I was trying to be strong, holding it together, but then Cam had to go and get sentimental.

“It was really nice spending time with you,” Cam said. “But I feel like you’ll be better off without me.”

“I never wanted to lose you,” I said. “I just wanted, you know, less of you.”

“Well, you’re in luck. There isn’t much left.” He tried to laugh, gesturing to the pile of meat festering below his neck.

“Oh shit,” I said.

“What?”

“There might be a way.” Less of him. “It might be too complicated, though. I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Bro,” he said, and flopped a mushy hand onto my shoulder. “I believe in you.”

“You kind of have to say that,” I said, wrestling the tears back as best I could.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I feel like you know it’s true.”

I sniffled, just once. “Fuck your feelings.”

Then I cut off Cam’s head.

“Swipe right,” Cam said.

“Don’t yell in my ear,” I said.

“I’m not yelling.”

“Well it sounds like it.”

That was because his head was attached to my shoulder, so his mouth was right next to my ear. Normally he didn’t get this excited, but while we were sitting at the dinner table with Dylan, waiting for Cynthia, Cam had decided he absolutely needed to show me this new dating app. I didn’t really want to see, but I’d been trying to be more supportive lately. It was his life, after all. Mostly.

Cam whispered, “Swipe right.”

“Fine,” I said. “But I’m not taking you on any dates. Wait until your replacement body gets in.”

“Then I’m not doing any more surgeries with you.”

That wasn’t okay. Ever since I’d posted about our successful head graft, the commissions were rolling in. Not only that, but with Cam by my side, I finally felt like a true professional.

“Fine,” I said. “But just one date. Make it count.”

“Fine,” he said. “Now swipe right.”

I swiped right, and the next image popped up. I gasped.

“Can I see?” Dylan asked from across the table.

“No!” Cam and I said in unison.

Cynthia came out of the kitchen, bringing out a bowl of salad. “No phones at the table,” she said.

“Sorry, Cynthia,” Cam said. Over the past week, he’d been making a real effort to get her name right and to be a better houseguest in general. For her part, Cynthia had been much more understanding about all of this than I’d had any right to expect. Of course, she rightly insisted that Cam and I sleep on the couch downstairs. It’s funny, but you never realize how much you might miss some people until you’re just on their periphery, I guess.

“Dinner time is family time,” Dylan chimed in.

“That’s right,” I said, but as I went to put the phone in my pocket it rang, playing “Sunshine of Your Love.”

“Whose ringtone is that?” Cynthia asked.

“Tyler,” I said, reading off the Caller ID.

“Who’s Tyler?” Dylan asked.

I suddenly felt light-headed as the blood from my body rushed to Cam’s face. He’d turned bright red, and I felt the heat of his ear next to mine. I worried for a moment that our sutures might spring a leak.

“Just some guy I was seeing before all this,” he said. He swallowed, and the movement of his esophagus shook my collarbone.

“Just some guy, Cam?” Cynthia said. “I’ve never seen you this flustered.”

“I’ll call him later,” Cam said. “Dinner time is family time.” I could feel him straining, though, as he looked at the phone. I admired his attempt at impulse control, but then I looked at Cynthia, and she smiled wearily.

“What else is family for?” she said.

“No really,” Cam said. “It’s okay, I–”

I swiped the phone open and held it to Cam’s ear. I rose from the table and as we walked out Cam began, adorably, to stutter a hello.

Cynthia was right: What else is family for, of course, if not to answer your calls?

Stephen L. Thayer is a freelance necromodder operating out of his home laboratory in a discrete, secure suburban neighborhood. After receiving his MBA and spending several years in corporate finance, Stephen left the rat race to follow his passion into the burgeoning field of functional and aesthetic bio-enhancement utilizing cadaverous tissues. Although he performs standard cosmetic, muscle, organ, and/or bone alterations, Stephen considers his necromodding a blend of art and science striving towards transcendence. He is always eager to discuss exotic and/or custom commissions. A representative portfolio and anonymous client testimonials are available upon request.

Gordon B. White has lived in North Carolina, New York, and the Pacific Northwest. He is a 2017 graduate of the Clarion West Writing Workshop, and his fiction has appeared in venues such as Daily Science Fiction, A Breath from the Sky: Unusual Stories of Possession, Nightscript Vol. 2, and the Bram Stoker Award® winning anthology Borderlands 6. Gordon also contributes reviews and interviews to various outlets. You can find him online at www.gordonbwhite.com or on Twitter at @GordonBWhite.

Errow is a comic artist and illustrator with a predilection towards mashing the surreal with the familiar. They pay their time to developing worlds not quite like our own with their fiancee and pushing the queer agenda. They probably left a candle burning somewhere. More of their work can be found at errowcollins.wix.com/portfolio.

The Parts of Him That I Can Help With was originally published on Mad Scientist Journal

#Errow Collins #Gordon B. White #Necromancy #Stephen L. Thayer

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flameontheotherside · 5 years

Text

Devil Worship And Bad People

Yeah I can be a loose cannon or a ranting "bitch" sometimes. Hey, I never said I was perfect. I've been bullied and fucked with my whole life. 🙄 The whole "turn the other cheek" doesn't sit well with me. Imo pussys TTOC. You have to stick up for yourself and don't be a doormat. Again, just my opinion. You don't have to agree with me. I love my friends and I consider you guys my "friends". No one fucks with my friends.

Once I got in to a heated argument with a drunk asshole at RenFest (I know what you're thinking. I was drunk too so being on my "best behavior" wasn't on the list so sue me.) who hurt a girls feelings for destroying her artwork she had for sale. It's her livelihood! How the fuck did the retarded piece of shit think it was okay the fucking moron... 😤 So I cursed him out and put him in his place. Being drunk I have no idea what I did or said because I blackout when I drink. According to Vince they had to hold me back from hitting him and carry me off to the exit on the way out I was still talking shit. I do (of course) ☝🏼😂 remember the girl said something to me. It was something like a thank you. 🤣 I felt like a hero.

I never considered "the devil" to be real...

Buuuuut after meeting God I'm terrified and I don't want him in my fucking house. 😂 👌🏼 LOL nope nope nope I'm good thank you. I dealt with sending away demons. Demons are just asshole spirits. Like we have asshole people. They make fun of, belittle, curse you out heavily, they thicken the air, they lie... Yup all the blatant negative bullshit.

Yall know how much I hate idiots. They are demonic people. They bully, harbor hate, jealousy, greed, torment... People are like that. Do I think they are haunted by demons? I donno. Maybe severely depressed people are being bullied by these evil spirits and people who bully work WITH evil spirits. Tsk Tsk Tsk... Shakes finger ☝🏼 😔 playing with fire. Hurt people hurt people. It true. Angry people hurt angry people. That's also true. We aren't perfect. Sometimes we need to be asshole to get a point across.

Staying in the negative...

That's not productive. I craw out of that shit every time. Sometimes it not easy. It's okay, we aren't perfect but demons or inner demons can go away just like your asshole neighbor... If you kill them 🤣 rofl no, please don't kill anyone. It's amount of strength and fearlessness that carries you out of that 🕳 hole. Your spiritual team will carry you out and you'll be happier. Healing begins, you learn and you move on. Hopefully fast.

Erik hates bullies. Like me I was fucked with the exact same way but I had it worse. I can write a novel about being used and emotionally abused. It's for the most part in the past. Erik and I are working through them. Just a little at a time. It took about 5 years to recover from someone who had "took advantage" of me. It fucked me up so bad I would go all PTSD. I'm not even joking. It's not at all funny. I was haunted for a long long long ass time. For some reason I'm "friends" with this piece of shit 🤷🏼‍♀️.

You have to have the good and the bad.

Take the bad with the good and so on... If there is Satan, there is God. It only makes sense. You. Can't be that stupid and assume there is just one and not the other. That's not thinking with your head. I've done so many drugs I'm surprised I haven't lost enough brain cells. I was stupid to think otherwise. Derp deep derp ... 🤤 Can I tend the rabbits George? Okay 😂 lol enough. I know I can be a little toooooo honest. I'll stop before God gives me a lecture. I'll be good. 😂 I promise.

Saying I Hope they_________. Is just as bad as cursing someone. I'm guilty of it. We are all guilty of it... And when did "karma" knock on YOUR door, Hmmm?! 🤣 Years ago, I once "stole" someone's phone and guess what. My phone got stolen the EXACT SAME WAY. What a bitch, right? Lmfao I learned my lesson about taking things from an individual. I've not done it since. When it happened I laughed my ass off instead of crying. It was well deserved. I still 😂 laugh about and use it as an example for why I need to not take people's stuff. I only shoplift necessities like food or tampons no stupid shit. Yeah it's just as bad but it's a profit loss write off. Last time I checked. Walmart is an evil corporation. Just sayin. 🤷🏼‍♀️ I don't like doing it because of my anxiety but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

Devil Worship and "working" with demons...

Oh boy. Not good. Just not good. I would never be friends with someone who does it. If you do by chance, unfollow me or whatever. It would be a damn shame. I will not associate with that kind of crowd. I'm much better than that and so is everyone else. If you do spirit work please please please find yourself something to believe in. It doesn't have to be God but now I can't deny since my experience, I realized this is true. I wasn't being careful in the past by protecting myself. Protection and shielding and prayer (spells) should be in everyone's arsenal.

When you are stuck.... I mean really stuck. Like you harm yourself, feel suicidal, don't socialize at all, very very depressed. You have to chase those demons away and get out of that intense fear or intense anger. The more you give it your attention, the more you suffer and the more they hurt you. And remember hurt people hurt people. "Karma" is real and it will bite the guilty. Those that hurt others without just cause. God doesn't judge but he is in charge of delivering "karma" and he will put you in your place. I promise you. I've learned a lot. Keep love in your hearts and listen to it but don't let someone walk all over you. Cut those cords. Don't be like me and get in to fights. 🤣 Lmao funny... Because I need anger management. Another thing Erik and I need to uuuhhh..."fix" ❤️ 😂.

😘 💞 💕 ❤️ Alright kids, I love you!

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧Don’t forget to take a look at Erik’s blog ran by his amazing mom Dr Elisa Medhus. Lots of stuff about his afterlife and shit. channelingerik.com.

Submit a Twin Flame reading for free at TwinFlameMedium.Com and I provide detailed and lengthy readings starting at $5 per question at Store.TwinFlameMedium.Com

(◕‿◕)♡ Social: Twitter Tumblr Instagram YouTube

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imagine-loki · 6 years

Text

Rules of Engagement

TITLE: Rules of Engagement

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 1 AUTHOR: lokisgloriouspurpose ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine you’re having a bad day at the Avengers Tower and Loki sends you silly/cute/fluffy pictures/memes to watch you smile from a distance.

RATING: M for eventual smut

“Detecting high levels of stress”.

“No shit, Jarvis.” I snap, hitting the button in the elevator angrily.

“Can I be of service, Miss Gillespie?”

I sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Jarvis. You didn’t deserve that. I just want to go to bed and forget this nightmare day.”

The elevator dinged, signaling my stop. As I stepped out, my heel caught in the divider and broke off.

“Fucking perfect. Just fucking perfect.” I cursed.

After scanning my keycard to the lounge, I flung it open so hard it hit the wall.

“Hey! There she is!” Tony said, happy as a clam.

I tried to retain my features but I was pretty sure the snarl was permanent for the time being. I worked the broken heel in my hand, gripping it tightly at times in an effort to work my frustration into something so I wouldn’t put my fist through a wall.

I felt a soft ball of fabric hit my shoulder, and in return, thew the heel at Tony, hearing a glass shatter on the back wall of the bar.

“Really?” “Eat me, Tony.”

I brushed past Thor, hitting his shoulder without offering an apology. I was a literal ball of could-give-a-fuck-less at this point.

“Good heavens, what’s wrong with the Midgardian?”

I didn’t hear any more of the conversation as I stomped to my room, offering back a “I have a name! Learn it!”

Rhodes turned to look at Tony when I was out of eye and ear shot.

“You shouldn’t let her treat you like that?”

“Who, Claire? Nah, she’s harmless. She’s rarely like this so something is really stuck in her craw.”

“I’ll go talk to her.” Bucky offered.

“You know…” Tony stopped, angling his head to hear me stomping and then slam the door to my room so hard, the windows rattled. “Maybe wait…”

I threw myself onto my bed, trying to hold it together. I knew I was acting childish but I couldn’t help it. I sat up after a few minutes, scratching my head and subsequently running a hand through my hair.

“Tea will be ready momentarily, Miss Gillespie.”

“You’re too good to me Jarvis.”

I spied my headphones hanging on my bedpost. I smiled to myself as thought back to when Tony had given them to me.

It had taken Tony a few tries to get my attention. I sat at my desk, buds in my ears, mouthing the words to a song, when Tony’s face came onto my screen. Pulling out one of the buds, I heard a noise at my door.

“’Hello! Remember me? I’ve been trying to get your attention for 5 minutes!’”

I pointed to the headphone still lingering in my ear.

He didn’t say anything as he walked up to me, some mail in his hands.

He looked to my headphones, picking up the one I’d pulled out of my ear.

“’This is what you listen to your music on?’”

“’Yes?’”

“’Eww.’” He had said, dropping the bud like it was a piece of trash.

“’What’s it to you?’”

“’You’ll destroy your hearing with those. Here,’”

He had pulled out a pair of expensive noise-cancelling headphones, a pair I’d wanted for a while. I took them from him, my mouth hanging open.

“Thank you!”

“Go big or go home, champ.” He’d said, patting me on the back.

A knock sounded at the door, followed by Nat and Wanda bursting in. Nat plopped herself down in front of me before I had any time to react.

“Alright spill. What’s going on?”

“Nat-”

“Claire so help me if you say “nothing” I’m going to punch you.”

Wanda came around the other side, a cup of tea in her hands. I took it when she offered it, thanking her.

“So what has you Hulking out today?” Wanda asked.

“I’m just having a bad day.”

“Vague. Keep going.” Nat pushed.

“Nat, please. I just need some alone ti-”

“Claire, you walked in here stomping around, shattering a glass and putting a nice sized dent in the wall. What is going on?”

“This day has been a nightmare. Traffic was atrocious, I was late to work, passed over for a promotion, soaked by a taxi while walking back from lunch and the heel of my favorite pair broke in the elevator when I got home.”

By now, I was a blubbering mess.

“It’s just been a really bad day.” I squeaked out, trying not to have a full blown meltdown.

Nat and Wanda looked at each other, unsure what to do. They had never seen me like this. Wanda sat down next to me, rubbing my back while Nat brushed the tear-slicked hair off of my face.

A quiet knock gathered all three of our attentions.

“They need you downstairs, Nat.” Bucky said.

I avoided his gaze as he looked to me.

“We need a minute.”

He nodded, jaw clenched and hurrying down to hallway.

“Quickest way to get a man out of your hair.”Nat said with a smirk.

“Don’t say that. I’ll feel worse. I already feel bad enough that I got to this point.”

“Nonsense. Everyone needs a good cry sometimes.” Nat offered.

“And yours is long overdue.” Wanda added.

I had started to feel better, having some of the tension gone through the tears and talking it out. I could already feel the migraine starting.

“Oh, I’m going to have a killer headache from this.”

Wanda got up to get the Excedrin out of my purse to give me.

“Thanks, hon. You guys are the best.”

“We girls gotta stick together. It’s a sausage fest out there.”

We all shared a laugh with Nat and Wanda taking their leave to let me relax. I laid back on my bed while Jarvis played some relaxing music and projecting a planetarium on the ceiling for something I could focus on.

“Sweet baby honey darlin’?” I heard Tony call through the com on my computer.

“Will you accept?” Jarvis asked.

“I guess I’d better. I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t.”

I sat up as Tony’s face graced the screen. “Good God you look like Hell.”

“Shut up.”

“Meet me in the lounge. You look like you could use a drink.”

I made myself presentable and walked downstairs, treading lightly. Tony had the lights dimmed with soft music playing. I sat at the empty bar, wondering where Tony was when he suddenly popped up and threw a bar towel in my face. It bounced off my face, revealing my unamused face as it fell to the bar.

“Nothing? Ah well.”

He served a drink, taking back the towel to dry off his hands.

“So what’s put a wrinkle in your angel feathers?”

“I’m sorry I broke a glass. I’ll replace it.”

He placed his hands on the bar, straightening his arms as his body went rigid, giving me the “no nonsense” look that he always did when I was evading a question, looking at me from under his eyes.

I sighed. “Fine. I got passed up for a promotion at work by a chick that walks more on her knees than on her feet.”

“Ooo, that’s harsh.” Sam said, walking up to join us.

“I’ve told you to just work here.”

“I think I’d go crazy first.”

“Crazy’s half the fun! Tell you what. I promote you to the title of Queen Bee starting today.”

“Oh no, honey. No one can ever take that title from you.” I said, as a wide smile broke onto his face. I couldn’t stifle the laugh at Tony’s flustered face.

“You’re such a peach.” He said, fist bumping my chin softly.

“Y’all need to just get a room.” Sam said, walking away.

“There’s no need to be jealous! Plenty of Tony to go around!”

I chuckled as I watched Sam walking away, shaking his head. When I turned back, Tony was staring at me with a sincere smile on his face.

“What?”

“There’s my girl.”

I blushed, tucking a stand of hair behind my ear.

“Come on. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

He came around the bar, taking my hand in his. He walked me down to the lab, telling me to close my eyes when we stepped in.

“Jarvis, run Protocol 8, Section 3.”

I heard the whirring of machinery as something opened in the floor, the vibrations from it rattling my feet. After a few minutes of hearing various sounds of opening and lifting, Tony told me to open my eyes. I did and saw an Iron Man suit painted in purple and blue. The suit was a little bit small than his usual one.

“What do you think?” He asked, anticipation thick in his voice.

“It’s awesome! Why the color change?”

“It’s yours.”

It took a minute for his words to register.

“What?!”

“Surprise!” He said, a wide smile on his face, his arms opened wide.

“Tony! My own suit?!”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it!” I said excitedly, enunciating every word

I ran over to it, running my fingers along the metal, taking in every detail I could. When I came back around, I stopped.

“Wait…what do you want?”

He looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

“I can’t surprise you with a suit just because?”

“Tony…”

“Close protocol.”

I stepped away as my suit went back into the floor. He walked towards the door, holding it open for me and mentioned for to me to walk with him. He led me further down in the tower that I’d ever been, the hallway eventually opening up into a circle with several reinforced glass cells wrapping around it.

“Our new containment facility.” Tony said, spinning around, his hand aloft in the air, showing it off.

“Is this new? And why is it here?”

“It is new. Just got it finished a few months ago.

“Why is it here?” I asked again.

“You remember the little fiasco a few months ago? Well, we have this room for that reason.”

“Yeah, the asshole God Farki or Larki or whatever the fuck his name is who has made New York an even bigger hell that it already was.”

“It’s Loki, actually.”

I jumped at the voice, my eyes going to a now lit cell at the far end of the circle.

“Like I said. Asshole.”

He smiled like I’d said something funny.

“Nobody asked you, Reindeer Games.”

It clicked then: the suit, the douche wheel God in the cell.

“Tony…no.”

“Furthering the promotion I talked about upstairs, you are now in charge of him.”

“Are you out of your mind? Don’t make me do this.” I pleaded.

Tony turned me to face him, grabbing my shoulders lightly, dragging his hands down to my hands and placed them in his own.

“You’ve done a great job keeping me in check. Plus you’re a man hater so you would be aloof to his charms.”

“I am not a man hater…just you.”

He pursed his lips in a mock kiss. From behind us, I could hear Loki groan in disgust. I walked over to his cell, leaning against the glass, my voice sickly sweet.

“Listen up, Tin Cup. I’ve had quite the day and I will not hesitate to come in there and tear that smirk off your face.”

Loki looked from me to Tony.

“She’ll do it too!” Tony called out behind me.

Loki turned a dark expression to me.

“Oh, this’ll be fun…”

#Loki #Imagine #Submitted fic #submission #rules of engagement #lokisgloriouspurpose #chapter 1 #bad day #avengers tower #silly #cute #funny #pictures #memes #smile #distance

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