#because holding a position of institutional power over someone like that in a relationship is deeply deeply disfunctional and bad | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

liuhsng · 3 years

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✩ˎˊ˗ bottom of the chain ( lhs ! )

✩ˎˊ˗ currently under editing ! ✩ˎˊ˗ part of the untouchable series | enhypen masterlist ⤷ word count: 4.1k ⤷ warning/s: a/b/o au, cursing, female pronouns, female reader, established relationship, mentions of sexual assault, mentions of violence, brief mentions of blood ✩ˎˊ˗ summary: he was unapproachable, everyone knew that he was one of the people on top of the throne and a person to be looked up upon because of the various talents that he possess, and it was practically a hidden rule that lee heeseung's omega shouldn't be messed with as much as him. but some others still forget their lowly positions and cross the line. his only instinct? remind those bastards of their lowly statuses in the food chain.

''dude, your pheromones are all over the place, seriously.'' the faux blonds' comment made the pureblooded alpha growl even more, his scent getting even worse than before as the ice skater walking beside him had to shoo away the smell with his hand, sending a glare towards jay who only shrugged.

''maybe if a certain someone wasn't acting like an asshole and didn't stop me, i would've punched that guy in the face instead of throwing him this.'' the smell of mud only got worse as he pointed at the shredded notebook in his hands, the youngest in the group stifling a laugh which angered the older even more.

''you could've seriously injured him if you did. thankfully, he only received a light bruise, and you could get sent to the office.'' was the president's response as he placed his arms at the back of his head, fully knowing that he had a point.

''as if they have the power to even put me in detention.'' sunghoon released a loud laugh, high-fiving the oldest who was smiling smugly and had a hand shoved inside his trousers while the other was still gripping the stacks of paper.

''he pulled the park jongseong card!'' jake hollered, holding his stomach as he tried to catch his breath along with sunoo who couldn't hold back the chuckles spilling past his lips.

the whole fiasco their well-known secretary started wasn't a big one, really.

most of the student council members decided to have a meeting about the shares that's coming in and out of the institution along with a few of the faculty members, a few of the higher-ups and some fellow students that had their own ideas.

until one of them decided to go up against one of the seven most respected seniors in the place, the said 'low-class' alpha decided to push lee heeseung's buttons and started suggesting that why people like them can't just simply donate more money to the school if they were planning on such bigger projects.

and to say the least, the situation did not end well as both jay and the secretary had to stop themselves from punching the guy. it was a good thing that heeseung decided to carry the obnoxiously large school manual around, he may not have inflicted damage towards the student by his bare hands, but at least he inflicted damage, nonetheless.

''hyung, unless they want to lose a perfect secretary and the student that's loved by all that will most likely tarnish their reputation. sure, they'll give that pest the upper hand and not see your point.'' the youngest in the group commented, ruffling his dyed purple hair that's been getting in the way of his sight nowadays.

chorus of small hums in agreement were heard.

everyone was aware of their statuses and their bloodline, a look coming from one of them could send even the rowdiest sea of students to complete deafening silence with ease, their presence alone made it hard to breath as they could feel their blood run cold in anxiety and the fear of messing up. the strong gets to rule and the weak has to keep their mouths shuts if they want to keep their head and body intact, that's how it goes.

'' 'm sorry.'' the pureblooded mumbled, voice sounding muffled due to him burying his face onto her neck and along the omegas' scent gland, trying to cover it even more with his own.

''i'm okay now, really.'' the said female silently laughed as she ran her fingers through his hair, a small purr of satisfaction coming from him in response but nonetheless, he still felt bad no matter how many times she tells him that she's doing fine.

''and i'm not.'' with that, he lifted his face up for her to see; a small but noticeable pout was visible on his lips making the omega laugh even more, heeseung's face turning into a light pink hue. the whole situation was embarrassing to him, really.

he's a pureblooded alpha that knows his own worth and power, a person that has a big influence to other people no matter who they are. everyone knows that the bloodline he came from shouldn't be looked down upon but he's making himself look like a complete fool in front of his own omega.

jake warned him about his pheromones being too strong and foul earlier, he should control and turn them down but his annoyance towards the person that ruined the whole meeting earlier wasn't getting any better.

so the moment he walked towards her classroom doors with his scent not making the slightest change, it managed to bring tears in the small omegas' eyes who started thinking that she did something wrong to make him so upset like that.

a female beta sitting beside the secretary's omega immediately noticed and came to her side quickly and tried to calm her down, sending a small warning look towards the pureblooded who instantly knew that he was the person to blame on making his own mate cry.

without a second thought, heeseung toned down his scent that's also been bothering a few of the students inside the room and made his way towards the female.

carrying her in his arms and whispering sweet nothings to calm her down, the pureblooded told the beta from earlier that he's gonna their classmate for a moment or two and get an excuse on why they're most likely gonna be gone 'till something urgent happens.

just how careless was he?

''heeseung, i'm fine now, okay? stop blaming yourself it wasn't your fault.'' the omega sighed, patting the older males' head as he just whined louder in response and buried his nose further on to her neck and started scenting her even more making (y/n) roll her eyes in fake annoyance.

''still, what kind of alpha am i when i scared my own omega with my own pheromones? what kind of fuckery is that?'' the pureblooded once again growled to particularly nobody, he can't help but find the events from earlier frustrating.

''what even exactly happened? jay told me that something happened during the meeting but that's what all he said.'' a small hum came from her as she observed the alpha whos' face suddenly flushed a bright shade of red, the color reaching up to his ears and groaned in remembrance.

''i rather not speak about it...'' the older mumbled, ruffling his hair while trying to avoid his girlfriends' questioning look, crossed arms, and raised brow as he nervously chuckled and darted his eyes everywhere around the room but not into her burning stare.

''guess i'll ask our resident ceo then.'' (y/n) teased and got up from her sitting position on the clinic bed, dusting off the non-existent dust on the school's respective skirt and blazer only for heeseung to pull her back onto the soft sheets and clear his throat.

''doing that is unnecessary.'' the tips of his ears dulled into a shade of pink but the very evident flush on his cheeks said something else.

''listen here 'mr. i'm the handsome secretary of the council', it's either you tell me or i'll force everything out from jay.'' she chimed as a mischievous smile made its way up to her face, making air quotations at the male who sighed at his mate.

''it was unusual but, i threw the school manual in another third years face.'' the secretary shrugged as if it was nothing like hitting a bug, dismissing the fact that his face was about to explode from embarrassment earlier and denial.

''you did what?'' the small omega questioned, eyes widening ever-so slightly at the act of violence the cool-headed alpha never condoned even if he had the build and power to do so.

''a third year suggested to why not use the money that the families have been donating to the school if we plan on doing more bigger projects for everybody's benefit, acting as if he even spent a single bill to any of the council's plans.'' his once calming scent turned hostile within a second making the omega sitting in front of him flinch and laugh nervously but nonetheless, understood where his anger was coming from.

''and i'm sorry if i keep bugging you with my pheromones, they're being stronger than usual.'' a small but pained smile was plastered on the alpha's face, being completely aware at the omega's discomfort when it comes to foul smells; especially if it was coming from him.

''mr. lee, i suggest that you leave your poor omega for a while and try your best to calm down that scent of yours for the mean time.'' a voice snapped the two out of their moment, a middle aged woman coming inside the clinic with an unimpressed looked on her face at the pureblooded and sent a small smile at (y/n)'s direction as heeseung jokingly scoffed at the change of attitude.

the pureblooded always heard rumours about the said beta nurse on how she has a soft spot for omegas and treated them like her own no matter what gender yet treated alphas as if they were the naughtiest child that broke their mothers' favorite flower vase.

one of the rare moments he spoke to the female beta was just a few hours earlier, with her telling him to keep some distance away from (y/n) because she still feels a bit overwheled due to inhaling his way too strong pheromones along with its' very noticeable hint of anger at once. she seemed nice and stoic about it and just gave him a few advices here and there on how to control his scent, the woman had no trail of hostility and distaste directing to him all.

he never knew that the rumours were true since he barely steps foot into the clinic heck even talk to the middle aged woman until earlier, but experiencing it first hand made the made-up scenarios in his head turn into a reality.

''sorry.'' heeseung sheepishly grinned, causing for him to earn a glare coming from the nurse as the omega seating on one of the beds gave the both of them confused looks which didn't go unnoticed by the female beta.

''it's nothing serious honey, don't worry about it. i'm just telling your alpha to give you some distance because of his anger issues and unbearable pheromones.'' the secretary couldn't help but raise a brow at this, wondering on where the hell was all the alpha slander was coming from as he sent a look towards the nurse that screamed 'did you just really direct your hate towards me in front of my of girlfriend? really?'

''although mr. lee doesn't necessarily need to stay away, just keep some distance for a few days.'' she smiled, eyes crinkling and turning into crescents at the little omega before shooting a glare at heeseung who made him remember his mother at the intense gaze.

''but i can still go with her like i usually do, right?'' he hummed, shoving his hands in his trousers and sighed in relief once he saw the beta nod her head.

shoes squeaking against the floor and the continuous echo of the balls being dribbled were as loud as the sound of the whistle that came from the professor that substituted the third years' gym class, instructing a few group of students to do the activity properly.

''this is why we don't throw books on other peoples faces. we use them for reading, and reading only.'' one of the four pointed out, twisting and turning a basketball on his free hand as the other was placed on his hip. throwing a knowing look towards the older as his blonde hair stuck onto his forehead due to the light sweat that was slowly starting to form.

''you aren't supposed to be the one telling me that.'' heeseung groaned rather loudly, catching the attention of his fellow classmates sitting nearby, giving their class president worried glances but he only gave them a small smile and directed his glare back to the blond alpha who didn't even try to hide his laughter.

no, it wasn't that heeseung threw that manual at someone on purpose, he himself doesn't even condone violence in any possible way. his instincts just got the best of him along with the ever-so stress that keeps on building up due to the responsibilities and expectations being handed down to him by practically everyone that's in his life. there were days where he'd sit in silence, the quietness giving him company in complete solace. it always helped heeseung to calm down— at least, seemed to.

self deterioration was a bad thing to do or even think of, but the alpha always believed that everyone had their own inner demons to fight off. but his whispered some of the most bothersome things, knowing that his breaking point will eventually come to meet its end.

''lee heeseung!'' shaking of the remains coming from his deep thoughts, the said alpha turned his head towards the source. only to be met with a male omega that looked so familiar to him for some reason.

the only flaw was that he was in the middle of class, and the smaller male was panting as sweat started forming on his forehead, talk about bad timing but instead of catching his breath, he only panted out a few words as his face was filled with anxiousness and fear.

''just go look for your omega!'' confusion painted the pureblooded's system at the sudden statement, wasn't she supposed to be in the clinic? and that made him suck in a breath in realization, the omega's one of her friends, a close one at that as the male was frequently around his mate along with a few others that kept her company.

shaking his thoughts aside, the alpha bolted outside the gym; not giving any care for the multiple screams and questions being sent his way from both his friends and some confused classmates along with the instructor that didn't even bother stopping him from running away.

the hallways remained silent, background noises fading away due to the sound of his heartbeat that was ringing in his ears. he was jumping into conclusions and he didn't liked the idea of any single of it, profanities spilled out from his mouth as he kept on searching; eyes scanning the rooms that were filled with all of the students taking their different lectures.

panic filled his whole being, where the fuck was his girlfriend?

she wanted to push them away, kick them, scream at them, do almost anything just to free himself from their disgusting grasps but she was trapped. there were three— no, four of the alphas, cornering her somewhere in the campus. (y/n) couldn't recognize any of them, just simply knowing that they were also third years like her based on the badge sitting snugly on their blazers. their hungry eyes just locked further on her as she quivered in fear, she felt the need to run and just cry her eyes out, heart beating ever-so quickly in panic as the omega was in the verge of balling her eyes out. why her and why was she here in this situation at the first place?

she whimpered at how their scents lingered up to her nostrils and how it threatened her, heeseung's scent screamed nothing but anger and annoyance and she knew at it wasn't directed to her, he never got angry at his own omega with the fear of scaring her away. but these three on the other hand were enjoying at how she whimpered in fear under them, it amused them for some reason.

''please move aside, i still have another period to attend.'' (y/n) sighed under her breath, trying to put up a strong act but it was no use as her tone lingered with nothing with the desire to run away.

the omega then heard a sarcastic chuckle from one of them, but she couldn't really point out who it was as she was still looking down and trying her best to avoid them. ''you're that cocky bastards' omega, aren't you?'' seconds later after his statement, she swore she could feel one of them sniffing in her scent and it made her heart stop.

''damn, lee did quite a number on you didn't he? i can smell him all over you.'' the small figure gasped when one of them started sniffing a little too closely in his ear as the omega shivered in disgust.

the others snickered snickered, the pureblooded's scent filling in their noses. lee heeseung would do anything for this girl, the way how she squirmed under their nothing but unfamiliar touches, how she whimpered under their hungry gazes, and how she looked so threatened with their presence alone. (y/n) had now small tears forming in her eyes as she shook her head in fear while trying to pry of their arms away from her. but the alphas could only mockingly laugh at how pathetic the omega looked.

(y/n) felt so revolted by their touches, she wanted to run away even more and drown herself inside her nest until their scent was scrubbed off away from her body.

forcing her head down, the omega was no match for their strength when a hand roughly pulled her from her hair and raised her head up to have her already teary eyes looking up at them. his smirk, that she badly wanted to slap away from his face.

''how can someone be so pretty when they look so helpless?'' the alpha bitterly chuckled, moving closer that his breath touch the shorter females ear.

the omega had his eyes shut. causing for the tears that welled up in his eyes to fall down very quickly, pressed lips into a thin line as he felt one of their hand ride up to her thighs. all she could do was make small movements with her feet and whine how they were forcing her to comply with all their revolting acts as her arms were still being pinned up on top of her to restrict any of her movements.

and after a few more seconds of struggling in their hold, she could feel multiple hands trying to tug her school skirt off.

she wanted to break down as she was being molested by these alphas but she knew she had to escape from them no matter what the consequences are.

having her eyes still shut, she felt her blazer being slowly removed. (y/n) was about to scream at the top of her lungs for help but in a speed of light, the alpha holding her arms up was pushed away.

the omega widened her eyes as she could see a blurry sight of someone ever so familiarly coming to her rescue, her inner omega had never felt so happy and relieved upon seeing him.

''you messed with the wrong fucking person.'' the pureblooded alpha scoffed with an unimpressed scowl on his face.

''hitting you with that manual wasn't enough, huh? i should've fucking killed you earlier already, you piece of shit.'' his bangs covered his eyes as he walked closer to the familiar third year, chuckling

glaring onto the alpha's eyes, heeseung didn't hesitate to throw a punch that could send him flying to the other side of the floor if it wasn't for him gripping tightly into the others shirt. he managed to knock the third year unconscious with brute force.

tilting his head to the other three standing in front of his omega, his eyes screamed nothing but bloody murder. it was as if his brain was on autopilot, all he could think of was ways on how to send the remaining three to their graveyards until they couldn't stand his resentment anymore.

and he wasn't even gonna stop himself from doing that.

grabbing the guy on (y/n)'s left, he let his fist meet the alphas face and immediately made him see nothing but darkness. while doing that, his eyes burned holes towards the last two that were untouched, already shaking in fear towards the pureblooded who managed to knock the other two out. reaching his hand out, heeseung grabbed both of them by their collars before violently slamming their head against the cold, stone wall.

he was sure that it would leave a permanent bruise or two once they get a grip on reality, but a concussion would suffice for now.

''heeseung...'' the omega covered her mouth as her tears continuously fell down, watching everything happen within a few seconds. not really caring about the damages the pureblooded had inflicted upon the others. even though they did deserve that, their injuries would take weeks or even months to heal. nobody could blame her, being born as an omega had their own instincts to naturally care for the people around them even if they were terrible people.

''that's enough damage already.'' the omega's voice quivered at the sight of blood coming from one of the alpha's, two of them were unconscious and the other two were trying to fight off the dizziness that their head had accumulated from the pureblooded's hit.

''enough? after they touched you like that? i don't think so.'' the taller male was just fuming even more, the only thing passing through his mind was ways on how to kill these bastards. they had the audacity to answer him back during the council meeting, and now they even messed with his own omega that no one dared to touch.

''alpha, i promise that i'm fine just please stop this.'' the quiet sobs that left past through her lips didn't go unnoticed by the older male as he came back to his senses in a blink of an eye, completely disregarding the four others that he messed up just a while ago and pulled the omega into his arms.

''i'm sorry.'' heeseung apologized for the nth time that day, voice full of regret as he just tightened his grip around his mate. and the pureblooded felt no different from the first time he held her back when they were still first years, the strong feeling of want still being present but with the lingering fear can still be felt coming from her which made his heart clench.

''oh god, one of them is bleeding.'' the evident groans along with the sound of frustrated sighs made the older male look up, but still having his arms wrapped protectively around his omega made jungwon whistle in both amusement and worry.

''heeseung-hyung alone can pay for their hospital bills, don't worry too much.'' gulping, jay fanned himself while staring at the two knocked out alpha's that weren't moving a single muscle on the cold floor. ''and expect a few tombstones to be prepared just in case punching them straight in the face wasn't enough.''

the news about the four alpha's laying their hands on lee heeseung's omega spread around like wildfire, no one dared to touch her but it seemed like brainless fools did for the first time. nobody was amused by the sudden revelation of the bunch of alpha's harassing a defenseless omega had nothing or even anyone beside her to protect her that time, not even the school's higher ups that didn't hesitate to throw out the students out of the institution. not when a direct file report coming from the council president yang jungwon himself had a say in it, he treated the older omega as if she was his older sister that. of course he wouldn't stand in one place and do nothing, he was the president for a reason.

''still, thank you for getting him and running all the way to the other side of the building.'' (y/n) sent a bright smile towards his way as the male omega sighed in frustration before sending a small but teasing glare at her.

''and i told you for the hundredth time, don't sweat it. my best friend was in trouble, what did you expect me to do?'' he groaned, pinching the smaller female at her sides making her squeak in response at the slightly burning yet ticklish feeling.

''(y/n), he's looking for you.'' the familiar voice and accent made her glance at the classroom door where jake's beaming smile greeted her in welcome.

but everyone knew that the welcoming feeling the pureblooded alpha standing right in front of their class has something hidden behind his ever-so warm image as a low intent of ferocity and warning emitted of him.

no body wanted to repeat what happened to the other low-class alpha's that got crushed in the palms of none other than lee heeseung when they touched his omega in the wrong way, he was known as someone who doesn't condone violence but he's willing to do it himself just for her.

he's always there to remind them to know their place before crossing any boundaries, and that's at the bottom of the food chain.

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linkspooky · 3 years

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"The Only Ones the Heroes Protect Are Themselves."

is a quote given to us by Dabi. That's starting to sound more and more true after this press conference chapter. This post will be mainly talking about Hawks, because I think this chapter sheds a lot of light on Hawks' flaws as a character.

I think for understanding Hawks it's important to know this:

And this:

Are both Hawks. Hawks is both the person willing to manipulate, scheme and ruthlessly hunt down others for the sake of the greater good, and he's also the person who just wants to help because his whole life he's felt useless and unworthy. Hawks is both the overly idealistic child who believes in heroes and just wants tp help the heroes, and at the same time, the cynical adult who thinks heroes can't always save people.

Some part of Hawks is aware that this darker side of him exists. He tells the hero commission that he's willing to dirty his hands for the sake of general peace. He specifically warns the villains not to underestimate his resolve. He tells Twice that he's not the type to get tripped up by sentiment in the crucial stages of his plan.

However, at the same time Hawks doesn't cop up to this side of his personality. If you confront Hawks about his actions in any way he switches back to his hero-mode. I don't believe this is because Hawks believes himself to be a good person. I don't even think Hawks defines himself as a person to begin with, just a tool. It makes sense that Hawks doesn't have a consistent identity it all goes back to his origins.

All Hawks could do was internalize everything he felt, and every abuse hurtled at him by his parents. All he wanted to believe back then was that he wouldn't turn out the same way they did. He wanted to believe in some good part of him.

However, I wonder if Hawk truly believes he's good. If he truly believes he's a good hero. He seems to have internalized so much of his abuse when he was younger that he has little self worth and all of it, is built around what kind of things he does for other people. He has to believe he's helping other people, because otherwise he crumbles. Otherwise the part of his head that tells him he was just trash the hero council picked up on the side of the road, is right.

I'm touching upon all of this to say Hawks does not really have a sense of self-identity. It's very weak, and he bases it on things are around him instead, things he can cling to provide him some sense of self worth, his role as a hero, his pseudo-imagined relationship with Endeavor, the idea that the things he's doing is ultimately for the public good. Because he's clinging to these things it makes it almost impossible to be self-critical. Because if Hawks isn't a hero, then he's nothing. Hawks also, similarly, can't deal with any criticism to the institution of hero because that's the institution that saved him, that's where he belongs, that's where all of his personal relationships are.

Hawks previously thought everything he did was for the public good, because heroes protected the people, hero and the public were both aligned.

However, when the public they're protecting begins to question the heroes, when they're not alligned Hawks picks the heroes.

Now I'll touch on Enji briefly to give an example of why this is wrong. Enji's excuse for why he didn't do anything with Toya, why he didn't even try to be a father, was because he was a hero first before he was a person.

Both Enji and Hawks (they're meant to be read as character foils) divide their personalities this way. They are who they are as heroes, before their faults and individual failings as people. However, in reality, they're just running away from their actions. Enji is depicted entirely in shadow in these few panels, the same way Hawks is depicted in shadow when confronting Twice.

Ultimately it doesn't matter if whatever Hawks did to Twice was justified or not, the problem is he wasn't a hero to Twice. He decided in that moment Twice was not worth saving. He divided that line between who gets to get saved, and who doesn't.

What I mean when I say that Hawks is unable to cop up to the darker sides of his personality, is that he's unable to acknowledge when he's done a bad thing. Which is also, something he shares in common with Enji. Enji's failures are never personal ones, he's never the one at fault. Toya's death was what drove him to train Shoto so hard (nevermind the fact he was already doing that beforehand.) Toya attacking Shoto was the reason that Enji had to isolate Shoto (nevermind, that Toya himself a thirteen-year-old kid was able to recognize that he was wrong to blame his brother, but it's still unfair for his father to put all his attention on Shoto and leave the rest of his kids alone). Uraraka is the narrator for this chapter, but Uraraka also said this.

IThe real question is, are heroes to be held individually responsible for their actions? Can we criticize heroes as people? Hawks, Enji, and Jeanist all seem to believe that identity and world of heroes is far too important to level criticisms at any individual. That the world of heroes somehow, elevates them from others in a way that makes them impossible to understand, because they have more responsibility.

I'm not going to say Hawks doesn't feel sorry for Twice. He expressed like, the greatest possible expression of public apology he can. The problem however is everything else about Hawks. Twice apologizes for the act of killing twice and expresses it as a moral failing on his part, while stating he had no choice before that point.

Hawks is unaware of his own personal biases, and his own flaws, and therefore properly can’t account to them. He thinks his failing was that he couldn’t convince Jin to join his side. Not that his wrongdoing was his act of choosing only Jin to save because he was one of the “good” victims, and only offering Jin the chance to atone conditional on him betraying his friends. He’s still picking and choosing between good and bad in who he helps. And Hawks’ standards for that are pretty biased. Notice how his help for Enji doesn’t involve mandatory jailtime and atonement for his crimes like it did with Twice. Enji still gets to remain a hero.

Hawks has a bias and it goes on unacknowledged, by framing his actions as heroic and for the greater good.

His priority isn't to make the same mistake again with Twice or even to feel bad about Twice, it's to stop public criticism. It even comes down to the way he frames his own actions, Hawk doesn't acknowledge the part of him that manipulated Twice, held him at gunpoint, forced him to choose between his friends and his own safety, cruelly taunted him. All of things which were by the way, an abuse of his power, and things Hawks did because he personally likes to feel in control of situations not because it was necessary for the greater good to break Twice mentally like that.

Hawks didn't do all those things in the Hawks vs. Twice situation, because he was forced to in a bad situation. Hawks planned the whole situation out to give himself control over the situation, and try to manipulate Twice into siding with him because he liked Twice. It's like, written in a very specific way to show how manipulative Hawks is for setting things up this way, the whole thing was a set up. However, hawks can't cop up to that. He frames it like an oopsie daisy. He frames it like something he did in the heat of the moment because he felt like he had no other choice, and not something that was pre-meditated and all set up by him beforehand. It's because, while Hawks acts like this, he never owns up to his actions, he only ever frames himself as the guy willing to sacrifice anything in order to help people. The guy determined to be helpful and useful to others. Therefore he can't find fault within himself and he can't find fault within heroes.

Even with Enji, his first response isn't, "Wow, if heroes are using their position to cover up their crimes we should investigate how other heroes might be abusing their families." It's to find a way to make Enji look good for the public, so the public gets off his back.

Uraraka says that if Toga wants to threaten people she has to live with the consequences, but the heroes aren't living with conesquences for their actions. It's not just that Hawks murdered someone. I mean after all, I argue that Toga who kills lots of people., Shigaraki who destroys whole cities, Dabi who admits to murdering 30 people, are all people who I think are going to get positive character development.

However, they all also accept that they're going to be seen as murderers. Dabi calls himself a murderer live on television. Toga accepts it, when Uraraka says that she has no choice but to put her down if she's going to hurt others. Shigaraki even holds himself responsible for the murder of his family which was a complete accident, he had to have his reluctance to hurt other people beaten out of him.

It's not that Hawks murdered a person, but rather he can kill a person and not see himself as a murderer. Just speaking in terms of character development, to have a character arc, a character must first acknowledge they are wrong, and then work to improve on that wrong. Hawks hasn't reached the first part.

Hawks and Enji are unable to admit to their personal failings, because not only do they appear to the public only as heroes, but they also think "Heroes" are like a special protected class of people. They can make up for all of their flaws by being good heroes. However, it's not the public that they're defending. Just like it's not his family that Enji is really doing all these things for. Time and time again, they choose to be heroes over everythig else, because the world of heroes is the only place they exist in. Being seen as a good hero is what validates both of them. For Hawks it comes from his own perosnal trauma and loneliness, from Enji his priority of being a good hero above everything else. So if you ewre to strip all of that away, if you were to admit, that Hawks deciding to kill Twice, that Enji abusing his family, doesn't make them very good heroes? Means they aren't entitled to being heroes anymore? What would be left of them for both of them? They'd just be left with what they've done and who they are and neither of them are or were ever very happy with themselves. Which is why, rather than trying to be better people. Trying to address the cricticisms that other people have lobbied to them, including Endeavor's own son who was personally hurt by him. It keeps coming back to being better heroes.

They're not heroes though, they're just people. Everyone is just people in the end.

#mha meta #dabi #hawks #touya todoroki #keigo takami #mha 306 #mha 306 spoilers #bnha 306 #bnha 306 spoilers

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nopefun · 3 years

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Interview #494: Ryan Frigillana

Ryan Frigillana is a Philippine-born lens-based artist living and working in New York. His work focuses on the fluidity of memory, intimacy, family identity, and visual culture, largely filtered through the lens of race and immigration. Embracing its plasticity, Frigillana explores photography’s relationship to context as a catalyst for thematic dialogue.

His first monograph, Visions of Eden, was published as two editions in 2020, and is held in the library collections of the MoMA, Getty Research Institute, and Smithsonian among others.

We spoke to find out more about Visions of Eden, his love for photobooks, and photography as a medium for introspection.

Lee Chang Ming Ryan Frigillana

Thanks for agreeing to do this! As we’ve just arrived into the new year, I want to start by asking: how did you arrive at photography and how has your practice evolved so far? Your earlier work was anything from still life to street photography, but your recent work seems to deal with more personal themes.

It’s my pleasure; thank you for having this conversation with me! Wow, looking back at how I’ve arrived at this point makes me feel so grateful for this medium, and excited to think of where it will lead me from here. I came to photography somewhat late. I was initially studying to become a nurse and was set to start a career in that field, but I found myself unhappy with where I was going. My mother was a nurse and I know what goes into being one; it’s not an easy job, and I respect those who do it, but my heart wasn’t in it. I found photography as a creative outlet during that stage of my life, and I’ve clung onto it ever since.

My first exposure to photography (no pun intended) came in the form of street and photojournalism. I would borrow books from the library a lot, consuming works by Magnum and other photographers working in that tradition. At the time, it was all I knew so that’s what I tried to emulate. Even early on in my undergrad career, these modes of creation were reinforced by curriculum and by what I saw from my own peers. My still-life work branches off of that same sentiment: the only names that were ever thrown around by professors were Penn and Mapplethorpe, so that’s who I studied. Thankfully over the years, I’ve been able to broaden that perspective through my own research. Though I don’t necessarily pursue street or constructed still-lifes anymore for my personal work, I’d like to think my technical skills (in regard to timing, composition, light) owe a debt to those past experiences.

I suppose now I’m starting to explore how photography can be used as language, to communicate ideas and internal conflicts. I’m thinking more about the power of imagery, its authorship, its implications, and how photographs have shaped, and continue to shape, our reality. That’s where my work is headed at the moment.

I liked how you mentioned photography as a language, which calls into question who we are speaking to when we make images and what kind of narrative we construct by putting photographs together.

In your work “Visions of Eden”, you trace your family’s journey as first-generation Filipino immigrants in America. I was quite struck by how you managed to link together original photography, archived materials and video stills. To me, with the original photography there was a sense of calm and clarity, perhaps in the composition. But with the archived material it was like peering through tinted glass, and the video stills felt like an unsteady memory. What was the editing process like for you and how did you decide what to include or exclude?

For me, editing is the hardest part about photography. Shooting is the enjoyable part of course because it can feel so cathartic. Sometimes when I shoot it feels almost like muscle memory in the sense that you see the world and you just react to it in a trained way. But with editing, it’s more of a cerebral exercise. More thought is involved when you have to deal with visual relationships, sequence, rhythm, and spacing, etc. The real creation of my work takes place in the editing process. That’s where the ingredients come together to form an identity.

When creating this identity, I not only have to think about what I want to say, but also how I want to say it. It’s like speaking; there are numerous ways you can communicate a single sentence. How are images placed in relation to one another? How large are they printed, or how much white space surrounds it? Are the images repeated? What’s on the following page? The preceding page? Is there text? How are they positioned on the spread? All of these little choices impact the tone of your work. And that’s not even mentioning tactile factors like paper stock or cover material. I think that’s why I have such a deep love for photobooks because 1) they’re physical objects and 2) someone has obsessed over every aspect of that object.

I’m aware that my photographs lately have a quiet, detached, somewhat stripped-down quality to them. I think that’s just a subconscious rejection of my earlier days shooting a lot of street where I was constantly seeking crowded frames and complexity in my compositions. As I’ve grown older, I realize less is more and if I can do more by saying less, that’s even better. Now, the complexity I seek lies in the work as a whole and how all these little parts can form something fluid and layered, and not easily definable.

For Visions of Eden, I wanted the work to feel somewhat syncopated and wandering in thought. That meant finding a balance between my quiet static photographs and the movement and energy of the video stills, or balancing the coldness of the illustrations with the warmth of the family snapshots. The work needed to be cohesive but have enough ambiguity for it to take life in someone else’s imagination. Peoples’ lived experiences in regard to immigration and religion are so complex that they can’t be narrated in any one definitive way. Visions of Eden, hopefully, is a rejection of that singularity.

Yes, there’s definitely something special and intimate about flipping through a photobook! For your monograph, you recently released a second edition which is different from your first (redesigned, added images, etc.). Why did you decide to make it different? Was the editing mainly a solitary process?

The first edition was a partially hand-made object. Illustrations were printed on translucent vellum paper and then tipped into the gutter of the book. When you flip through the pages, those vellum sheets would overlap over certain images, creating a collage-like effect. That was my original concept for this book. Doing this, however, was so laborious and time consuming, and not to mention expensive! Regretfully, I wound up making only twenty copies of that first edition. I wanted the work shared with a wider audience so that’s why I decided to publish a second run.

The latest edition is more of a straight-forward production without the vellum paper. With this change in design, I had to reconfigure the layout. I took liberties in swapping out some images or adding new ones altogether. Also, a beautiful afterword was contributed by my friend, artist, writer, and curator Efrem Zelony-Mindell. I still feel so fortunate and grateful to have had my work seen and elevated by their words in my book.

For the most part, yes editing is quite a solitary process for me. But there does come a point when I feel it’s ready, where I share the work with a few trusted people. It’s always nice to have that outer support system. Much of Visions of Eden was created during my time in undergrad school so I had all sorts of feedback from peers and professors which I’m grateful for. But in the end, as the author, you ultimately have the final say in your work.

Given that Eden is a starting point and metaphor in the work, I was thinking about ideas of gardens, (forbidden) fruit, and movement of people.

How do you view yourself in relation to your place of birth? In your series, I see the most direct links in the letters, old photos where tropical foliage is present in the background, and the photo of the jackfruit (perhaps the only tropical fruit in this series).

I came to America when I was very young, about five years old. For my family and for many other families still living in the Philippines, America is seen as a sort of ideological Eden: a land of milk and honey, of wealth and excess. We all know that’s far from the truth. Every Eden has a caveat, a forbidden tree. Which leads me to ask: as an immigrant living in this country, what fruits were never intended for me?

I honestly don’t remember much about my childhood in the Philippines aside from fleeting memories of my relatives, the sounds of animals, the smell of rain and earth, the taste of my grandmother’s cooking. The identity that I carry with me now as a Filipino is not so much tied to the physical geography of a place but rather it is derived from a way of life, from shared stories, in the values we hold dear, passed on from generation to generation. This is a warm flame that lives on in me to this day as I write these words thousands of miles away from where I came.

Photographs have a way of shaping our memory and our relationship to the past, which in turn affects how we engage with the present. The family photographs and letters used in my book act as anchors in a meandering journey. They serve as landmarks that I can return to whenever I feel lost or need assurance so far away from “home”. They give me the comfort and affirmation that I need to navigate a space where I never really felt I belonged. The spread in my book that you mentioned—the jackfruit on one side, and the Saran-wrapped apple on the preceding page—was a reference to my duality as both Filipino and American. It’s a reminder and an acknowledgment that I am a sum of many things, of many people who have shaped me. If I flourish in life, it’s because my roots were nourished by love.

I like how you mentioned photos as anchors or landmarks. Isn’t that why we create and photograph? To mark certain points in our lives and to envision possible futures, like a cartographer mapping an inner journey. Do you feel like you and your relationships with those you photographed changed through the process of making your works?

When my parents took pictures of our family, it wasn’t done solely in the name of remembrance; it also served as an affirmation of ourselves and our journey—a celebration. Every birthday, vacation, school ceremony, or even the seemingly insignificant events of daily life were all photographed or video-taped as a way of saying to ourselves, “Here we are. Look how far we’ve come. Look at the life we’ve made. And here’s the proof”.

Now, holding a camera and photographing my family through my own lens still carries all of that celebratory joy, but with so much more possibility. Before I really took photography seriously, I never realized its potential as a medium for introspection, but that’s ultimately what it has become for me. In taking pictures of my family, I not only clarify my own feelings about them, but the act of photography itself informs and builds on my relationship with each person. The camera is not a mere recording device, but a tool for understanding, processing, and even expressing love...or resentment. Though I may not be visible in my pictures, my presence is there: in my proximity, my gaze, my focus.

Does all of this impact my relationships? Absolutely. Photographing another person willingly always demands some degree of trust and vulnerability from both sides. There’s a silent dialogue that occurs which feels like an exchange of secrets. I think that’s why I often don’t feel comfortable photographing other people unless we’re very close. Usually my family is open enough to reveal themselves to me, other times what they give can feel quite guarded. That’s a constant negotiation. After the photograph is made though, nobody ever emerges the same person because each of us has relinquished something, no matter how small.

Being self-reflexive in photography is so important. I agree it should be a constant negotiation, but it’s something that bothers me these days – the power dynamic between the photographer and photograph, particularly for personal and documentary projects. More significantly, after the photograph has been made, who is really benefiting. But I guess if we are sensitive to that then perhaps we can navigate that tricky path and find a balance.

Right, finding that balance is key and sometimes there are no clear-cut answers. That power dynamic is something I always have to be mindful of. As the photographer, you are exercising a certain role and position. At the end of the day, you’re the one essentially “taking” what you need and walking away. There’s an inherent violence or aggression in the act of taking someone’s picture, no matter how well-intended it may be. This aggression carries even greater weight when working, as you say, in a genre like documentary where representation is everything.

I remember an undergrad professor of mine, Nadia Sablin, introducing me to the work of Shelby Lee Adams—particularly his Appalachian Legacy series. Adams spent twenty-five years documenting the disadvantaged Appalachian communities in his home state of Kentucky, visiting the same families over a long period of time. Though the photographs are beautifully crafted, they pose many questions in regard to exploitation, representation, and the aestheticization of suffering. He is or was, after all, an artist thriving and profiting off of these photographs. Salgado is another that comes to mind. This was the first time I really stopped to think about the ethics of image-making. Who is benefitting from it all?

I think the search for this balance is something each photographer has to reckon with personally. Though each situation may vary with different factors that have to be weighed, and context that must be applied, you can always ask yourself these same ever-pertinent questions: am I representing people in a dignified way, and what are my intentions with these images? Communication (listening), building relationships, acknowledging your power, and respecting the people you photograph are all foundational things to consider when exercising your privilege with the camera.

Well said! The process of making photographs can be tricky to navigate yet rewarding. Any upcoming projects or ideas? What’s keeping you busy these days?

Oh, let’s just say I’m constantly juggling 3-4 ideas in my head at any given time, but ninety percent of the time they don’t ever lead to anything finished haha. This past year has been tough on everyone I’m sure. I’ve been dealing a lot with personal loss and grief and the compounded isolation brought on by the pandemic, so for months I’ve been making photographs organically as a subconscious response to these internal struggles. It’s more of an exploration of grief itself as a natural phenomenon and force—like time or gravity. Grief is something everyone will experience in life and each of us deals with it differently, but in the end we have to let it run its course. I see these photographs as a potential body of work that could materialize as a zine or book one day, so we’ll see where that goes.

Other than that, I’ve been working on an upcoming collaboration project with Cumulus Photo. Speaking of which, I saw your photograph featured in their latest zine, running to the edge of the world. Congrats on that! It’s beautiful. But yeah, just trying my best to keep busy and sane, and improving myself any way I can.

Thanks! Looking forward to your upcoming projects! Last question: any music to recommend?

I feel like my answer to this question can vary by the week. I go through phases where I exhaust whole albums on repeat until I get tired of them. So I’ll leave you with the two currently on my rotation: Angles by The Strokes, and Screamadelica by Primal Scream.

Thank you for your time!

Thank you for a lovely discourse. I had a lot of fun!

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danses-with-dogmeat · 3 years

Note

Fallout 4 characters (who've been to the capitol or at least heard about what happened there) react to sole survivor finding a tunnel snakes jacket and/or meeting butch and the lone wanderer who came to the commonwealth to meet sole survivor and co. after the railroad ending

Sorry if I made it too complicated

Thanks so much for the ask! This was a super interesting prompt! I only did a few companions (including Danse despite this being a railroad ending because I just couldn't help myself) but if there's someone I didn't include that you still want to see, just let me know! I hope you enjoy :)

Danse:

Danse stopped in his tracks, forcing Sole to halt in place a few paces back. They peeked their head out from behind his tall, power-armored frame, looking for signs of danger. In the distance, two figures made their way towards them, and Sole raised their sniper rifle in preparation, curious as to why Danse made no sudden moves to ready his own weapon. Sole held the scope of their gun to their eye, trying to find a good shot in case the pair turned out to be hostile. Noticing their action, Danse turned his head, bringing a large hand up to push the barrel of the gun roughly downwards.

“Hey!”

“There’s no need to have them in your sights, soldier. These civilians are no threat to us.”

“How do you know? What about exercising caution?” Sole adjusted the grip on their rifle, still not completely convinced that they weren’t in danger.

“I know because I’ve met these people before."

“You can tell who they are all the way from here?” They squinted their eyes at the figures in the distance once again, trying to make out any discernible features, but failing to do so.

“Yes, look at their vault suits.”

“Okay,” Sole started, “I know it all turned out fine with me, but not everyone wearing a vault suit is automatically a good person.” Danse closed his eyes for a moment, a bout of air escaping his nose in an expression of his annoyance.

“I know that. But look closely,” His voice lowered a bit as the two strangers in vault suits grew nearer. Now, Sole could almost make out the general features of their faces.

“Their suits say ‘vault 101’ on them.” Danse said the words with a weight that left Sole feeling as though they should know what he was talking about. He turned to look at them expectantly, almost confirming their theory, before noticing their distinct lack of recognition at his words.

“Vault 101 is in the Capital Wasteland," he explained, "only three people I know of have ever left that particular vault; I know one to be dead, and the other two travel the wastes together, performing selfless acts to aid the settlers in the Capital. One of them is called Lone, and they were once a great ally to the Brotherhood of Steel; they walked beside Liberty Prime in our war against the Enclave ten years ago.”

Sole furrowed their eyebrows, their gaze still trained on the blue-clad pair as they drew ever closer.

“And you’re sure this is them?” Danse nodded his head as he looked towards them, Sole continued, lowering their voice even more as their gaze rested on the approaching vault-dwellers, “And they’re no threat? If they’re still allied with the Brotherhood, that could be an issue, Danse.” They said the last bit rather softly, hinting at the ex-paladin's now severed relationship with the faction he was once so devoted to.

“I suppose we shall see.” Danse said, and Sole looked on as one of the pair acknowledged them with a wave of their hand, their partner behind them keeping his pistol lowered reassuringly.

“Greetings, civilians.” Danse said, effectively outing himself as a (former) member of the Brotherhood, as if the power armor hadn’t already helped with that a bit. This is why I do the talking. Sole thought as they let out a breath, trying to release some of the anxiety they felt building up in response to this strange situation.

“Hello.” One of them said, their eyes slightly narrowed in suspicion of the soldier and his companion. “Nice outfit,” they nodded towards Sole’s own vault suit, but before Sole could respond, Danse took another step forward.

“Do you still go by ‘Lone’?” he asked, and the one in front snapped their gaze up to look him in the eye, their bewilderment plainly written on their face.

“Hey!” said the man in the leather jacket behind them, “how do you know Lone’s name?”

“So, I suppose that’s a ‘yes,’ then.” Sole interjected. Lone looked back, flashing a perturbed look at the man behind them, and Sole’s gaze went up to Danse, hoping he would explain more. For both their sake, and for Lone’s.

“We haven’t met, but I was at the Citadel when you arrived after the Enclave took over your father’s water purifier.”

Lone's eyebrows seemed to raise slightly at that, as they nodded in remembrance.

"So, are you still with the Brotherhood, then?" The air seemed to sizzle and crack around Danse at the pressure Lone’s question exuded on him. Should he lie and say that he is? Or has Lone since cut ties with the faction as well? There was certainly no physical indication that they were still allied with the Brotherhood, but…

"Not currently." Sole answered for the ex-paladin, "I don't know if you've heard, but the chapter of the Brotherhood that was stationed here was wiped out." They felt Danse tense at their words. Now Sole was taking the risk, mentioning an event that had nearly demolished their relationship with the former Brotherhood soldier, but they had to say something. And this way, they weren’t giving away their position in relation to the Brotherhood.

"So I'd heard. It's a shame, really."

"I’ll tell you what’s a shame,” Lone’s companion spoke up, “that they lost their sweet ass ride. That's what I think. Never seen anything like it, now the whole damn thing’s been blown to smithereens."

Danse’s eyes seemed to glaze over at the mention of the destruction of the ship he once called home, and Sole knew he wouldn’t be much help to them now.

“So, you’re from the Capital? What is it that’s brought you out here?” They asked in an attempt to veer away from this troubling subject. Lone narrowed their eyes slightly, and Sole could practically see the gears turning in their head as they thought through what sort of information they wanted to divulge to the strangers in front of them.

“Wait, slow your roll there. We might kinda-sorta know this guy," Lone's companion gestured to Danse, "but who are you supposed to be, huh?” Sole noticed the man’s hand remained firmly grasped around the 10mm pistol he carried, and they wondered if perhaps Danse had been wrong about these two. It has been 10 years, these people could have changed. They could be anyone by now.

“My name is Sole.” They said simply, unsure how they should further embellish their title, given their uncertainty surrounding the pair in front of them. But, as it happens, it seemed they didn’t have to, for as soon as their name left their lips, Lone turned abruptly to their companion with wide eyes.

“You’re Sole?” Lone asked, their gaze turning to fall heavily on Sole, their eyes round in recognition.

“No way we just bumped into them like this. No way.” Lone’s partner shook his head in disbelief, and Sole looked up to see Danse’s stare break from the nothingness he’d been focused on to rest upon Lone’s perplexed face.

“I-- well, yes, I am. How do you…?” Sole trailed off, not sure what exactly they were trying to ask.

“Well, you asked why we came here.” Sole nodded to them, “It was to find you.” At that, Danse raised his laser rifle from the restful position it had held throughout the entire exchange thus far, as the possibly threatening words left Lone’s mouth.

“Easy there, sergeant major. We’re just gabbin’, no need for a defensive position.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m taking one. Always best to be prepared, civilian.” Danse looked down at Lone’s companion with furrowed brows, hands holding steady in their poised position on his rifle.

“Alright, everyone, let’s calm down. We just want to talk to you, Sole.” Lone said, hands slightly raised in an inoffensive gesture.

“Why?” Danse said, utterly unconvinced that the pair meant no harm. My, how the tables have turned so abruptly. Sole thought, I’d like to tell him I told him so, but something tells me now’s not the time for that.

Lone just smiled as Danse glowered down at them,

“If all I’ve heard is true, Sole is a hero." They said, "my aim is to find out what really happened with you and the Institute, and maybe, if I like what I hear, we’ll have a few favors to ask of you.”

“Favors?” Sole spoke up, “What did you have in mind?”

“We’ll go into more detail later, but let’s just say that the Capital Wasteland hasn’t exactly benefited from the Brotherhood’s… change in management. For now though, I’ll leave it at that. And we should get moving if we’re going to find shelter before sundown. I hear it can get pretty chilly up here at night.” Sole nodded as they considered all that Lone had said, and as their eyes found Danse’s, the pair silently decided to trust the Lone wanderer and their partner. For now, at least.

“Sole,” Danse said, “why don’t you take point.”

“Good idea.” Sole moved to step ahead of the others, heading north along the dirt road they had been following, before glancing back at the sound of Lone’s voice.

“Butch, why don’t you take up the rear.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Butch turned to Sole and winked before doing as Lone had suggested, and the group set off to find shelter for the fast-approaching evening.

MacCready:

“Holy crap, where the heck did you get this?!” MacCready held up the leather jacket in front of him, eyes widening in awe. Sole looked over from where they stood outside their house in Sanctuary, squinting their eyes at the seemingly inconsequential jacket.

“That’s not mine.” They told him, turning back to unloading the scrap they’d acquired from the mission they and MacCready had just returned from.

“Do you even know what this is?” You looked back at him with a cocked brow,

“Does it look like I do?”

“This is a Tunnel Snakes jacket!” MacCready held the jacket with one hand, the other gesturing animatedly to the artwork on the back of it, Sole’s expression remained devoid of recognition, so MacCready felt the need to continue, “The Tunnel Snakes! It’s a gang. They’re from the Capital Wasteland. I’ve only ever seen one of these jackets once, and--”

“Oh, and what have we here?” A man in a vault suit with slicked back hair stepped out from the side of the house, flicking a cigarette butt to the ground, “hey, come check this out! Told you the Tunnel Snakes’ name got around.” The man gazed proudly at the jacket, a smug expression formed on his face as another stranger rounded the corner of the house. They also donned a vault suit, an amused smile playing at their lips as they rolled their eyes at their companion. The new stranger was odd, despite their age, they had an air of knowing about them. They were young, but their eyes seemed old, light lines shown on their face, telling the story of a life fraught with loss and tough decisions.

“Butch, we’ve been over this.” They said, “There’s like three people in the gang, and two of them live underground. The guy probably just thinks it’s a cool jacket.”

“Then how did he know the name, huh?”

“It’s on the jacket, Butch.”

“No!” MacCready interjected, “I do know you guys! We’ve met before, remember? Little Lamplight?”

Sole was now to the point of utter bewilderment as their head darted back between Mac and the two strangers. What the hell is going on here? Who are these people? Has MacCready ever mentioned a ‘Butch’ before? The stranger looked hard at MacCready, taking a few steps towards him, before recognition sparked in their eyes. Sole took a few steps forward in response, uncomfortable with the strangers’ proximity to their companion.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” They whispered, just loud enough for Sole to hear from where they stood beside the group. “I wouldn’t forget those wide, blue eyes. Look at you, little mayor MacCready, how’s it feel to be a mungo now, huh?”

“Holy shit!” Butch exclaimed, moving closer to MacCready to get a better look, “It’s the little mayoral punk from the kid cave!”

MacCready just laughed, his hand still clasped firmly around the leather jacket, as Sole stepped towards them.

“The hat’s changed a bit, but I see you’re still fond of sniper rifles.” The stranger nodded to MacCready’s rifle that lay on the ground next to where he stood. “Tell me,” they continued, “you still an asshole?”

Sole opened their mouth, only to be shut down by a glare from MacCready.

“You’re not allowed to answer that.” He pointed at them as he said it, and Sole rolled their eyes at him. MacCready then looked to the strangers, as if to answer their question, but before he could utter a word, Sole stepped forward.

“Okay, hold on, before anybody else says anything, I need to know what’s going on here. So, you going to introduce me to your friends, or what?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, of course!” MacCready seemed to jitter with excitement as he bounced over to them, and Sole wondered who it was they saw energetically bobbing around in front of them, this certainly wasn’t the MacCready they knew. And judging by their befuddled expressions, Butch and the stranger thought the same.

“Sole, this is Lone, the one I told you about, who helped with the mutants at Little Lamplight? And purified all that water for the people in the capitol? Yeah, that’s them, and this is their partner, Butch, he was from the same vault and was an OG Tunnel Snake.”

“Yeah, the OG Tunnel Snake.” Butch said, bringing his hands up to flick his collar up, before realizing he wasn’t wearing his jacket. He smoothed his hands over his chest awkwardly instead as Lone looked on, a mix of disappointment and amusement playing on their face, before they turned their attention to Sole.

“So, Sole, you’re the one everyone’s been talking about.”

“I-- I am?”

“Yeah, you’re the reason we came all the way up here. The vault dweller from before the war, the legendary railroad agent, and the one who brought down the Institute. You're a hero, even down in the CW. But it's strange, you’re younger than I thought.” Sole blinked, and smiled a little bashfully, unsure how to respond to such praise coming from Lone, who certainly was a legend in their own right. Instead of speaking to them directly, Sole turned to MacCready,

“You told me that Lone was dead.”

“What? No, I--”

“No, MacCready, you said they gave their life for the people of the capitol, in that water purifier thing.”

Lone chucked from beside Sole, shaking their head.

“It’s okay. You’d be surprised by how many people think that's true. Anyway, you’ve clearly heard my story, but we’re here for yours, Sole. What do you say we go inside and talk?”

Sole nodded, gesturing for them to head inside the house. They glanced over to MacCready, who made an attempt at handing the leather jacket back to its owner. But Butch just slapped him on the back,

“Tell you what, daddy-o, you keep it. I’m always happy to meet a fan. Plus, I got plenty of those back home.”

Deacon:

The pair entered the memory den and Sole nodded to Irma as they made their way towards the stairs leading to the basement. As they headed down, Sole heard Deacon’s footsteps behind them falter. They turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised,

What is it? They asked him silently, the words written in their expression. He took a few steps closer to them, keeping his voice low as he answered.

“Do you hear that?” He asked, and Sole held their breath as they listened for whatever it was that had their companion concerned.

“Voices?” they whispered back, and he nodded.

“I don’t recognise them. Better let me do the talking.” Sole nodded to him, and stepped aside, allowing Deacon to take the lead. They were coming to escort a recently mind-wiped synth to their new home in the Jamaica Plain settlement. The only ones meant to be present were Dr. Amari and the synth, Charlie. Deacon and Sole had helped the synth, designation C1-44, all the way from Mercer safehouse to Goodneighbor, so they knew his voice well enough at this point. Sole had hoped that, with the Institute effectively gone, processes like this would become much less common, and the existing synths could live their lives in peace, with their memories intact. But C1 had specifically asked for a mind-wipe, the Institute’s depreciating thoughts and acts towards him had left him with an abhorrent self-image that he felt he needed to escape from. Deacon had been right, it seemed, even without the Institute, the Railroad’s work was never done.

Sole might’ve waited to peek around the corner before entering the room, but Deacon sauntered right in while they held back in the hallway. They had always admired the spy’s confidence, but how many times had he warned them about waltzing into a situation without preparation? They seemed to recall a number of instances…

“Bullseye, you comin’?” They rounded the corner at the sound of their Railroad codename, a little alarmed, only to find the room devoid of both Charlie and Dr. Amari. Instead, two strangers stood beside the memory pod in the room. One stood in front of the other, at the ready, while the man behind them leaned against the back of the memory pod.

“Where..?” Sole started, turning to Deacon, but he was looking back at the stranger in combat armor,

“See, Lone? Told you I knew them. I don’t always lie, despite what you seem to think.”

The one named Lone rolled their eyes at him,

“You may not have lied about bringing them here, but I seem to remember you describing them as much more… well, not quite as they are. Say, Bullseye, how tall are you?”

Sole opened their mouth to respond, but Deacon cut them off before they could voice a thing.

“Is that really what matters? So, I may have exaggerated a few details about their appearance, but everything else is true. They really took down the Institute after working undercover for months without detection, and they've saved well over a hundred synth lives.”

“Deacon.” Sole said, their uncertainty keeping them frozen in place by the entrance to the basement, “who are these people? Where is the-- ah, where is our client?”

“Oh, where are my manners?” Deacon brought a hand up to his chest dramatically before approaching Sole, throwing his arm around their shoulders, and urging them forward before gesturing to the people in front of them.

“This is Lone, the famed Railroad ally from the Capital wasteland. And you two have quite a bit in common, cuz, you see, Lone has also managed to take down a potentially world-destroying organization that happened to be bigoted, and inappropriately sanctimonious and self-obsessed. So I thought it’d be cute for you two to spend some time together, you know, swap war stories and pre-war recipes, stuff like that. You had pre-war food in vault 101, right?”

“It’s good to finally meet you,” Lone said, ignoring Deacon's attempt at humor, “I’ve heard so much.” Sole went to properly introduce themself, but was once again interrupted, this time by the man in the leather jacket behind Lone, who cleared his throat loudly.

“Oh,” Lone moved slightly out of the way so that Sole and Deacon could better see their companion, “This is my partner, Butch, he’s also from the vault.” Butch cleared his throat again, frowning at Lone.

“And? C’mon partner, you’re not telling me that’s all I am to you?”

Lone frowned slightly, appearing unphased, as though this were a common occurrence for them, “Butch also helped me take down the Enclave, and he assists me with the Railroad missions I’m involved with in the Capital.”

“Butch, pleased to make your acquaintance.” He said, walking forward and extending a hand towards Sole, who shook it tentatively.

“There, now we’re all on a first-name basis, why don’t we get moving? If we’re going to reach HQ before sundown, we’d better go now.” Deacon withdrew his arm from Sole’s shoulder, and started towards the door. “Hold on a moment, Deacon. What about our mission? You never answered me,” they continued, lowering their voice at their next question, “and now we’re taking these people to HQ? Does Des know?” Deacon looked at them with a disappointed expression,

“You’re killing me here, where’s the mystery if I explain everything? Where's the fun in that?” Sole flared their nostrils at him and heard Lone snicker from behind them.

“Really, we’ll talk when we get to HQ.” He said, turning back towards the stairs, “And of course Des knows.” He called over his shoulder, “I would never presume to waltz right into HQ with a couple of perfect strangers without her permission. Who do you think I am? Who do you think I think I am?” Sole caught the smug grin that spread across his face as he turned to take the first step up the stairs to the ground floor.

“Don’t worry,” Lone said, walking up from behind Sole, “We know Des. I’ve worked with her more times than I care to count, though I never have actually met her. That’s why we’re here, actually. To meet her, and the others I’ve heard about. And to meet you. Believe it or not, I’ve heard the most about you.”

“I suppose that means I’m not a very good agent.” Sole said, a little laugh escaping them as Lone’s words gave them some peace of mind regarding this odd situation they found themselves in.

“Eh, who cares about that. The Institute’s gone, so I don’t know why we’ve gotta still be all secret-y now anyway.” Butch’s voice came from a few steps down the stairs, and Lone shook their head at him, their exasperated expression seemed to mirror the one Sole usually had upon their face when Deacon opened his mouth. Maybe Deacon was right, they thought, as they reached the top of the stairs and the group made their way to the exit. Maybe Lone and I do have some things in common.

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longitudinalwaveme · 3 years

Text

Arkham Files: Dr. Alchemy/Dr. Albert Desmond/Mr. Element

Hugo Strange: From the patient files of Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. Patient: Dr. Albert Desmond, also known as Dr. Alchemy and Mr. Element. Patient suffers from Dissociative Identity Disorder. Session One. So, Dr. Desmond, how are you feeling?

Dr. Alchemy: Go away. I’m reading.

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond, I promise that you will be able to return to your books as soon as this session is over. But for right now, I need you to talk to me.

Dr. Alchemy: I am not interested in conversation. Leave me alone.

Hugo Strange: I’m afraid I cannot do that, Dr. Desmond. As your psychologist, I have a responsibility to maintain your well-being.

Dr. Alchemy: I have read countless books on the subject of psychology, Dr. Strange. There is nothing you can teach me that I do not already know.

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond, this is not about knowledge. It is about helping you to live a more productive life.

Dr. Alchemy: Dr. Desmond would likely appreciate the sentiment, but he isn’t here right now. So please, leave me to my studies. I have important work to do, and no time for idle chatter.

Hugo Strange: I take it I am speaking to one of Dr. Desmond’s alters, then?

Dr. Alchemy: Yes. I am Doctor Alchemy. Now kindly go away and leave me alone.

Hugo Strange: I’m afraid that I cannot do that, Dr. Alchemy. As your psychologist, it would be irresponsible of me not to hold these therapy sessions with you.

Dr. Alchemy: You are not my psychologist; you are Dr. Desmond’s psychologist. Dr. Desmond is not here right now, so you have no responsibilities in this room. Go away.

Hugo Strange: Dr. Alchemy, you and Dr. Desmond share the same body, and are fragmented parts of the same basic personality. Medically and legally, both of you are my patients...as are any other alters that may exist.

Dr. Alchemy: Be that as it may, I have nothing to say to you. Go away.

Hugo Strange: (Sighs) If I arrange to have some more rare books delivered to your room, will you agree to participate in the session, Dr. Alchemy?

Dr. Alchemy: (Pleased) Yes. Thank you, Dr. Strange. (Pause) What do you want to know?

Hugo Strange: According to your files, you are a very educated man. You have PhDs in chemistry, biochemistry, and molecular biology. You could easily earn money legitimately...and, in fact, Dr. Desmond does just that in his career at S.T.A.R. Labs. Why, then, did you choose to become a costumed criminal?

Dr. Alchemy: Research is expensive, Dr. Strange. How else was I to fund my experiments?

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond usually asks for grant money.

Dr. Alchemy: Only because he wastes our talents on safe, predictable work. I, on the other hand, push the boundaries of established science. That frightens the complacent and the simple-minded, and as such, they dismiss my work as lunacy and refuse to help me in my endeavors to expand humanity’s understanding of the cosmos.

Hugo Strange: Even if that is true, Dr. Alchemy, your file indicates that you are a metahuman with the power to transmute the elements at will. Why not use that power to create gold or silver, sell it for a profit, and use that to fund your experiments?

Dr. Alchemy: And debase my powers by using them for something as mundane as earning petty cash from the mindless multitudes? Never.

Hugo Strange: But you’re perfectly willing to use those same powers to steal money from the same mindless multitude?

Dr. Alchemy: Of course. I am the lord of the very elements! It is my right to take whatever I desire.

Hugo Strange: You are stealing! Like a common thief!

Dr. Alchemy: A common thief could not turn your blood into formaldehyde, Dr. Strange.

Hugo Strange: Was that a threat, Dr. Alchemy?

Dr. Alchemy: No, not a threat. Merely a reminder of your position.

Hugo Strange: (Angry) Let me make one thing clear, Dr. Alchemy. When you were sent here, you were, effectively, declared a ward of the state. I am the head of this Asylum. I want to help you, but if you prove to be a threat to me, the other patients, or the staff, I will authorize that you be put on a regime of enough antipsychotic drugs to all but kill your conscious mind.

Dr. Alchemy: (Quiet laugh) And break your Hippocratic Oath by sentencing poor Dr. Desmond to a living death? I don’t believe you have that in you, Dr. Strange.

Hugo Strange: (Icily) To prevent one of the most powerful metahumans in the world from laying waste to this institution? There is very little I would not do, Dr. Alchemy. Metahuman power dampeners have a very limited effect on you, and I am not enough of a fool to rely solely on your goodwill to keep you in check.

Dr. Alchemy: (Quickly) In that case, I rescind my reminder.

Hugo Strange: I’m glad to hear that, Dr. Alchemy. (Pause) So tell me, what is your relationship with your city’s scarlet-clad vigilante?

Dr. Alchemy: The Flash? He’s an impediment to my research, nothing more.

Hugo Strange: And your decision to put on a costume was in no way inspired by him?

Dr. Alchemy: Perhaps on some level. But he means nothing to me. Dr. Desmond is the one who cares about him.

Hugo Strange: In that case, will you permit me to speak with Dr. Desmond?

Dr. Alchemy: Certainly not. That weak-willed fool would only interfere with my studies.

Dr. Hugo Strange: If you cooperate, I’ll see what I can do about getting you a first-edition copy of The Grapes of Wrath.

Dr. Alchemy: Very well. If I can find Dr. Desmond, I’ll let him know that he wishes to speak with you.

(Long pause)

Hugo Strange: Are you all right, Dr. Alchemy?

Albert: (in a voice that is similar to, but distinguishable from, Dr. Alchemy’s) W-where am I? What’s going on?

Hugo Strange: (Realizing) Is this Dr. Albert Desmond?

Albert: Y-yes. (Pause) Who are you? What is this place? What am I doing here?

Hugo Strange: I am Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. What is the last thing you remember, Dr. Desmond?

Albert: I...I was at home with my wife, Rita. She was making dinner, and I felt a headache coming on, so I went outside to get some fresh air and-(Pause) Oh, no. It happened again, didn’t it?

Hugo Strange: I’m afraid so, Dr. Desmond. A week ago, Dr. Alchemy was captured by the Flash whilst attempting to turn an entire stadium’s worth of people into tungsten. Since Iron Heights Penitentiary is currently incapable of holding metahuman criminals, it was decided that he should be transferred to Arkham Asylum, pending his trial.

Albert: Not again...not again! It’s been three years since the last time. I thought that the nightmare was finally over.

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond, the courts are aware of your… highly unusual...form of Dissociative Identity Disorder. You will almost certainly be declared not guilty by reason of insanity.

Albert: And then they’ll lock me away in a hospital instead of a prison. Rita and I...we have a baby son! Is he going to grow up with his father shut away in a mental institution? (Pause) I should have had her divorce me. At least that way she wouldn’t be raising our son all by herself. And she wouldn’t have to worry about both her and the baby being murdered by a costumed maniac!

Hugo Strange: Neither of your alters have ever actually murdered someone, Dr. Desmond.

Albert: No. But from what I’ve been told, it hasn’t been from lack of trying. (Pause) I let her marry me. I knew what I was, and I let her marry a monster.

Hugo Strange: You are not a monster, Dr. Desmond. Your family members, the police and judicial departments of Central City, and even your city’s costumed vigilante all swear as to your good moral character.

Albert: Good moral character? Dr. Strange, both of my alters are criminals; which means that there’s a part of me...there’s a part of me that wants to do the things they do. If there wasn’t, surely I would have been able to get rid of them by now. The fact that I haven’t proves that I don’t have good morals.

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond, do you ever remember the actions of your alters?

Albert: Almost never. (Pause) I usually end up finding out about it after the fact. You have no idea how horrible it is to have someone tell you that your body went on a crime spree that you don’t remember anything about.

Hugo Strange: In other words, you have dissociative amnesia during the periods in which your alters are dominant. (Pause) Do you make an effort to prevent your alters from emerging, Dr. Desmond?

Albert: Of course I do! I take medication, I exercise, I ensure that I always get a full night’s rest, I go to therapy….I don’t want to be a monster.

Hugo Strange: A monster wouldn’t battle his illness in the way that you do, Dr. Desmond. You are not a monster. You are ill, and through no fault of your own.

Albert: I...I wish I could believe that, Dr. Strange. (Pause) But honestly? I’m starting to think that maybe I should just be locked up forever. It would...it would be better for everyone.

(Long pause)

Hugo Strange: Dr. Desmond? Dr. Desmond, are you all right?

Mr. Element: (in a voice that is similar to, but distinguishable from, Dr. Alchemy and Albert’s voices) I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong man, Doc.

Hugo Strange: Who are you? And what happened to Dr. Desmond?

Mr. Element: Nothing. I just decided to take control. It seems that Doc Alchemy’s actions have caused him to almost give up hope completely this time, and that meant he couldn’t put up much of a fight against me. (Pause) Thanks for getting Doc Alchemy to give up control voluntarily, by the way. You have no idea how tough it is to win fights for control with that guy.

Hugo Strange: I take it you’re Mr. Desmond’s other alter?

Mr. Element: That’s right, Doc. You can call me Mr. Element.

Hugo Strange: Not Dr. Element?

Mr. Element: Nah. The other two got most of the brains, I’m afraid. It’s why I’m not as powerful as either one of ‘em. (Pause) Not that you’d know it from looking at Albert, of course. He’s got no idea how powerful he really is. He’s even more powerful than Doc Alchemy!

Hugo Strange: I suppose that that makes a certain amount of sense. Dr. Desmond is, after all, the personality from which the two of you split off. Perhaps that allows him to mainline the power, so to speak. (Pause) So, Mr. Element, why do you commit crimes in a silly costume?

Mr. Element: To get money and attention. Doc Alchemy could care less about that sort of thing, and Albert’s too much of a goody-good to admit that he wants either, so it’s up to me to make sure people remember us.

Hugo Strange: And the costume, was it inspired by the Flash?

Mr. Element: No. It was based on our fascination with elements. The mask was so that I could inhale pure oxygen; I used a carbon atom as my symbol because life has its basis in carbon-you get the idea. Albert’s the one who has an emotional connection to the Speedster.

Hugo Strange: Yes, yes. Dr. Alchemy said the same thing. (Pause) So, are either you or Dr. Alchemy Rogues, Mr. Element?

Mr. Element: No. Doc Alchemy and I both prefer to work solo. Besides, I think the Doc kind of freaks them out.

Hugo Strange: Are there any particular concerns you want to talk to me about, Mr. Element?

Mr. Element: Not really. Albert’s the one with the hang-ups.

Hugo Strange: In that case, I am going to bring this session to a close. I need some time to reflect on your case and how to best treat it. It is noticeably abnormal, and I will need to adjust my strategies accordingly.

#flash rogues #dr. hugo strange #mr. element #dr. alchemy #albert desmond #flash comics #batman comics #fanfic

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mostlysignssomeportents · 3 years

Text

K-Zombies

When you and your friends put your fingers on the ouija board planchette and it starts moving around, there's a chance your friends are just yanking your chain - but just as possible is that your friends are experiencing the ideomotor response.

That's when your unconscious mind directs your muscles without your conscious knowledge. The movement of the planchette doesn't tell you what's going on in the spirit world, but it does tell you something about the internal weather of your friend's psyche, fears and hopes.

Our narratives are social-scale planchettes, directed by mass ideomotor response. When a fake news story takes hold, it reveals a true fact: namely, the shared, internal models of how the world really works.

Fake news is an oracle, in other words.

https://locusmag.com/2019/07/cory-doctorow-fake-news-is-an-oracle/

There's no spirit-realm directing planchettes. Supernatural phenomena are nonsense, in all their guises. Mediums are fraudsters or deluded - and so are soothsayers who claim to be able to predict the future. That goes for fortune-tellers and futurists alike.

A shocking number of self-described "rational" science fiction writers share the delusional view that they can predict the future. These pulp Nostradamii point to "predictions" of sf that have "come true" and claim to have an inside line on the world of tomorrow.

Sf *has* an important relationship to the future, though! It can be a planchette: all the futures imagined by all the sf writers are a kind of mutation-space, and the fitness factor that determines whether a story thrives or sinks is whether it captures public imagination.

Sf writers and readers are a means for society to reflect back, amplify and examine our unarticulated hopes and fears about our *present* technology. Sf doesn't predict the future, but sf readers and writers do an excellent job of predicting the present.

And since the present is the standing wave where the past is being transformed into the future, knowing about the present can be a source of insights into what's coming - and not just because sf reveals what's going on in the present, but also because it influences it.

People who are captured by imaginative, futuristic parables about the problems and possibilities of technology acquire a set of intuition-pumps for coping with the future when it arrives, reflexive views and actions about what the future demands of us.

Gene Rodenberry didn't predict the Motorola flip-phone. Rather, when a generation of Motorola designers and engineers were asked to make a mobile communications device their minds immediately flew to the Star Trek communicators they grew up with.

Thinking of fantastic fiction as measurement device and influence machine is a productive way to pick apart the meaning of literary trends.

As I wrote in my intro to the bicentennial re-release of FRANKENSTEIN, the rise and fall of Shelley's book tracks to the rise and fall of fears related to the book's various themes:

https://muse.jhu.edu/chapter/1974387

So what are we to make of K-zombies? Korean pop culture is experiencing a golden age of zombie movies, games, comics and other media.

https://www.latimes.com/world-nation/story/2021-02-23/zombies-are-everywhere-south-korea-fears

Zombies have a lot of different themes, of course, and some are easy to map to the current situation: the fear of contagion and the need to distance yourself from loved ones who have become infected. The parallels to covid hardly need explaining.

But the K-zombie phenomenon predates the pandemic, and zombie stories aren't merely contagion stories - they're often stories about the lurking bestiality of nearly everyone around us.

That's behind stories like The Walking Dead, about the propensity of all our "normal" friends and neighbors to transform into an insensate, rampaging mob. These zombie stories are a throwback to the "cozy catastrophes" of John Wyndham and co:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/29/grifters-gonna-grift/#wyndhamesque

These are stories of racial and class anxiety, of xenophobia and the literal othering of someone who *seems* to be just like you but is actually a secret monster. Again, on a divided peninsula, it's not hard to see how stories of lurking otherness would catch hold.

Zombie stories are also stories about the fragility of social cohesion: stories about how we're never "all in this together" and how, when the chips are down, it'll be "the war of all against all." That, too, feels very zeitgeisty given recent South Korean politics.

South Korea has an ugly, authoritarian past that is at odds with its founding myth as the "good Korea," the "democratic Korea." But the post-war reconstruction of the country by the US elevated an elite to a position of near-total authority and impunity.

They abused this power in ghastly ways, running forced-labor camps for poor people and people with disabilities, with rampant physical and sexual abuse. Families who lost their loved ones were traumatized to learn that they'd ended up in the camps.

https://web.archive.org/web/20160423131643/https://bigstory.ap.org/article/c22de3a565fe4e85a0508bbbd72c3c1b/ap-s-korea-covered-mass-abuse-killings-vagrants

These forced-labor camps (which continue in a slightly modified form to this day) supplied slaves to chaebols, the conglomerates that represent the country on a world stage. Unsurprisingly, the leadership of these companies is also grossly corrupt:

https://www.bangkokpost.com/business/2052871/samsung-chief-jailed-for-2-5-years-over-corruption-scandal

Korea is also riven by messianic cults, and the leaders of these cults have close ties to the Korean political class, an incredibly politically destabilizing fact that has caused recent Korean governments to collapse:

https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-37971085

South Korea, in other words, isn't just haunted by the spectre of aggression from the north - but also by the possibility of internal rupture. It has a huge, authoritarian secret police force that has been caught secretly meddling in electoral politics.

Far from reining in this spookocracy, the South Korean political class has tried to hand them even MORE powers, with LESS oversight. Today is the fifth anniversary of the Korean opposition's filibuster to stop the worst of these.

(Seo Ki-Ho, a politician with the affectionate nickname "Milhouse" for his resemblance to the Simpsons character read the Korean edition of my novel LITTLE BROTHER into the record during the filibuster!)

https://memex.craphound.com/2016/02/26/south-korean-lawmakers-stage-filibuster-to-protest-anti-terror-bill-read-from-little-brother/

This othering is also sharply illustrated in the country's culture of misogynistic voyeurism, which goes beyond "upskirt" videos and includes a roaring trade in videos captured with hidden cameras in toilets, changing rooms and hotel rooms.

It's hard to overstate the reach of this practice, and its political salience: it has provoked a vast mass-movement of women and allies demanding an end to the practice and a reckoning with institutional sexism:

https://www.khaosodenglish.com/culture/net/2020/10/21/voyeurs-are-selling-photos-of-women-at-the-protest-online/

Zombies aren't ever just about contagion - they're also always an expression of a deep anxiety that your neighbors aren't what they seem, that in a pinch, they'll turn on you, and not just because they've been infected, but also to protect themselves and their comfort.

US zombie booms always have an element of this: 1950s (reds under the bed); 1980s (red menace redux); 2000s (immigration "crisis"), etc. It'd be amazing if the only thing driving K-zombies' popularity was the pandemic, or even less plausibly, a mere aesthetic coincidence.

#pluralistic

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ombreblossom · 3 years

Note

Whatever you do don’t open your eyes” for the prompt!

So, I’m not entirely sure what one says before posting fanfiction on Tumblr, but here we go! This is decidedly not horror at all, but uh. Maybe more fitting for something posted on the eve of Act 3, which will inevitably destroy us all.

I’ve never posted fanfiction before, and this is the single longest creative work I’ve ever written, fanfiction or not. Not to mention I haven’t written anything creative, really, in almost a decade. All this said, I hope you enjoy!

The Ins and Outs of Surprises

Content warnings for panic attacks, dissociation, and tooth-rotting fluff.

Summary: In which Jon has a little bit of a rough time with knocking and then goes on to have an unquestionably fluffy evening. Featuring: kitties, the author projecting mightily onto Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist (as is tradition), good-natured teasing of everyone involved, and loads (and I mean loads) of affection.

(An AO3 link will be added to a reblog.)

Jon whipped his head up from his laptop screen at the loud knocking on their front door. This was a situation in which The Beholding would have unhelpfully supplied information about acute tachycardia and panic attack onset signs—if he and Martin hadn’t averted the apocalypse and banished the fears, at any rate. They could scarcely believe their luck some days, could scarcely believe that they’d both managed to live to see an after, to see time march on once more unperturbed by cosmic terrors.

These days, Jon had to recognize the symptoms of an imminent panic attack and allay them himself. Well, Martin helped, kind and loving soul that he was. That Martin had stuck around after they’d ceased being two of a handful of fully conscious people left in the entire world was another thing Jon couldn’t believe sometimes, but he couldn’t be happier that he did.

The knocking continued to barge in on his thoughts every several seconds as he sat stock still at his desk, flanked on both sides by bookshelves filled to the brim of his and Martin’s books and various knick-knacks: Polaroids of the two of them with their friends leaned up against the spines of their books, souvenirs purchased from museums around London, and a collection of small ceramic cats of different breeds and colors. A brief vision of everything on those shelves coming tumbling down in what is solidifying as an inevitable scuffle ratcheted up Jon’s anxiety even more.

He was tempted to get up and look about their flat for anything that could serve as a weapon, but there wasn’t much other than perhaps a chef’s knife, dull with constant, loving use, that Jon was likely to find, and he was just as likely to harm himself with it as the intruder. Jon’s hands found their clumsy way to his upper arms, gripping them tightly enough that surely there’d be half-moon divots left where his nails bit into his skin. His chest was starting to feel tight, as if someone were sitting on it in spite of Jon’s verticality.

On one hand, he wished desperately that Martin were here because surely they’d be much more capable of taking on an impending intruder together now that Jon was “powered down,” so to speak. On another hand, he was so grateful that Martin wasn’t here to possibly get murdered. Better him than Martin, who’d been through so much (and largely on Jon’s account).

All this, and someone was still loudly rapping on the front door. The regularity with which the knocks came didn’t suggest an urgency or an immediate threat, so why hadn’t the knocker announced themselves? Maybe this mystery person was just trying to get his attention? But who could possibly know The (former) Archivist lived here? Was this even related to his status as Doom-Bringer? Jon remained in his seat where he’d been sending correspondence to the copyright holders of the next drama he was arranging for his theatre club to perform, paralyzed by indecision and a million swirling questions.

The person demanding his attention pounded their door once more, but this time a voice rang out, clear as a bell in crisp winter morning air.

“—you please open the door? I had to leave my keys in the car!”

His heart stammered and shuttered in his chest—much like Jon himself when he was excited, talking in stops and starts about the latest subject that he’d found interesting, but there was everything wrong with this kind of excitement. Martin had always found it endearing, or so he claimed, but he was sure he wouldn’t find this endearing, seeing Jon wavering on the precipice of panic. Jon, mouth gone bone-dry, croaked a response: “M-Martin?”

A little louder, Martin shouted, “Are you there, Jon? I don’t remember you saying you were going out today.” He audibly jerked the door handle, clearly checking to see if the door was locked. Even knowing who was on the other side of the door didn’t stop Jon from panicking. All sorts of gruesome scenarios danced through his mind. What if someone was using Martin to get at Jon, making it seem safe to leave their home only to ambush him once he was exposed?

Suddenly, all noise outside stopped, and this sent Jon spiraling further. He hadn’t really been taking note of his breathing this whole time, but he felt the encroaching fuzziness that he knew came with dropping oxygen levels.

“Mar...tin?” Nothing still. Martin hadn’t returned yet. Gripping his cheap particle wood desk that carried none of the same gravitas his elaborate oak desk had at the institute, Jon stood up. It was a precarious thing, his legs shaking and threatening to send him to the floor if he moved too quickly, but he needed to know what happened to Martin.

Just as he had been about to take his first wobbly step toward the door, Jon heard the faint sound of a key sliding into a locking mechanism. In no time at all, his dear heart was in front of him, saying something Jon couldn’t parse.

“—okay to touch—Jon?” He sounded worried for some reason, his voice pitching up just that little extra bit, something Jon knew happened when Martin felt powerless in the face of someone in danger.

Where was the danger? Who was in danger?

Something light brushed against his shoulders and stayed there. In the back of his mind, he was sure Martin had meant it as a comfort to focus on instead of the menacing fuzziness. “Why don’t you sit down, Jon. Everything will be all right. Hey—hey. It’s okay. Just sit down, love, and breathe.” So Jon did.

For a while, he drifted, sightless and senseless save for the tightness in his chest.

When he came back to awareness, Martin was there; he’d pulled another chair up close to Jon and pulled him into a loose embrace, loose enough that Jon could escape with very little effort if he needed to. Soft shushing noises filled the room.

Jon lifted his head from its position buried in Martin’s chest and immediately lost himself again in Martin’s eyes. Dark and speckled as soil and just as full of life. Jon had read enough comparisons to celestial bodies in his lifetime (and made similar comparisons himself once upon a time when their relationship was new and Jon had no idea how to close the distance between them, so up on a pedestal Martin went) to think them useful now. Martin’s beauty didn’t come from being a lonely, unreachable, incomprehensible light in the night sky. Martin was beautiful for far more mundane reasons. He celebrated life and the ups and downs of it all. He sowed seeds of happiness whenever he could and hardly anyone left his presence the poorer. Certainly, Jon recognized, he was somewhat biased, and, no, Martin wasn’t a perfect human being and had his bad days when being around people was too much to bear, when he’d snap and sneer and hide, but those bad days were fewer and further between as time went on.

Martin was talking to him, as it turned out. Maybe he should pay attention to that? Push through the words upon words criss-crossing and overlapping in every direction and orientation. Like microcurrents in the ocean just off the coast of Bournemouth. He’d been warned off from swimming too far from the coast by his grandmother when he was younger. Not that he would have regardless (too many tourists, too many people looking to see only what they wanted to see of his shore-side city), but Jon’s wanderings only made her more fearful of what lurked beyond their small bubble.

Focus, Jon. Focus.

“Are you with me? I’m starting to get more worried here.” Ah, there’s the helpless sarcasm.

Not able to speak just yet, he leaned back, loosening Martin’s hold on him. Without really comprehending the in-between, Jon’s arms wrapped around Martin’s middle. There was a rather inviting spot on his chest that perfectly pillowed Jon’s head when the opportunity arose, but now wasn’t the time. He’d be lost for hours in the comfort of it all. Instead, Jon looked at him.

“I’m with you,” he said, the gravel that rumbled around in his throat more pronounced than usual.

A full sigh blew out of Martin as he glanced away from Jon. “I’m so sorry, Jon. I totally forgot about the knocking….” This was when the guilt set in. A momentary indulgence, Martin told him once when the world was still Wrong. Time to put a stop to that.

One of Jon’s hands pulled Martin’s face back into view and stayed flush against his cold cheek. “Martin, it’s all right. Most days it wouldn’t bother me, but today…. Something about today has me a little on edge. It feels like something’s about to happen, but I don’t know what.”

Martin still looked worried. “Something is happening today, but it wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” Mirroring his gesture, Martin raised his own hand up, thumb following the path of Jon’s cheekbones, gently passing over the scars left by Jane Prentiss’ worms.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. I promise it’s a good thing, though. No traps, no ulterior motives, no earthy manifestations of eldritch fear entities. It’s completely terror-free!”

“You promise, huh?” Jon said with a teasing lilt.

“I mean, as long as you discount the constant low-grade terror of living in a city with several million people and where anything can happen to you at any time.”

“I must say, Martin, you’re exceptionally reassuring today.”

“Thanks! I try.”

Jon just hmmed.

With a hand still stroking Jon’s cheek and the worried look on his face softening by degrees, Martin said, “How are you feeling?”

Jon took a moment to honestly assess himself. He’d been trying to do that more often since distancing himself from the institute and everything it had represented to him. No more unreasonably late nights of work when he could just as easily spread his work out over the next day or several, and even when he couldn’t, Martin helped him make sure he stopped working no later than seven o’clock each evening. And while his pushing aside his bodily needs was a complicated matter with multiple causes, he’d been working on communicating when he needed to rest, when he was on the verge of pushing past his limits. (He’d been slowly coaxing Martin to do the same, though he’d just as often brush it off when Jon brought it up to him.)

After some examination, Jon replied, “I’m a bit tired, I suppose, but I’ll be all right once I get moving again.” He half-smiled at Martin, hoping to convey a sense of earnestness. Martin trusted him, he knew, and would take Jon’s words at face-value, but it didn’t hurt to lay it on thick sometimes.

The hand on his face was so soft. So pleasant a feeling it was, Jon nuzzled his face into that hand, eliciting a light-hearted giggle from Martin.

“Well, then,” he started, “Up we get! I’ve got something to show you. It’s a little chilly outside, so let’s grab your coat.”

Jon looked puzzled. “Outside? What’s outside?”

Martin gasped loudly. “It’s a surprise, Jon! How could you possibly ask me to spoil a surprise? The sheer audacity—I can’t believe it,” he exclaimed, clutching his chest and a look of profound offense on his face, completing the ensemble of mock outrage.

A warmth settled in Jon’s chest. This silly man was the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, no matter how long that ended up being. He let himself be overcome with affection and took the hand Martin had been using to stroke his cheek and brought it to his lips, placing a sweet kiss onto his palm.

“Oh, Mr. Blackwood, whatever can I do to repay you for this betrayal?” Jon crooned, that sloppy half-smile morphing into something a bit more mischievous. He would take any opportunity he could get to coax Martin’s infamous blush into existence, a handsome spreading of color across warm tawny skin, reaching as far as the tips of his ears.

With the expected flush rising on his features, Martin eyed Jon with a mixture of equal parts amusement, affection, and disdain. He gently removed his hand from Jon’s hold and walked over to their coat closet. “What you can do for me, Jon, is come over here and let me help you into your coat!” There was no heat in his words—no, Jon would tease that there was none left to imbue Martin’s words because it was stuck preciously under his skin—and Jon chuckled as he rose from his chair and followed Martin over walked over to where Martin was waving Jon’s pea coat in front of him expectantly.

“All right, all right,” he said, turning around to face the direction he came from, back to Martin, allowing him to guide one woolen sleeve then another over Jon’s arms. (Their bookshelves were intact, if disorganized, to his mild surprise.) Martin tugged on the collar, a signal for Jon to face him.

Though he managed to retain most function in his right hand, despite Jude Perry’s desolate flame ravaging it, it was sometimes painful to flex his fingers. Thus, it became customary for Martin to help him into his outer layers. Buttons were especially difficult some days, but Martin would grab Jon’s lapels and bring him in close enough that only several centimeters separated them and he’d fasten Jon’s buttons for him. Today was no different, though today it was more about the casual intimacy that underlaid the gesture than it was about the practicality of it.

Almost ready to face the damp cold outside, Jon asked, “What’s the rush about, Martin?”

A royal purple scarf suddenly in hand, Martin said, “Well, it’s getting late, and Georgie is still waiting outside with—well, waiting outside, and she and Melanie have a date soon, so we can’t keep her waiting.” Martin curled the scarf around Jon’s neck just so. “Not to mention how miserable it is outside. And I had to turn the car off to take the keys when you wouldn’t answer the door, so it’s probably cold by now, and….” He trailed off, looking at the ceiling with a far-away expression as if contemplating what else to tell Jon in this moment. “In any case, we are in a bit of a hurry, so get your boots on and let’s go!”

Aforementioned boots on and otherwise bundled up, Jon cocked his head to the side. “But, why is Georgie—” He stopped. He didn’t need to know right then. He knew Martin would answer his questions when he felt he could. This was knowledge that could wait. “Lead the way, then, dear.”

They turned toward the door hand-in-hand. Before opening the door, Martin looked back at Jon and said, “I meant it when I said this was a surprise, Jon. I want you to close your eyes and not open them until I say to, okay?”

The proposition of keeping his eyes closed for an indeterminate amount of time didn’t exactly appeal to him, but he trusted Martin. Before he could provide his assent, however, Martin pressed on.

“I know you don’t feel safe when you can’t see anything, but it’s only for a short walk to the car, and I’ll be there every step of the way to make sure nothing happens to you,” he assured.

Jon could let himself be caught in Martin’s gaze forever, sunny and bright as it was. Now wasn’t the time, he realized. Later on, Jon would lead him to their overstuffed couch by hand and drape himself over Martin and press kisses underneath the line of his jaw and down the line of his throat, as he knew Martin loved.

“I trust you, Martin.” Jon closed his eyes and used his unoccupied hand to gesture to them with a flourish. “Lead on.”

A blast of cold, saturated air assaulted them as Martin opened the door. Taking their first steps outside, Jon tried to place the temperature, figuring it was no warmer than five or six degrees. It was still kind of novel, not having the exact knowledge he was looking for beamed into his head without his consent.

“Hold on, Jon. Stay right here for a moment. I have to close the door. Don’t want our heating bill to go through the roof.” Jon did as he was told, resisting the urge to open his eyes in spite of Martin’s insistence and already missing the solid presence of his hand. As if he were the one with omniscience, Martin yelled back, “Whatever you do, don’t open your eyes!”

Thoroughly thwarted, Jon waited for Martin to take his hand again before moving.

They parted the slow-moving air around them as they walked. Not forceful enough to be considered wind in his book but enough to siphon some of the scant amount of warmth his body produced away from him. People breezed by them, heeled shoes clacking against the sidewalk and snatches of conversations not meant for them drifting in and out of focus. “You said Georgie was here, right? Where is she? I don’t hear her at all.”

“Georgie has been sworn to silence. Come on; we’re almost there.”

Martin pulled him forward, careful indeed to guide Jon around deposits of snow, soon to be gone, and depressions in the uneven sidewalk filled with slush. London and the surrounding area often got like this in the dead of winter; it didn’t snow overmuch, but when it did, rain soon followed, the temperature never remaining cool enough to sustain large amounts of snow for very long.

“Okay, Jon. We’re here. Keep your eyes closed for a little while longer.” Jon heard the tell-tale sound of a car door opening. The anticipation was roiling in him now; it was hardly bearable. He alternated between centering his weight on the balls of feet and then his heels—and back and forth—trying to dissipate some of the unease.

Just as Jon’s anxieties were building in intensity to a roaring crescendo, Martin spoke again: “You can open your eyes now, love.”

In front of Jon was a cat carrier—no mistaking it. He knew their shape intimately from all the hurried trips to the vet after The Admiral had gotten into food he shouldn’t have. The time The Admiral had eaten a sizable chunk of cold margherita pizza Georgie and he had left out on the table came to mind easily. Several frenzied Internet searches later, words like pancreatitis and anemia rolling around in their minds, they rushed The Admiral to an emergency vet. (It turned out that he hadn’t really eaten enough of the pizza to really worry about it, and the vet had a laugh at their expense, but the experience stuck with both of them.)

Someone had thrown a blanket over the carrier, making it difficult to make out what (who?) was inside, so Jon crouched down to get a better look. He could only imagine the look on his face right then.

A Maine Coon cat stared back at him, its amber eyes searching his and its head displaying a rich coat of golden yellows and deep browns. Jon was nigh speechless. “Who is this, Martin?” he whispered reverently.

Martin crouched down with him. “Well, as far as I know, she doesn’t have a name, not an official one anyway. I started feeding her a while ago on my way back from Tesco, and eventually she started following me back home. I wasn’t sure if she was actually someone’s cat or if she was a stray, so I always shooed her away before we got close to home.”

“That doesn’t answer why she’s here.” He wanted desperately to open the door of the carrier and run his hand through her fur, but Jon settled for poking his finger through the grate. The yet-to-be-named cat sniffed his finger from a couple angles and proceeded to rub her nose and face all over it. Jon nearly wept.

“I can answer that one,” Georgie interjected, having been nearly forgotten by the other two. She came over and kneeled down with them, eyeing them both with mild concern. “Remember those couple times Melanie, Martin, and I all took off while you were working? Well, this guy was waffling on what to do with Goldie here”—Jon mouthed “Goldie? Really?” at Martin, who could only shrug helplessly—“and came to Melanie and me, your resident cat parents, for advice.

“We discovered pretty quickly that Goldie was a stray, or at least not microchipped. That made the decision that much easier. I walked him through all the different tests he’d want to get done to to make sure she was healthy and spayed and all that. The vet figured she’d been a house cat at some point, seeing as she was fairly clean and decently-well fed, even taking Martin feeding her into account. But no microchip, no tags, and no other indicator of who she belonged to, and the several weeks this guy had been asking around the area to try to find her owners with nothing to show for it?”

Martin shot her a look. Georgie laughed, saying, “Oh, there was no way I wasn’t going to mention that. You talk a good game of resisting her charms, but you knew you were going to try to bring her home. You exhausted all your options trying to find her owners before we even showed up! The point is, we figured Goldie would find herself in good company with you two. Plus, I know how much you’ve missed The Admiral, Jon.”

This was too much to take in. He hadn’t been aware of any of this happening. In one sense, it was relieving: another piece of evidence to add the mounting pile that The Beholding had truly lost its grip on him. But how could Jon have missed all of this? Surely he joined Martin often enough in his London travels to have noticed him asking around about this cat.

“Hey.” Martin bumped their shoulders together. “I know what you’re thinking. I tried very hard to keep this from you in case it didn’t work out. I didn’t want to tell you about Goldie and get your hopes up only to find out that she had a loving family looking for her. And you’ve been so preoccupied with your theatre club’s new show; I wanted this to be a pleasant surprise.” Jon remembered the playbills scattered around his desk, a cursor left blinking, hovering over a supplicating email.

“You doing all right there, Jon?” Georgie leaned in closer to him, eyebrows furrowed. “We should get Goldie inside soon. It’s awfully cold.”

He’d heard enough. Standing up without warning, Jon waited for the other two to follow suit.

There was a moment when nobody moved.

In a (in hindsight) hilarious attempt to force both Georgie and Martin up to their feet, Jon grabbed a hold of their collars and pulled, not too hard as to choke but enough to make his intentions known.

Jon advanced on Georgie first and threw his arms around her shoulders in a tight hug. This was familiar; this was safe. It took them a long time to return to a place where they would love each other like this after everything. He’d thought once that it would be impossible, too many misunderstandings and too much unintentional harm a seemingly unending flood under the bridge of their relationship, but here they were.

Pulling away slightly, Jon pressed a brief kiss to Georgie’s dry cheek, a pleasant contrast to their overwhelmingly wet surroundings. He stared deep into her eyes and said, "Thank you for your part in this, Georgie. For helping bring—heh—Goldie to us."

Eyebrows shockingly close to the edge of her hairline and eyes wide, she stuttered out, "Oh! Yeah, sure."

He turned on Martin next, who stood stock still close by, watching the scene with rapt attention.

“Martin.”

Jon didn’t give Martin a chance to respond, stealing his words with a kiss. Several kisses, really, all short and soft and sweet, with little regard for location. Nowhere was safe: Martin’s nose, cheek, temple, jaw, hair. All had kisses laid upon them in pretty short order.

As if just realizing he had an armful (and lipful) of Jon, Martin pulled him in closer. “What was that for?”

Jon let his smile take over his face. “For all the kindnesses you do me—big and small, extravagant and simple, whether you believe them to be or not.” And he pressed one more kiss on Martin’s forehead. “Thank you.”

“Oh,” he said. Wobbly, he continued, “Of course, Jon.”

Passersby walked around them. How Jon managed to forget this was a London street where people other than him, Martin, and Georgie existed was beyond him. He only noticed them at all because the chill of the languid London wind was starting to make a home in his bones. Better to work on getting everyone inside before the cold became too much.

“Where’s Melanie? I know she’d hate it, but I want to thank her as well.”

“Oh, Melanie would have loved to be here, if only to laugh at the hilarious conclusion of this rom-com movie plot we’ve all found ourselves in. But a meeting with one of the families she’s been working with ran late.” Melanie couldn’t talk too much about her work for fear of violating the confidentiality of the people she worked with, but from what Jon understood, she had essentially created a career adjacent to social work, in which she helped people living with the aftereffects of the fears’ full emergence reintegrate into society at large. She reasoned she was in a good position to help others shed the influence of the fears, given that she’d spent the last almost year before the Change doing the same.

Georgie clasped Jon’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, though! I’m going to be telling her a~all about this.”

“Are you trying to give me a coronary? Melanie can’t know I have feelings.”

Georgie threw her head back and laughed. “Consider it our payment for the invaluable advice we provided throughout this harrowing process that Melanie will get to tease you about how disgustingly cute you two are later.”

The two bickered for a little bit like this as the sun sank further further beneath the horizon, Martin occasionally chiming in with support for whomever would create the most chaos. He may have been the love of Jon’s life, but Martin could still be a little shit when the mood took him.

Georgie was right earlier. It was cold and starting to get colder, and, frankly, all Jon wanted to do right now was pet this cat that he was legally obligated to rename to something more dignified. Something like The Duchess or Empress Dowager Cat or something else of equal stature would do. He’ considered having Martin help him decide, but if “Goldie'' was anything to go by, then perhaps it’d be better to leave him out of the proceedings.

Starting to move the blanket away from Goldie’s carrier, Jon said, “It’s about time we brought her inside, don’t you think, Martin? I’d like to get her settled in before dinner.”

Georgie stayed a couple extra minutes to help get Goldie, some food she and Martin had picked up for her on the way back, and a few toys into the flat. Jon offered to walk her to the tube station, and Martin offered to drive her back to the flat she shared with Melanie, but Georgie refused both and sent the two of them on their way to go bond with their new furchild.

As Georgie rounded the corner of their block and left their sight, waving to them all the while, Jon and Martin returned to the warmth of their flat. And there she was, lying against the grate of the carrier, not a care in the world. He and Goldie would become fast friends, Jon was sure.

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

Outerwear hung up to dry and boots neatly sequestered on their drying mat, it was finally safe to allow Goldie to explore their flat, which she accomplished in approximately 5 seconds, zooming around from room to room in a series of excited dashes. She stopped in the middle of the living room floor and made several pointed sniffs into the air.

Martin looked over to where Jon stood; he looked positively gleeful with a loose fist poorly hiding a still obvious smile. Frizzy fly-away hairs haloed around his head with some plastered to his face and the rest of his black, silver mottled hair in a hastily-done up-do. It was well known that Jon's hair expanded a good thirty percent in moist air, and today was no exception. It was so charming, seeing this man so unguarded, so unmade compared to his historically meticulous appearance.

Choosing this moment of loving staring to make herself known once again, Goldie wound herself in around their legs in figure eights, rubbing her scent onto their closes and purring loudly. Jon couldn’t stop the high keening noise that escaped from his mouth.

"Are you all right over there, love?" Martin snickered.

"Quiet, you."

Jon turned to face him. It didn't happen too often, but every once in a while, Jon would gain an extra depth of color in a delicate line across his nose and cheekbones, a warmer brown than what otherwise lived there. Martin was wholly pleased to see the color now, and that it arose from something he helped make happen made his heart soar.

"This is your fault, you know," Jon said mildly.

"What's my fault?"

He huffed. "These entirely embarrassing reactions I'm having."

"Oh, is that all? Sorry that I can't find it myself to feel guilty, then. I happen to love all these embarrassing reactions you're having." Placing a kiss on Jon's temple, he continued, "You're adorable when you're like this, you know."

"I know you think that, you incorrigible man."

“You are!”

Jon laughed fondly at this. “There’s no sense in arguing with you about this, is there?”

“Not really!”

Seemingly sensing the end of their dispute, Goldie plopped herself down on Jon’s foot. It didn’t seem possible that she could purr any louder than she was a couple minutes ago, but Martin’s life had always taken one look at his expectations and summarily ignored them.

“Are you seeing this, Martin?” Jon whispered, the awe in his voice unmistakable. “Her Most Esteemed Empress Dowager Cat has deemed me worthy of her attention. I am honored to be in her presence.”

It took everything Martin had in him to not bark a laugh at that. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t quite hear you. What are we calling our cat?”

Their cat. Their cat that they’d be taking care of and cuddling together. Somehow the thought hadn’t occurred to him before, and it threatened to make him speechless now.

Jon muttered indignantly, “Like your name was any better.”

Martin gathered Jon into his arms easily, despite Jon’s defensive posture.

“Why don’t we come up with a proper name for her tomorrow. We’ll call her Goldie for now”—Jon started to protest, but Martin pushed on—“because that’s what she’s been answering to, but let’s just make dinner and enjoy her company tonight, hmm?”

A short moment later, Jon replied, “Yes, that sounds wonderful.”

They debated the relative merits of whipping up a quick curry versus spending a bit more time on a soup with a homemade broth and eventually decided on the former. The sounds of chopping potatoes and the clinking of glass jars containing garam masala, turmeric, red chili powder, cloves, star anise, and everything else necessary for aloo kurma spread throughout the flat. And if Goldie leapt onto the kitchen counter once or twice, knocking over bowls of ingredients and leaving inordinate amounts of fur in her wake, well. That was just fine with them.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #jmart #georgie barker #fanfiction #rosy cheekx #ombre answers #ombre writes #panic attacks #dissociation #friends tag #ombre writes fic

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oss-crime · 3 years

Text

Chapter 3-Project “Ma” –Adam–; Scene 6

Original Sin Story: Crime, pages 108-115

There were no complaints about Adam becoming the new director from about the ten other researchers there.

Adam’s knowledge and ability from being raised under Horus’ tutelage from a young age was something everyone had already seen for themselves.

Around this point Adam himself had developed an interest in the legacy pieces that were so filled with mystery, and even came to enjoy researching how to better use them.

But at the same time, he was also dejected that these would become tools for political conflict among those with authority.

Did Father feel the same way? Adam thought to himself.

The truth that Horus had told Adam before he left.

I’m…the son of the queen…

It continued to smolder in the corner of his heart.

One day, the man named Gammon who was head of the peacekeeping force visited the institute.

“I’m seeking Sir Horus’ whereabouts,” Gammon informed Adam.

Adam looked at him doubtfully. “I hardly think that’s the job of the chief of the peacekeeping forces. And my father left on his own, looking for a place to die.”

“Are you saying it’s uncouth of me to deliberately seek him out?”

“Yes. And he’s probably already…breathed his last.”

“If he’s dead then at the very least I want to have a proper mourning service for him, so that he might rest easy.”

Gammon’s reason for persisting on the matter with Horus—Adam knew quite well.

He took out the list of names from the drawer in his desk, and then opened up one of its pages to show Gammon.

--And then the other man understood everything.

“So you know. Of the relationship between Horus and I.”

“You were plotting with my father to start some kind of anti-government coup. I imagine it would be quite unfortunate for you if that went public.”

Even moreso considering Gammon was not only the head of the peacekeeping force but also the son of the senate head.

“Are you trying to threaten me?”

Gammon glowered at him, but Adam shook his head with a smirk.

“As-if. The existence of this list isn’t terribly convenient for me either.”

If the senate were to learn of his father’s true nature, it could very likely spell disaster for Adam.

Gammon seemed to grasp this, but he still showed no sign of relaxing the tension on his face.

“…Then I wonder which side you plan to stand on? Will you take on Sir Horus’ will, or—”

“Frankly, I haven’t decided yet. I did respect my father, but at the same time I also hated him. And there are…several things to consider, for me personally.”

“…?”

“Well, let’s try to get along, for now. Perhaps this may end up to be mutually agreeable for us both…Ah, would you like some coffee?”

Gammon wordlessly nodded at Adam’s suggestion.

Adam and Gammon would meet up from time to time after that.

As they moved ahead in their interactions, Adam came to learn more and more what kind of man this Gammon Loop Octopus was.

Despite being the eldest born son of the Loop Octopus family, as he was magically impotent he had been shunned by his father, and ultimately cast out of his inheritance.

Even so he tirelessly studied guns and swordsmanship, and managed to rise to the rank of chief of the peacekeeping forces.

However, at present it seemed he couldn’t hope to get any farther than that, after all…

More interestingly, despite being unable to use magic he had been born possessing a strange ability.

“—Every so often I see dreams. Purple dreams,” a red-faced Gammon had blurted out while they were drinking wine together at a bar. “And whatever I see in those dreams will come true a few days later.”

“Wow, so you’ve got prophetic dreams.”

“I guess I have the power of being an ‘Inheritor of Rahab’…To tell the truth, all the people of the Loop Octopus family have it to some degree or another—You know what that means?”

“Nnope…”

“The queen has her position by hearing the ‘voice of the gods’, and then telling it to people via a prophecy. But my family can predict the future too, though our methods may differ. In other words—”

And there Gammon drank up his wine, and said to Adam with resolve:

“—We don’t need a queen.”

“…”

So then, this must have been one of the reasons for Gammon’s anti-authority sentiments.

That there was no reason why a man like himself who has such powers…the same power that is needed for the ruler of this country, to be sputtering away at his current status.

He hadn’t declared it outright, but it sounded as though he was plotting to become the king of the country in place of the queen.

Adam hadn’t revealed to Gammon that he was the queen’s son. If he had known that, he probably wouldn’t have told Adam about his theory of her being unnecessary.

Adam was privately undecided on Gammon’s idea, but on the other hand he could empathize with it.

--The person who became ruler should be someone suited to the role.

All the people who live in this land are the children of god…How long would this country be bound by such a hackneyed doctrine?

What had the gods ever done for them?

Give prophecies through the queen?

But what truly saved this country were the devices born out of research into the legacy pieces…In other words, the efforts of the Royal Research Institute.

Wasn’t it time that Levianta took back the correct definition of “kingdom”?

The foundation of a royal family, and inheritance of the position based on bloodlines…

If that could come to pass there would be no more pointless squabbling within the senate.

--Then, who would be most suitable as the ruler of this country?

It would be someone who had had the blood of the current queen flowing through him, and had the most in-depth knowledge of the old artifacts that were so essential to this country…

Yes…me.

It was an outrageously ambitious idea.

There was no way it would go that smoothly, and Adam had no desire to bring about a pointless conflict to get it done.

But if I had the chance—

Gammon clapped Adam on the shoulder as he was lost in thought.

“Oi…You listening?”

“Y-yeah…Sorry. What was it again?”

“’Course you weren’t…This might be a crazy theory, but…” Gammon continued to speak, his tone shaky, “…My family can tell the future too…My Dad, Miroku, is the same. So, even if there were no queen…Even if, say, she’d died a long time ago, then no one would figure it out…”

“…Oh?”

“The queen hasn’t shown herself in public for close to twenty years.”

“That’s…because only the head of the senate is allowed to meet with her directly—”

“My father was the one who decided on that…after he became head of the senate…”

He could just say it was drunken nonsense and think nothing of it.

But if that were the truth…then that would mean that in essence Miroku was reigning over the country as its ruler.

…No, that’s an absurd notion.

His father had said it himself, hadn’t he?

The queen was being controlled with a drug.

If that were really the case, then Miroku would have no reason to kill his mother.

But…either way, the fact remains that Miroku is the one who holds all the power in this country.

He would need to meet with someone who knew the truth.

But Miroku himself would never confess to any of this.

This man here is his son, so maybe…No—if he could, he probably would have done it long ago.

Adam gave a side-eye to Gammon as he lay passed out on the floor from drink.

“Hmm…I suppose I should call it a night.”

Right as Adam put a hand on Gammon’s shoulder to wake him.

“My my. Are you…the head of the Royal Research Institute, perchance?”

There was someone approaching him, speaking up in a jovial tone.

“Yes, I am…--!?”

Adam caught his breath upon seeing this person’s face.

F-father…?

A man who looked just like Horus, who he had thought dead, stood smiling before him.

…But Adam quickly thought again.

This man appeared much younger than the real Horus.

Yes, he seemed about the same age as when Adam had first met Horus—when he had suddenly appeared there on the beach.

“Is there something on my face?” the bespectacled man asked, head tilting curiously.

“N-no…What business do you have with me?”

“Right. I was planning on going up to the institute tomorrow…What luck to run into you here in a place like this. That blue hair…I could tell it was you right away, you have those same features my mentor told me about.”

The man put his hands on his hips, and began his introduction.

“My name is Seth Twiright. I am the top apprentice of Horus Solntse—And the best scientist in this country.”

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