#i swear ill reply as soon as I return to tumblr | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bubonickitten · 3 years

Link

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: Jon and Basira make their way to Ny-Ålesund; Daisy and Martin have a long-overdue conversation.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 26: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief descriptions of Flesh-domain-typical imagery; discussion of police violence, intimidation tactics, & abuse of authority (re: Daisy’s past actions); mentions of canonical character deaths & murder; reference to a canonical instance of a character being outed (re: Jon’s coworkers gossiping about him being ace); allusions to childhood emotional neglect; a bit of internalized ableism re: ADHD symptoms; discussions of strict religious indoctrination; a physical altercation, including being restrained with a hold; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 26: Remains To Be Seen

The journey to Tromsø is… uneventful, comparatively speaking.

Almost worryingly so, Jon observes at one point.

You’re fretting because something hasn’t gone horribly wrong? Basira asks.

Aren’t you?

The tension in Basira’s shoulders is answer enough. They’re both on tenterhooks, all too aware of the dreadful species of things that lurk in the margins of the world, any number of which could be waiting in the wings for them.

That’s not to say there are no complications at all. There’s a learning curve to navigating the world blindfolded, but the two of them settle into something of a routine: Basira guiding Jon with a hand on his arm, talking him around obstacles, across gaps, and up and down stairs. An improvised system of nudges and taps develops organically over the course of their travels, starting when Basira realizes that Jon has trouble parsing her words over the noise of a crowd. It becomes their go-to mode of communication with surprising ease.

It’s an exercise in trust oddly refreshing in its mundanity.

Jon finds the blindfold comforting, in its own way: surreal, but somehow not as surreal as the evidence of normalcy all around him. Consistent, straightforward geography is disorientating enough after so long traversing a world knitted together by nightmare logic and allegory. Even more bewildering are the people. Throngs of them go about their day-to-day routines, each preoccupied with their own affairs, taking for granted their relative anonymity against the vast backdrop of the bustling world around them, secure in the privacy of their own thoughts – and blissfully unaware of the alternative.

This is how it should be, he admonishes himself in a weary refrain. People deserve ownership over their own minds, their stories, their secrets. The Archivist in him vehemently disagrees, of course. It’s exhausting, how relentlessly Jon has to challenge that instinctual voyeurism.

Prone to sensory overload, he’s always hated crowds: the noise, the flurry of movement, the press of bodies, the constant threat of unwanted touches, the lack of freedom to move at his own pace. Becoming the Archivist made the experience infinitely worse. The combination of the blindfold and Daisy’s noise-cancelling headphones does little to stem the tide of intrusive knowledge: random scraps of disconcerting trivia, a steady stream of morbid statistics, insights into the deep-seated anxieties of passersby – and, on a few occasions, the whisper of a story to be chronicled. At least the blindfold prevents him from inadvertently locking eyes with anyone.

They try to avoid traveling during peak commuting hours, but not every crowd can be evaded. The first time he wanders into the path of a potential statement giver, Jon nearly causes a pile-up in a congested station, stopping so abruptly in his tracks that the person in the queue behind him crashes headlong into him. Basira manages to catch him before he’s knocked off his feet, keeping a firm grasp on his arm when the panicked urge to flee overtakes him and nearly sends him careening blindly in the opposite direction. When a nearby stranger snipes at him for the nuisance, Jon is surprised at how immediately Basira leaps to his defense.

Back off, she says, the hint of a threat in her tone, before steering Jon out of the crowd and off to the side, where he can lean against the wall and catch his breath. She stands firm between him and the masses, diverting traffic and warding off anyone else who might seek a confrontation, giving him the sorely-needed time to compose himself. He’s certain that she’ll be cross with him after, but… she isn’t.

Tense, certainly. Concerned even. But criticism is bafflingly, mercifully absent.

There are a few more incidents after that, but none quite so dramatic. The instant he senses the Archivist in him stirring, he chokes out a warning to Basira, who turns out to be preternaturally adept at finding (or creating) spaces for him to recoup. With both of them on guard and communicating freely, they manage to avoid being in close quarters with anyone who might have a story to tell.

Tromsø offers a temporary reprieve from all of that. There are people, of course – it’s the busiest fishing port in Norway, the Eye interposes for the fourth time this hour. Jon takes an aggravated swipe at the empty air beside him, once again momentarily forgetting that there’s no pesky swarm of Watchers tagging along for this particular journey. Not visibly, at least.

Still, the open-air piers of a busy fishing port are a far cry from a densely-packed train. There’s a cargo ship scheduled to leave for Ny-Ålesund within the next hour, and Basira is further down the docks meeting with its captain to (hopefully) arrange for passage. Apparently Jon has earned some trust over the course of their travels, because she didn’t object when he requested to stay back and take a breather.

Although the docks of Tromsø bear little resemblance to the beaches of Bournemouth, the calls of seabirds are familiar enough to be meditative. Nostalgic, albeit in an uneasy, bittersweet way. His childhood was riddled enough with nightmares and alienation that thoughts of the place where he grew up are always laced with remembered horror and punctuated by a nebulous sense of grief for what could have been. If he never caught the Spider’s eye; if he never opened the book; if he wasn’t quite so demanding and easily bored and difficult to manage; if his eccentric reading habits were just a bit less finicky, even…

Left to his own devices, Jon could drown himself in what ifs.

A frigid gust of wind whips his hair about. When he reaches up to smooth it down, he finds it coarse from the brine-saturated breeze. Rubbing his fingertips together and grimacing at the faint gritty residue, Jon pulls Georgie’s scarf up over his nose to fend against the nip in the air and he turns his sight to the sky. It’s a stark, pallid grey, the kind of overcast that manages to be blinding-bright despite the sun’s concealment. The sight stings his eyes, but still he does not blink.

It should be exhilarating to look up and see nothing staring back. Instead, the sight fills him with… well, it’s difficult for him to define succinctly. Some peculiar species of dread, mingled with a disquieting, ill-defined sense of longing. Perhaps he’s simply becoming adrift in time again: remembering how it felt to look up at a Watching sky and hopelessly wish for a return to the world as it was, to clouds and stars and void. But he can’t shake the suspicion that it’s at least partly a monstrous yearning for the ruined future from which he came.

He doesn’t know what that says about him. Nothing good, probably.

You miss it, a gloating, sinister little voice concurs from one of the murky, thorny corners of Jon’s mind. You don’t belong here. You Know where you–

Jon’s phone dings several times, yanking him away from that ill-fated train of thought. Grateful for the interruption, he digs it out of his pocket, instantly brightening when Naomi’s name greets him and eagerly opening their text thread.

Jon is too busy smiling to himself to notice Basira’s approach.

“What’s – oh, sorry,” she says when he starts. “Keep expecting you to just sort of… Know I’m here.”

“The Eye doesn’t seem inclined to help me out on that front, unfortunately,” Jon says with an embarrassed chuckle. “If anything, my being jumpy probably feeds it.”

Basira glances down at his phone, then back up at him. “Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Naomi.” Jon’s grin returns. “All her texts from the last couple days just came through at once. She wants to know whether Krampus is real.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Haven’t replied just yet.”

“Oh.” Basira opens her mouth to say more, then promptly closes it.

A delighted smirk twitches into being at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Now you want to know as well, don’t you?”

Basira rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it. “Later. We have a boat to catch.”

When Jon reaches into his pocket to retrieve his blindfold, Basira shakes her head.

“Best not,” she says. “The captain agreed to take us, but she was leery about the whole thing. I don’t want to give her a reason to reconsider. The less suspicious we seem, the better.”

“Still getting odd stares, then?”

“Getting used to people looking at me like I’m transporting a hostage,” she replies with a tired, beleaguered smile. It fades into a frown as she looks him up and down, taking stock of his shaking hands and the way he leans heavily on his cane. “Alright?”

“A bit sore,” Jon admits, glancing down at his leg. “Probably just been putting weight on it for too long a stretch.”

“We should be able to sit soon. Until then, try not to fall.”

“Or freeze,” Jon says distractedly, glancing warily upwards again.

“Daisy says the cold always gets to her,” Basira says, quietly enough that Jon suspects it wasn’t meant for him. “Seriously, though – you alright? You keep staring at the sky like it’s going to crack open.”

“I’m fine.” Jon shuts his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. “Just… apprehensive.”

“Sense anything?” Despite her carefully bland tone, the crux of the question is clear.

“Nothing concrete.” No statement givers, he does not say – but Basira nods, understanding his meaning. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Come on, then.” She starts off down the dock – at a brisk pace at first, but slowing when she looks back to ensure that Jon is following and observes his stiffer, more deliberate gait.

He grimaces apologetically. Up until Jane Prentiss and her worms, he was inclined towards speed walking as much as Basira is. Always in a hurry to get nowhere at all, Georgie used to say, simultaneously lamenting and teasing. Not everyone is a power walker, Jon, Martin would gripe from time to time during the apocalypse.

Maybe some of us want to slow down and take in the scenery, he grumbled on one occasion, as they traipsed through a predictably grisly Flesh domain.

The forest of pulsating meat sculptures, you mean? Jon replied primly.

Oh, you’re telling me you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to stop and take notes on the ecology of flesh spiders?

Not as much as I want to get to a place where the ground isn’t a spongy skin trampoline.

Flesh domains always had a tendency to bring out the worst (best?) of their morbid humor, Jon notes upon reflection.

In any case, Jon has always had a tendency to hurry, too impatient to reach his destination to appreciate the journey. Internally, that impulse is still there. On good days, he can almost satisfy that restlessness. Today is not a good day.

Basira stops and waits. It’s a practice that has become second nature to her ever since Daisy emerged from the Buried: learning all the unspoken signals and warning signs of a bad pain day, from barely-suppressed winces and cold sweat to waspishness and stifled, winded breaths; gauging all the fickle fluctuations in mobility in real time through careful, constant observation; and discreetly adjusting her own walking pace to accommodate without question or complaint.

“You know, I haven’t spent much time on boats,” Basira says, apropos of nothing – probably to break the silence as she waits for Jon to catch up. “I’m hoping motion sickness during long car rides isn’t correlated with seasickness. Does the Eye have any statistics handy? Seems like it would qualify as terrible knowledge.”

“Let’s just say you should keep the Dramamine at the ready,” Jon says wryly as he reaches her position.

“Wonderful,” Basira sighs, and she resumes walking, this time matching Jon’s stride.

Martin will be the first to admit that, between the two of them, Jon doesn’t have a monopoly on obsessiveness.

Case in point: Jon and Basira have been gone for five days now, and – in between bouts of worrying over their safety and mounting apprehension about Peter’s inexplicable, persistent hiatus – Martin is still replaying everything he said and did in the moments leading up to Jon’s departure.

Or, more precisely, what he didn’t say.

Nearly two months have passed since Jon returned from the Buried. It’s been nice, it really has, spending time with him. He’s changed – How could he not have? – but he’s still Jon. Even more wounded and jaded than he was before – How much abuse can one person take? – but it hasn’t made him cruel or cold. Harder in some respects, to be sure – namely on himself.

Which is saying something, Martin thinks with a pang. In all the time that Martin has known him, Jon has never been kind to himself. It’s always been a struggle to convince him to take care of himself in the most basic of ways, let alone spare a thought for comfort.

But in other respects, Jon has grown softer. More open, more communicative – more trusting, somehow, despite this world and the next piling on reason after reason for him to detach and withdraw. Martin thinks about that every time the Lonely starts to whisper in his ear. The fog is still there, firmly planted in his mind, choking out his thoughts from time to time like an invasive weed. It won’t be easily uprooted. Seeing Jon alive and trying, reaching out, grasping at warmth, clinging to humanity with all his trademark stubbornness… it makes Martin want to try, too. It makes him want to hope, to look forward and see – to fight for – a future where things are better.

So, yes, Jon has changed. They both have.

I’m not the person you remember, Martin said the first time they spoke after Jon came back. I’m not the person you fell in love with.

Jon had locked eyes with him then, and Martin found that he could not look away.

Martin has spent the majority of his life walking a tightrope, striking an uneasy balance between competing instincts. The part of him that excels in flying under the radar takes comfort in being inconspicuous. There are people out there who see kindness as naivety and trust as a weakness to be exploited. The best way to avoid their notice is to avoid being seen at all, and Martin learned early on that to be unremarkable has its own advantages. All too often, to go unnoticed is to survive.

It isn’t enough to just survive, though, is it? Barely hidden underneath all the abysmal self-esteem and the carefully constructed mask of agreeability, there is a spark of indignation and outrage and want. To be seen is fundamentally terrifying; to demand acknowledgment is to welcome exposure. But Martin has always had a rebellious streak, carving out a space for itself amongst all the loneliness and fear and self-deprecation.

Look at me, it seethes. See me.

And when Jon did look at him – Saw him – an unmistakably pleased little voice jostled its way to the forefront to triumphantly declare, Finally.

Martin, I fell in love with this version of you, Jon said. With every version of you.

It was difficult to believe. Martin didn’t want to believe it. He was afraid to believe it. But he did, and he does, and he feels the same way, and he has for so, so long, and that defiant chip on his shoulder never truly let him forget it, even when isolation had him by the throat–

So why can’t you say it?

Since that day, it hasn’t come up again. Jon is affectionate, far more than Martin would have expected. Sure, Jon has always seemed more natural at expressing his feelings through actions rather than words, but Martin never imagined he would be so… well, cuddly. Jon always struck Martin as averse to touch, keeping people at arm’s length both figuratively and literally. He still is, sometimes. But more often than not, Martin gets the impression that Jon would cling like a limpet if given explicit permission. Martin doesn’t know whether that’s a new development, or whether it’s just that he now numbers among Jon’s rare exceptions.

Maybe I should ask Georgie, Martin thinks, only partly in jest.

There’s still a lingering hesitancy there, though. Yes, when Martin invites contact, Jon jumps at the opportunity to be close. Initiating, though… Jon doesn’t quite walk on eggshells per se, but he moves with a gentleness perhaps too gentle at times. Excessively tentative – but not subtle.

Martin long ago perfected the art of stealing furtive glances at Jon. It’s not difficult. Jon is prone to tunnel vision, predisposed to lose himself in his work or a book or his own mind until the rest of the world outside his narrow focus dissolves around him. If he ever noticed Martin’s eyes on him, Jon never called attention to it.

Jon’s staring doesn’t have the same finesse. His gaze is heavy. Concentrated, unwavering, penetrating – and Jon is painfully self-conscious about that. Prompt to stammer apologies whenever he’s caught watching, quick to avert his eyes. According to him, most people find the Archivist’s attention unnerving. Martin supposes it can be at times, but he’s long since become acclimated to it. Endeared to it, even. It’s grounding, despite how ruthlessly being Seen clashes with the Lonely aspects of Martin’s existence.

Maybe that disharmony is precisely why it’s grounding.

So Jon’s eyes flit to Martin whenever he thinks Martin isn’t looking, and cautious glimpses stretch into riveted, unconscious watching, and Martin graciously pretends not to notice. This has been the status quo for weeks now: faltering not-quite-touches and longing, not-so-surreptitious gazes, interspersed with understated handholding and a few sporadic sessions of what Martin can only call cuddling. All of it has been underscored by three simple words dangling in the scant expanse of empty space between them, waiting for acknowledgment.

Jon is waiting – waiting for Martin – and Jon… Jon has never been good at waiting, has he? Not like Martin. Jon’s directionless fidgeting and bitten-short declarations and absentminded stares betray his buzzing impatience despite his best efforts, but still he’s waiting, with as much valiant restraint as he can muster.

I love you. It’s a truth so obvious that speaking it aloud would hardly qualify as a confession. I love you, Martin thinks, and he feels it down to his bones, woven into the very atoms of him.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when it began. Early on, Martin only wanted to appear qualified to his new supervisor, then to impress him, then to prove him wrong – and then, eventually, to genuinely take care of him. Jon was in need of care, and resistant to receiving it, and that was familiar, wasn’t it? Maybe some desperate, stubborn part of Martin just wanted to be useful for once. To be seen. To succeed with Jon where he had failed with his mother.

Then Prentiss happened. Martin had been certain that Jon would dismiss Martin’s story, reprimand him for his prolonged absence, and snap at him to get back to work. And then… he didn’t.

Your safety is my responsibility, Jon said curtly, showing Martin to his new, hopefully temporary lodgings. I failed you, Jon’s contrite grimace read. I won’t fail you again. Then he immediately strode off to meet with Elias, leaving Martin loitering idly in Document Storage, speechless and bemused.

Maybe that’s where it started: Jon barging unannounced and uninvited into Elias’ office with brazen, unapologetic demands for safe haven and fire extinguishers and heightened security. He even went so far as to persistently badger Elias for customizations to the building’s sprinkler system. That tenacity may have been partly driven by guilt and obligation, but Martin swore he caught glimpses of something more from time to time. Something deeper and more personal, sympathetic and kind.

It started, as so many significant shifts do, with the small things.

Martin retired to Document Storage one night that first week to find extra blankets folded neatly at the end of his cot. I thought you might be cold, Jon admitted upon questioning. It can get chilly in here at night. The pressing question of exactly how many times Jon must have slept here overnight in order to know that was promptly crowded out by a vivid mental image of Jon wrestling a heavy quilt onto the Tube during the morning commuter rush. The thought brought a smile to Martin’s face. He said as much, and Jon immediately fabricated a clumsy excuse to exit the conversation.

On another occasion, Martin opened the break room cabinet to find his favorite tea restocked. He’d been putting off shopping, too anxious to leave the relative safety of the Institute’s walls. I noticed you were running low, Jon mumbled. And I was already at the store anyway, he added almost defensively, eyes narrowing in a stern glare to discourage comment – as if drawing attention to Jon’s random acts of kindness would destroy his curmudgeonly reputation.

Those circumspect displays of consideration were touching in their awkwardness. Jon was gruff and reticent, to be sure, but he cared, in his own unpracticed, idiosyncratic way. And one day, when Martin looked at him, he thought, I’d like to kiss him, and then: Oh no. Oh, fuck.

Jon never seemed to pick up on Martin’s feelings back then. But he knows now – not Knows, just knows – and, impossible as still seems, he returns those feelings. Jon said the words in no uncertain terms, left them in Martin’s care – and now he’s waiting for Martin to make the next move.

So why haven’t you? What are you waiting for?

“Want some tea?”

Martin jumps at the sound of Daisy’s voice.

“Sorry,” she snorts. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I –” Martin clears his throat, recovering. “Tea. Right. Uh, I can get it–”

“Let me. I need to stretch my legs anyway. And I wouldn’t want to interrupt your pining.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters.

“You haven’t turned the page in at least twenty minutes,” Daisy informs him, nodding at the statement resting on the table in front of him. “Liable to burn yourself on the kettle while you’re spacing out, fantasizing about snogging Jon or whatever.”

“Wh– I – you – I’m – why would–”

“Don’t know why you’re being so coy about it.” Her blasé shrug is offset by the devious grin on her face. “Not like it’s a secret you’re on kissing terms.”

“We… we haven’t,” Martin blurts out, heat rising in his cheeks. Immediately, he kicks himself. Given what he knows of Daisy, there’s no avoiding an interrogation now.

“You – wait, really?” Daisy raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“It just hasn’t – I – it’s really none of your–” Martin huffs, flustered. “I don’t even know if he does that.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“B-because, he…”

Because Martin has a tendency to fade into the background, and people will say a lot of things when they assume no one else is in earshot.

Do you know if he and Jon ever…

No clue, and not interested! Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Like, at all?

Yeah.

Martin cringes at the memory. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He still wishes he hadn’t overheard. Jon was always so tight-lipped about his personal life back then. It felt like a violation of his privacy, knowing something that he would in all likelihood have preferred to keep to himself and share only at his own discretion. Martin tried to put it out of his head, to avoid thinking too hard on the specifics of what Jon “doesn’t” – and, conversely, what he maybe, possibly does – but, well…

Martin shakes his head to clear his thoughts before they can meander any further into the realm of imagination. In any case, he certainly isn’t about to repeat that piece of gossip to Daisy now.

“I – I just don’t want to assume,” he says instead.

Daisy tilts her head, considering. “Well, have you asked him?”

“W-well, no.”

“Why not? Sure, some people aren’t into kissing, I guess, but I doubt he’d mind you asking. Even if the answer is ‘no,’ I guarantee he wants to be close in other ways.” At Martin’s lack of response, Daisy heaves an exaggerated sigh. “He reaches for you every time you’re not looking, you know. Always fidgeting with his hands, like he wants to touch but he doesn’t know how to ask. He’s as bad as you are, pining face and all.”

“I do not have a ‘pining face,’” Martin says. “If you must know, I was worrying just now.”

“You definitely have a pining face, and it’s different from your worried face. When you’re worried, you get all scowly and you chew your lip bloody. You’re focused, intense. When you’re pining, you get this faraway look to you, like you’re not taking anything in. And you touch your fingers to your lips a lot – yeah, like that.”

Martin yanks his fingers away from his mouth as if scalded, glowering indignantly at an increasingly smug Daisy. “What are you, a mentalist?”

“I’ve gotten used to reading people – picking up on openings, weak spots, stress signals, you know. Don’t know whether that’s a Hunt thing or a me thing. Both, maybe.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, you went from worried to pining about ten minutes ago now. And Jon, he’s even easier to read than you are. He’s so far gone for you, I can tease him mercilessly about it and never get a rise out of him. Even when I can get him to bat an eye, he never does that… that flustered denial thing he usually does when you hit a nerve. He just goes all… soft and wistful. Retreats into his own head, gets that smitten little smile – you know the one?”

“Yes.” Martin is blushing furiously now, he’s certain. Daisy flashes him another knowing, unabashedly victorious smirk.

“Point is, our lives are messed up, water is wet, and Jon Sims loves cats and Martin Blackwood, but he’s terrified of crossing some invisible line, so instead he’s just openly pining and it isn’t even fun to tease him about it because he’s too lovestruck to be properly embarrassed about it.” Daisy pauses for a breath. “So, if you want to kiss Jon, you should ask him, because I doubt he’s going to make the first move anytime soon, and it’s getting ridiculous watching the two of you tiptoe around the elephant in the room. So what are you waiting for?”

“How is any of this your business, anyway?” Martin snaps.

“Well, seeing as Jon’s my friend–”

That strikes a nerve, and Martin is reacting before he can properly evaluate the feeling.

“Okay, yeah, about that,” he says sharply. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Well, all you wanted to do before was hunt him down and hurt him.” Instantaneously, Daisy’s playful demeanor evaporates. “Even after Elias blackmailed you into working for him, you still looked at Jon like he wasn’t human. Not even a monster, either, just – just something you wanted to tear apart, just because you wanted to see him afraid. And now all of a sudden you’re friends? I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Jon’s willing to overlook a murder attempt. He… he has so little respect for himself, his standards are so…” Martin captures his lower lip between his teeth and bites down until it aches. “He’s so used to being treated badly, the bar is six feet below ground.”

“Yeah,” Daisy whispers.

“But – but what I can’t figure out is what your angle is. You wanted to hurt him, you did hurt him – he still has a scar from where you held a knife to his throat. You would’ve killed him if Basira didn’t stop you.”

“I–”

“He was so afraid of disappearing without a trace, did you know that?” Martin interjects, his face growing hotter as over a year’s worth of pent-up fury boils to the surface.

Martin has read enough statements to know that even one of the encounters representative of the Institute’s collection is one traumatic experience too many. Even so, it’s only a small fraction of the horror stories that have plagued humanity throughout history – that continue to unfold in the present day. How many people suffer something horrible and don’t live long enough to tell the story? The Archive, chock-full of terror though it may be, is an ongoing study in survivorship bias.

“When Prentiss attacked the Institute,” Martin fumes, “Jon was more afraid of that – of leaving nothing behind – than he was of dying. You were going to bury him where no one would ever find him, and no one would ever know what happened to him, and now… now you say you want to be his friend, like nothing ever happened? And I’m supposed to just trust you?”

For a long minute, the only sound is Martin’s rapid, heavy breathing. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Combativeness, maybe. For Daisy to get her hackles up, to defend herself against Martin’s implications, to take offense to his accusatory tone. Instead, her entire posture wilts and her shoulders curl inward. It’s as if an invisible weight is pressing against her on all sides, crushing her into something small and taut.

“I guess we’re doing this now, then,” she mumbles.

“Guess we are,” Martin says stiffly, one foot tapping frenetically against the floor as his agitation continues creeping ever upward.

Daisy nods and releases a heavy exhale. “This isn’t just about Jon, is it?”

“I…” Martin trails off as he considers the question. “No. I guess it’s not.”

“Well.” Daisy rubs at her upper arms, eyes fixed on the floor. “Go on.”

“When you questioned all of us – when you interrogated me, you didn’t – you didn’t actually want to find out the truth. You just wanted to get to Jon, because you assumed he was guilty, and…” Martin huffs. “No, it wasn’t even about guilt, was it? You didn’t care about solving Leitner’s murder, you didn’t care about finding Sasha – she could’ve still been alive for all we knew at the time, but you didn’t care whether she was in danger, whether she could be saved. And – and even if we did have proof that she was dead, we deserved to know what happened to her. She deserved better than to be a mystery.”

“You’re right.” Daisy’s soft agreement does nothing to temper Martin’s burgeoning wrath.

“She was my friend, you know that? She was my friend, and you just – dismissed her, like she wasn’t worth remembering, like her life was some – some trivial detail. I didn’t know whether to be afraid for her or – or – or to mourn for her, and all you had to offer was, ‘Jon probably killed her, tell me where he is or else.’ You were a detective, you were supposed to help, but all you cared about was getting to Jon, and you – you – you threatened me because you thought I could tell you where to find him. That you could use me to hurt him.” Martin breathes a bitter chuckle. “I guess Jon was right not to trust the police to figure out what happened to Gertrude.”

Daisy doesn’t deny it.

“So… yeah.” Martin shrugs as his rant tapers off. “That’s where I am, I guess. I know you’ve changed – haven’t we all – but… every time I see you near Jon, there’s a part of me that panics. Maybe I’m not being fair, but I – I can’t forget. I don’t know how to feel.”

Daisy is quiet for a long minute, fingers digging into her arms now, a pained expression lingering on her face.

“I’ve done… a lot of things I’m not proud of,” she says slowly. “Hurt a lot of people. Most more than they deserved. Many who didn’t deserve it at all. Can’t even make apologies to most of them, let alone make amends. I don’t even know if I could make amends. Some things are unforgivable.”

It doesn’t undo what I did, Jon’s voice plays in Martin’s mind. I can’t erase it.

“You should know,” Daisy says, “complete lack of self-respect aside, Jon doesn’t… he doesn’t overlook what I did.”

“What?”

“He knows what I am. What I’ve done. He doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not, he doesn’t lie to me about what I could become, he doesn’t offer me forgiveness that I don’t deserve, but he still… he still doesn’t expect the worst from me, either. He expects me to make the right choice, even though I gave him every reason not to trust me.”

“He’s still too forgiving,” Martin mutters.

“That’s another thing. I… I don’t think he does. Forgive me, that is.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Because you’re afraid to know the answer?” Maybe that’s uncharitable, but Martin never claimed to be an easily forgiving soul. Most people wouldn’t assume it at first glance, but he’s always had a tendency to nurse a grudge.

Daisy hunches even further, her shoulders drawing in tighter.

“Because if he did forgive me, he would tell me,” she says, her throat bobbing as she struggles to swallow. “But he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t, and he shouldn’t, and I’m not going to put him in a position where he has to justify himself, or sugarcoat it, or comfort me for what I did to him.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that.

“And the same goes for you.” Daisy steals a quick glimpse at Martin before lowering her head again. “I won’t ask you to forgive me. Ever. But I am sorry – for how I treated you, for what I did to Jon. I’ll never stop being sorry. That doesn’t make it better, I know. But I want to do better. I’m trying to be better. Too little too late, maybe, but I won’t go back to how I was before. I can’t take it all back, but I can at least make sure I don’t hurt anyone else.”

“You sound like Jon.”

“First and second place for guiltiest conscience, us,” Daisy says with a tired chuckle. “And I don’t know which of us is in first.” She sighs. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I do see Jon as a friend. Not just because I’m sorry, or because he saved me, or because I owe him, but because he… well, he sees me as I am, and he sees me for who I want to be, and he doesn’t see those as mutually exclusive, but he also doesn’t deny the contradiction.”

“Wish he could apply the same logic to himself.”

“Yeah. He’s an absolute mess of double standards. Best we can do is call him on it at every opportunity. Maybe eventually he’ll get it through his head.”

“Yeah,” Martin scoffs. “Maybe.”

“Anyway,” she says, “I care about him, and he cares about you, so…”

“So you thought you’d appoint yourself his wingman?”

“Maybe a little.” Daisy gives him a hesitant, sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Martin sighs. The resentment is still there, but he does feel a bit lighter after getting it all out in the open. Besides, he's so emotionally drained from his outburst, he can’t quite work up the energy for mild annoyance right this moment.

“Well, in that case – if you want to kiss him, you should ask. That’s all I’m saying,” Daisy says hurriedly, holding up her palms in a placating gesture when Martin gives her a tired glare. “I’ll drop it now. I meant it when I said I wanted tea.”

Daisy winces as she rises to her feet.

“And I meant it when I said I can get it,” Martin says.

“I’ve got it.”

“Then at least let me come along and–”

“Uh, no.” Daisy gives him a quelling look. “Jon warned me about how you are with tea.”

“What?”

“Says you’re a micromanager.”

“He what?” Martin demands.

“Okay, he didn’t say it like that. Actually, I think the word he used was persnickety.”

“Oh, as if he has room to talk,” Martin mutters. “He’s just miffed that I caught him microwaving tea once and I refuse to let him live it down.”

“What’s wrong with microwaving tea?” Martin recoils, affronted – and then Daisy snorts. “Settle down. I’m just messing with you.” She starts to leave, pausing only briefly to glance over her shoulder. “I won’t be long. Yell if Peter decides to finally show his face.”

“Will do,” Martin groans, reluctantly returning to the statement in front of him. Yet another alleged Extinction sighting, courtesy of Peter, for Martin to dutifully pretend to research.

Stringing Peter along is the best way Martin knows to keep in check. In that sense, it’s an important job – one only Martin can do. Nonetheless, it’s reminiscent of how it felt to be left behind when the others went to stop the Unknowing. Distracting Elias was important, sure, and dangerous in its own way, but it wasn’t exactly on the same level as storming the Circus to stop the apocalypse. Comparatively, Martin felt useless.

Now, with Basira and Jon off on their mission, Martin is beset by a similar sense of futility. There’s certainly enough work to keep him busy, given that Peter delegates most of his job responsibilities to Martin. (Martin is fairly certain that, fraudulent CV or not, he’s more qualified to run the Institute at this point than Peter is.) Performing routine administrative duties can be a boring and demoralizing enough endeavor in the context of a mundane underpaid office job; doing so in service to an unfathomable cosmic evil is, to put it mildly, soul-destroying. Perhaps in a literal sense, as far as Martin knows.

That’s not to mention the customary gloom that comes with reading account after dreadful account of senseless, indiscriminate suffering.

Martin wishes there was something practical he could do, is his point. Patient though he may be, indefinite waiting is less tolerable when what he’s waiting for is the other shoe to drop, so to speak. He has no desire to interact with Peter in any capacity, but the longer he remains scarce, the more Martin’s trepidation soars.

There’s no way Peter has conceded his bet with Jonah, but there’s no telling whether he’s simply biding his time and observing how events unfold, actively plotting his next moves, or already enacting an revised scheme from the shadows. Regardless, he’s a clear and present danger for as long as he’s around. He may not be hasty, but he’s still a wildcard. Jon told Martin about the last time: how Peter released the NotThem to rampage through the Institute, solely for the sake of causing a distraction. As long as he has The Seven Lamps of Architecture in his possession, he–

Oh.

Martin smiles to himself. Maybe there is something more he can do.

The warehouse is, unsurprisingly, dark. Even with the door propped open, the daylight filtering through illuminates a radius of only a few yards before it’s swallowed by unnatural gloom. As Jon and Basira move further into the cavernous space, the beams of their torches barely penetrate the velvety murk.

“Any idea where she is?” Basira whispers from Jon’s left.

“Waiting in ambush, I assume. I can’t See much of anything.”

“See or See?”

“Either. Both.”

“And you’re certain that applies to Elias as well? He won’t be able to See us here?”

“Positive,” Jon says. “The Dark has–”

An enraged bellow sounds out from behind them. Basira’s torch clatters to the concrete floor, its light promptly extinguished as the casing cracks and the batteries come loose. In a flash, Basira is on the ground, locked in a furious scuffle with–

“Manuela Dominguez!” Jon says. Manuela looks up reflexively, surprised to hear her name. It’s all the opening Basira needs to gain the upper hand, grappling Manuela into a prone position on the floor and pinning her in place with a wristlock. Manuela cries out in pain, but her wild thrashing continues unabated.

“Jon,” Basira grunts, increasingly winded as Manuela attempts to break the hold. “A little help?”

“Manuela, listen, we – we’re just here to talk–”

Manuela briefly pauses in her struggling to spit at Jon’s feet. Funny, how some details remain the same. A second later, she’s resisting again, now attempting to twist around and bite at whatever exposed skin she can find.

“Stop.”

The command crackles up Jon’s throat and sparks off the tip of his tongue like a static shock, hundreds of iterations of the word coinciding. The air itself seems to quake with the force of it, and Jon is left shivering in its wake.

So, it seems, is Manuela: her voice shudders out of her when she speaks.

“Who are you?” she hisses. “What do you want?”

“To make a deal,” Jon says, the words slightly slurred.

“Why would I deal with you?” In the flickering glow of his torchlight, Jon can see the baleful glint in Manuela’s eyes. “You’re of the Eye, aren’t you? What could you even possibly want? You’ve already taken everything – you lot and your Archivist. Where is she, anyway?” Manuela makes a show of scanning the room as best she can, pinioned as she is. “Too much of a coward to witness the wreckage she’s wrought?”

“Gertrude is dead,” Basira says.

“Stopping us took everything she had, then.” Manuela smirks. “Serves her right.”

“You wish,” Basira scoffs. “She was murdered. Completely unrelated.”

“That’s –” Manuela’s smug expression vanishes. “Who–?”

“Elias,” Jon says. “She was too much of a thorn in his side. Too much of a force to be reckoned with.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you,” Jon says. “We want to make a deal. A temporary alliance.”

“An alliance?” Manuela repeats. What starts as a weak, dismissive laugh dissolves into a wheeze.

“We have a mutual enemy.” Manuela’s eyes narrow in something more like curiosity now. “I take it I’ve piqued your interest. Will you hear us out?”

Manuela deliberates for a protracted moment, torn between rebellion and intrigue. “Let me up.”

“What, so you can throw more punches?” Basira says.

“It’s fine, Basira,” Jon says. Manuela is still seething with defiance. The more powerless she feels, the less open she’ll be to negotiation. Better to make a few concessions and let her feel some control over the situation.

Judging from her furrowed brow, Basira is running through the same calculations. She hesitates a moment longer before sighing, releasing her hold, and standing. Manuela staggers to her feet and backs away several steps, brushing herself off and panting shallowly as she catches her breath.

“Did you come here alone?” she asks, massaging her abused wrist as her suspicious gaze flits back and forth between Basira and Jon. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes,” Jon answers. Basira shakes her head with an impatient tsk – which Jon interprets as something like stop volunteering free information to every Avatar you parley with, Jon. “Like I said, we’re just here to talk. And to offer you the opportunity for revenge.”

“What revenge? Gertrude is dead,” Manuela spits out. “Who else is there? Her replacement?”

“I’m her replacement.”

With that, Manuela lunges in Jon’s direction. Basira swiftly moves to intercept her, but Manuela stops in her tracks before Basira can grab her. A tension-filled standoff ensues, the two of them eyeing each other warily. After nearly a full minute, Basira seems satisfied enough that the situation has been defused to take her eyes off Manuela and treat Jon to an exasperated glare.

“Do you have to antagonize every single person who wants to kill you?” she scolds.

Jon ignores her grievance in favor of addressing Manuela directly: “You wouldn’t have any luck killing me.”

Basira dips her head down and plants the heel of her hand on her forehead, grumbling under her breath. It’s mostly unintelligible, but Jon thinks he can make out the words fuck’s sake somewhere in there.

“I could try,” Manuela snarls. Her hands ball into tighter fists, trembling with rage at her sides, but she continues to stand her ground.

“You could,” Jon says mildly. “And you would fail.”

“You’ll just compel me, you mean.”

“I could.” He would rather avoid it if possible, but Manuela doesn’t need to know that. He can only hope she can’t tell just how much he’s only pretending at nerve. “Or, you can listen to what we have to say. Gertrude is dead, and lashing out at me isn’t going to satisfy your thirst for revenge. We can offer up a more satisfying target.”

“Unless you have a way for me to unmake the Power your Archivist served.” When Jon doesn’t deny it, Manuela lets out another harsh, scornful laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Well – arguably, Gertrude didn’t serve the Eye. She followed her own path.” Manuela breathes a derisive huff. “Like her or not, she did. Formidable as she was, none of that was due to the Beholding’s favor. That was all her. She never embraced the power it promised – not like most Archivists do. Striking a blow against the Eye wouldn’t be an insult to Gertrude’s memory. If anything, it would do her proud.”

“Killing it with the sales pitch,” Basira carps.

“But the head of the Institute does serve the Eye,” Jon presses on, “and he’s the one responsible for appointing Gertrude the Archivist in the first place. Hurt the Eye, and you hurt him.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Manuela says, bristling. “Your patron may pale in comparison to my god, but I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I would stand a chance of vanquishing it.”

“We can’t vanquish it, no. But we could destroy the Institute that serves it. Same as happened to the Dark’s faithful.”

“An eye for an eye,” Basira adds.

“Well, you’ve wasted your time coming all this way.” Manuela’s disparaging chuckle gets caught in her throat. “I’m the only one here. An abandoned disciple, guarding a lost cause. There’s nothing left of our former power.”

“The Dark Sun,” Basira says.

Manuela tenses. Then her shoulders slump, weighed down by dawning, solemn resignation.

“Of course,” she says bitterly. “It isn’t enough to decimate our numbers. You need to steal the only remnant of our crusade.”

“We’re giving you the opportunity to reclaim its purpose,” Jon says. “Or would you rather it rot away here, diminishing until it collapses in on itself?”

Manuela is silent for a long minute, a shrewd look in her eye. “Why would you want to betray your god?”

“The Beholding isn’t my god,” Jon says. “I’m not a willing convert. I was drafted into someone else’s crusade without my consent – and you know what that’s like, don’t you?”

Manuela just scowls.

“I Know your story.” Jon’s voice turns sibilant with power as the Archive rears its head. “Indoctrinated into a faith that never spoke to you –”

“– brought up to believe in the light of God, his radiant, illuminating presence –”

“Shut up,” Manuela says in a low growl.

“– deep down they were vicious, spiteful people who used their faith to hurt others, and I fondly imagined them discovering themselves in an afterlife other than the one they had assumed was their destination – I broke with them as soon as I could –”

“Jon,” Basira interrupts. The firm squeeze of her hand on his shoulder is enough to snap him out of his shallow trance. She jerks her head at Manuela, who looks about ready to charge him again. “Maybe not the time?”

“S-sorry,” he gasps. He shakes his head to clear the residual static clouding his thoughts before looking back to Manuela with genuine contrition. “Didn’t mean to do that, I swear. I only meant to say that I – I read the statement you gave to Gertrude. I know that your parents were zealots. They envisioned a perfect world that seemed to you like hell on earth, and you did everything you could to rebel against their arrogance. To spite the god they worshiped. We have some common ground there, you and I.”

Granted, Jon didn’t grow up in a religious household. His grandmother was content to let him explore – and he did.

Even as a child, he had an inclination for research. A topic would catch his attention and he would voraciously seek out as much information as he could. His grandmother didn’t take much interest in the content of those fixations, but she did encourage them as a general principle. Not with overt praise, necessarily, but by facilitating his endeavors: procuring reading material on the obsession of the month, escorting him to the library every so often and allowing him to max out his card. He suspects now that she was simply grateful for some way to occupy his attention. If his nose was in a book, he was keeping out of trouble.

He never told her how wrong she turned out to be.

In any case, one of his many early “phases,” as she liked to call them, was comparative religion. Part of it was simple curiosity. Part of it was a genuine desire to find something to believe: some conception of the afterlife that would resonate with him, some straightforward framework for understanding the world, some sort of certainty to assuage his fear of the unknown. His grandmother never seemed to care whether he found what he was looking for. She never really asked.

It was for the best. He never liked admitting defeat. Not back then.

They returned all the books to the library on the day they were due, and Jon brought home a new haul, this one centered around the field of oceanography. The seas were brimming with mystery, but at least there was a very real possibility of turning those unknowns into knowns. New discoveries were being made every day, newer and newer technology being developed to push the boundaries of that knowledge. There were sure answers, and they could be grasped, so long as humanity could invent the right tools for the job.

Still, Jon found himself envying people of faith from time to time. Sometimes he wished he had someone to point him in some sort of direction, like many other children seemed to have. But hearing of Manuela’s upbringing… well, if Jon was forced to choose between extremes, he has to admit that he prefers the complete lack of guidance he received as opposed to strict proselytization. His grandmother may not have shown interest in his opinions, but at least she gave him the freedom to come to his own conclusions. She may not have had reassurances to offer, but at least she didn’t foist upon him a worldview that made no place for him in it.

“It’s not the same thing as childhood indoctrination,” he tells Manuela, “but… becoming the Archivist – it was like being drafted into the service of a god that I never would have chosen for myself. Had Elias told me the terms, I never would have signed the contract.”

“I take it he didn’t tell you beforehand that he murdered your predecessor?”

“That I had to find out the hard way, unfortunately.”

“So you’re saying you’re not so much a traitor to your faith as you are a disgruntled employee.”

“Elias is my boss. Is that a trick question?” Jon is surprised to hear Manuela give an amused snort. “But yes. I’d like to… tender my resignation, so to speak.”

Manuela scrutinizes him intently, as if trying to solve a riddle. “You would give up your power?”

“I don’t want it,” Jon says truthfully.

If he’s perfectly honest with himself, there was a time that at least some aspects of that power were alluring. There was something intoxicating and liberating about being able to ask a question and not only receive a guaranteed answer, but be certain he wasn’t being presented with an outright lie – especially after spending so many months beholden to unchecked paranoia, distrust, and frantic, futile investigation.

But there was never anything benign or inconsequential about invading a victim’s privacy or compelling someone to surrender a secret, no matter how he tried to justify it to himself. Even if there was, even if it wasn’t both reprehensible in principle and harmful in practice, it still wouldn’t be worth the irrevocable costs.

“I want out,” he says, “and if getting out isn’t an option, then I at least want Elias to know what it is to be offered up to a god inimical to every atom of his existence. I thought you might be able to assist with that.”

“How?”

“The Institute is a seat of power for the Beholding,” Basira says. “If we introduce it to your Dark Sun…”

“A mote in the Eye,” Manuela says, intrigued. Her attention swivels back to Jon. “Do you Know what would happen?”

“No,” he says. “But I imagine it will hurt.”

“And then what? What happens after? You let me pack up my relic and walk away?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Manuela says.

“You don’t pose an existential threat,” Jon says with a shrug. “I have no doubt that the Dark will attempt another Ritual someday, but it won’t happen in our lifetimes. We have no qualms letting you walk away after our alliance is finished.”

“And the Dark Sun?” Manuela presses.

“I don’t know what condition it will be in after exposure to the Eye,” Jon admits. “But you’re free to do as you wish with it after. We won’t stop you.”

So she can hurt more people, Jon’s battered conscience chimes in.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I walk in there right now, Behold it, and destroy it entirely.” It comes out sounding more menacing than Jon had initially intended, but maybe that’s not a bad thing, given the way Manuela freezes up.

“You wouldn’t survive.” Manuela sounds far from certain.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But your Sun certainly wouldn’t.” Jon pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “Do you want to see its potential wasted here and now, or do you want to make all that sacrifice worth something?”

“If you’re so certain you have the upper hand, what’s stopping you from just taking it, then?”

“I’m not its engineer or its keeper. I wouldn’t even Know how to safely transport it. Too many unknown variables.”

“So you need me.”

“Yes. Beneath the Institute, there’s a… a sanctum of the Eye. A place of power, like Ny-Ålesund is for your patron. If you can bring the Dark Sun there, I… well, I’m hoping it will sever the Eye’s connection to that place. Destroy the Institute.”

“How would that work?”

“I’m… not certain,” Jon confesses. “Call it a… a hunch.”

“There’s precedent,” Basira says. “We found a statement that hinted at worshipers of the Dark destroying a temple to the Eye in 4th century Alexandria.”

Manuela’s eyes light up with interest. “How?”

“We don’t know,” Jon says.

“Oh, right. Foolish of me to ask,” Manuela says pertly. “Why would I expect you to know things? It’s only the entire point of you.”

“I never claimed to be good at my job,” Jon retorts. “Look, maybe I don’t Know exactly what will happen, but a focus of the Dark should hurt the Eye in some capacity, I think.”

“You think,” Manuela mutters under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear the derision in her tone.

“Whatever happens, it’ll be more satisfying than anything you’ve got going on here,” Basira points out.

Manuela barks out a contemptuous laugh. “You don’t even have the shadow of a plan!”

“We… haven’t ironed out the details, no.” Jon rubs the back of his neck, chagrinned. “We figured that if you did agree to an alliance, you would want to be part of the actual planning process.”

“And if you don’t cooperate, it’s a moot point,” Basira says.

“Also, I was… I suppose I was hoping you could offer insight,” Jon says. “The Dark is something of a blind spot for me, shockingly.” Manuela shoots him a withering look. “So even if I had any clue how to wield the Dark Sun, I wouldn’t be able to channel its full potential. Not like you could.”

“That much is obvious,” Manuela sneers, teeth gleaming in the torchlight as her lips stretch in a taut, wolfish grin. “You Beholding types always assume that knowledge is synonymous with control. Putting yourselves on the level of Powers greater than any mortal, assuming insight into things you could not possibly understand… you fly too close to the sun and then have the gall to indulge in outrage when you burn.”

We didn’t come here for a sermon, Jon almost says, but he bites his tongue.

“But I accept that I am a supplicant, not a god,” Manuela says, reverence seeping into her tone to supplant the reproach. “It’s pure hubris to assume that you could wield the Black Sun like a tool. It’s a communion, and only those with true and dutiful faith could ever hope to win its favor. Approach it with anything less than respect and devotion, and it will devour you.”

“If you’re done pontificating?” Basira says. She doesn’t give Manuela an opening to respond. “We’re well aware that we stand no chance of wielding–” Manuela looks up sharply, and Basira hastily corrects herself. “Fine – communing with the Dark Sun ourselves. That’s why we’re looking for an alliance rather than just taking it.”

“Do you think you could–” Jon pauses as he searches for a way to phrase his question that won’t unleash another tirade. “Would you be able to arrange for the Dark Sun to be brought into the Eye’s stronghold? Expose them to one another, let them… I don’t know – have it out with each other?”

“I’m capable of bringing it to London, if that’s what you’re asking,” Manuela says primly. “But it would be at a disadvantage on the Beholding’s home turf. If – if – I were willing to test this hypothesis, I would only do so on the condition that I could level the playing field as much as possible. Wait for ideal circumstances, as it were.”

“Which would be…?” Basira asks.

“The winter solstice. The Dark Sun will be the strongest on the night of the winter solstice.”

“That’s months from now,” Basira protests. “Can’t you just –”

“Ideally, I would insist on a total solar eclipse,” Manuela snaps, “but it will be quite some time before London witnesses another. Not until 2090.”

“Looking ahead, are you?” Basira asks.

“It is likely the soonest opportunity for another attempt at a Ritual.” Manuela pretends at nonchalance with a shrug, but she can’t quite conceal her profound disappointment as her voice grows measurably more subdued. “It gives me ample time to study our failure. To discover what went wrong.”

“To refine your Ritual, you mean.”

“There will always be faithful to take up the mantle,” Manuela says, her chin lifting marginally in defiance as she stares Basira down.

“But you won’t be around to see it.” Basira meets Manuela’s eyes with equal nerve. Jon remains silent, looking from one to the other as they face off against one another.

“No,” Manuela replies evenly. “I’ll have to settle for passing on my findings to those who come after. Leave behind a legacy to guide their steps.”

“In the meantime, the Dark Sun will stagnate,” Jon chimes in. It’s a bluff, of course: he has no idea whether or not it’s true. Judging from the unsettled look on Manuela’s face, neither does she. Jon latches onto that uncertainty, carefully twisting the knife just a little further: “Or, you could let it serve a purpose.”

“Its purpose was to usher in a world of true and holy Darkness,” Manuela says acidly. “You’re proposing I give it scraps.”

“Like it or not, you can’t give it the apocalypse it was promised,” Jon says.

Manuela’s fingers flex and clench back into fists. Jon suspects she would love nothing more than to wring his neck. She’s a truth seeker at heart, though. Ambitious, rebellious – idealistic even, albeit in a twisted sort of way, harboring an aspiration that most would rightfully find horrific. Adept at detecting and exploiting the more malleable aspects of material reality where possible, infusing the scientific method with just enough magical thinking to bend natural laws.

However, there are some truths that even she cannot deny, and she isn’t the type to ignore a certainty when it’s right in front of her face. And so, despite the unconcealed vitriol in her eyes and the contrariness sitting at the tip of her tongue, she does not deny his assertion.

“But it can still pay tribute to your god,” Jon coaxes, striving to stop short of needling. It’s a razor’s edge he’s always struggled to walk, but Manuela is still right there with him, toeing the line. “It’s better than nothing at all.”

Manuela directs a venomous glower towards the floor as she vacillates between summary dismissal and the temptation of vengeance. Basira side-eyes Jon as the standstill stretches from seconds into minutes, but all Jon can offer her is an awkward shrug. The ball is in Manuela’s court, and it seems she has no qualms leaving them in indefinite suspense as she painstakingly examines all the variables and weighs her options. The best they can do is wait and hope that tangible revenge will prove more enticing than spiteful noncooperation.

Eventually, she lets out a sharp exhale, raises her head, and breaks her silence.

“The winter solstice,” she repeats, her voice teeming with tension and lingering aversion. “Barring an eclipse, I would have to settle for the winter solstice. The longest, darkest night of the year… it’s second best, but it should suffice. Shame about the light pollution, of course,” she adds, wrinkling her nose with disdain, “but the power is in the symbolism.”

“Jon?” Basira prompts.

“Dream logic,” he says, massaging his forehead wearily. “It tracks.”

“Fine,” Basira sighs. She looks back to Manuela. “So does this mean you’ll do it?”

“I’m tired of haunting this place like a ghost.” There’s a sharp, predatory look in Manuela’s eyes now. “The Dark has lost its crusaders. The Watcher should have a taste of loss.”

Just then, a loud, metallic thunk interrupts the negotiations, reverberating through the space and drawing everyone’s attention to warehouse entrance. The light that had been percolating through from outside had been preternaturally dimmed before, but now it’s been snuffed out entirely.

Jon glances anxiously at Basira. “The wind, maybe?”

“There was no wind.” Basira is already drawing her gun. Like a switch has been flipped at the prospect of danger, her voice goes steely with manufactured composure. “Not strong enough to blow the door shut. I propped it open very securely.”

“We’re near the water, though,” Jon murmurs. “Strong gusts sometimes blow in off the sea–”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut at Basira’s quelling look. Manuela’s posture is defensive again, eyes darting suspiciously between Jon and Basira in the muted torchlight.

“I thought you said you came here alone,” she says accusingly.

“We – we did,” Jon says. “We–”

“Oh, Archivist,” a new voice sings out, oozing with an exultant malice. “Long time no see!”

It’s been ages since Jon last heard that cadence, but it’s horrifyingly, heart-stoppingly familiar even after all this time. It pierces Jon like a knife in the dark. He takes a frantic step back, nearly tripping over his own feet as his panic skyrockets and a tidal wave of adrenaline crashes over him.

“We just want to talk,” croons a different voice, rougher and more ragged-sounding. It’s difficult to gauge the newcomers’ positions through the impermeable gloom, but judging from the sounds of their voices, they’re drawing ever nearer. “Won’t you come out?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Jon breathes an incredulous laugh, distraught enough to border on a whimper. “Now?”

“Who are they?” Basira asks urgently. Jon is still frozen in place, eyes straining against the darkness. Any answer he could make is bogged down with terror, snagging in his throat and forestalling coherence. “Jon!”

Jon swallows hard and finally looks at Basira, his eyes wide with dread.

“Hunters.”

End Notes:

naomi: hey jon. jon. consider: surveillance state kink jon: shut the hell your mouth

____

Both instances of Archive-speak are from MAG 135. A few pieces of dialogue from the beginning of the conversation with Manuela are taken/reworked from MAG 143. The Melanie and Basira gossip is from MAG 106.

Once again, had way too much fun with the text convo btwn Naomi and Jon. Cannot resist those chatfic shenanigans vibes.

In other news, Daisy WILL point at Jon and loudly exclaim, “Is anyone gonna volunteer as wingman for this lovesick disaster or do I have to do everything myself?” and not even wait for an answer. (Jon made the mistake of confirming that he doesn’t mind her lovingly dunking on him about this sort of thing and now she’s a menace. Listen, playful ribbing is basically her platonic love language.)

Sorry for the cliffhanger!! But hey, I think we all knew that there’s no way things would go entirely smoothly for Jon and Basira. And now I finally get to add some new character tags.

I’m very behind on replying to comments. (Tbh, spent most of the last month grappling with this chapter. I was stuck on a scene that REALLY didn’t want to cooperate.) I’m gonna try to catch up this weekend, though. <3 As always, thank you for reading!

#the magnus archives #magpod #tma #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

17 notes · View notes

gammija · 4 years

Text

Tags and Searching on Tumblr

”yalltookmyurlideas asked: can I ask what you mean by tumblr refusing to put that comic in the proper tags? I don’t quite know how tags work and it would probably be helpful if I did.”

@yalltookmyurlideas It’s been 3 months since you asked this, so I have no idea if it’s still relevant, but I’m in a good mood rn and want to ramble about how dumb Tumblr is! So!

Tags and Searching on Tumblr

Now, to be fair to tumblr, most of this can be found under Help. To be fair to everyone else though, it’s still a confusing mess, because: There are two ways to find posts on tumblr: the Search system, and the Tag system. and neither of them work as they should

Searching

When you use the “Search” field in the top-left of your dash, you’re using the Search system. How this works is, it simply returns any post that uses your search term in any text on the post, including if it’s used in one of the tags.

For example, I searched for the term “Tagviewer”, and this was the result:

You can see several posts here (including my own) which show up despite not literally putting ‘#tagviewer’ in the tags, cause thats not how searching works. Some of these have the word ‘tagviewer’ in the text - some of them do mention the word in the tags, but like ‘#boy tagviewer sure is a handy tool to have’, not as its own Tag. And then some of them do literally have the tag “#tagviewer” in there.

Searches are ordered based on algorythmic magic, so the stuff with a lot of notes and momentum gets pushed to the top, while new posts get buried - it favors people who already have plenty of followers. It can also be pretty buggy in my experience. And, more fun stuff, if you want to search for a term existing from two words, it’ll look for those two words anywhere in the post, even if they’re not next to each other.

Tagging

Whenever you make an original post on Tumblr, you can give it tags, and the post will show up if you look in the tag for the first 20 of those. Posts in a tag are shown in sweet, sweet chronological order, no matter how popular or unpopular they are, and only strictly return what you searched for. So if, for example, you want to look at the posts tagged “#the magnus archives”, it’ll only return posts tagged EXACTLY that, not “#themagnusarchives”, or “#archives”, or posts simply mentioning a Magnus.

How do you look in a tag, you ask? On tumblr Mobile, it’s easy: Just Search for whatever term you want, and then go to the ‘Tagged’ tab.

On not-mobile, it’s a tad harder. Tumblr would like you to believe you can just fill in “#[searchterm]” in the search bar. Don’t believe their lies - this is just a Search for the term “#[searchterm]”, but still ordered like a Search, not like a Tag. To look at a Tag on not-mobile, you have to manually type “https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/[searchterm]” as the URL. And then it’ll show you the same thing as it would on mobile.

For example, now I’m only looking at the tag “#tagviewer”:

Ironically, Tumblr hides the actual tag you looked for from the posts that show up - but trust me, these posts all have the actual tag “#tagviewer” and are being shown chronologically.

(Spaces are represented by a ‘+’, so you could for example go to /tagged/the+magnus+archives for the tag ‘#the magnus archives’. Tags are not case sensitive)

Both tags and searches only show original posts. If you reblog a post and tag it, it won’t show up in the main tag or search anymore, but it will show up if someone looks in the tag or searches on your blog alone.

To search or look in a tag on someone’s blog, just use the same URL as on Tumblr as a whole, but add the blogname in the front, like so: “[blogname].tumblr.com/tagged/[term]”. Or click the little magnifying glass in the top right corner, if it’s there.

The bugs

The thing I said which this ask was a response to, where ‘Tumblr refused to put my post in the proper tags’, is one of the annoying problems in either of these systems, cause tumblr’s code is stitched together with tape and paperclips.

Sometimes, Tumblr doesn’t show your post if you to the tagged page, even if you just posted it and tagged it correctly and it should by all accounts be right at the top. Why? Could be anything! Maybe you had a few tags that were too long. Maybe you have a hyperlink in your post, and today Tumblr decided not to like that. Maybe, your post hasn’t got enough notes yet, and Tumblr will put it back in the tag as soon as you cross a certain threshhold. As far as I can tell, it’s not consistent, and I can never prepare for it. I just tag my stuff and send it out into the ether, and if it doesn’t show up, I take the post down and try again.

The Search system is buggy as all heck, especially if you’re searching on someone’s blog on mobile. There are posts where I SWEAR I used a certain word, but searching that word returns nothing. In this instance, tags are actually a lot more robust - that’s why I tag everything I reblog, so I can find it back again.

Speaking of Tumblr Mobile, sometimes, even when the URL Iinked is “.../tagged/[term]”, mobile will show you “.../search/[term]”. It’s. so annoying. cause when I link people to “#tma s1″, I don’t want them to also see posts where someone is discussing the comparisons between “tma s1 and s4″!

There are probably more details that I’m forgetting right now, but there, those are the basics of the mess that is looking for posts on Tumblr! Hopefully this’ll be helpful to at least one of y’all :’D If you have any questions, feel free to send an ask or reply to this post, and ill do my best to answer (if i know the answer, that is)

#wtf tumblr #text post #long post #tumblr explained

22 notes · View notes

calendulatia · 5 years

Text

[ LFRP ] Canary - ( tumblr/Discord )

❝ we who are born of the earth, rooted in all things, are bound to return to it. ❞

🔓– A lock icon denotes the presence of an additional something significant to be discovered only via roleplay. The more locks there are, the more difficult it will be to learn or come by this information.

☾ General Information ––– -

Name: Canary. 🔓🔓🔓 Epithet: Lichenpeal. Gender: Nonbinary. Age: You can’t be sure, really. 🔓 Race: Nu Mou. Birthplace: Somewhere within the Rak’tika Greatwood, presumably. Current Residence: An overgrown hovel a way’s away from the settlement proper. Were it not for the stone arranged about it, you might have missed the doorway entirely, and even then the masonry has been all but reclaimed by the forest. It seems built into the earth itself, disappearing into the side of the gentle slope leading up and away into the trees... not too unlike a barrow, you realize, with the air around the entrance alive with the presence of the wood. Standing there you suddenly feel a strange tickling at the back of your neck, like a hair or thread dragging lightly across your skin. You look back up. You feel compelled to knock on the door. Relationship Status: Single. Sexual Orientation: Asexual. Occupation: Apothecary. Herbalist. Diviner. Blue Mage. 🔓

☾ Physical Appearance ––– -

Hair + Fur: Straw-colored Thick. Long. Worn loose save for a scattering of braids decorated with thread and bits of bone. The fur on their tail and arms appears crimped like a sheep’s wool and feels much like the same. It’s not unusual for both it be rather unkempt from walks through the wood; they don’t seem to mind the twigs, leaves, and clumps of dirt that cling to them long after they’re home. Eyes: Moss green... although, as you look more closely, the left eye seems lighter than the right. Height: 4 fm 9 im. Distinguishing Marks: White-tipped fingers. Claws that are kept aggressively filed down at all times. Lighter hands than is typical for Nu Mou. Common Accessories: Spools of variously colored threads. Skulls and bones from forest creatures worn on lengths of string. Mushrooms. Lichens. Gold earbands. Earrings fashioned in the style of old church bells that ring with deep, dolorous voices.

☾ Personality & Tidbits ––– -

A strange Nu Mou of indeterminate age beholden to the wood. Though they live apart from others of their kind and people in general, they receive most visitors with a smile and an invitation to share a cup of tea. Quiet and courteous, Canary seems very much the kind of host you would care to have out in the middle of the wild Rat’tika, and yet you cannot help but feel unsettled whenever you stare at them for too long -- as though discovering inconsistencies in a painting that prove it a forgery. Like a smile with too many teeth their presence fills you with the sense of the uncanny, reminding you of a delicious meal that puts you to ill hours later. Something about them seems the conversational equivalent of seeing something always just beyond your field of vision, just at your peripheral, but just as soon as you realize your uneasiness you feel yourself soothed by their comfortable, welcoming manner. After all, it feels this cup has been brewed just for you.

Talents: Tarot spreads. Tea readings. Preparation of herbal medicines. Communing with beasts. Weaknesses: Disruption of the natural order. Things that are unnatural. Voidsent. Tidiness. Virtues: Pleasant. Soft-spoken. Knowledgeable. Intriguing. A natural host. Flaws: Difficult to read. Quietly intimidating. Unmovable when they believe they are right. Perhaps too much of an enigma to be trusted. Spiritual Views: Absolute reverence for life, death, and the natural cycle of one that leads into the other and over again forever and always. They are bound to no specific deities, believing instead in the will of the wood and the inevitability of nature reclaiming that which is rightfully its own. Hobbies: Gathering. “Tending” their garden and mushroom patch. Collecting new teas and bones. Fears: Wide open spaces. Clothing without pockets. Temperament: Phlegmatic-Melancholy. Alignment: Chaotic Neutral.

☾ Traits ––– -

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious / Spirited

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

☾ Additional information ––– –

Smoking Habit: Rather often, but you’re certain what whatever it is in that pipe, it certainly isn’t tobacco. The fragrance is as uncomfortably sweet as it is spicy; the aroma makes you sick to your stomach. Drugs: The contents of all these vials and jars is a mystery. Whatever labels they once bore have long since worn away or peeled up, leaving you staring at an array of dull, clouded glass bottles haphazardly wrapped in brittle parchment. Really, anything could be inside them. Alcohol: The Nu Mou occasionally reaches for a flash tucked into the sleeve of their robe and takes a quick drink. You can’t see the liquid, but even from here the smell is pungent, and you swear you see the already crimped fur covering their body curl all the bit more with each swig.

☾ Hooks ––– -

Region-related connections.

☆ The Rat’tika Greatwood - The Nu Mou rarely strays beyond the border of the forest, and so those living under the boughs or visiting from afar might have the luck of crossing their path. They do not make it easy to find them, but they also do not make an effort to hide. If you’re meant to encounter them you surely will. After all, anything can happen in the wood...

General connections.

★ Blue Magic - Canary’s Blue Magic shares far more in common with FFXI’s iteration than FFXIV’s, most notably the ever present danger of falling prey to “the beast within” as they assimilate and make use of the essences/souls of creatures. As a result their magic is far more feral and ancient than what has been established in-game, and their combat style + weaponry also differ wildly. They will not give out this knowledge to just anyone who comes by and asks, but they are also not above it... Should someone be willing to prove themselves worthy of the art, Canary might potentially teach them. Barring this, they could be a potential connection for Blue Mages or magic-users in general. ☆ Medicines + Divinations - In need of a reading or some traditional mending? Canary peddles their strange wares out of their forest hovel for a fair price. First divinations are free -- considering it your proper meeting -- but subsequent knowledge requires something equal in exchange... ★ Friendships + Rivals + Enemies - Always open! I am interested in any and all of these as options. ☆ Have an idea for something not already here? - Please feel free to pitch it to me! I would love to hear what you have in mind!

☾ OOC Information ––– -

Genres: Character development! Platonic relationships! Business contacts! Enemies! Rivals! Spooks! I’m into lots of things with my dirty danger muppet! Playstyle: No Nu Mou in-game, so all roleplay with Canary will take place through tumblr and/or Discord. Length: I like to write one paragraph at the absolute least, tending more towards a few to several (or even pages), but I will often do my best to match my partner’s reply length unless encouraged to do otherwise. Server: N/A. Timezone: CST. Availability: Threads will be passed back and forth as our schedules/writing mojos will allow! Contact Information: You are always welcome to poke at me here or my main blog over at @sunlitpeony, be it through asks or messages! I will give my Discord out privately to interested parties.

ft. art by drowsydraws !

#ffxiv #ffxiv rp #;; chants Nu Mou Nu Mou over and over again in the distance

22 notes · View notes

danfanciesphil · 5 years

Text

too high (can’t come down) by @danfanciesphil

Suspending himself 7,000 feet above the rest of the world seems likely to be a sure-fire way for Dan to escape normality, and isolate himself for the foreseeable future. The Secret of the Alps, a small hotel tucked into the side of the Swiss mountains is too niche for most avid adventurers to have heard of, making it the perfect place for Dan to work as he sorts through his problems. Unfortunately, privacy is a coveted thing, and as Dan soon finds out, the hotel harbours one guest who values it more than most.

Rating: Explicit Tags: Enemies to lovers, snow, mountains, skiing, hostility, slow burn, secrecy, longing, repression, nobility, classism, cheating, eventual sex

Ao3 Link

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five

Chapter Six

For a moment, no words will come. The blood in Dan’s wrist pulses in odd, shifting patterns beneath the skin. He swallows, caught on the edge of a gelid blue stare. “I… can’t.”

“You can’t ski?” Phil asks, his sneer an anchor that yanks Dan back down from the astral plane into which Phil’s touch had propelled him.

“Of course I can ski,” he retorts, bristling. He chooses not to mention that he hasn’t skied since he was fourteen, when his family went to Chamonix for a week, and his mum and dad complained the entire time that it was too cold. At a ski lodge. “But I have to… y’know, work. Hotel stuff.”

Mesmerised by the slight twitch of the corner of Phil’s mouth, which still doesn’t quite count as a smile, Dan’s hostile stance falters, then wanes. Like it’s a perfume wafting from Phil’s skin through the air between them, in the next second Dan smells the imminence of his own surrender.

“Come on,” Phil says, his voice quiet, like it’s just for Dan. It doesn’t seem to matter that nobody else could have heard him anyway. “What else are you gonna do all day? Cook lunch for the hotel ghosts? Sit at reception and pretend you’re not playing on your phone?”

A spurt of blood shoots into Dan’s cheeks; he’d thought he was so stealthy, hiding his phone under the desk as he attempted to load a single meme at a time on Tumblr mobile, using tenuous 3G.

“I- I don’t have any skis,” Dan says lamely.

“Lucky for you that my old ones were repaired by the elusive hotel elf, then,” Phil quips, already stepping away. “I’ll meet you by the front door, shall I?”

He’s gone before Dan can muster up a further refusal. He stands gormless in the middle of the kitchen, gazing around at the pristine surfaces. If only he’d resisted the urge to clean everything already, then he could at least have the excuse of needing to scrub the day away. Perhaps he could quickly throw open all the cupboard doors, ransack the fridge and hurl ingredients and coffee everywhere, feigning a wolf had snuck in somehow, or a snow leopard.

An image flashes into Dan’s mind, of Mona’s deepening frown as Phil explained to her that not only did Dan let some wild animal break in and contaminate the kitchen, but that he also refused to grant the one request of the only guest. He shudders, closing the door on that image before it can develop. Mona is already far too close to a stark realisation of Dan’s utter hopelessness; despite the words of any fortune-telling crows, a voice lingers at the back of Dan’s mind, assuring him that it’s only a matter of time before he slips up and disappoints everyone. His only hope is to stall that inevitability for as long as possible.

Plus Phil is, annoyingly, right. There is nothing else for Dan to do today; he and Mona did a deep clean of the whole hotel before she left, and the place is spotless. With no guests to look after, and a low chance of anyone phoning given that the Swiss news helpfully predicted a terrifying blizzard, Dan really is at a loose end.

It takes about two minutes of dithering in the kitchen before he has to admit defeat. Dan lets out a dreaded sigh, pushing all the air from his lungs, and then goes to wash up the two mugs he’s still holding. As he’s scrubbing the coffee stains, he decides that caffeine is the only acceptable (or available) drug he can utilise to get through whatever lies in store, so he places the mugs on the drying rack, and rinses out a thermos flask he finds, along with Louise’s percolator. He makes the coffee very strong, pours it into the flask, then thinks for a moment, and adds a dollop of soya milk.

As soon as he opens his chest of drawers, Dan is struck once again by how ill-prepared he is for a sudden, impulsive foray into the snowy wilderness. As he lacks proper ‘ski-wear’ - whatever that might be - Dan Instead chooses to go for layers. A clingy t-shirt that barely fit him when he was sixteen, then a baggier, long-sleeved t-shirt. He covers these with a shapeless grey jumper, then a black jacket, and then, finally his warmest coat. He adds thick socks, a hat, boots, sunglasses, gloves and a scarf. By the time he feels he’s ready, his arms stick out stiffly from his sides, but he figures that a little loss of movement is a fair price to pay for not getting frostbite.

He slots the flask into one of the deep pockets of his coat, and tries not to think too hard about what he’s about to do. Or with whom. He deliberately takes his time getting down to the lobby in order to prolong the inevitable, and also because he likes the idea of the Fresh Prince of the Alps having to wait for him. Phil lowers his phone as Dan approaches, pushing off from where he’s leant against the wall. It takes a moment for him to drink in the sight of Dan, and then his eyebrows shoot up, and he seems to swallow something suspiciously close to a laugh.

“Err, think you’ll be warm enough?”

Dan rolls his eyes. “I didn’t exactly pack for extreme sports.”

Phil just makes a ‘hmm’ noise, turning to the collection of skis and poles leaning against the wall. “Not sure cross-country skiing could be classed as an extreme sport, but you do y- er, suit yourself.”

If Dan tries to reply, he’ll probably swear, so he clamps his mouth shut, and sticks an arm out to grab for the the red skis. Phil snatches them up first.

“I’ll wear these,” he says. “You take the new ones.”

He doesn’t look at Dan, just pushes the shiny new skis into his hands. Bewildered, Dan stares at his warped reflection in the electric blue varnish.

“What? Why?”

It takes a minute for Phil to respond; he’s tugging at the repaired bracket on the red ski, seemingly to test its durability. This alone is enough to make Dan want to slap it out of his hands. Then, he turns to Dan, that vague almost-smile still tucked beneath his smug expression.

“Haven’t tested the new ones out yet,” he says with a shrug. “Reckon it’d be better for my caddy to fall on his face than me, right?”

Dan splutters, outraged. “Caddy?”

“Grab those ski poles for us, would you?” Phil asks, a spritz of amusement perfuming his words.

Dan might be intrigued by the lightness of his tone if it weren’t for the fact he were quietly steaming inside his many layers. The heating in this place does not fuck about. Worried he’ll boil alive unless they get outside soon, Dan chooses to just do as he’s asked. If Phil insists on calling him a caddy again, at least Dan will have four long weapons to wield. Dan gathers the four poles up in his arms as best he can, along with his own skis; on the verge of dropping everything, he opts for speed, and scurries after Phil out of the front door.

“If you expect me to haul all of this up some peak or other-”

Dan can’t see, as he’s got a number of pointed objects obscuring his view, so he doesn’t realise that Phil has stopped directly in front of him, a few paces beyond the door. Dan bumps straight into him, and instantly everything he’s holding drops to the ground. When he looks up, Phil is aiming an exasperated gaze down at the pile of poles and skis, as if he’s already regretting inviting Dan along.

“No, I don’t expect you to actually be my pack mule. We’re going to wear our skis,” Phil explains slowly, like he’s talking to a child.

He’s already got his skis laid neatly out in front of him - two bright red parallel lines striking through the snow. As Dan watches confusedly, Phil pushes the tip of his right boot into one of the skis. Dan’s stomach squeezes with discomfort; he’d been correct before, when repairing the skis. The fastenings are not the same as he’s used to.

“Erm,” Dan says, moving his attention to one of his own skis, laying at an angle in the snow. It has the same unfamiliar fastening, much to his dismay.

Mind racing to figure out every option available to him that doesn’t involve swallowing his pride and asking Phil for help, Dan moves to inspect the contraption. As if he’s sensed Dan’s incompetence, Phil drops into a crouch anyway, and reaches for Dan’s boot. Instinctively, Dan jerks his foot away. Phil lifts his head to look at Dan. Viewing him from this angle is strange. From this perspective, he seems hunched, small, insignificant. He has none of his Lordly airs about him, hunched down in the snow near Dan’s feet. Phil doesn’t say anything, he just waits, hand calmly outstretched towards Dan’s boot. Wordlessly, Dan moves his foot back into Phil’s reach, and watches as Phil carefully rights the ski, then pulls his foot towards it. He fits the toe of Dan’s boot into the unusual strap.

“They’re telemark skis,” Phil says, tightening the strap around the ball of Dan’s foot. “I’m guessing you’re more used to Alpine skis? They’re the ones with the strap at the back as well.”

Dan bristles again at the condescending tone. “I’m familiar with both,” he says, because he’s a stubborn moron. Phil says nothing, but that near-smile returns as he reaches for Dan’s other foot; Dan wobbles slightly as Phil guides it into the left ski. “But, uh, it’s been a while. So... remind me again of the difference between, er, telemark and…”

“Alpine,” Phil supplies, standing up. He holds Dan’s gaze for a moment, and then laughs, short and quiet, but just enough for Dan to catch a glimpse of two rows of pearl-white teeth, with a flash of pink tongue caught between them. It’s the most Dan’s seen him smile yet, though he’s obviously laughing at Dan which isn’t ideal. “Telemark skis are designed so that you can wear them for both hiking and skiing. You can move your ankle in them, see?”

He demonstrates, twisting his un-strapped heel to and fro. Dan tries to do the same, and almost falls over. “Why do we need to use our ankles, exactly?”

Dan doesn’t remember skiing requiring a lot of joint movement. From what he can recall of his brief experience as a teenager, he strapped the skis on, let the lift drag him up a big hill, and gravity did a lot of the work getting him to the bottom again.

Phil is full-on smirking now. Dan thinks he preferred the non-smile. “You may have noticed that we don’t have chairlifts up here. We’ll be hiking to the slopes on foot. I’ve put skins on the bottom of these to give us more grip, but we can take them off when we get there.”

Dan tries not let the alarm show on his face. They’re going to be walking up hills? In skis? “And... I suppose once we ski down the slope we’ll be having to...”

“Walk back up again? Yes. Unless you fancy setting up camp down there.”

An ill-timed image of the Brokeback Mountain tent attacks Dan so viciously it nearly knocks him sideways. “No! No, no. Walking back up. Cool. Good thing I’ve been practicing with those bloody hotel stairs, right?”

Dan forces a laugh, but this time Phil’s face remains unmoved. Clearly it’s only Dan’s unintentional idiocy that can procure a genuine smile from him then, right.

Phil looks to the sky briefly, seeming to assess something in the heavens themselves, and asks, “ready to go, then?”

He doesn’t wait for Dan’s reply. He picks up his ski poles, then turns and begins sort of slide-walking away from the hotel, in seemingly no particular direction. There’s a large thicket of trees ahead of him, but then there are thickets of trees in a few other directions too. Nevertheless, Dan has no choice but to trust this man’s sense of direction, so attempts to move after him; to his horror, his legs immediately split apart in a move he is certainly not flexible enough to achieve. He manages to stab his ski poles into the earth and rectify himself before pulling anything, but in doing so he flails, and almost falls. Luckily, he’s gotten back into a reasonably dignified standing position by the time Phil turns to him, wondering what the hold up is.

“Sorry,” Dan says, making a valiant attempt to copy Phil’s movements exactly as he inches forwards again. It works, sort of, though he doesn’t do it anywhere near as gracefully as Phil seems to be able to. When he gets to Phil, he shrugs, like he’s totally fine. “Just… admiring the view,” he explains. “Lead on.”

It takes over thirty gruelling minutes to cross the plains of the mountain in pursuit of a supposedly safe ski-area, but eventually they reach an abrupt dip, where the mountain begins its gradual slope downward. This close to the edge of the mountain, the view is breathtaking. Dan can’t focus on it, however, because his thighs ache, the moisture in his lungs has turned to ice and is freezing him from the inside out, and for the last twenty minutes, Phil Novokoric has been unhelpfully telling him everything he’s doing wrong with the stupid ‘telemark’ skis.

“Is this where we do some actual skiing then?” Dan asks crossly, jamming his poles into the snow.

He’s so glad to get to a point where he actually knows what he’s doing that he’s already shuffling up to the edge of the slope, more than ready to get this over with. He’s so keen, in fact, that he’s only just about saved from teetering over the edge and hurtling down in an enormous cartoon-style snowball, by a far more sensible Phil. He grabs Dan by the hood of his coat before he can topple to his untimely death.

“Careful!” he exclaims as he yanks Dan backwards. Yet again, the irritating warning is at least ten seconds too late. Dan has already been an idiot; unless Phil expects him to travel back in time to ten seconds ago, and take heed of Phil’s caution. Phil pulls him so sharply that Dan jolts backwards, skis slotting between Phil’s as his back crashes against his chest. His heart pounds incessantly. Or maybe that’s Phil’s heart. “Are you some kind of moron?” Phil asks, then pauses, like he’s actually waiting for an answer. “Just wait a minute, we’ve got to take our skins off. Then I’ll lead the way.”

“Remind me why I agreed to this,” Dan mutters, carefully sliding away from Phil whilst trying not to accidentally fall down the slope.

Sulkily, he stands to the side and watches as Phil removes one ski, and peels a thin black strip from the underside, then does the same to the other. Dan copies his action in silence, though he has no idea why on earth this is necessary. Phil monitors Dan wordlessly, but thankfully makes no judgemental comments.

“Ready?” he asks once Dan has his de-skinned skis back on.

Dan shoves the bunched up skins into his jacket pocket. No. “Yep.”

And then, with enviable ease, Phil pushes himself over the edge of the slope, and begins drifting downwards, swaying gracefully to and fro as he descends. Somewhat alarmed by how quickly that just happened, Dan swallows his nerves and shoots after him. It’s terrifying.

Dan hasn’t experienced this level of self-propelled velocity for years, let alone the searing chill that whips his cheeks, or the sensation of being at once in control of his own speed, and simultaneously ill-equipped to do so. He grips his ski poles tightly, attempting to copy Phil’s swooping motions up ahead, leaning left and right as much as he dares in order to slow his pace. The slope had not looked particularly steep from the top, but Dan should probably have been more concerned about the amount of debris on the path that he has to keep swerving to avoid. Annoyingly, Phil was completely right in insisting he went first, as otherwise Dan would have crashed several times into boulders and tree stumps and icy patches.

It can’t last particularly long, but it seems to Dan that he’s skiing, teeth gritted, eyes frozen open, for hours. Eventually however, the slope evens out, and flattens enough that they slow to a stop. Somewhere in the recesses of Dan’s brain, he scrounges up his knowledge of how to point the tips of his skis together to halt himself. Phil does some kind of impressive, sudden, 90 degree turning move, but he doesn’t outright laugh at Dan’s less stylish method, thankfully.

Dan is just about to collapse to the floor and weep, relieved he survived that and didn’t so much as fall over once, when Phil pulls off his sunglasses, and gives Dan the widest, most brilliant grin. His teeth are as white as the snow surrounding them. Seeing such animation on his usually sullen features is so unexpected that Dan swears his heart literally skips a beat, though that might be on account of all the adrenaline from plummeting down the side of a mountain. Dan removes his own sunglasses, somewhat shakily, and aims a tentative smile back at him.

“Not bad,” Phil says, eyes bright and crystalline in the light. “If you did some fitness training, you might be halfway decent.”

The smile wipes itself away again. “Thanks,” Dan mutters.

“What did you think?” Phil asks, elbow resting on one of his upright ski poles. He’s a tiny bit breathless, which gives his words a whisperish quality. In another setting that wasn’t as eerily silent, it might be difficult to hear him. “Fun, right?”

“I’ll get back to you on that,” Dan replies, heart still pounding at double his normal rate.

Phil chuckles. “This is probably the gentlest path I’ve found.”

“Found?”

“Yeah. I can’t be certain of course, but I doubt anyone else has ever skied up here.” He grins again, jarring and hypnotic. “I’m the Columbus of the Alps.”

This seems highly unlikely. Dan’s no expert in mountaineering, but surely other adventurers have come up and explored the mountain before now. Phil being the first one to ever scope out reasonably skiable pathways seems incredibly dangerous, and probably illegal.

“Are you, like, allowed?”

Phil shrugs, slipping his shades back on. “Who’s gonna stop me?”

It’s this offhanded, entitled flippancy that Dan detests about the rich. He chooses not to respond to such an irritating question, and instead asks, “so, what now?”

“Climb back up,” Phil says, already pulling his skins from his pocket. “Unless you wanna check out one of the trickier slopes?”

“No, thank you,” Dan says tightly.

Phil chuckles again. “Alright then, skins on, Howell.”

In hindsight, Dan should really have given more thought to the idea of climbing back up the hill they’d just skied down, in skis. To say it was difficult would have been generous. By the time they reach the top (it shouldn’t go unmentioned that Phil was much, much quicker than Dan at getting back up, and then shouted helpful suggestions of how he should turn his heels, or dig his skis in to the snow from the summit) Dan is so exhausted he never wants to lift another limb in his life, let alone slide down a hill just to climb it yet again. Phil is raring to go, of course, but Dan simply unfastens his skis and falls back onto his bum, unconcerned that the snow immediately begins seeping into the seat of his trousers, and gestures for the other man to go on without him.

“Suit yourself,” Phil says, snickering, and pushes over the edge.

From his position, Dan is able to watch as Phil airily glides down. It’s obvious, from this vantage point, that skiing gives Phil an air of freedom that he lacks in everyday life. His limbs are loosened of their usual tension, and even from a distance Dan can see that he is calm and happy. As Phil re-climbs the slope, Dan peels off the weird skins from the underside of his skis again and studies them for a bit, then stuffs them into his pocket, deciding they’re just flaps of fabric you could make in five seconds, probably sold in sports shops at an absurd cost. He then attempts to browse the internet on his phone, though given that they’re currently in the middle of absolutely nowhere, this does not go well. He quickly abandons any attempt to check his Facebook feed, and plays Crossy Road until a shadow washes over him. He looks up just as Phil slumps down beside him, panting.

“You’re a bad influence on me,” Phil says between breaths. “Usually I do this about twenty times, up and down. On the steeper slopes, too.”

Dan snorts. “Excuse me, but screw that. Nobody told me there’d be climbing involved. Give me a terrifying ski lift any day.”

“Anywhere there’s a ski lift there’s a hundred tourists crammed on, waiting to dawdle in front of you on the slope on the way down.”

Again, Dan doesn’t remember this being particularly true from his previous skiing experience. On the red and black runs, there were only a handful of other people to avoid. He can see nothing wrong with something being made safe by professionals. Deciding it’s probably wise to keep this thought to himself in order to keep the peace, Dan instead digs the flask of coffee out of his pocket, pulls both the plastic cups off the top, and hands one to Phil.

“So you’ve skied in a lot of places, then?” he asks.

Phil is looking down at the cup like Dan just pulled it out of his rear end. “Er… yeah. Quite a lot.”

Dan ignores the curious expression being aimed at him, and just focuses on pouring out the coffee. He’d remembered at the last minute to bring sugar for Phil, so he digs out the packets from his pocket, and presses them into Phil’s free hand along with a wooden stirrer.

“Cool,” Dan says. “Where abouts?”

For a moment, Phil says nothing. It’s as though he’s forgotten how to move, or speak. Dan just waits, the warmth of the coffee cup in his hands starting to spread through his gloved fingers, melting the stiffness. He sips his own coffee until Phil regains composure and pours the sugar in.

“Uh, lots of places. My family used to go every year at Christmas.” He stirs the coffee slowly, gazing out at the thick, snow-frosted trees lining the slope. “I’ve been to Andorra, Saalbach Chamonix…”

This peaks Dan’s attention. “Chamonix? I’ve been there.”

Phil’s eyes go round. “Oh my God… I knew I recognised you.”

Dan’s stomach drops. “W-what?” Surely this cannot be happening.

“The New Year’s Eve party…” he gushes, placing a hand on Dan’s shoulder. Fuck, fuck, fuck, abort, abort, abort. “There was karaoke... we were dragged on stage to sing a duet…”

For a split second, Dan’s mind is hurtling in circles as he tries to remember any such awful event, and then he notes the twitch of Phil’s mouth, the glimmer of obvious teasing lurking in his expression. Right as Dan’s about to grab a handful of snow and smash it into that obnoxious mocking face, Phil clutches his chest and belts out, “this is the start of something newww!”

Dan groans, eyes rolling so far backwards he can see the folds of his brain. “As if you’re making an actual High School Musical reference right now.”

“Hey, you’re the one that got it,” Phil points out, giggling softly.

“You’re so irritating,” Dan mutters, sipping more coffee.

The snow has officially soaked all the way through his trousers, and his bum has gone entirely numb from the cold. If he has to sit here and listen to Phil’s annoying, posh-boy teasing for a second longer, he’s going to ski directly into a nearby tree.

“Are you supposed to call your guests irritating?”

Dan fights a smile, hiding his mouth in his cup. “Depends how much they piss me off.”

This makes Phil laugh; a sound Dan is sure he will never grow used to. “At least I have a dry bum right now. Your idea of appropriate ski attire is as shocking as your technique.”

“You know what?” Dan says brightly, and stands up. He pretty much instantly regrets doing so as the cold water that’s been soaking his bum for the last half hour trickles down the backs of his thighs. He chucks the remainder of his coffee into the snow, and pockets the cup along with the flask. “Being the official laughing stock of the slopes is not part of my job description. It’s been a blast, Mr Novokoric, but I have a hotel to run, so if you’ll excuse me-”

“Ooh, back to Mr Novokoric, is it?” Phil asks, standing up as well. He drains the last of his own coffee, and gathers his ski poles. “Hang on then, let me-”

“No, no,” Dan says, swishing his ski pole at Phil as he tries to slide closer. “I’m clearly stopping you from throwing yourself down some more death-defying hills or whatever. I can get back to the hotel on my own just fine.”

He shoves his feet back into the skis one by one, thankfully able to tighten them to his feet without help this time, and then awkwardly shuffles around to face the direction they came from. There’s a bit of a hill ahead, but in comparison to the one he climbed up not long ago it looks tiny, so he slides towards it with determination.

“Dan, hold on,” Phil says impatiently, still strapping himself back into his own skis. “You can’t just-”

“I said I’m fine,” Dan says through gritted teeth. In truth however, gaining any sort of momentum on this incline seems a lot harder than it had been previously. “Just go do your thing.”

He’s about halfway up the small hill, and he feels alarmingly unsteady. The skis seem to have a mind of their own, and keep threatening to slide out from under him. Dan just shoves his ski poles into the snow as hard as possible, using them to help drag him upwards.

“Dan,” Phil is calling from somewhere behind him. “Can you stop being so pig-headed for a minute? You’ve forgotten-”

Dan cuts him off with an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp as his right ski slips sharply backwards, splitting his legs wishbone-style. With the help of his ski pole, he manages not to rip his own crotch in half, but the back of his right ski crosses over his left, and in trying to correct it, Dan falls backwards. His right ankle seems to not want to cooperate with the angle Dan is toppling, and twists beneath him; his boot still being attached to the ski, this hurts like a motherfucker.

“Shit! Ow, ow ow-”

Pain, scorching and sudden, shoots up Dan’s leg. His ankle is bent somehow beneath him, and it’s agony. He only has mere seconds to revel in the pain however, as then hands are on the strap of his ski, scrambling to unattach him, and blissfully his ankle pops free.

“I told you to wait for me!” Phil shouts, though the sound is fuzzy and distant from the leftover cloud of pain hazing Dan’s senses. “You forgot to put your skins back on, you idiot.” Dan barely understands, too focused on his throbbing ankle. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes it bloody hurts!” Dan snaps, clutching the ankle. "What kind of idiotic question is that?!”

“Let me see.”

“What? No!”

“Dan, I need to see how bad it is.”

“It’s fine,” Dan protests, but Phil is already picking at the knot of his laces, clearly not listening.

As he reluctantly surrenders to Phil’s insistence on acting the hero, Dan realises for the first time just how… close he is. At this level of proximity, it’s possible to detect notes of the shampoo Phil uses dancing on the thin, icy breeze. Coconut, possibly. Or watermelon? In the distraction of trying to place the smell, Dan doesn’t realise what’s happening until his laces are untied, and Phil begins carefully pulling off his boot. He removes his gloves, and blows quickly on his hands before reaching out and rolling down Dan’s thick sock. Something about this whole scenario is so intimate that Dan wants to squirm. Presumably, he’d only blown on his fingers to warm them - to ease Dan’s discomfort. Dan wouldn’t expect such consideration from his own mother, let alone this dick-brain. To stifle his drumming heart, Dan bites down on his lip, and turns his face away.

“Looks swollen,” Phil mutters as he pulls the sock down. Gently, he presses the pads of his fingers to the puffed, pink skin around Dan’s ankle. It doesn’t hurt any more than the existing pain, but Dan twitches nonetheless, and Phil’s blisteringly blue eyes flick up to his. “It doesn’t feel broken. Do you think you could stand on it?”

Experimentally, Dan tries wiggling his toes. It’s unpleasant, sure, but not completely unbearable. “I’ll try,” he says, attempting bravery.

Phil begins rolling his sock back up. “Good choice,” he says, reaching for the boot. “It’s just you and me up here, so unless you fancy spending the night in minus six degrees under the stars, I’d advise hopping if you can. It’ll start getting dark in a few hours.”

“Gee, thanks for the sympathy,” Dan snorts, batting Phil’s hands away to re-tie his laces.

Phil waits, saying nothing, and when Dan is done, he holds out his hand. For a moment Dan just stares at it. He’s seconds away from slipping his own hand into it, when Phil says, “your skins? I’ll put them back on for you.”

“Oh, right,” Dan says, hoping Phil doesn’t notice his odd behaviour. He has no clue what the fuck this mountain air is doing to him recently. He digs in his pocket and pulls out the skins, then shoves them into Phil’s hand. “Cheers.”

“You’re much more… bony than you look,” Phil huffs.

They’re about halfway through the hideous journey back, as far as Dan can tell. Approximately three minutes in, Dan had realised that attempting to walk on his own, wearing the damn ‘telemark’ skis, was not an option.

“I apologise sincerely for having bones,” Dan replies scornfully. In truth, he feels like a pile of boneless goo, so it’s surprising that Phil seems to think he’s the opposite. His arm is wound around Phil’s shoulders, allowing Dan to lean a great deal of his weight onto the other man. He’s got one ski on, the other is in his right hand. Phil is carrying all four ski poles, tucked under his arm.

They’ve been moving at a torturously slow pace, so the sun is already dipping towards the horizon at their backs. Even in the space of a few hours, Dan can feel the drop in temperature, and it wasn’t exactly warm before. They were lucky, in a way, that Dan’s little accident had happened whilst there was still a lot of light left. He leans closer into Phil’s body heat, hoping the other man doesn’t notice.

“Are you cold?”

Crap. “Um, a bit.”

They hobble further on in silence. Dan wonders what the purpose of Phil’s question might have been, as now he seems to be deliberating something silently. Please, God, don’t say that Phil Novokoric is about to hand over his snow jacket to invalid-Dan so he can tell the story of his chivalry to some doe-eyed journalist months from now.

In a way, Dan is almost glad when Phil, predictably, says, “another reason to invest in some proper thermals. Might have been an idea, considering you’re living up a snowy mountain.”

“Noted,” Dan says through gritted teeth. Finally, the sight of the hotel crests the horizon, some way off still, but at least within view. “Thank the fucking Lord,” he mutters under his breath.

“You could get on my back for the last bit, if you like,” Phil suggests, tone lilting into something like a tease.

“You’re alright, thanks,” Dan replies tersely. He sincerely wishes he could extricate himself from this infuriating human and sprint the rest of the way back, but unfortunately he thinks he might snap his own ankle off, brittle as it is now from the cold. “Can we just focus on getting to the hotel without any further injuries, please?”

“Sure,” Phil says, then effortlessly hitches Dan’s arm a little higher across his shoulders, taking on significantly more of his weight. For a reason Dan refuses to analyse, this action makes his stomach flip multiple times, but he has no time to dwell on the how’s or why’s, because Phil has doubled the pace now, near-dragging Dan along.

(Chapter Seven!)

#phanfic #phan #too high #enemies to lovers au

51 notes · View notes

kneworder · 5 years

Text

chapter 2 of recompense (for all my crimes of self defense), my post season 2 stranger things fic is up now!! read it on AO3 now here, on FanFiction.Net here, or below the break on this very post!!

Chapter 1: AO3 || Fanfiction.net || link to tumblr post

Chapter 2: kind hearts don’t grab any glory

Thin, watery light streams through the window, drawing creatures in shadow across the ivory carpet. The light attacks Steve’s eyes the second he opens them, like knives pushing through to his brain. “Fuck,” he croaks, and tries to bat the light away.

Nothing happens, predictably.

Sitting up is such a daunting task that he lays there with his eyes shut for another hour. It takes that long for him to remember how to close the blinds, or that there are even blinds to begin with.

Steve pushes up from the couch, but his wrecked hand crumples when he puts weight on it, and he falls back, the world upending and spinning around him. Steve tries again, pushing up from his elbow this time, and manages to force himself into a sitting position. He puts his head in his hands, breathing deeply and focusing on anything but the pain. He feels too hot and too cold at the same time, and suddenly, he’s hyperaware of his jacket, rough against his skin and radiating a sickly warmth. Frantically, he tries to escape it. One arm gets stuck in its sleeve, and he stops abruptly, exhaustion overtaking him. He sits there, trapped in his own jacket, until he regains the strength to pull it all the way off.

He’s had sports injuries before, and gotten in fights before, but this is different. This is a whole new level he never wanted to reach. Idly, he thinks, something’s wrong , and almost laughs because that’s the understatement of the year.

Steve cracks open an eye to search for the offending window that’s letting the torturous light in. Dimly, he notes the empty bottle of Jameson seated in a chair in the corner of the room, a remnant of the night Nancy told him it was all bullshit.

That’s not a memory he needs right now.

He finds the window; it’s somewhere to his left. Steve gets to his feet, and has to grab the top of the couch in order to stay that way. He stumbles forwards and ends up falling against the window. From that position, he turns and reaches for the string that controls the blinds. It refuses to stay in his hand, and he has to concentrate in order to grab it and pull it downwards.

The blinds snap shut, and he slides down to the floor, sighing in relief as the light dims to a dull gray.

He must pass out, because the next thing he knows, the doorbell is cutting through his brain like a bullet, the tone echoing around his skull. He groans.

The doorbell rings again, and he covers his ears against the noise.

One more time, and he remembers what a ringing doorbell means.

Steve pulls himself up, scrabbling for purchase at the window ledge. The room around him capsizes, and he blinks hard to bring it back to fuzzy normal. Steve starts towards the door, but runs straight into a chair instead. The empty whiskey bottle that was in it hits the hall’s wood floor and shatters on impact. The sound makes him jump, and he trips over the chair, falling into the wall and swearing a blue streak all the while.

The ordeal wakes him up enough to stagger to the door and open it.

Four kids are crowded on his doorstep.

…

They stand in the driveway for a good ten seconds, frozen. An unexpected, but unanimous hesitation grips them as they look up at the veritable mansion that is Steve Harrington’s house.

Finally, Max lets out a shaky breath and says, “Okay.”

It’s like an electric shock, spurring the four of them into motion. The boys unceremoniously drop their bikes and follow her to the door. “Okay,” Max says again, and presses the doorbell.

No one answers.

“Maybe he’s asleep,” Lucas suggests as Max presses the doorbell again.

“We should probably just…” Mike starts, nodding towards their bikes.

“No!” Dustin cries. He eyes the windows and says, “One more time.”

Max frowns deeply. “One more time,” she agrees, and jams her thumb against the doorbell.

They wait.

“You know what, we should--,” Dustin says, but stops as something inside crashes.

There’s a long string of curses and more crashing, and suddenly, the door is open. “The hell’re you doin’ here?” slurs Steve, squinting down at them.

He looks awful, the cuts and bruises of the previous night even more pronounced in the daylight; his face is a mottled painting of yellows, purples, and blues. Steve leans heavily against the doorframe, and considers the kids with unfocused eyes.

For a moment, they are stunned back into silence. “We, uh,” Max begins, “we wanted to make sure you were okay. After, um. You know…”

Steve snorts out a laugh. “Your stepbrother kicked my ass?” he asks, the words running together. He runs a hand through his uncharacteristically messy hair.

“Um. Yeah. That.” Max says in reply.

“Well, I am gr- reat ,” he answers. “So can I go back to--?”

“And also thank you!” interrupts Lucas. He seems surprised to hear himself speak, but continues nonetheless. “You, uh, stood up for us, and, um. Thank you.”

“Yeah, don’ sweat it, kid,” Steve says. He looks like he’s about to keel over, moments from sliding down the doorframe and to the floor.

Dustin says, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Steve glances at him. “I’d like to go back t’ sleep, but yeah,” he says.

“You really shouldn’t--!” Dustin begins, but gets cut off.

“We should go,” Mike says. “We’ll just…” The four begin to move backwards, nearly tripping over each other on the crowded stoop.

“Mm-hmm,” Steve says, and as soon as it had opened, the door slams shut.

They all jump at the sound.

On the way back to their respective bikes and skateboard, Max says, “That went well.”

“D’ya think he’s really okay?” asks Dustin, his expression betraying his concern. “He looked like shit.”

“I dunno,” Lucas says in response. “But it’s not like we can do anything.”

“You’re not supposed to sleep with a head injury,” Dustin whispers, to no response.

A somber quiet falls over the four.

“Okay,” breathes Max, and they wheel into the street.

…

Once the kids are gone, Steve falls against the door and tries to make his breathing normal again. It’s gone too thin, but too slow, and he has to concentrate in order to fix it. The world is spinning again; he buries his aching face in his knees.

Every second the pain seems to mount, sawing into his skull with each desperate breath. He regrets slamming the door with every fiber of his being, because now his ears are ringing with no sign of stopping.

When Steve was eleven, his parents deemed him old enough to be left home alone, and promptly took off on business trips. At first, they hired nannies, babysitters, but as time went on, they either forgot or decided he no longer needed supervision. They returned at least once a month, but that trickled down with every passing year, until he found himself celebrating Christmas alone. The last time he’s seen them was three months ago, but he’s grown used to living without them.

Right now, he misses them desperately. His father’s voice, quietly comforting. His mother’s fingers, brushing across his forehead and smoothing back his hair.

His already stuttering breath catches when he realizes both memories are from before he turned ten.

Steve wraps his arms around his knees, hugging them tight to his chest. The pain is warping time; he has no idea how long it is until a pounding at the door startles him from his position.

He’s confused – the noise came from behind him; made the wall shake. With a start, he turns to see the door, having forgotten his position.

Whatever hit the door hits it again, this time calling, “Open up, kid!”

The words are distorted; they bounce around the room without Steve registering their meaning. He pulls himself up by the doorknob, answers the door. Sunlight pours into the hall. Steve squints and manages to discern the visitor’s identity: “Chief Hopper?” he says. Or at least, he thinks he says it. He can’t be quite sure.

The chief’s face visibly changes when he catches sight of Steve, but Steve doesn’t notice, he’s too busy trying to remember where he left his bat. The chief means danger, and danger means fighting, no matter how much he’d rather just collapse on the floor.

“Yep,” says the chief, frowning at him. “It’s me.”

…

Hopper wishes he wasn’t so bent on saving everyone. If it weren’t for his damn hero complex, he’d be at the cabin, spoiling Jane rotten and making sure she was every bit as ‘okay’ as she said she was. He’d be pretending he wasn’t scared out of his mind whenever he saw blood on her face and that he didn’t still feel the fear of losing his daughter whenever he looked her way.

He’d be spending every damn minute with his girl, because hell if she didn’t deserve everything he had to give and more.

But no, the Wheeler kid and his friends just have to show up and ruin his afternoon with their story about their ill-fated journey to the Harrington house.

So instead, Hopper is standing on the stoop of said house and praying to whatever god is out there that he won’t have to make a trip out to the hospital.

Then the door swings open and Hopper decides there is no god, because shit, this kid can’t even stand on his own.

“Chief ‘opper?” croaks Steve Harrington, squinting at the watery sunlight coming through the door.

“Yep,” sighs the chief. “It’s me.”

“’S something wrong?” asks Steve. He looks behind him, his expression miserable. “I can…”

The kid starts to stumble back inside, but he barely makes it to the staircase before his knees buckle. Steve grasps the banister and sinks to the bottom step. Hopper takes this display as an invitation to come inside. “Jesus, kid. How the hell did you drive last night?”

Steve ignores his question and reaches somewhere to his right. He blinks slowly. “It’s over there.”

Hopper looks to where the teenager seems to be gesturing and sees a bat filled with nails and coated in blood, at odds with its position on the shining hardwood floor.

“Nothing’s wrong,” says Hopper, “No monsters or anything; everyone’s safe.”

The chief crouches next to the kid; ignores his screaming back and knees. Glazed brown eyes look back at him. “Safe?” asks the kid, his voice reminding Hopper of Jane whenever she encounters a new word, and damn, if that doesn’t hurt.

Hopper nods, and Steve lets out a breath. He leans against the banister in relief.

Briefly, Hopper examines his surroundings. The hall is dark; the sole source of light is the front door. An upturned chair lies on the threshold of the living room, and if Hopper isn’t mistaken, there’s broken glass around it. “Where’re your parents, kid?” he asks, almost to himself.

Steve just shuts his eyes and spits, “Gone.”

There’s a pause as the chief processes this information, and the many things that ‘gone’ could mean. Deciding he can deal with the absent Harringtons later, he says “Hey, how about we go get you cleaned up?” ‘cause if this kid isn’t concussed to hell and back, the earth is fucking flat.

Steve manages to shake his head while pressed up against the banister. “Tired,” he says.

A sudden flash of panic makes Hopper shake Steve by the shoulder. He’s no doctor, but he does know that sleeping with a head injury risks never waking up. “Hey, hey, let’s stay awake,” he says.

He receives an annoyed glare and moan in response. Hopper sets his jaw, looks Steve up and down, and scoops the kid up bridal style.

Luckily or unluckily, Steve is too confused to put up much of a fight, so getting him into Hopper’s cruiser isn’t difficult.

On the way to the hospital, Hopper growls question after question at the kid to keep him awake. He tries to be satisfied with the muffled groans he receives in response: it’s better than nothing.

It’s not until he asks, “Hey, kid. Who’s the president?” that nothing is exactly what he gets.

Hopper feels his heart skip a beat, his breath catching. “Hey. Hey, ” he says, but no response. He glances into the front mirror and sees that the kid’s skin has gone waxy pale, eyes shut. Hopper can’t tell if he’s breathing.

Hopper leans on the gas, speed limits be damned.

Steve’s loaded onto a stretcher the moment he’s dragged into the ER, nurses already swarming. Hopper watches helplessly as they strap an oxygen mask on his face and wheel him into another room, the sterile smell of the hospital already making the chief remember things he’d rather keep buried.

But then a nurse is asking him about next of kin, and shoving paperwork into his hands, and he can’t check out because there’s no one else in town over the age of fourteen who knows that Steve Harrington is just hanging on.

Fucking hero complex.

#stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington #dustin henderson #max mayfield #jim hopper #post season 2 #poor steve he's still Not Having a Good Time #probably the last update before season 3!!#so see y'all then!!!#I'm Psyched!!!#this is still too late to be relevant isn't it!#lol i'm just glad I'm finally posting it #chapter title is from kids in america by kim wilde #another 80s BOP #ev writes

3 notes · View notes

spookyyenna · 5 years

Text

Power Rangers Wing Commanders: Episode 1: Wings of Change Pt. 1

Greetings everyone! It is I, Spookyyenna! I’ve decided to return to Tumblr and give it another chance. And along with that, here is the first episode of my PR story! So if you’re a Power Rangers fan, then this is the story for you! Leave a comment and enjoy the story.

In the deep, dark, depths of space. There were multiple stars and planets orbiting around the cold and quiet atmosphere, but, suddenly a massive portal appeared and out came an alien spacecraft that was in the color of fuchsia with a hint of grey. It had two engines in the back and two sets of missiles under each wing. Inside the spacecraft were reptilian-like foot soldiers, otherwise known as, Nexors, were either carrying an alien blaster or a laser-blade. Their attire consists of a magenta battle armor and holsters for their weapons. Most of them patrol through the corridors, while others were guarding the more private parts of the ship. However, the only flaw about these reptilian-like beings was the fact that they lack basic knowledge and had tendencies to not follow simple directions. Luckily, there were four other beings that had more sense than these incompetent fools.

At the front of the ship, stood three different figures; each of them being an anthropomorphic animal. The tallest one was the timber wolf named Rag-Zar. He was a mighty warrior with a ferocious temper, a powerful saber, and a pack of mysterious daggers. The wolf also had a serious demeanor that meant business and most definitely wasn’t the type to fool around or to make “jokes”. He was also a general of sorts and he expects everything to go his way. Unfortunately, the other two weren’t so agreeable. One was a female spotted hyena named Sheira; she didn't fit the stereotypes about hyenas, although, she was fierce and was not to be underestimated. In combat, she fights to win, even if her opponent parishes in the process. Sheira also happens to be the master of blades. Whether it be a knife or a short sword, the cunning hyena will use it to her advantage. However, she doesn't work alone. By her side is her twin brother, Zerrick, a tough spotted hyena with a twisted personality and an underbite to boot. Unlike his twin sister, the spotted hyena can only handle one blade and solely relies on his gauntlet that he wields on his dominant wrist. These twin hyenas are extremely dangerous, especially when they work together. However, because they're brother and sister, they have a tendency to get into squabbles, in which, gives both Rag-Zar and their master a living headache. Unfortunately, it makes the latter more angry and more likely to punish the two mammals. However, when it comes to their undying loyalty to their master, there’s no doubt that they will be by their master’s side until the bitter end. But, for now, they all have their eyes set on conquering a new planet. A planet that is known throughout the entire universe; a planet known as, earth.

“How much longer until we reach the planet!? I’m dying to cause some destruction!” Zerrick asked with impatience and confidence in his voice.

“And as I told you 10 minutes ago...you impatient malcontent...we’ll get there WHEN WE GET THERE!!! NOW STOP PESTERING ME BEFORE I USE YOUR HEAD AS AN ORNAMENT PIECE!!!” Rag-Zar yelled as he was getting sick of the hyena’s constant questions. “Why don’t you go bother your sister or something!?”

“Because she threatened to rip my fur off if I continue to pester her…plus she told me to bug you,” Zerrick pouted. “And must you always yell?! I swear you’re gonna lose your voice one of these days.”

Rag-Zar rolled his eyes before replying, “Not if I lose what’s left of my sanity and brain cells talking to you first.”

Zerrick took an offense to that statement and whipped out his gauntlet as he got up and personal in the ill-tempered wolf’s face. “Listen here snaggletooth! I may not be the brightest mammal in the room, but, I will NOT tolerate your petty insults. So take it back or I’ll-”

“Or you’ll what!?” Rag-Zar growled as he started to size up the hyena. “In case you forgot: I’m a wolf, I’m twice your size, I’m better than you in combat, and if it was up to me or even our master, I would’ve launched you to the nearest and biggest black hole that we can find in this galaxy.”

But before the two mammals could go any further with their confrontation, a sudden ear-piercing sound waived through their ears and caused them both to fall onto their knees and grip their ears in pure pain and agony as they whine and beg for the sound to stop and go away. Fortunately for Rag-Zar and Zerrick, the sound went away. Unfortunately, the source of the sound came from someone that they both feared and respected; their master. He was a tall individual with a dark demeanor and an aura that was made out of pure evil and darkness. He also wore a metallic-silver suit of armor with a hint of light green in some areas; most of his body, except for his mouth, was covered by the armor. In his dominant hand, which was his right, he wielded a mighty spear that glowed a dark purple-ish color when releasing the powerful sound waves. He then proceeded towards the two mammals as they were getting their second wind from the horrible ringing in their ears.

“Get up...Now!” he demanded as he stomped his spear on the ground. “You were supposed to be warriors. Not childish brats fighting over a toy! Sheira has more common sense than the both of you combine!” he continued as he glared at the two grown mammals. “If I hear any more of this nonsense between the two of you, I will turn you lot into fur and dust!! Am I understood!?” Dark Sparrow growled.

“Forgive us, Master Dark Sparrow!” Rag-Zar and Zerrick said in unison as they got back on their feet and bowed to show respect and forgiveness towards their master. Once that was said and done, both warriors stayed quiet and kept their distance from each other to avoid another confrontation. Dark Sparrow was satisfied with this result and walked back to his throne with a quiet but stoic look on his face as he had his mind on other things. But, suddenly, his train of thoughts came to a close when he was approached by his second-in-command; Sheira.

“I must apologize for my brother's childish behavior master,” bowed Sheira. “I'd say he needs more ‘home training’ but, I'm positive that it'll just go through his empty head. Like his brain!” she added, in which, earned her an embarrassing glare from her twin sibling and a light chuckle from Rag-Zar. “Anyways, I came to inform you that we are getting close to the designated planet.”

“Excellent!” Dark Sparrow smirked, “Engage the ship’s thrusters and prepare the Nexors for battle. I want to hear the inhabitants of this planet scream as we destroy their homes and watch them plea for mercy.” he smirks once more as he makes a tight fist.

“As you wish, Master.” Sheira bowed once more and proceeded with Dark Sparrow’s instructions as he took his seat on the throne. But not before giving a sinister laugh that echoed throughout the entire ship.

*Time: 8:00 am.

*Location: Earth.

*Destination: Finn Hill, California.

“Good Morning Finn Hill!! FHN Reporter J.B Bell, here reporting live from Downtown on this beautiful Monday morning!” The news reporter announced with great enthusiasm in his voice. He was an anthropomorphic blue jay with feathers that were groomed to the touch. He also wore a grey business suit with a white shirt and a blue tie under. “The Mayor will be holding a special celebration in honor of the city's founder; Finnigan Weston Hill. We will keep you guys updated at the station as preparations for the big event is in progress. This is J.B. Bell, signing off.” and with that, the avian news reporter took a huge breath relief before retreating to the news van and grabbing a bottle of water. “That was exhausting…”

“Nice work J.B.!” Said the cameraman as he turned off the camera and put it into the van. He was a middle-aged man with light skin, jet black hair and a slightly receding hairline. His uniform mainly consists of a leather jacket with a crimson t-shirt underneath, a pair of navy blue jeans, and grey sneakers. “You always know how to start everyone's day.”

“...Thanks, Leonardo.” J.B. yawned. “I'm not used to being out so early in the morning...not since high school at least. But enough about me, how you've been doing since...you know…?”

The cameraman, Leonardo, got quiet and sheepish. He knew what question his boss and friend was about to ask, and it made him uncomfortable every time. But Leonardo knew, if he doesn't talk about it, it'll drive him crazy for months. “I-I’ve been alright...I guess… it's just something new for me to deal with..”

“Leo…I'm sorry. M-Maybe it was too soon to bring it up,” Said J.B. “If you don't feel comfortable talking about it, I understand.”

“Jerome-Bernard Bell,” Leonardo started. “It’s okay. I’ll be alright. Getting divorced can have different effects on people; Ava needs her space and our son is handling it in his own way. Although, I can’t imagine he’s hurt about this.”

“Yeesh...the only people that full-named me were my parents, my partner, and our boss. But I didn’t think you had it in you...” J.B. replied bashfully. “But you make a good point tho Leo. C’mon! Let’s go make sure the equipment is set up correctly. That should take your mind off things.” he says as he smiled at his cameraman.

Leonardo appreciated the suggestion from his news partner/friend as he follows him back to his van. Suddenly both individuals and their vehicle were overcast by a massive shadow. They looked up at the sky and saw a massive spacecraft hover over them until three figures teleported to the ground with their weapons in their paws. J.B. and Leonardo were stunned with fear and couldn’t move a muscle. All they could do was watch as the three figures walk up to them with the female one pointing one of her blades at the frightened avian’s throat.

“Alright, bird boy. Unless you want to be a featherless bird, you better start talking.” the female figure threatened. “What’s the name of this civilization that you, earthlings, call ‘home’?”

“F-Finn Hill...Finn Hill, California. T-That’s the name of our city. I swear that’s all I know.”

“Hmph! Smart bird. I’ll let you live. For now. You might get lucky and get enslaved for all of eternity. Now for your friend over here,” she says as she puts one arm around Leo’s neck, with the other one wielding a blade that is aimed at the side of it. “So, ‘quiet one’ who’s the leader of this place, that you call Finn...Hill…?”

Leonardo stayed quiet for a few seconds which honestly felt like forever. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk or not. But, he knows if he doesn’t speak, the female figure and her two companions could hurt J.B. or worse. “...our ‘leader’ is Mayor Suzuki. That’s all I know as well. Please, we both have families. I couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to them…” Leonardo pleaded.

“Save your pity party for the next group of invaders who actually cares about your simple lives,” the female figure sassed. “Rag-Zar, be a good boy and take care of these two. We got all of the information that we needed.”

“I’m not your little ‘puppy-dog’ Sheira! But as you wish.” said Rag-Zar, as he began to, murmur an ancient spell with his paws and eyes glowing a bright orange-ish color. Once he was done with the spell, the male wolf zaps the avian and human, as he put them both in an energy sphere, in which, puts the two in a sleeping trance. “Shall I leave them here? Or do we allow the master to deal with these two witnesses?”

Sheira smiled devilishly at the energy sphere, before replying with, “Don’t worry. The master is already in the midst of a plan.”

Time: 9:00

Location: Finn Hill High School

BRRRRIIINNNGGGGG!!!

As the school bell ranged, students of all shapes, sizes, colors, and species were roaming all over the hallways. Most of them trying to find their classes or their friends in all of the chaos. But before it can get any louder and crazy, a large brown bear in a blue blazer with matching trousers walked into the middle of the hallway with a cup of coffee in one paw and a silver whistle in the other. He then proceeds to blow into the small instrument, in which, got every student to quiet down and give their attention to the large mammal in the center.

“I hate to ruin your meetups and conversations, but the first bell just rang. And If you don’t like to spend your first day back at school in detention, then I suggest we all go to class, Yes?” the mammal smiled.

“Yes, Principal Bernstein…” the crowd of students replied with a few of them grunting and rolling their eyes in annoyance.

“That’s better,” said Principal Bernstein as he started to make his way back to the office. Along the way, he said good morning to a few students and fellow faculty as they all headed off to their individual classrooms and offices. Suddenly a blur, which was in the form of a student, flew past the principal. Miraculously, the bear already recognized the student and immediately stopped him in his tracks. “Running late again...Mr. Jones?”

The student stopped in his tracks and turned around in a very awkward matter. He also had a sheepish grin on his face. “Heyyy, Principal B! How’s it hanging? Did you do something to your fur? It looks so smooth and ravishing” the student said as he tried to sweet-talk his way out of the situation. But alas, this wasn’t going to end well.

“...Detention?” the student sighed.

“Same time after school, Mr. Jones. Don’t be late,” said Principal Bernstein as he gave the student a pink slip before heading back to his office.

“Yes, sir...I’ll be there,” the student sighed once more as he shoved the slip into his back pocket and proceeded towards his classroom. “Smooth move Roy Jones. ‘How’s it hanging’!? God that was cliche. I need to come up with some better material.”

Inside one classroom, the teacher was given a history lesson about the city of Mariner Bay and the ancient burial ground that is located underground. But before the teacher could go any further with her lesson, the classroom door was opened to reveal super-late student, Roy Jones, who quickly took to his seat as he was getting menacing daggers from his teacher and awkward stares from his fellow classmates. Especially from one student who was not only a friend of his, but he was also a German Shepherd; he had blue eyes, tan fur, black markings on his nose, ears, and his tail. He was also wearing a sleeveless green t-shirt and a pair of blue jean shorts.

“Let me guess: Trying to impress a couple of girls? Failed to skip class? Or better yet, tried to stay home sick?” the shepherd raised his eyebrow.

“Worst my canine compadre,” Roy replied. Overslept, missed the bus, and got the infamous pink slip from good ol’ grizzly butt.”

“Ouch. That’s what happens when you have an all-night movie marathon. And I told you to get your rest too.” the shepherd scolded. “Plus, as your friend, I think you need-” but before the teenage canine could finish his sentence, his teacher stormed over to his desk and slammed a pink slip on his desk. “Oh no…” he groaned.

“I’m sorry Adrian, but you already know that I have a no talking policy in my class.” said the teacher as she gave the shepherd a disappointing stare before returning to the classroom board.

“I never get detention…” Adrian whined as his ears folded to the back of his head. “Ugh, my parents are gonna kill me..”

“Aww c’mon dude! Cheer up,” said Roy. “Your boy, El Roylando, will keep you company!” he smirked.

“Joy…” Adrian replied in a deadpan tone.

Down by the football field…

A group of students in gym uniforms was lining up at the front of the track for their daily classroom laps. On the sidelines were the two P.E. coaches; one was an anthropomorphic Red-Tailed Hawk in a male uniform and a school official cap and the other was a female coach with a tan muscle tone and in a female uniform.

“Alright, everyone! Listen up!!” said the avian coach, “I want you all to run your fastest! I want you to sweat! And I don’t want any bland excuses--unless your paw or ankle is twisted, suck it up and run. Am I clear?”

“Yes Coach Talon…” the students mumbled.

“I said...AM I CLEAR!? OR DO I NEED TO ADD 50 PUSHUPS TO EACH LAP?” he shouted as his feathers start to ruffle from anger.

Without another peep, all of the students got into their starting positions in fear of making their coach angrier. Three students, in particular, were having a private conversation amongst themselves. Two of them were male and the third one was a female; one was a Red Doberman, the other one was a Welsh Corgi, and the third one was a Caucasian female with a grey pixie cut.

“Yo, what’s birdbrain's problem?” the Doberman grumbled, “It’s not our fault that we’re tired and not in the mood to run.

“Exactly bro!” the Corgi added, “I was working my tail off this entire summer! My paws and body ain’t build for this stuff! What am I? A Pitbull!?” he scoffed.

“Don’t be such a puppy Billy,” said the female student. “You’re a squirt, yes, but you need to get rid of those extra pounds. Especially in the gut area,” she added as she poked his belly.

“Hey! I may be short, but, I am not fat! And you know it, Mira.” Billy growled.

Mira laughed as she watches her short canine friend try and fail to be threatening. But to the teenage girl, it was both entertaining and adorable. “Poor Billy...so ‘scary’ and cute.”

“...Forget you, Mira.” Billy blushed with embarrassment as he rubbed his belly.

“Okay you two, save the insults for a chump that deserves it,” said Nelson as he glared at a male student with red hair, light green eyes, and freckles on his nose. “You’re going down Anderson...that I can promise you.”

And with that, the female coach blew the coach and all of the students took off in a matter of seconds. Most of the canine and feline students, with the exception of the red-haired student, taking the lead. The red-haired student was completely focused as he kept a good and steady focus on running until something, or someone broke his concentration and made him fall to the ground. Once the student got back on his feet, he heard immense sounds of laughing and teasing from the trio of students. Mostly from the Welsh Corgi and Red Doberman. They then proceed to whip out their phones and start recording the student.

“Is that even necessary Nelson?” asked the student, “like your ego needs to be any bigger than your test scores.”

“What do you care Jerry-boy!? I think it’s about time that a ‘good guy’ like you be put in his place!” Billy smirked. “Ain’t that right Nelson?”

Nelson nodded before saying “You may be the ‘star’ of the track team Anderson...but you’ll always be a goody-two-shoes loser!” the Doberman laughed.

“Ha! Good one bro!” said Billy as he joined his friend in the laugh.

The student rolled his eyes in annoyance as he proceeded to catch up with his fellow classmates. But just before he could get a running start, he was forcefully tackled to the ground by Nelson. As he tried to get his bearings, the Red Doberman kept him pinned to the ground as he got in the student’s face before saying, “Going somewhere, Anderson…? You and I got some unfinished business.” as he said that, the canine grew a cruel smile, and made his paw into a fist before striking the student in the face.

Back at the bleachers the female coach, otherwise known as, Coach Eloise Landers was patching up the red-haired student’s injuries after his sudden encounter with Nelson Skuller, the Red Doberman that loves to terrorize other students that are scared of him.

“Coach Landers, I’m fine! It’s just a couple of bruises.” said the student as he winced from the stinging sensation of alcohol being dabbed on his cheek.

“Maybe so Jeremy,” said Coach Landers. “But those bruises aren’t going to heal themselves. However, though, I’m just glad you didn’t turn it into a full-on-brawl. As for Nelson...he’ll be punished for not only his brash actions but, for also attacking another student. Is that okay with you Jeremy?”

“Yes Coach Landers,” Jeremy replied. “And besides, Nelson has had it for me and other students since last year. But I’m not gonna let a bully like him bring me down. And if he gives anyone else problems, I’ll be sure to tell Principal Bernstein.” he reassured.

“I’m glad to hear that Jeremy,” Coach Landers replied back. “And it looks you got some visitors,” she says as three of Jeremy’s classmates and one of the cheerleaders walked up to them.

“Yo, Jeremy, are you okay?” An ocelot student asked. “Nelson was a real punk for throwing that punch.”

“I agree,” a female deer student added. “I’m surprised you didn’t knock that malcontent’s teeth in. Or at least retaliate against his goons.”

“C’mon Natalie!” said another student. “You know Jeremy isn’t the type to pick a fight with someone like Nelson. He’s more of a peacekeeper anyway.”

“Okay guys, I’m sure Jeremy would like some alone time now,” the cheerleader smiled. She was African-American with light-orange eyes, all black hair with a streak of yellow in the middle, and she was also wearing an orange and purple cheerleader’ uniform. “And about Nelson; he’s just a big puppy with a childish grudge.” she winked.

“Hehe! Thanks, Kayla, thanks, guys.” Jeremy smiled. “I appreciate all of you checking on me, but I’ll be fine, get back to running before Coach Talon loses any more feathers.”

Agreeing with their friend and not wanting to tick off the already agitated avian coach, Jeremy’s classmates went back to the track to continue their laps and Kayla went back to practicing her routine with the other cheerleaders. But, unbeknown to them they were being watched by two mysterious men inside of an all black SUV. One man had his hand on the wheel and was looking through a pair of binoculars, while the other man was talking through a communicator in his ear.

“No signs of any suspicious activity Commander. But we’ve identified both Mr. Anderson and Ms. Hopkins, no sign of the other three yet.”

“Excellent work Agent! Knowing Mr. Jones and Mr. Cooper, they’re most likely in class. As for Ms. Garcia, she’s probably playing hooky or in detention. She’s rebellious--but she has spunk. Keep me posted agent.”

“Yes, sir. Signing out,” the agent took his fingers off the communicator and put his attention back on his partner and the students of Finn Hill High School. “How’s it going?”

“Like you told the commander,” the other agent replied. “No signs of suspicious activity. And may I ask? Why are we spying on five specific teenagers? I’m sure the commander or at least the professor has a good explanation for this.”

“They do actually,” said the first agent. “It’s for a ‘Top Secret’ project. Otherwise known as, Operation: Wing Commanders.”

Up in the sky, a military aircraft carrier was hovering over Finn Hill. It had four powerful engines that keep the entire ship airborne, state-of-the-art weaponry, a runway to launch and land all aircraft vehicles and cargo, and a built-in cloaking device to keep it hidden and safe from enemies to uninvited guests. Inside the carrier was a huge base where multiple agents and soldiers were hard at work at monitoring the activities of the city while others are deployed and tasked with secret missions. At the center of the base was a middle-aged man who donned the uniform of a commanding officer; his facial features include a grey mustache, sideburns, and a scar on his right eyebrow. Next to him was a male anthropomorphic Red Fox, who was donning a lab coat, a purple t-shirt, and a pair of grey slacks. He also had golden eyes and was sporting a pair of spectacles.

“Remind me again Ethan...why teenagers?” asked the vulpine. “And please don’t say ‘because they have the attitude!’, not only is that a common stereotype about teenagers, they always have an attitude, they constantly complain about everything, and they have the attention span of a-”

“Well, Jonathon,” Ethan replied. “I’m 100% sure that most of the things you just said are common stereotypes about teenagers. Am I wrong?” he smirked.

“Alright, alright, don’t be so smug of yourself,” Jonathon rolled his eyes. “Anyways, about Operation: Wing Commanders, I made some minor adjustments to the ‘gears and tools’ that we need for the five chosen teenagers.”

“That’s good to hear John,” Ethan nodded. “How long until they’re ready?”

“Just a little bit longer,” John replied. “I need to make sure they don’t malfunction during battles and work any bugs out of the system.”

Suddenly, an emergency alarm went off and the entire base was repeatedly flashing red lights. Some of the agents and soldiers went to their stations to track down the source of the emergency alarm, and others were trying to get all of the monitors turned on to see live footage of the potential threat. Once the screens were turned on, live video footage played of Dark Sparrow and his minions in the middle of town, with their now three hostages, trapped inside the same energy orb from before while still being in an unconscious state.

“Commander, who is that?” one of the soldiers asked.

“I don’t know,” the commander replied. “Turn it up! I want to hear what he has to say.”

“Attention! Earthlings of Finn Hill! You probably don’t know who I am. But, allow me to introduce myself; I am Dark Sparrow. An intergalactic space pirate, conquer of planets, and destroyer of the weak! Now then--the reason I came to your planet. It’s a simple reason; I want to rule it. But not just rule it. I want to enslave all life on this threshold you call home. Some of you will become warriors of my army or even my personal slaves. Whether you like it or not. Because, as of today, I am your new ruler! And if anyone dares to defy me...here’s what happens:"

Dark Sparrow aimed his hand at the energy sphere as he fired a jolt of dark energy which caused the hostages to scream in pain and agony. Along with this, Rag-Zar and Sheira launched multiple blade slashes at several buildings which resulted in all of them exploding and crumbling down to the streets below. People and children were screaming and crying as they ran to take cover and find shelter. Unfortunately, some weren’t so lucky and got badly injured in the chaos.

“Your time is running out Finn Hill! Make your choice: Accept me as your new leader or Perish along with these hostages and the rest of your precious city. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock."

End of Transmission

“Oh my god…” Jonathon gasped. “H-He can’t be serious…”

“This is a Code Red Emergency! All hands on deck! NOW!!” Ethan commanded. “I need a medical team and an evac team down to the city! We got casualties who are severely injured or worse. This is not a drill people, I repeat, this is Not. A. Drill.”

“SIR! YES, SIR!” all of the soldiers shouted as they prepare to deploy down to the city.

Ethan placed his hand on his fox companion’s shoulder before saying, “Professor, how fast can you get those ‘gears and tools’ done?”

The vulpine readjusted his spectacles and gave his commanding officer and companion a reassuring smirk. “Faster than you can say Lightspeed, Commander.”

“All I needed to hear,” the commander nodded before turning on his earpiece. “Agents, assemble the rangers.”

Back at the school, Principal Bernstein was in his office, drinking his second cup of coffee, and reading the reports about a troubled student who has once again caused mischief. The Ursa sighed in frustration, knowing that, this wasn’t the first time he had to deal with this particular student. Ironically enough, it was only the first day of school. It's going to be a very long day.

“Mrs. Evans, would you kindly send Ms. Garcia into my office please?” Principal Bernstein asked, via intercom.

“Right away sir,” she replied back. “Here she comes now.”

And right on cue, a female student walked into the office and made herself comfortable by sitting in one of the available seats and planting her pink sneakers on the principal’s desk. The student was wearing a pink hoodie with a plain white shirt under, a pair of baggy jeans with holes in the knee area, and a pink beanie with a bunny skull in the center. “What am I in for this time chief?”

“That’s Principal to you, young lady,” glared Principal Bernstein. “And as for what you’re in for; playing hooky and spray painting ‘PINK PUNK’ all over the lockers of FH High students, Nelson Skuller, Billy Blake, and Mira Thompson. Care to explain, Ms. Garcia?” he raised his eyebrow.

“What can I say? Social Studies isn’t my forte,” she shrugged nonchalantly. “And as for those three chumps, they deserved it. They think because they’re the ‘Alphas’ of the school, they have the everloving right to harass anyone whenever and whatever they want! Someone’s gotta stand up to them.” she says as she crosses her arms in defiance.

“Ms. Gar--Lucy,” Principle Bernstein cleared his throat. “While I understand your concern. And I really do. But I don’t think vandalizing a fellow student’s locker is the right way to get back at a bully.”

“Then what would you do!? Let them off the hook!? Someone has to stop this!” exclaimed Lucy.

“Lucy, please try to listen. You can’t just put matters into your own hands and expect bad students to stop bullying other students.”

As Lucy was about to give the principal another piece of her mind, one of the mysterious men in black walked into the office and grabbed the teenage girl by her arm. “Lucy Garcia. I’ll need you to come with me.”

“Hold up business dude!” Lucy struggled. “Who the heck are you!? Where are you taking me!? And how do you know my name!?”

“All of your questions will be answered soon. But for now, I need you to calm down and come with me,” The man replied as he calmly took Lucy out of the office. Leaving the poor principle dazed and very confused.

“...I’m switching to decaf.”

Meanwhile, the other mysterious man in black was escorting Adrian and Roy, outside, towards his vehicle.

“So...are you with Secret Services? or the CIA?” asked Roy. “Because if you are, I’m willing to joy. If the pay is good of course.”

“That’s confidential information, Mr. Jones,” the man replied. “And I’m going to have to ask you to refrain from asking any more questions until we reach our destination.”

Roy nodded to the man’s request, but, he decided to open his mouth once more. “But can I just say-”

“Roy,” Adrian said sternly. “Please shut up. I got detention for the first time, I might get grounded until I graduate High School, and we’re possibly being kidnapped,” Adrian added as he starts to rub his temple from all of the stress. And with that, Roy kept his mouth shut as he and Adrian entered the back seat of the man’s vehicle. Once they were inside, they were greeted by two other students, Jeremy Anderson, and Kayla Hopkins.

“Well, well, well,” Roy smirked. “It seems we have a cheerleader amongst us. How's it hanging sunshine?”

“Get a reality check, Jones.” Kayla sassed. “We all got ‘escorted’ out of class by a couple of dudes in business suits, and you’re choosing now to make flirty advances? Not your brightest moment.”

“Agreed,” Jeremy and Adrian said in unison.

“Oh, who asked you guys…?” Roy grumbled. “But in all honesty, why are we here? We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m with Jones on this one,” said Kayla. “They must’ve had a good reason for why they chose us four and nobody else.”

“It’s about to be five,” Jeremy pointed out as he saw one of the men in black came back with a reluctant Lucy who was trying to break free of his grip. He soon got out of the way as she ferociously opened the door to the vehicle and sat next to the teenage redhead.

“Sheesh, they got you guys too huh?” Exclaimed Lucy. “So who am I stuck with? The pretty boy, cocky smartmouth, madam pep squad, and the good boy.” she snarked.

The other four teens made very unamusing expressions at Lucy, as they weren’t a fan of the rebel teen’s nicknames for them. “Tough crowd,” she says. “and I thought my abuela and tia were hard to laugh.” Lucy shrugged as she sat back and enjoyed the ride.

And so, the five teenagers were assembled into the vehicle and are currently being transported to an unknown location. Unbeknownst to them, their lives will never be the same. Once they were on the highway, one of the men in black, who was driving, started to pick up speed in a very increasing rate. “Prepare for flight mode.” said one of the men.

“Roger that,” the other man replied. “Should we give them the heads up? This might be a bumpy experience for them.”

“Nah, let them experience it for themselves,” He smirked. “It's always fun to watch the newbies scream and squirm. And besides, they’re teenagers. I’m sure they’ve been through worse.”

In the backseat of the SUV, the five teenagers were starting to get weary and notice something was wrong. Adrian was looking out the window and noticed that they were going a little bit faster than usual, Roy was trying to comfort Kayla by putting his arm around her shoulder, but, all he got was a hard elbow blow to the side, Jeremy was wondering where he and his fellow schoolmates were going, and Lucy was keeping herself distracted by listening to her music. Then suddenly, the SUV started to pick up even more speed and it forced the teens to sit back and tightened their seatbelts.

“Why are we going so fast? Don’t they know about the speed limits here?” asked Adrian.

“They’re probably in a hurry to get somewhere...” said Roy as he began stretching. “Wake me up when we’ve reached our abductor’s hideout,” he says as he starts to fall asleep.

“You’re a lost cause Jones…” Kayla mumbled.

Meanwhile, outside the SUV started to transform. First off, jet wings started to appear on both sides of the vehicle, then the wheels began to hover, in which, caused the whole vehicle to float above the ground and start to take flight, and finally a pair of twin thrusters formed from the back of the vehicle and were starting to power up. Inside the vehicle, a female A.I. voice came on and stated the following: Preparing for Launch! Please make sure all seatbelts are fastened, secured, and everyone is in their assigned seats. Thank you and have a nice day~

“Well that wasn’t too bad,” said Adrian. “At least we can relax now.”

Initiating Countdown: In 5…

“We’re doomed,” Adrian sighed.

4…

“Get ready guys! This is gonna be intense!” informed Jeremy.

3…

“Thanks for the heads up Red,” said Lucy as she gives Jeremy, a mocking salute. “I think we’re completely aware that we may possibly die.”

2…

“Would it kill you to not be a sarcastic smart alec for five minutes?” Kayla asked in a frustrated tone, “I mean seriously, don’t you care that we might not see our friends and family again?”

1…

“Of course I do!” Lucy replied. “But you should be telling that to Prince Snoozy-Butt next to you,” she says as she nods her head at Roy, who was not only snoring but was starting to drool a little.

Ignition!

And just like that, the vehicle blasted off into the sky in a matter of seconds. Leaving only dust and groups of drivers in their path. The two men in black were enjoying their flight to the atmosphere. The man that was driving, however, grew a huge smile on his face as he can hear the sound of the teens screaming in possible awe or terror. “Tch, newbies.”

Once their vehicle was in the air, it started to slow down its speed and proceeded towards its designated location. The military carrier, that was hidden, thanks to its built-in cloaking device. “Commander Hunter, Sir, we got them. Permission to land?”

“Permission Granted! And hurry! We don’t have that much time.”

“Yes, sir.”

And so, the two men landed their flying vehicle on the runway as it and the entire ship instantly turned visible. The two then proceeded to let the five teenagers out. Fortunately, they made it in one piece, unfortunately, some of them were feeling groggy and kinda sick.

“...I think I’m gonna throw up…” Adrian groaned.

“Yay! We’re alive,” said Lucy. “and on solid ground,” she says as she hugs the pavement.

“Ugh, hey, who turned on the lights…?” Roy yawned as he just woke up from his nap. “Where are we anyway?”

Jeremy and Kayla were the last two to get out of the vehicle. Kayla was regaining her bearings as she took a second to look at the new environment she’s in, and Jeremy cautiously walked towards the edge and noticed that they were no longer in the city anymore. “Uh, guys? You might want to see this,” he says as he looked down at all of the clouds and buildings down below. The others came to see what their schoolmate was talking about, and they were surprised by the massive view.

“That’s a long way down,” said Kayla. “Good thing I'm not afraid of heights.”

“Hate to be the poor sucker that slips and fall to their doom,” Lucy added.

But before anyone else can say anything, the five teens were escorted inside by the two men in black. Once they were inside they took a quick look at their surroundings and were impressed by all of the technological wonders within the place; from massive computers to odd inventions that have never been seen before. Soldiers and workers were scrambling all over the place, while some of them took quick glances at the teenagers and were mumbling things like “That’s them?”, “I didn’t think they were teenagers.”, “Why is one of them a dog? Why not a wolf or something?”. As they continued with their walking, they were soon approached by the commander.

“Commander Hunter, Sir!” The two men saluted.

“At Ease, you two,” said the Commander. “I’ll take it from here,” he says as he motions Jeremy and the others to follow him.

“You’re probably wondering where you are and who I am,” he acknowledged. “Well, allow me to finally answer them for you: My name is Commander Ethan Hunter and you five are in a state-of-the-art military carrier! In other words, it’s a secret base in the sky and the main headquarters of the W.C.O.”

“And what exactly is the ‘W.C.O.’?” asked Jeremy.

“The Wing Command Organization, or, W.C.O. for short,” replied the Commander. “tactical military ops that specialize in dealing with ordinary and unordinary threats. Both in the sky and on the ground. We’re also tasked with keeping Finn Hill and all of its citizens safe. And that’s where you five come in.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Roy. “Why us? We’re just teenagers. We don’t know anything about being part of the military. Heck, I’m barely passing history.”

The Commander stopped in his tracks and was in complete silence. He stayed quiet for a few more seconds until he cleared his throat, and gave the five teenagers a stern but serious stare. “Tell me,” he started. “Have any of you five...ever heard of the Power Rangers?”

Jeremy, Roy, Adrian, Kayla, and Lucy, were completely thrown off by the commander’s question. However, they were familiar with the legendary team of heroes. Especially Adrian, whose tail was wagging like crazy. “Seriously!? Who hasn’t!? I’ve always wanted to be one since I was a pup! And, and-ahem-I mean, of course, they’re pretty well-known heroes.” he says as he grabs on to his tail and attempts to hide his embarrassing blush.

“You’re such a nerd dude.” Roy chuckled.

“I don’t know,” said Lucy. “I think it’s cute that he’s a fan.”

“Good, so you’ve heard of them…” nodded the commander. “I need to show you all something,” he says as he directs them into a room with a large square table, a silver briefcase, a monitor, and an anxious Professor Foxworth.

“Yo, who’s the fox dude?” asked Roy.

“Roy…” Adrian elbowed Roy’s arm.

“Show some respect,” Kayla scolded.

“It’s quite alright,” Professor Foxworth sighed. “I’m kinda used to it by now,”

Commander Hunter walked towards the male red fox and rested his hand on his shoulder. “I would like you all to meet Professor Jonathon .H. Foxworth, the leading scientist here at the W.C.O.”

All five teenagers said their greetings to the male vulpine before taking a seat at the table. Once everyone sat down, both, Commander Hunter and Professor Foxworth stood at the front before proceeding with the briefing.

“We have a Code Red Emergency! Earlier today, we got a video message from an individual, that calls himself, Dark Sparrow.” said the Commander as he replayed the footage from earlier. “He’s an intergalactic space pirate whose sole purpose is to conquer and enslave other planets. Unfortunately, Planet Earth is his next target.”

“It gets worse from there,” said the Professor. “His forces have leveled several city blocks, destroyed multiple buildings, and innocent civilians were hurt in the attack. And to add the cherry on top--he has hostages. One of them being the mayor herself…” he says as he displayed images of the hostages.

The five teens watched in horror and anger as they watched their city get destroyed, and innocent people and mammals running for their lives, as they all try to escape the chaos and destruction; Jeremy was clenching a tight fist to display his anger, Lucy was speechless and possibly scared, Kayla was trying to hold back tears as she feared for her own family’s safety, Adrian covered his ears to muffle the sounds of all the people crying and screaming, and Roy was stunned because he recognized one of the hostages. “This isn’t happening...” Roy mumbled.

“What is it Mr. Jones?” asked the Professor.

“I know one of the hostages…” Roy replied. “The cameraman...its my dad!”

To be Continued...

Next time on Power Rangers Wing Commanders!

The Rangers are given their morphers and are soon put to the test when they make an attempt to rescue the kidnapped hostages from the clutches of Rag-Zar, Sheira, and Zerrick. Meanwhile, Dark Sparrow unleashes a horde of Nexors and a monster upon the city! Can our new heroes work as a team and save the day? Or will this be the end of Earth and Finn Hill?

That’s next time! On Power Rangers Wing Commanders!

#Power Rangers #power rangers wing commanders #power rangers ocs #fanfiction #power rangers fanfiction #stories by spookyyenna #story by me

1 note · View note