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echo-of-sounds · 3 years

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accessibility in fanfiction and fandom

Disclaimer: I am only one person. I have ADHD, a pending autism (with a notable sensory processing disorder) diagnosis, photophobia, and chronic migraines triggered by sensory stimuli (especially lights, flashes, and certain colors). My experiences are not universal. Not everyone with these diagnosis struggle with the same things. But I do know others do have difficulty with many of these.

Writing in all one ‘style’:

Bold text and italics are great for emphasizing certain points and phrases. I do it all the time. But when there are entire blocks of bolded and/or italicized text, it’s incredibly hard to read. Bold text blends together as black lines. Italics swim in my vision. Use them when necessary for their intended effect.

Don’t write an entire drabble in that all small font for the sake of ‘style.’ That’s not a style. I don’t even know why or when this became popular. It’s incredibly hard squinting at my laptop screen to decipher what it says. It’s straining and causes headaches. Writing style comes through in what the words say, not in the font and typeface of the words.

(Also, if your blogs theme makes font small, many are never going to be able to read your posts. Small strains and hurts many. And I know if I click on someone’s blog and see that, I’m clicking right off again. I don’t care about your work at that point.)

The same goes for bubbly, curly, and otherwise ‘fancy’ fonts. If you have a point to make, make it visually clear so everyone can read it.

Don’t write entire sentences with capslock on and please capitalize.

One: It’s so damn difficult to read. The words blend together and look irregular/jagged (to me anyway).

Two: Though I can’t find them now, I’ve seen posts about screenreaders having trouble with capslocked words. It was something about how screenreaders will read out the letters individually and not the word itself, which defeats the purpose of a screenreader. (If someone knows what I’m talking about, I’d love to know so I can add it here!)

Use capitalization! Grammar is important! When sentences don’t start with capital letters, it is literally impossible for me to read. You could be the next biggest author in the world, but I won’t read anything you have to say because I genuinely cannot read it.

Colors and Setup:

Many blogs use Carrd links. Others have a ‘masterlist’ or a pinned post that has a million different links for different things. Sometimes, it gets to the point where these are incredibly difficult to navigate. There will be huge blocks of text that I can barely read. Links are tough to spot. Gifs with flashings light and bright lights/colors can, in some cases, be dangerous to photosensitive people, triggering seizures, nausea, and/or migraines.

It’s gotten to the point where I no longer click on people’s Carrds and links because I’m afraid of what it leads to. My brain struggles with oranges, yellows, pinks, and some reds. It depends on the shade, tint, and brightness. Sometimes, it is impossible for me to read on a blog because there’s blinding yellow everywhere or barely legible colors mixed together.

One blog had flashing banners, and I immediately clicked off, seeing the bright pink flashing lines in my vision for ten minutes afterwards. If you have rules, ‘before you follow,’ and/or a ‘do not interact’ on your blog, everyone should be able to read it. Do not make it inaccessible because then their entire point is defeated as people will not read it.

Basically, make sure your color contrast is legible. It’s best to use simple colors for Carrds. Here’s a good guide to reference: (source)

Along the same lines: Design:

Make any designs you have legible, whether for your carrd, about me posts, or when you posting drabbles/headcanons. ADHD and autism causes people to see everything. Every little part. Our brains don’t filter out the ‘unnecessary’ parts yours may. Excess punctuation, fancy fonts, rows of emojis, weird/needless/gratuitous stars/sparkles/whathaveyou, and crazy colored text are all incredibly distracting. Every single thing on that page is taken in, and by the time I get to your work, I’m burnt out, and don’t want to actually read it. Reading more is the last thing I want to do.

Gradient text is also difficult to read for some. It’s also not screen reader accessible. It’s always best to provide alternative text for those who cannot read gradient text.

I keep my posts simple. This list, for example, has bolded subheadings then bullet points under each one. I’ve bolded sentences that are the most important. When I post drabbles/headcanons, I keep the beginning simple. For example:

[ID: A picture of the top of one of my previous posts. At the top is the title in big text, reads ‘waking up.’ The next line, in smaller text, reads ‘Small headcanons of how waking up with Aizawa, Toshinori, Hizashi, Fatgum, Gang Orca, and Hound Dog would be like.’ The next line is bolded, reading ‘Warnings: nothing incredibly explicit, but a couple of these talk about sex.’ A gradient grey to blue line separates the next text. ‘Aizawa Shouta’ is written in big, bold letters. The next line is the start of the headcanons. /end ID]

I put what’s needed: a title, maybe a gif, a brief summary, a warning if necessary, and maybe a short author’s note. They’re on separate lines. The title is on top. Warnings and A/Ns are bolded. Then I have a simple color break before the headcanons.

I’ve seen some posts that litter their beginnings with pictures, stars, tiny text, text designs, etc... I’m not saying you can’t personalize it. By all means, do that. Have fun. But again, when you clutter the text with many unnecessary parts, our brains see all of it, every little bit, and it’s overloading.

Think of when you go to some website and adds are popping up: two on the right; one on bottom, flashing and moving around to get your attention; one on top that takes up half of the screen; and videos keep loading offscreen, playing annoying music. It’s a lot for anyone to handle. But we, ADHD and autistic folk, experience that with your tiny and swirly text, long heart and sparkle designs, and colorful, flashing banners. We can’t read what we actually want to (your work) because everything else is shooting into our brains.

Misc:

Misspelling words on purpose for some ‘cute’ effect. I’ve noticed ‘blease’ and ‘somft’. It’s not cute to have to read your sentence three times to understand what you’re saying. It also messes with screenreaders.

Replacing a letter with a number/symbol makes it very hard for people to read. For example: n5fw, t3rfs, p3dos, r@cists, etc... I understand the point in theory. Truthfully, I don’t get the point of actually typing like that. Not only does it make reading them nearly impossible and screenreaders cannot read them, but it also doesn’t do anything in terms of ‘hiding’ the word. People can read it. They know what the word is. Just type it out.

(Also, do not, under any circumstance, tag your posts with r@pe when you mean rape, or any other tags you may ‘style’ like that. It completely defeats the purpose of blocking the tag when people just tag it as something different, essentially guaranteeing their posts will show up because they didn’t tag them properly.)

I don’t usually do this, but I encourage you to reblog this. Other content creators need to see this to help us. Those who struggle with reading, be it because of autism, ADHD, visual impaired, disabilities, neurodivergences, or any other reason, deserve to read fanfiction and participate in fandom as well. You don’t have to change your entire style. You can use cute designs and gifs. I’m just asking you to keep in mind how ‘simple’ things to you, are a challenge, difficult, and sometimes inaccessible to many others, making us feel alienated in the fandom because we cannot read and engage with your work.

#disability #accessibility #fandom #fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic writers #fandom advice #advice #reference #bnha fandom #boku no hero academia #bnha #please reblog this #other fandom creators need to see this to help #long post

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fbfh · 3 years

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I think you've horribly misread the situation [shitty roommate pt 2] - leo x reader

wc: 2.3k

genre: contemporary drama, you're definitly going to get second hand embarrassment, cozy fluff

pairing: leo x reader, attempted isabella x leo

reader: gender neutral, they/them

requested: hell yeah

warnings: mild swearing, roommate tries to steal your man once again, mentions of various mainstream vampire media (twilight, the vampire diaries etc.), brief mention of castlevania (even though i haven't seen it yet lol), breif mention of videogames and assassins creed, very mild delusion (roommate is secretly convinced leo is a vampire that's in love with her), attempted age gap relationship (she's 17 and leo's 19, he shuts that down real fast), very bad poetry

summary: You and Leo are both looking foward to spending a long weekend together, and Leo is determined not to let anything interrupt it, even if it means turning down your roommate's attempts to seduce him in the kitchen.

a/n: absolutley no hate or shade or judgement to anyone who has the same or similar traits as isabella!!!!!! at her core she's annoying because she's the antagonist, not bc of any isolated trait or traits

also she's shitty cause she keeps trying to steal your boyfriend?????

Edit: I forgot to mention before, but this is a college au where you're both still demigods, so you went to camp and on quests and stuff together

This weekend is going to be all about recharging. Recharging from the ridiculous back to back closing and opening shifts at work, recharging from having to redo that stupid project twice because your professor couldn’t decide on a clear way to define the criteria, and recharging from Isabella having her townie friend Regan over almost non stop to “completely shake up her look” as she put it.

Between the constant presence of someone you’d barely consider an acquaintance and Big Time Rush’s self titled album blasting on repeat out of her giant airpod shaped speaker, it’s been harder than usual to get in some effective self care. You have no idea how many more times you can hear the phrase “I’m going for Jade West meets Elena Gilbert, with just a little Buffy Summers” before you lose your fucking mind.

Thankfully, the hard part is almost over. There’s some minor holiday tomorrow on friday, so you and Leo both have a three day weekend ahead of you, which you intend to spend entirely together. You planned ahead, frontloading homework, chores, errands, and everything you could think of to remove anything that isn’t cuddling or playing video games and watching netflix together from your horizon.

This includes going straight from work to the grocery store to stock the fridge and get any snacks you and Leo want. You had texted him a while ago asking for anything he was craving, and head into the store with a concrete list. After a while, you circle around some aisles, avoiding the check out.

“I feel like I’m forgetting something,” you muse, knowing it’s untrue, but hoping to trigger a memory anyway. You can’t put it off any longer, finally checking out and heading back to your apartment. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t avoiding Isabella just a little.

You know bringing in all these groceries would be way easier with Isabella and possibly Regan’s help, but you just don’t have the social energy to talk to anyone, much less her, right now. By some miracle, you bring everything in yourself, and hope to get it put away before you see Isabella.

You turn to the freezer, putting away the ice cream. When you turn back around, you’re suddenly met face to face with Isabella, who has opened one of the boxes and is picking at a pastry.

“Hey girlie,” she says, elongating the hey.

“Hey,” you reply lethargically, putting the last of the groceries away. She looks at the pastry in her hand like she’s just noticing it.

“Sorry, I can’t help it, I’m italian.” She smiles, endeared by her own behavior. You have no idea what being italian has to do with asking before you open a box of your roommate’s food, but this really isn’t out of character for her. She brings up the fact that she’s half italian more than Lele Pons blames her behavior on being latina.

She’s wearing sweatpants that say chaser on the leg in red and gold varsity font, and a tight tee shirt that says “it’s okay to love them both” with silhouettes of the male love interests from one of the vampire shows she always watches. You collect the plastic bags to put in recycling, and see a piece of paper on the counter.

It reads as follows:

Drowning in my mind

No one hears me cry

Who was I before society

Before society put me in a pink dress

And handed me blonde hair dye

And told me to lose ten pounds or be labeled a freak?

The happiest people cry the most

Let the lyrics be your story

But I’m not like the other skinny blonde pretty girls

I’m

Different

-b.g. xox

You hold back a sigh.

“I think this is yours.” you say, handing it to her.

“Oh, it’s just some of my poetry I left lying around, that’s so embarrassing.”

I know, you think, you do that all the time.

“Did you read it?” She asks, hopefully.

“Nope.”

“Thank god, that would have been so embarrassing. My poetry is something really… deep, and personal to me.”

“Uh huh. Hey, I’m going to be doing a lot of self care this weekend, so-”

“Oh!” she interjects, eerily similar to Phoebe Buffay - you guess she’s been watching friends again - “I wanted to ask… is Leo coming over later?” Her voice is riddled with subtext, the expression on her face a little too invested in your answer.

“Uh, yeah. I told you the other day we’re spending the weekend together…”

She cuts you off again, a sudden, intense look on her face.

“When will he be here?”

You check your phone, scrolling through your recent texts.

“By 7 at the latest.” It’s around 6:40 now.

“Oh my god, I have to change,” she rushes back to her room, presumably digging through her recent additions to her closet.

You’re frozen for a minute after the interaction, left with a furrowed brow and the beginnings of a headache. You blink, then choose to reschedule processing why she feels the need to change for your boyfriend to a more convenient time. That’s enough of that for today. You don’t care what else happens, you’re not talking to anyone besides Leo for at least the rest of the day. You retreat to your room to finally shower and change into something comfy. As you pass by Isabella’s room, you hear her talking to Regan.

“...There’s something almost… supernatural about him.”

You bite back a laugh.

“Do you think he’s a…” Regan begins, ending the sentence with something too quiet to hear, but you’d bet almost any organ she said vampire.

So close. So, so close, and yet… here you are.

Not much later, Leo texts you to let you know he’s here. You read his text, and run out to hug him in the living room before even typing a reply. He picks you up, and spins you around. The embrace is warm and fulfilling and familiar, and you wish it would last forever.

“Hi, Sparky.” you murmur into his neck.

“Estrella…” he says, rocking you back and forth gently and pressing a kiss into your jawline, “I missed you so much.” He punctuates the sentence with another kiss, this one to your lips, and you smile more genuinely than you have all day. You’re about to agree when you remember the good news you’ve been saving to tell him in person.

“Guess what I got on sale for like, half off,” you start, excitedly, continuing at his invested expression, “the Assassin’s Creed bundle I showed you!”

“No way,” he starts, and you nod.

“I’ll go get everything set up, drinks are in the kitchen!” He watches you retreat into your room, disbelieving how he could possibly get someone as perfect as you to fall for him. He’s not going to question his luck. He grabs a couple caffeinated sparkling ices, and meets you in your room, setting down his bag and grabbing some comfy clothes to change into.

As you both get settled in, you fill each other in on all the ridiculous shit you’ve been through this week. You finally conclude the bizarre - yet somehow standard - Isabella escapades.

“So I will be avoiding all contact as much as possible,” you laugh.

“Yeah, no shit,” he agrees, “Consider me your human buffer.” You thank him, hugging him again and pressing a kiss to his lips.

The next couple hours are spent cuddling and finishing season 4 of Castlevania. Both reeling from the season finale, you agree this is a good place to take a break, get some food, and decide what game you should start with. It’s already 10pm, which most people would consider too late for dinner, but you have all weekend to fuck up your sleep schedules.

“Let’s review,” Isabella says, holding up two red lipsticks. She turns to Regan. “Which one?”

“That one,” Regan says, pointing to the one on the left, then turns to her list, and continues. “Here’s what we know; we’ve never seen him eat, and he never seems tired. He’s really smart-”

“Almost too smart,” Isabella adds, selecting black rose dangle earrings from her jewelry. Regan agrees, and continues.

“He’s almost hypnotically attractive, and his smile is a little too dazzling.”

“There’s something… supernatural about him. Like he’s not… all human.”

Regan writes this down.

“Plus he’s always wearing black and red, and those flowy button up shirts? It’s all adding up, Ree. That dream that someone was outside my window, the ring, everything…” She says, referencing the black and red cocktail ring she’d found with her stuff when she’d first moved, “I’m not saying it’s definite, just that… there’s a chance.”

“What about…” Regan says hesitantly, nodding toward your room.

“Please,” she scoffs, “he’s only with them to get close to me, like Damon and Caroline. Edward couldn’t have just approached Bella out of the blue, he had to infiltrate her friend group first, to seem less suspicious. Not to sound mean or anything, but they really don’t seem like the type someone… like him… would choose.” her voice gets dreamy when she mentions him.

In spite of having seen most mainstream vampire media almost as many times as Isabella, Regan still considers her the expert on these things, and decides not to point out that Edward didn’t infiltrate Bella’s friend group. Maybe it comes up in one of the retellings she hasn’t read yet.

“So, what now?”

Isabella sets down her lipstick, and turns to her friend.

“I tell him.”

Regan’s eyes widen.

“You’re going to tell him you know?”

“No… not yet. It’s too soon, we don’t have enough evidence. I’m going to tell him I know he’s in love with me, then once he’s secure in our relationship... we’ll see where it goes.”

She stands up, assessing herself in the mirror. She chose her outfit carefully; short red dress with black roses and black mesh collar, black rose bracelet to match her earrings, snug faux leather jacket, and black stiletto ankle booties with a very skinny heel, the zipper on the outside gold, not silver. She fluffs her wavy hair and turns towards the door. She looks back one more time, holding onto the doorway.

“Wish me luck.”

Leo enters the kitchen, seeing Isabella already there, leaning against the counter seductively. She’s wearing an outfit and jewelry this late at night that makes Leo wonder if she’s going to an emo tea party. He puts the takeout in the microwave. She’s still staring at him.

“Uh… hey.”

She lets out a dainty giggle, looking him up and down.

“... Hi.”

At a loss for words, and really wanting the awkward silence to be over, he continues, “Did you need something?”

“What I need,” she walks closer to him, tracing her finger over his collar, “is you.”

What the fuck?

His brain seems to stall for a moment, and she uses this opportunity to continue.

“I know why you’re here. I know that you’re only using them to get closer to me. I know-”

“Woah-”

“That you’re in love with me.”

Okay, double what the fuck.

She takes his stunned silence as shyness, and steps closer, putting her arms around his shoulders.

“You don’t need to play so coy, I-”

This time she’s the one that gets cut off. He grabs her arms and gently steps away, trying to make it abundantly clear that he’s not into this.

“Woah, okay, slow down. First of all, you’re 17 and I’m turning 20 in a couple months, so that’s a hard no. Second, I don’t know where you got this idea, but I am not dating them to get closer to you. We’ve known each other since we were like, 15, and have been through everything together. I’ve only known you for a couple months. I love them. Probably more than I’ve loved anything ever. I thought that was pretty obvious.”

He doesn’t want to be mean, he really doesn’t, but he can tell from the look on her face that she still thinks this is all part of some game.

“So why don’t I ever see you eat? Why are you so smart, and always up at night? I know what you are.”

He has to physically hold back a laugh. He takes a step back, and places his hands on the counter.

“Isabella, I have adhd. And I’m literally an engineering student. Why wouldn’t I be smart and have a shitty sleep schedule?”

She starts to protest, and he pulls out the reheated take out from the microwave.

“And for the record, I do eat.”

Exiting the kitchen quickly and retreating back to your room, he hands you your food.

“I got the game set up!” you say excitedly.

“Nice!”

You take one look at his face and can tell something happened. He sees this, and continues.

“I just had a very… interesting interaction with Isabella,” before he finishes the sentence, your head is already in your hands. You let out a groan.

“What did she do?” you mutter from behind your hands.

He pulls you into his lap, rubbing your back.

“I’m not totally sure,” you laugh, “but I think she thinks I’m secretly in love with her…” you’re both laughing before he can even finish the sentence.

“No…” you laugh, “no fucking way…”

“Believe me, I put an end to that as soon as it started.”

“Oh, I do.”

He runs his hand over your back, and you’re quiet for a moment.

“You know,” he continues, “I think getting our own place has definitely moved up the priority list.”

You couldn’t agree more.

#leo valdez x reader #leo x reader #leo valdez #leo valdez imagine #heroes of olympus #heroes of olympus x reader

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pocket-void · 4 years

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Table for Two

A/N: Hi! This the first fanfic I’ve written for literally anything! (I’m an on and off writer in general tho) I’m hoping to write a collection of unconnected short stories currently called Smaller Sides to Life, that focuses on small/short moments in time during specific events. I’d be so grateful for any comment or feedback, but honestly I just hope you enjoy it first and foremost! >///<

Pairing: Logicality Words: 2468 Content: Human AU? A lot of descriptions of anxious waiting, so I guess it’s got a lil angst. Happy ending! (Please tell me if I need to mention anything I am very unfamiliar with how this works ;///;) Summary: Logan grows ever more anxious as he waits for his date, who, at this point, he isn’t even sure is coming.

If you wanna read my google doc for this instead you’re free to. (I like Cambria font u///u) I have an Ao3 but I am currently not using it.

Logan was alone, sitting comfortably at a table for two in the back of a halfway decent food establishment, silently watching as the ice cubes in his water shifted and tapped against the glass while they melted with each passing second. Well, “comfortably” was a lie, of course. There was absolutely nothing comforting about being in such a place on his own, with only the dim flickering candles on the table to keep him company. He didn’t really know what the worst part of the whole thing even was. Was it the ever encroaching chatter that surrounded him? The sickeningly sweet music that played in the background? The blank, unflinching cold stone wall in front of him? Or perhaps, it was the still empty seat that sat mockingly at the other side of the table.

Indeed, Logan was unhappy, uncomfortable, and alone.

The nervous tapping of his foot was practically synonymous with the pattering rain against the windows. The typically majestic city view now nothing more than an amorphous glob of glowing lights amidst the water droplets and fog. He couldn’t help but repeatedly switch between checking his watch and frantically clicking his pen, occasionally scribbling down a loose nonsensical thought or two onto his little notepad. The action barely made a difference in soothing his racing mind, but he had to do something to distract himself. He’d do practically anything to ease the agony that was continuously settling in his heart with each passing minute. The absolute dread hanging over him like an impending guillotine.

This was foolish. Logan sighed. Surely he was overreacting. There must’ve been a reason. He thought to himself, but it was no use. Not a single thing he told himself could possibly make the immensely slow sinking weight forming at the pit of his stomach go away. Not. A single. Thing. For someone who typically prided himself on being able to, and rather efficiently mind you, keep his calm in the most stressful of situations, this was quite distressing to say the least.

He’s simply running late. He reasons to himself. It happens. You know that. Well, of course he did. There were practically an infinite amount of possibilities that could’ve delayed the arrival of the person he was waiting for, and most of them were not inherently related to Logan’s personal character. That was the most logical conclusion, anyway. Did that thought comfort him any though? No.

It’s been an hour, Logan. You must be joking if you still think he’s coming. Another thought tore through his mind. Well, he may not have been joking, but he was well aware of how ridiculous it must’ve seemed. Just him, sitting alone at a table for two, growing ever more and more desperate by the second. To hold on to even a sliver of hope must’ve seemed utterly utterly foolish. Every pitying glance by the passing waiter refilling his cup only served to make him feel even more miserable. He wished desperately, in that moment, that he could just disappear; he hoped he could shrink down in size so small that he wouldn’t have to be seen anymore. He wanted to completely collapse in on himself and crumple up like the pathetic scraps of paper he’d been unconsciously tearing out of his notes. He wanted the world to just fade to black, and for him to simply drift away into an endless void, away from everything. Away from this. Maybe then he’d be free from the dreaded weight that sat heavily upon his shoulders. He didn’t think his heart could even beat this fast, but there it was, hammering in his chest like a hyperactive hummingbird.

He hated it.

He’s not coming, Logan. That thought instantly sank itself into the depths of his soul. He felt a lump begin to form in the back of his throat; it was almost nauseating. He’s not coming because he doesn’t want to see you. Another thought that dug itself into his mind. He felt his teeth harshly grind against each other as his jaws clenched, begging himself to hold back the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. He didn’t even give you a call. The world suddenly seemed to freeze. A quiet realization sent an absolutely disparaging chill down his spine. You didn’t even get the courtesy of knowing you’ve been rejected. He let out a weak shaky breath before finally lowering his face into his hands, completely defeated. This was beyond pathetic, honestly. How unbecoming of him to be this way. He wasn’t coming. He already fully knew how illogical it was to remain in his seat. Yet, a part of himself still refused to let him throw what remained of that practically shattered hope away.

And so, the clock kept ticking still...

Logan wasn’t really sure how long it’s been at this point. Everything had begun to slowly meld together in his mind. Beyond the disappointment and despair was just the dull aching pain of rejection in his chest, not to mention the utterly dry and bitter taste in his mouth. He berated himself for being this pathetic about the whole thing, and a coward who couldn’t even muster up enough courage to stand up and go home. It was frustrating, because he knew better than this. It was both impractical and nonsensical to keep waiting. But he felt weak, and his two feet remained firmly stuck to the floor as if they were made of solid, immovable lead. The waiters have collectively decided to leave him alone at this point, which he had considered a small blessing. He didn’t want to bother pretending to smile or claim that everything was ok anymore; the energy was long depleted by now.

Logan let out yet another shaky breath, wrapping his arms around him and hugging himself tight, trying as he might to figuratively and literally “get a grip” on reality. What was he even waiting for? Why had he been so eagerly anticipating sitting at this table just a few hours before leaving work? What was the point? What was he doing? He still had tasks to do! There were still piles upon piles of work that had to be done at his desk but no, he was here. He was here, sitting alone, and doing nothing. Logan glanced down at his watch yet again, but its face was unreadable. His eyes blurry and unclear even as he rubbed the tears away, adjusted his glasses, and squinted. The only message it managed to send was just how much time he was wasting away by remaining where he currently was. Nobody was coming. His grip tightened, nails practically clawing at the sleeves of his suit. Never in his life had he felt so betrayed by something that originally had a perfect and fitting place within his schedule. What had he done wrong? Where did he make a mistake?

The gentle laughter and casual chattering of the surrounding atmosphere were like needles in his back as he felt himself curl inwards. The sweet and decidedly romantic music that served as the loving backdrop for what was to be a pleasant evening for patrons was now mocking and decadent. It sounded almost like a distant echo, far far away. Something that he was always in the vicinity of, but will never truly be able to enjoy; a happiness he cannot obtain. He was trapped. He was trapped here, in a dim corner of a restaurant, with a lukewarm cup of water, weakly flickering candles, a cold unflinching wall, the pitter patter of rain, the incessant (and mildly imaginary) ticking of his watch, crumpled up scraps of note paper, sickening chatter, unappealing music, a dry bitter taste in his mouth, an unnerving feeling of cold sweat, a dizzying headache, a fast racing heart, a barely registering breath, a lump in his throat, and clearly watering eyes.

All at a half empty table for two.

He hated it.

He ended up sitting there for so long that he felt drained, empty. His eyes now only slightly stung when opened, but he kept them closed while he leaned against one arm against the table. By now he had, at the very least, managed to catch his breath. He felt so tired. Logan took a deep breath and glanced down at his watch yet again. It had only honestly been an hour and a half, not that much time at all in the grand scheme of things. And yet here he was, feeling like he had been stationary for several years. Perhaps it was finally time to go. He shifted his aching body to finally attempt to escape from this prison, but a hurried rush of footsteps instantly made him freeze up yet again.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

“Oh my goodness god, you’re still here!”

Logan jolted at the sound of the sweet, silvery voice that rang out, very obviously filled with concern. He turned towards the person who hastily ran up to him, the cold hands cupped around his face immediately snapping him awake from his previous haze.

“I can’t believe you waited for me for this long!! Have you been here the whole time?? I’m- Oh my god I’m so so sorry Logan I-”

He honestly couldn’t even process what he was seeing, much less feeling. A man stood in front of him now, frantically gesturing and apologizing, and absolutely soaked to the core. Logan could very much feel the gazes of dozens of patrons on them now, but it didn’t matter. All he could do was stare with wide eyes at his date, whose suit was completely muddied and shoes absolutely ruined by the rain. He blinked a few times as he tried to understand what the man was even saying as he kept pausing and stuttering while constantly sweeping his matted and wet light brown hair out of his eyes. Seeing him there, standing in front of him, was enough to make Logan feel his heart slowly begin to beat once again.

“God, Logan, I know you must be mad at me, I’m- How could I possibly ever make this up to you? Oh god, oh dear, I can’t believe I did this to you! I’m just so sor-”

“Patton…” Logan finally managed, taking one of Patton’s cold hands into his and finally stopping his rambling. He took a silent moment to just quietly immerse himself into the other’s sparkling and visibly apologetic blue eyes. A beautiful and comforting sight for his literally sore ones. He felt something start to bubble up inside of him, and it began to slowly rise in his chest. A warm, fluttering feeling that rose, higher and higher, until a soft laugh finally slips from his lips. Patton’s expression instantly lightens at the sound, and Logan could feel the once soul crushing weight that surrounded him finally melt away. He gives Patton’s hand a light squeeze, an absolutely relieved smile now upon his face. “Patton. It’s ok.”

There wasn’t a single moment’s hesitation when Patton sprang forwards to wrap Logan in the tightest hug he could possibly manage. Despite the water that slowly seeped into Logan’s own clothes, and the hug being admittedly cold on account of Patton being completely drenched, he had never felt his heart swell with so much warmth in his entire life. They stayed locked in each other's embrace until Patton remembered his current condition and quickly backed off with yet another series of apologetic bows.

“Dear lord, now look what I’ve done. I went ahead and ruined your clothes too!” He giggled, trying his best to wipe away the water with a napkin to barely any success.

Logan just couldn’t help but smile at the clumsy yet adorable gesture. “Don’t worry about it. It’s clearly not as bad as whatever happened to you.” He pointed out. “Say, whatever did happen to you anyways? You weren’t answering any of my calls and I...I thought you weren’t going to…” He paused for a moment before opting to take a long sip out of his cup instead before shrugging. “You know.” He murmured, his body unintentionally stiffening at the insinuation.

Patton looked crushed at the thought, which he was unfortunately terribly aware of. He embarrassingly rubbed at the back of his neck and lowered his head. “I-I know, and I really am so sorry Logan. I...I didn’t expect you to still be here either. And I couldn’t even tell you! Oh geez… After making you wait so long, you probably honestly should have just-”

“It’s ok, Patton.” Logan reassured with a nod, voice barely a whisper. He gently lifted one of Patton’s hands and brushed his lips against the man’s knuckles. “What’s important is that you’re here. That’s enough.” He felt a small bit of pride as he watched Patton’s face flush at the unexpected gesture.

The man quickly took the hand back with a laugh before settling down in the seat across from Logan. At last, filling the space that completed the whole picture.

“Still, the fact that I made you wait that long is terribly unreasonable. So just please let me-”

Logan chuckled, gesturing towards a leaf that was still stuck in his date’s hair, to which the other quickly pulled out with a flustered huff.

“Logan, I’m trying to apologize here!”

“You already have.” He stated, quickly dismissing the concern with a smile. The other clearly had no defense against him doing that, to which Logan was fully aware of. The smile then curled into a satisfied smirk upon his silence. “So, are you going to tell me?”

Patton blinked in response. “O-Oh! Right! You aren’t going to believe this, but-”

And as Patton energetically attempted to recall his unfortunate run-in with the storm while trying to rescue a cat from a tree, forgetting he’s allergic to them, slipping up and falling out of said tree, missing the bus, and losing his phone in the entire process, Logan simply sat comfortably across from him, fully content to listen to his story. It was ridiculous, it was nonsensical, and it was of course, entirely hilarious, but he enjoyed every word that came out of the mouth of the sweet and adorable man that now accompanied him. Patton’s rain stained glasses, half dried and now puffing up hair, and his freckled smile, completely lit up the once dim and lifeless corner of the restaurant they sat in. Nothing could have detracted from that moment in time. Not the rain, not the stares, and certainly not how the time just seemed to fly by, even during the comfortable silence that sat between them while they both enjoyed their meals. Logan wouldn’t have missed any of it for the world.

Here at this table for two.

#I did it!#I'm lowkey much more nervous about posting writing than I am posting art #But this was nice to write so I'm glad I finished it #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #mock writes #logan sanders #ts logan #patton sanders #ts patton #logicality #Smaller Sides to Life

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voiceless-terror · 3 years

Text

Proficient in PowerPoint (The Magnus Archives)

Summary:

“Why are there so many animations?” Jon tapped his foot impatiently through the unnecessarily arduous process of getting to the next page. “I’m not a child. This is for Elias, not a primary school.”

“I thought they looked nice…” Martin said softly, shuffling his feet. “I can take them out, if you’d like-”

“They’re wonderful Martin, don’t listen to him."

Jon has to make a presentation for Elias. Sasha, Tim, and Martin help, with dubious results.

“It’s standard procedure, Jon. Every new department head does a presentation.” “But I-” Jon left off with a sigh. Being called up to his boss’s office at the beginning of the day to be informed that he would be making a presentation to all of his intimidating colleagues (and superiors, if he were being honest) was not the way Jon wanted to start his Monday. Besides, what was he going to say? How could he explain this mess of an Archive that was currently under his command? That he didn’t really know what an Archivist did, and that when he googled the position it didn’t seem anything like what Elias had described? He might as well get in front of the room, announce his resignation and go home. Somedays this felt like the best course of action.

He’d heard the whispers following the email announcing his promotion to Head Archivist. “Him?” was said more than once. A few scoffs, a few appraising eyes from the other department heads who were all at least a decade older than him. Even Sasha and Tim had given him a sort of silent treatment, only speaking to him in short sentences and one-word answers in the weeks that immediately followed.

Elias seemed to sense his unease. “It doesn’t have to be long. Just a rundown, a simple assessment of the Archives as they are and what you plan on implementing during your tenure. Perhaps a little about you and your team. Introduce yourself. Everyone’s eager to learn a bit more about you.” Jon very much doubted that.

“Well the Archives, in my “assessment,” are currently a mess.” His candor was not appreciated. Elias was not amused.

“A mess that you’re going to fix,” Elias gave him a withering glance. “I assumed you could handle this, but if that’s not the case-”

“No, I-” He sighed again, the only sound he was capable of making. “Al-Alright. You said it was this Friday, correct?”

“Yes!” Elias gave him a brief smile and ushered him out of the door with a hand on his shoulder, signaling the conversation was over. “Let me know if you have any issues. Not that you will, of course.” Of course.

The door shut behind him and Rosie gave him a sympathetic look from her seat. “You hang in there, alright? You’ll do just fine.” Either Jon looked that pathetic, or Rosie truly did eavesdrop on every conversation.

Perhaps a bit of both.

__________

It was Wednesday evening and Jon was staring at a blank screen.

Everyone else was packing up for the day while he sat in his chair, stewing over what words to write. He should be recording statements like Elias wanted, not putting together some bureaucratic nonsense so the others could ‘get to know him and his plans.’ He didn’t really have a plan for the Archives besides digitization, and even that was going disastrously. Should he even mention the tapes? He’d likely be met with scorn and laughter. Elias may find them promising, but anyone who took one look at their equipment said otherwise. Google told him that he should share fun facts about the team but that seemed highly unprofessional. Who cared that he liked to watch documentaries in what little spare time he had? Instead, he’d written a very bare-bones outline of what he’d like to say but for some reason typing it out was impossible. The only thing he’d managed to get was a layout and font in neutral, unobtrusive colors. This was very important to him.

“Still stuck on the presentation, Jon?”

Sasha was leaning against the doorway with a gentle smile on her face. She knew how hard it was for Jon to get his thoughts together sometimes and was always a sympathetic ear when it got particularly bad. She seemed to have finally settled into her role (whatever that may be) and was talking to him more and more. Though no one in the department had any experience in archiving, Sasha at least had more concrete ideas.

“Yes, I’m just-” he sighed, taking his glasses off and rubbing his temples to ward off the approaching headache. “I’ve got no idea what he wants. What is a ‘rundown’ and how can I have one with the Archives like...this?” He gestured to his mess of an office, currently drowning in paper and cardboard boxes.

“Well, what do you have so far?” Jon grimaced and handed over his notebook, filled with messy scribbles and half-finished ideas. Sasha skimmed it and made a few promising noises; Jon hated the part of himself that sought her approval. She finished and looked up with a grin. “How about you let me have a go at it? You know I love this sort of thing, and then you’ll have some time to record that statement tomorrow, hm?”

“I-really? Would that be okay? I don’t want you to have to- I mean, it’s my job.”

“I’m your assistant, Jon,” she interrupted with a placating hand. “So let me assist you!” Her offer seemed very genuine. Jon was loath to ask for help or admit to trouble even in the best of cases, but Sasha had a way of wearing him down with one well-placed smile. He decided to take the hand offered.

“Thank you, Sasha. Really.” He leaned back in his chair and gave her a grateful smile, glad for any progress made on the project.

“And it’s no problem. Really.” She tucked his notebook into her bag and gave a cheerful nod. “I’ll show you what we come up with!”

______

Jon yawned into his fist for the fourth time in an hour. The Amy Patel statement wouldn’t record on the computer so unfortunately he brought out the tape recorder. For some reason every time he recorded to tape he came away exhausted and anxious, unsettled by the words he spoke. Luckily he managed to get to the follow up recorded without too many interruptions- usually one of his assistants would come banging on the door and he’d be forced to start over for the sake of professionalism.

“Knock knock!”

Speak of the devil. Tim grinned at him from the doorway, Martin standing close behind him.

“Yes?” he asked shortly, straightening the files on his desk. “Do you need something?”

“Your presentation, as requested!” Tim bestowed upon him a flash drive with much pomp and circumstance. “You’re welcome.”

“Oh! Er, I thought I gave that to Sasha?” He looked in surprise at the device before him. He wasn’t expecting them to actually finish everything- he also wasn’t expecting anyone but Sasha to help him out. If Tim and Martin helped out as well... “I’ll uh, check it out in a few moments, thank you.

“But I want to show you now, boss!” Tim’s voice reached the whiny pitch that he knew Jon loathed. He sighed however, and plugged it in. After a few moments a window popped open, with a file labeled Jonny’s First Work Presentation. He rolled his eyes while Tim snickered. I’ll need to change that before the meeting…

The file looked...hellish, to say the least. Jon spied on the first few slides a strange and ugly gradient background that faded from bright green to black, along with garish rainbow WordArt. He was almost afraid to click on anything, lest it blind him or inspire a seizure.

“It’s really best viewed in slideshow mode,” Tim nudged Jon’s hand out of the way and made it so, the full screen now proudly showing the title page- Jonathan Sims’ New and Improved Archives!! Martin and Tim leaned in over his shoulder, the latter clearly excited to showcase his work. That’s never good.

“That’s far too many exclamation points, Tim.”

“There are never enough exclamation points, Jon.”

The next slide came in with a sort of shutter effect that did nothing to minimize the horrendous resizing done on the Magnus Institute logo, which had been stretched to fit almost the entire page and was unrecognizable due to pixilation. Jon gritted his teeth. “This is unnecessary.”

“Wow, everyone’s a critic,” Tim rolled his eyes.

“I-I can probably find a logo with better resolution,” Martin offered timidly. Jon had almost forgotten he was in the room.

The next pages were not much better- the Oxford English Dictionary’s definition of ‘archive,’ the audio pronunciation for it had a page to itself. There were several collages of books and artifacts (these looked handmade, as if someone had copy and pasted several finds from google images). Jon felt his anger grow with each laborious click. Was this someone’s idea of a joke? Where was Sasha? “Is there anything of actual substance in this?” he asked, huffing as the current slide disintegrated out of view in a dramatic fashion.

“God, so impatient! We’re building up to it.” A few more clicks. They got to a page covered with cartoon ghosts and nothing else. “Watch this!” With a click the ghosts all flew away, a clunky piece of animation that revealed Jonathan Sims’ Plan of ATTACK!!

“I did that one,” Martin announced in his ear with not a little pride.

The ‘plan of attack’ included bullet points (which were also little ghosts) regarding the new digitization and accessibility project in clear, cogent prose which must have been the work of Sasha. The rest, however- random paragraphs about ‘synergy’ and ‘dynamic team players’- was clearly unsalvageable and designed to make him the laughing stock of the institute.

“I can’t...this is unusable, Tim!”

“Keep reading! There’s good content there. God, there’s no accounting for taste these days, is there Martin?” Martin did not answer. What could Martin have said? Each page was worse than the last- the current slide had only a picture of what looked to be an ancient Egyptian scroll and nothing else.

“This is the definition of unusable.”

“No it’s not!” Tim argued though he was on the verge of laughter. He was smiling, clearly enjoying the entire scenario. “Look, I even put a ‘Meet the Team’ section-” He clicked through the slides, each piece of text gliding across the screen in an obnoxious star pattern.

“I thought they looked nice…” Martin said softly, shuffling his feet. “I can take them out, if you’d like-”

“They’re wonderful Martin, don’t listen to him,” Tim had finally reached the first slide of his ‘Meet the Team’ section. Instead of starting with Jon it began with an incredibly large photo of Tim, smiling and winking at the camera. Naturally.

“Tim Stoker: A Gentleman and a Scholar,” Jon read aloud. “I’m not saying that. And shouldn’t we be starting with me? I ask for one thing-”

“I saved the best for last, of course! Martin, you’ll love this,” Tim began frantically clicking through animations, taking a full minute to get to Jon’s slide. “Ta-da!”

Jonathan Sims: The Man, the Myth, the Legendary Archivist

It was a picture of Jon from a happy hour years ago, smiling broadly with half-lidded eyes and sprawled across the bar in a state of disarray. He had a vague memory of Sasha snapping the photo before he fell to the ground and vomited everything he drank. No no no no - he attempted to slam down the laptop screen before Martin could see but the damage was done. The man was red and stuttering, clearly embarrassed for Jon. He took a deep breath, attempting to calm down. He contemplated his options- double homicide or self-immolation. Both seemed equally appealing in the moment.

“Please leave,” he fumed, his own face a tomato red as he stared at the floor. “Now.”

“Aw boss, don’t be like that-”

“Now!” Two sets of footsteps scurried from the room as Jon threw his head into his hands.

He had quite a bit of work to do.

_____________

Of course he scrapped almost all of it, keeping only the informative parts that Sasha had written. This is why you should do things yourself. ‘Assist’ my ass.

Jon had kept the door closed for the rest of the afternoon, ignoring both the plaintive apologies from Tim and Martin and Sasha’s insistent knocking. He wanted to blame her for letting the other two get involved, wanted to yell and stamp and maybe throw a thing or two. But it was his job. He shouldn’t have left it all to them. Lazy, incompetent, his mind raged but the words were aimed at himself. Perhaps that’s why they sabotaged the slideshow, to tell him they weren’t going to do his dirty work. Hazing the new boss. Did they realize how important this was to him? Did they even care? He already looked like a fool- why not double down on it?

He took the ‘Meet the Team’ page down, his fingers angrily punched the ‘delete’ key for every picture and turned it into one slide with only their names and positions. That’s all they need to know, really. He managed to throw together a few slides on a new organizational system and something about research follow up, but it all rang false and hollow- any academic would see right through this bullshit attempt. Even the digitization slides seemed trite- why was this his first order of business? What the hell are you doing?

It was late into the night when he finally finished, though the presentation was nowhere near what he wanted it to be. The clock informed him it was only ten though, so he still had some time before the last train. He was just going to rest his eyes for a minute and then he’d get up and go. Just a minute...

____________

And then it was tomorrow.

Fuck. Fuck!

Jon woke up with his head pillowed in his arms and his back almost completely immobile. He squinted at the clock- 7:00 AM. He tripped down the hallway and into the bathroom to freshen up, splashing cold water on his face and cursing under his breath. How embarrassing to be caught in yesterday’s clothes- if he switched out his sweater vest for a blazer, they might not notice. His wardrobe was nothing if not consistent and boring. His hair tamed into some semblance of neatness, Jon went on to his next stop, the break room for a cup of coffee and then finally, back to his office to survey the finished product and perhaps do a few run-throughs.

He settled in his seat and pressed the power button to coax his laptop out of sleep. The clock on the wall ticked a steady, droning rhythm that somewhat calmed his racing heart and he took a sip of coffee, savoring the bitter flavor. His eyes flickered down to the screen- still black. He pressed it again. Nothing. He looked to the side of the computer, noticing the lack of power cord. Oh, it’s not plugged in. That’ll do it. He solved that problem quickly and tried again.

Again, nothing. He pushed it harder, hurting his finger with the intensity behind it. The screen remained black.

It was then that Jonathan Sims screamed.

_____________

It was nine in the morning and he still had no idea what to do. No amount of coaxing, either through nice words or obscenities had managed to wake it up. He removed the battery and put it back in. He prayed to several gods, none of which he believed in. He kicked the desk and promptly fell to the ground, screaming in pain. IT didn’t come in until ten, and his meeting was at nine-thirty. He was well and truly fucked.

But then he heard footsteps coming down the hall and he dashed to meet them, hoping it was the person he needed. And it was.

“Sasha!” he panted, taking in heaving, gulping breaths. “Help!”

“Oh God Jon, is this one of your asthma attacks? Do you have your inhaler?” Her eyes widened and her hands fluttered nervously. ‘I’ve told you-”

“No,” he grabbed her by the shoulders, feeling more unhinged by the moment. “I-I lost it. The PowerPoint. My laptop won’t turn on, and-”

“Breathe, Jon! That’s no trouble at all. I can get into your drive, no worries!” she said, pushing him into a chair and booting up her laptop. Jon put a hand to his chest, attempting to follow her advice. See, it’s fine! “Where did you save it? On your ShareDrive or on the general Archives one? I’ll need your credentials if it’s the former.”

His heart dropped. No no no no. He’d done the one thing Sasha had always warned him against. “I-I saved it to the desktop…”

“Oh Jon.”

And that's when he spiraled. He was going to have to walk into that meeting, hands empty, and face the firing squad. Elias will know he should have never hired him and everyone there will nod and agree that the stupid boy who couldn’t do one simple task does not belong at the table with the rest of him and Jon will be sent on his way, back to research if he’s lucky or fired if he’s not and he can’t do one fucking thing right-

“Jon. Jon!” Sasha had a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding. “Fucking breathe. It’s fine, you’re fine! Here.” She slipped the flash drive from yesterday into his hand and he groaned, attempting to pass it back

“I can’t use that one, you know I can’t-”

“No, this one’s different, I promise,” She grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “I tried to tell you yesterday- I’m sorry about all of that. It wasn’t funny. We fixed it.” She seemed honest, sincere. But Jon was still hesitant, taking in shaking breaths.

“This isn’t a joke?”

“I swear. Here, use my laptop.” She passed it over and Jon paused, considering his options, which were few.

So Jon took the flash drive and laptop and left, ignoring Martin’s greetings as he brushed by him on his way up to the conference room. Here goes.

_____________

“Erm, h-hello,” Jon coughed, clearing his throat. “I’m Jonathan Sims, the new Head Archivist, as Elias...already said, I guess.” He let out a nervous laugh which no one returned. Elias nodded, urging him to go on.

Jon had made his way to the room with fifteen minutes to spare, giving him some time to boot up the computer and load the presentation. A quick, nervous glance let him know that it was much changed- at least the first few slides. He shook hands with each department head as they came in, trying to see which of their smiles and congratulations were sincere. The answer? Very few. This was not comforting.

His hands shook as he clicked his way to the first slide, his heart pounded in his chest to reveal-

Bringing the Archives into the 21st Century- A Plan for Updating and Digitizing the Institute's Statements

Well that’s not bad at all.

He began to speak, his voice gaining clarity and confidence with every sentence. The presentation was lovely- incorporating his preferred neutral color scheme, a great improvement on the nauseating colors of before. The animations were minimal and sleek, making the transitions meld seamlessly from slide to slide. There was a bit introducing Gertrude’s past work and a dig at her filing system that earned him a laugh. There were new slides regarding the preservation of documents, a new organizational structure, the introduction of a database. All ideas they’d briefly spoken about before committing themselves fully to the digitization process as Elias instructed. Everything was written in his favored academic tone- so natural that Jon found himself speaking extemporaneously on the slides he felt more comfortable with. It was all met with approving nods and a studious gaze from Elias that Jon couldn’t parse. There was also no mention of the tapes.

The dreaded ‘Meet the Team’ section had been heavily reworked- each one of them had the headshot from their IDs (poor Martin had his eyes closed) and a mention of which department they’d transferred from, along with their credentials. It was professional and informative, everything Jon had wanted it to be. Sasha had outdone herself. Sasha should be the one making this presentation.

He tried to ignore the guilt settling in his chest, even as he smiled back at the approval from the academics he so desperately craved. He clicked to the last slide, which had their contact information and- oh. It was a picture taken from his birthday a few weeks back, where they all looked fairly presentable and were smiling, no idea of the task ahead of them. Elias was there too; Rosie had taken the picture at Tim’s insistence. His audience tittered, though it seemed to be in good humor rather than mocking.

“Ah, yes. Th-Thank you for your time.” He quickly turned it off and stared at the ground, his face warm with both embarrassment and a creeping sense of belonging that he didn’t know what to do with. He was startled when a small round of applause began and he looked up with wide eyes to find a smiling audience. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elias nod and smile as well and he finally felt the sense of accomplishment he’d longed for since the start of his promotion.

The room cleared rather quickly (no one really wanted to be in a Friday meeting, after all) but Jon was stopped by a tall, smiling woman he had only seen in passing. “Sonya from Artefact Storage,” she reminded him, shaking his hand again and giving him a warm smile. “I’m looking forward to talking to you more about that database. I was always telling Gertrude she needed one, but of course she never listened to me. Stubborn to the end!” He could only stutter, too overwhelmed to formulate a proper response. A hand reached out to his shoulder.

“That was nicely done, Archivist.” For some reason the title made Jon feel odd, like he was having an honor bestowed that he had not yet earned. Elias wasn’t that much taller than him, but he always seemed to loom over Jon. “Quite the presentation. Lots of...ideas. But I must stress the importance of getting the statements-”

“On tape, yes, yes,” Jon said, quick to agree. “I just thought, er- I should let them know some of our other objectives, as well?” Seems like Sasha wanted to, at least.

“As long as you don’t forget yours,” A pointed glance. Jon gulped nervously, shoving a hand in his pocket. “Still, a good job all around. That Sasha of yours seems like a good asset. Enjoy your weekend.”

Jon froze in the doorway. Did he know? Of course not, don’t be silly. He shook his head and left the room. Well, at least that’s over with.

____________

“Did it go alright?” Sasha asked immediately upon his entrance. He managed a self-deprecating smile.

“Surprisingly, yes. That was- thank you, I guess.”

“No trouble at all,” Tim jumped out from the break room, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Always knew you had it in you. A consummate performer, I was telling our Martin-”

“Tim!” He scowled and tried in vain to shove him away, still irritated by his presence.

“Seriously, though. Sorry about all of that before. Just trying to lighten the mood, I swear we wouldn’t have actually left you with that-”

“It’s- It’s fine,” Jon sighed, reluctantly giving in to Tim’s insistent affection. “Well, not really, but it turned out alright in the end.” Sasha gave an encouraging grin.

“Did you like the photo?” Martin asked anxiously, hovering in the corner of the room. Jon paused. He considered telling him no, that he would have never put it in there himself and considered it rather unprofessional on the whole, but one look at Martin’s face told him that was the wrong move.

“Yes, Martin,” he said, summoning up the equivalent of a smile. “I liked the photo.”

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142390

#my writing #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #sasha james #tim stoker #martin blackwood #elias bouchard #just a bit of ridiculous fluff and nonsense #as advertised

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fandomsfeelsandfanfics · 4 years

Text

The Arrangement, Part XIV/// Draco Malfoy x Reader

SUMMARY: The end.

WORD COUNT: 1,898

WARNING(S): nothing

A/N: welp we’ve come a long way and here it finally is.

SERIES MASTERLIST | PLAYLIST

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

You hadn’t slept at all, not that it mattered. Tonight was supposed to be your engagement party. Supposed to be.

You hadn’t talked to your fiancé since Monday and you weren’t expecting him to start calling you today. You knew the party was off but you thought the engagement might still have some hope. But even that was wishful thinking.

You sat on one of the armchairs in your living room when you got tired of rolling around in your bed. The sun was coming up. You felt like you’d been awake much longer than you actually had. The seconds turned to minute. Minutes to hours. Hours to eternities. But still you didn’t feel tired.

You wondered if Draco was sleeping easily or if he were staring at the same sunrise. You tore your eyes away from the window and looked down at the coffee table. There was an invitation to the party. You almost laughed as you picked it up.

Narcissa has specially designed them. A white card with a nice black font detailing the time, place, and occasion. Maybe she had been more excited than either of you about the news. You couldn’t imagine how disappointed she was now.

Draco hadn’t slept. He didn’t like sleeping alone anymore, which was apart of the trouble of falling in love. It made loneliness harder.

He’d laid in bed until the first hints of sunlight came through his window. Then he drifted out of his room, out of his wing, and through the halls. When he reached the ballroom, he was surprised to see house elf’s already busy at work. It was barely 7 am and they were already running around sweeping and dusting.

He walked through the ballroom, getting assorted greeting and congratulations that he absentmindedly replied to. When he reached the other side of the room, he threw the doors to the balcony open, basking the room in the gold light of sunrise.

He stepped onto the balcony, breathing in the fresh air. But it didn’t do anything to clear his mind. This entire week all he could think about was you. And now he was standing on the balcony where you had once kissed him on the cheek. Giving him only enough satisfaction to make him miss you when you were gone.

That must’ve all been planned. He gripped the edge of the balcony until his knuckles turned white. He didn’t even hear his mother coming up behind him until she squealed into his ear.

“Good morning!” He turned around to look at her, flashing a lazy smile. “It’s engagement party day! Oh, I’m so excited.”

When Draco didn’t reply, her smile faded. “What’s wrong dear?” She reaches up to cup his cheek and he leaned into the touch. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

“Yeah, I uh...didn’t get much sleep last night.” He couldn’t pretend to smile anymore, so he turned around. Leaning against the railing he could see the entire expanse of neatly trimmed lawn.

“I’m sure it’s just excitement, right?” Her hand ran up and down his back comfortingly.

“Sure.”

“When can I expect (Y/N)?”

“ ‘M not sure.”

Narcissa studies his face for a moment, there was something lurking behind his eyes but he shifted them in the other direction before she could recognize it. For once, she decided against prying.

“Well, let me know when she gets here.” He nodded. He didn’t turn around until he heard the click of her heels coming from the ballroom.

He was glad to finally be alone again.

You laid around the house for a few more hours, trying to take your mind off what was supposed to take place that afternoon. You never thought you’d be so disappointed to miss a party at Malfoy manor. Finally, at a quarter past one, you dragged yourself into the kitchen to make some coffee.

Halfway through brewing the coffee, your phone rang. You lazily picked it up without checking to see who it was because you didn’t think it mattered.

“Hello—”

“Where are you? My mum’s running around here like she’s mad. It’s giving me a headache, someone needs to come talk some sense into her.”

“Draco, I...” You stopped mid-sentence, not really knowing what else to say. “I...” You tried again to compose a sentence but nothing came.

You took a deep breath and tried to focus on composing your thoughts. “Draco, I didn’t know...today was still happening.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Can you just get here.” He sounded angry or at the very least annoyed. You heard him take a deep breath. “Please,” he added calmly.

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” And before you could reply, he had already hung up. You sat your phone down and took a deep breath. You only allowed yourself a moment to process before you abandoned your still-brewing coffee and gotta ready as quickly as you could.

You could hear Narcissa screaming, probably at some poor house-elf, as she made her way down the hallway to unlock the door. You couldn’t quite make out the words she was saying, but you could tell it wasn’t good. You only caught the end of her sentence as she threw the door open.

“—and I want that done now!” When she was finally finished shouting, she turned to look at you. For a moment she looked exhausted and annoyed, then she noticed it was you and her face lit up with a smile. “(Y/N)! Thank Merlin you’re finally here, I was beginning to think you’d got cold feet.” She took a step back so you could walk through the doorway and beckoned you forward.

She closed the door behind you and put her hand on your shoulder, which made you stiffen slightly. “I’m so glad you’re here. Sorry about the yelling, today’s been really hectic, you know. Just trying to pull everything together last minute.” She let out a bit of shrill laughter. “And Draco’s been stuck in his room all day. I hope you’ll make sure he’s dressed and out of his room in time.”

“Of course.” She gave your shoulder a squeeze then she was off, heels clicking down the hallway as she started calling the names of whatever house-elf she needed.

Finding the way to Draco’s wing would’ve once been a struggle, but now you got there with no difficulty. You stood outside his door, trying to slow your breathing. Finally, you raised your hand and knocked. The sound seemed much louder in your head than it probably was.

“Come in.” His voice was faint from inside the room. You opened the door and slowly walked in. Draco has his back to you as he stood in the mirror buttoning his shirt. Your eyes met in the mirror but other than that he didn’t acknowledge you.

Finally, he said, “I talked to my mother and I know you were telling the truth. About the money and how you felt about me. I believe you.”

“But I shouldn’t have lied.” His fingers paused on his buttons and he turned to look at you.

“But you did.” He started walking towards you.

“I know but that doesn’t change the fact that it was wrong. And I was stupid, I was so stupid and—”

“That’s what they say about love isn’t it,” he mumbled. His eyes trailed over you as you continued to ramble. You stopped talking.

“What?”

“ ‘Love makes people do stupid things’ or whatever the saying is.” He smiled at you. “And I’d say we’ve both been complete idiots.” You laughed. “Seriously, we’ve both almost ruined our relationship.”

“I’m so sorry.” You put your head on his chest and his hand came up to the small of your back.

“I know.”

“If I could take it all back—”

“We can’t change the past, all we can do is be better in the future and I’m determined to make this work. ‘Cause this didn’t start with you and my mother’s little scheme.” His other hand moved to cup your cheek and he moved you head up to look at him. “I have been in love with you ever since Hogwarts and no matter what happened we were always gonna end up here.”

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling yourself further into him. “We’re going to have to build trust but that’s fine because I know we’re both willing to do it. I’m going to have to work on myself. And of course, you’ll have to make it up to me but it’ll be a longgggg honeymoon, so I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” He smirked when you hit his back and hid your laughter by pressing against his chest.

He kissed the top of your head. “Someday, we’ll be telling our kids this story and laughing.”

You looked up at him and smiled. “Someday.” You reaches for his buttons and continued to button his shirt. It was a soft black shirt that went nicely with his black slacks and the suit jacket that was draped across the arm chair in the corner of the room. It went even better with your plain black dress. It had thin straps and a slit that went up far enough to make Draco state.

When you finally buttoned the last button, you looked up at him. Your hand was still lingering around his neck and you reached up farther to touch the back of his neck. Your fingers reached up to touched his soft, bleach blonder hair. Just a touch.

Without you even having to pull him towards you, Draco’s lips were already on yours.

You were too distracted to hear the knock on the door but you did hear Narcissa’s voice. “Draco? (Y/N)?” You sat up quickly. You looked down at Draco’s wide eyes, looking like child who had just been caught doing something bad. You’d only been kissing—well, making out— but it was probably a good thing Narcissa hadn’t came in.

“Guests are arriving, you should probably join us.”

There was a pause as you looked at each other, wondering who was going to answer. Quickly, Draco shouted, “We’ll be down in just a minute.”

Another pause and then she said, “Okay.” You didn’t quite breath again until you couldn’t hear the click of her heels anymore. You sighed and laid your head on Draco’s shoulders. Your thighs were on either side of his hips and he had his hands placed firmly on top of them.

“I know, but we’ve got all the time in the world.”

“I know.” You places a gentle kiss on his neck and after he squeezed your thighs once more, you rolled off of him.

You got up and stood in front of the mirror, hoping your hair wasn’t too messed up. You straightened your dress and began to reapply your lipstick. Draco came up behind you, tucking his shirt back into his pants where it came up slightly. Once you were finished you turned around and flattened his hair which was now ruffled.

With a smile, you reached up to wipe some of your lipstick from edges of his mouth. Then you turned around, taking in the image of you both together. He stood behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. You put your hands over his.

In the end, everything had worked out perfectly.

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fmdtaeyongarchive · 3 years

Text

↬ come back to me again.

date: october 2019 to september 2020.

location: unspecified.

word count: 1,810 words, not including lyrics.

summary: man briefly considers writing about self-love before throwing that shit idea out the window and deciding to write about his love life angst instead.

triggers n/a.

notes: creative claims verification. this took me an hour to write and it’s not edited and you can tell both of those things... it’s not my best... anyway, it’s my last verification for ash’s album and that’s all i care about! mentions of youngjoo.

the song takes him a year to write, though he has no expectation of such a long time frame when he begins.

the first notes of what will one day become a full song are put down the morning after he and youngjoo sleep together again for the first time since they’d broken up. he’s still trying to process what had happened, head spinning with a mix of doubt and affection. he’s fresh off of a break-up. he’s been single for two months after the most serious relationship of his life, and he’s fallen back into bed with his ex. not any ex, but the one he’d once thought would be his second to last lover. and the one he’d also once thought would be his last lover, but who was keeping count of his romantic delusions at this point?

when they’d had their talk that spring, ash had never considered it might end like this. they’d talked and cleared the air and he’d been happy they might be able to become friends again. genuinely, with no ulterior motives. after all, he’d been happy as only her friend once and, at the time, he hadn’t had eyes for anyone else but the man whose ring he wore on his finger or on a chain he tucked under the neckline of his shirt.

but being with her again. it had come so easily, so naturally, like their bodies and hearts had been made for one another.

that’s an awfully dangerous thought to have. it’s sex, not a reignition of their relationship, he reminds himself.

he doesn’t think he’s writing about youngjoo after she leaves that morning, but when he looks back on it, he recognizes it sounds like her. a year later, he isn’t so sure where his own identity ends and his feelings for her begin, though, so he could be wrong.

it’s the insistent but mellow melody of the guitar that later on reminds him of the piece he writes for her for her birthday, one of the happier nights they spend together. the happy nights pose an unexpected problem. he falls deeper when there’s no space between them for anything but shy smiles and fond words. the nights he blocks her out are easier, even when they send him into week-long spirals and drinking binges he hates himself for only because he doesn’t want the unseen eyes of nature to judge them as her fault.

that’s why he sees youngjoo in the song. at times, the piece he’d written pushes forward with unrestrained urgency, but at other points, it slows to a icy hesitance. in the softness, there’s also a coldness.

so maybe it’s not that it reminds him of her, but that it reminds him of them. they’re terribly complicated, and the track is more simple, but conflicted emotions tangle within its notes even without words present.

it’s closed-in, almost claustrophobic at times but at other times, he feels like he’s standing in the middle of a field listening to the work he’s created. isn’t that a lot like intimacy?

and when he thinks of intimacy, his mind races back to that night in october with youngjoo. there had been more breaths exchanged between them than words, but it’d been so loud.

relearning someone. that’s new, but ash has become a master in it over the past year. it hasn’t been a mission only of relearning each other’s bodies as it should have been. he’s re-mapped youngjoo’s heart and her mind (the parts she’ll show him — he’s silently accepted that there’s parts of her hidden in darkness his prying searchlights haven’t been able to reach yet, and that’s why he feels so lost in her presence at times).

there are also parts of it that eschew the wonder of her or the unmitigated confusion of them.

what is there left for those parts to be but him?

he decides those are the most hollow parts of the song. ash doesn’t know if he himself is hollow. as much as there are mornings he wakes up with nothing inside of him, there are times he works to find a balance only to end his day trying to fall asleep amid the flood of everything spilling out on the sheets around him.

working on the song on and off over the course of a year, it’s become a pet project. when nothing else is going right, he opens the song up and adds one thing or takes one thing away or changes something that he’s decided isn’t meant to be the way he’d originally put it, and then he moves on, content with the fact he’s done something.

it’d be easy for it to become crowded this way, but it’s instead one of the more threadbare instrumentals he has with a last saved date within the year. it’s almost more akin to the simple production he’d opted for in the beginning of his days as a solo artist. back then, he’d been an amateur producer and his ideas had often been tossed aside in favor of what bc’s more experienced producers decided would be best for the words and music he had been more entrusted with creating, but he hadn’t had any objections back then to a more naked production angle, either.

now he’s a fan of bold percussion (and there’s some of that in this song, too, as the track grows late into its own night and that’s also where the ghost of an emotional climax of words he hasn’t yet written lays) and layers of vocals on top of strings and samples on top of more vocals, but just listening to this homemade quilt of a track reminds ash of the boy he’d once been, long before that october a whole year ago.

it reminds ash of a boy who saw a future for himself as a poet on stage with a guitar, happy with no more than a small audience to hear songs that he’d created to support his lyrics instead of as a marketing package for selling others’ goods.

that ash had been inexperienced as a songwriter in comparison to the ash of today, but his love for what he wrote had been so unbelievably pure.

such purity is something that’s escaped ash ever since he’d had it stolen from him with fatalism, when one moment of success had turned bc entertainment’s greed up a hundred notches and money and marketing had won out over the charming singer-songwriter niche ash, taeyong, had once occupied.

love for music isn’t the name of the game of the idol industry and it’d only taken a year or two in the midst of it for ash to realize, but seven years into his career had been the first time he’d felt his own love slipping away from him.

it’d been losing grip on the only rope he had keeping him from falling all the way down to the bottom of the canyon under the cliff he’d fallen off of.

this song isn’t his lifeline. it’s an experiment. a recycling bin. but listening to it days before he’s supposed to turn his final demos in for his album, ash hangs every stray emotion on it he has left and makes a last minute decision that this song is a puzzle piece he needs if he wants an honest album.

putting lyrics to it poses a new problem entirely. there are too many memories tied to each ascending and descending note, and it doesn’t seem like there’s a way to bring all of the themes together without making a messy, overloaded concoction out of a piece that’s already been stitched together from discarded pieces of musical fabric.

ash searches his mind for the common thread between everything he’s placed on hooks around the song’s center and only one thing sticks out: longing for something that’s slipped away. one line imprints itself on his mind from that thought, and he scribbles it down in barely legible font on a notepad and then pulls off the sticky note to hang on the edge of the computer screen so there’s no way it can slip his mind.

come back to me again.

that’s the heart of the song. it’s where he’s been for the past year, in an endless battle to bring back to him the things he’d once had and had lost. passion, control, self-acceptance, stability, love. love. love for his music, for his life, for youngjoo. for himself.

he writes a rough draft of lyrics about each lost love he wants back, and they come to him with varying shades of ease and resistance. music is the easiest to write about, but the lyrics don’t fit the other songs he’s submitting, so he sets that draft aside and moves onto his next idea. writing about love of life is foreign for him, and it shows in the way he doesn’t feel that he even has the vocabulary to grasp the undefinable emotions that tie themselves around the concept like a cocoon meant to keep it safe in his head until it’s ready to fly out into the world.

he gives up on that one early, only to move on to the concept of self-love, which gets abandoned even faster. he’s getting a headache at this point and his patience for the idea of writing a song about himself in such a way grows so short that he tears up the paper half a verse into trying to write it.

that leaves him with youngjoo.

he’s written so many songs about her already. thinking about another makes him shift in his seat nervously. each song with youngjoo woven into it that makes it onto his album is another admission of how deep he’s gotten into this mess with her, but writing comes so much easier when it’s about her than almost anything else.

it’d be fitting if that’s how it ends up, though. a song begun in what he’d thought to be a disconnected stroke of inspiration at the beginning of all this, turned into yet another self-lead pen and paper therapy session.

so he lets himself.

it bleeds into two scenes overlapping on top of each other. the soft oranges and yellows and reds of that night together last october and the five million shades of grey of the now. they shape a world existing both in the past and the present, a world confused by its own duality, and then eating its own tail, creating a triplicity with the blues of three years ago.

it doesn’t exist in one dimension, instead pushing itself to the limits of depth and time outside of ash’s conscious control. from verse to verse, the feelings switch time periods, and yet, when they all come together, they easily slide into one story — a never-ending tale he’s written himself into.

#fmdverification #i wrote 22993 words of verification for this album . i would not suggest that to anyone ever btw .#i really did not think i'd get these done in time yall... god.#you will not be hearing from me for a month now #&& when you're screaming but they only hear you whisper | self para

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cassandroid-blog1 · 7 years

Text

4: Colm Von Getz

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“You’d better fucking keep her safe,” spat Professor Theodore Boxleitner as his cuffed wrists were drawn through the vital scanner. “Someone wants her dead and knew exactly where to find her. They’ll know where she lives too, and I’ll bet they’ll find her wherever you’ve hidden her away.” The Professor sniffed through a broken nose, his thinning blond hair tousled and untidy.

Colm stood, arms crossed. He’d informed Boxleitner of his right—, particularly of his right to remain silent—, many times over the past few hours, but the man remained uncooperative. Not that Colm couldn’t empathize; Theodore was most likely innocent. That was Colm’s hunch anyway, but there was a process to be upheld.

It seemed, for the moment, that the Professor was out of energy. His eyes sank to the floor as the vital scanner finished its job. With a click, his hands were released from the machine, cuff-free.

“It is my responsibility to inform you that you have been injected with a quantum swarm,” said Colm.

“Quantum?” the Professor repeated worriedly.

“It’s perfectly normal, and the name’s just marketing. The swarm is now actively monitoring your blood stream and organs for signs of any nanoagents you may have inadvertently come across. Walk around barefoot in the Stretch at all recently?”

Theodore shook his head.

“We find any mind-altering nanoagents, we’ll analyze them in the lab and see what they’re programmed to make you do. Could end up speaking to your innocence; you never know. Do you use nanobots or nanoagents recreationally?”

Theodore scowled. “Heavens, no.”

“You didn’t seem like the type. You don’t know anyone who uses?”

“Not anyone who’s told me, though I’m sure some of my students have tried. We all experimented in our youth, didn’t we? But I never went near the stuff that could be used to control you remotely.”

Colm nodded. “This is all routine. You understand, I hope.”

“Yes, yes.” Theodore looked to Colm, his overtired eyes watering. “You keep her safe, you hear me? She’s my little girl.”

Colm escorted Theodore to his cell, and encountered no resistance. The Professor’s hands never moved from their cuffed position, the quantum swarm having temporarily suspended that particular motor function. Colm opened the door and Boxleitner walked in without fear or hesitation. Once inside and locked away, his hands were released from their internal holds. He shook them in relief.

“I’ll speak again as soon as possible. Probably tomorrow,” said Colm. “Remain cooperative and your muscles will remain under your control.” He left without a second glance.

It had never been easy, walking away from what appeared to be an innocent victim, now trapped in the bowels of the Directory. At least the Professor was safe, but there was no comfort to be found in these halls. Some swore these lower levels were haunted, and if Colm ever chose to indulge in a superstition, that’d have been the one he chose. The lighting, near to a century old, flickered and buzzed, casting shadows a little bit too anthropomorphic for comfort. The flickering was just slow enough to be noticeable, and many of the guards were transferred away from cell duty after complaining of migraines and cluster headaches.

Colm quickened his pace as the shadows crept, moving towards the elevator that would take him to higher and saner ground.

The clerk on C-Level stopped him as he emerged from the elevator. “Detective, I’ve been looking for you. What is this, the third time? The fourth?”

“Fifth, I believe,” Colm sighed. “What is it this time?”

“Same as last time, sir. I’ve been given very clear instructions, and if you do not follow the proper protocol I’ll have no choice but to inform Director Hisakawa.”

“What, incarceration reports? Director Hisakawa has my audio and video logs. There’s justification enough in there, I think.”

“The network’s down,” the clerk said. Colm realized with a little shame that he’d never learned her name. “Printout copies only.” She handed him a form.

Colm hesitated a moment, then grabbed the copy, crinkling it slightly in his unceremonious grasp. “You know what? This is damned demoralizing. The network’s down? What, you mean the whole net, or just here at the Directory? Considering how much money we pour into the tech here, this should never happen. And then make me relive the potentially traumatic moments I have in my day-to-day by filing a report, when the video and audio is so much more reliable! Really damned demoralizing, and I haven’t had a bite to eat since the previous AM.”

“You can take it up with the Director,” the Clerk said. “This is a police department. If there’s anywhere you need to follow all the little procedures, it’s here.”

“Yeah, sure,” Colm said. “Guess I’ll be in my office, instead of at home with a cheeseburger and fries.”

When Colm reached his office, he was surprised to find his assistant away, but a glance at the clock reminded him of the time. He sat at his desk, mumbling. “Printout copies,” he said as he patted down the sheet to remove what he could of the wrinkles.

The form taunted him, with its many teeny lines waiting to be filled out. They were so close together he could hardly imagine someone printing letters so small. Colm had barely ever written anything down in his entire life! There was a subculture that prized handwriting, but Colm, like most people, saw it as anachronistic and quaint. Nevertheless, the copy sat stubbornly on his desk, the wrinkles not quite gone.

The hollowness in his stomach, which had come and gone twice now, returned for a third time.

“Good morning,” came a familiar voice. Colm looked up and smiled, seeing Setsuko Hisakawa standing in the threshold of his office door.

“The Director of the Directory, as I live and breathe,” he said. “You’re up early.”

“Big day. Official council meeting for the President, so I need to be prepared,” she said.

“You could blow it off like BaltiCorp does, or Scintilla.”

Setsuko rolled her eyes. “Not an option. I have a loyalty to Leonard, and I’m not going to keep Isaksson out of the loop for spite.” She walked over, gripping the fabric top of the chair opposite Colm. “I heard about last night,” she continued. “Out at the university. Watley was downstairs bringing a body in to the morgue.”

“She told you everything?” Colm asked.

“More or less, but I want your perspective.”

“Good,” Colm smiled. He crumpled up the form into a little ball, and threw it into the trash can in the corner. “What is there to say? One of the guys found a signed confession in the target’s father’s desk. He’s a professor at the university, and his office is in the same building the girl was studying.”

“What do we know about her?”

“Absolutely nothing that seems like it could be relevant. She’s twenty-five years old, which is a little up there to be in school. But tell me: how many twenty-five-year-olds are the target of a major assassination job?”

“You suspect the father,” Setsuko said, her eyes narrow with focus.

“No, but he’s in custody, obviously. He loves her, and honestly doesn’t seem capable of that kind of a thing. They love each other fiercely.”

“Yes, but we’ve been wrong about that before,” Setsuko said, and the words stabbed him.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

She looked confused for a moment. “Oh God, Colm, nothing personal. I just mean that in these types of situations it’s easy for people on the edge to confuse love and hate and whatever. I’m tired, I didn’t mean anything by what I said.”

“I did love you fiercely, though, you know that,” he said.

“Yes, I know,” she said quickly. She didn’t want to speak of the past, which was her right, and Colm respected that, but it didn’t feel good to have to pretend a whole marriage hadn’t happened.

“Sorry,” he said. He tried to think of a new subject, and his stomach was crying out for attention. “Breakfast? Places should be opening up about now. I could sure use something greasy and cheesy, dunno about you.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I had a coffee bar on the road in. I’m gonna need to be alert today. I just have one more question about the case.”

“Shoot,” he said.

“How were you alerted?”

“An anonymous call, believe it or not. Voice was scrambled and fucked with beyond the point of no return, but here, I’ll play it for you.”

Colm set up his phone to play on the loudspeaker, and loaded up Case File Audio A.

“I call you as an ally,” the tape began, the voice distorted and gross. “I must remain anonymous for the sake of personal security, but I have come into the acquisition of some troubling knowledge. Tonight, in roughly ten minutes, a girl named Julie Visitor will be studying in Cooper Hall at Bradley University. She will be alone in the room, because all the other students have long since gone to bed for their early morning classes. When it is clear to her assassin that she is alone, and that her father who is a teacher at the school is well-ensconced in his office, this assassin will strike. I do not know who the assassin will be, and I do not know why Julie is a target. I suspect BaltiCorp loosely, but I don’t have any evidence to back that up except that the kill order was sent over a SecureFirm channel. Yes, I know, I have considered that this is a setup for a trap and that I am the real target, but I’m good at covering my tracks and none of my enemies should even know I exist. I will do my best to eliminate the assassin, but my success cannot be guaranteed. Your help would be appreciated, but don’t expect to find me unless I have been killed. Thank you for your service to our nation. I truly respect those who work in law enforcement so long as they are not corrupt. But you have to admit that as lawlessness creeps in all around us we increasingly must fight for ourselves, much as I’d love to rely on the police. It’s just the reality we deal with, I guess. I’m rambling now, and running out of time. Good luck, and goodbye.”

Setsuko shook her head. “What the fuck?” she asked.

“Right?” Colm enthused. “Who the fuck is this guy?”

“That’s a strange message,” she said, not taking her eyes off the speaker. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“But so far, it checks out. And I’m willing to bet anything the body we have downstairs is the assassin spoken of.”

Setsuko nodded. “Makes sense. I guess we’ll wait for the coroner’s report to see who it is. I’ll look into what I can, for what it’s worth. You should go home and get some sleep.”

“I will, but first I have a date with a dead body.”

She smiled. “No tampering with the evidence.” She walked to the door. “Good work tonight.”

“Thanks,” Colm said flatly, feigning weariness. In reality, he was experiencing a second wind, perhaps knowing that he was so close to his buttery, greasy, delicious breakfast reward.

Down in the morgue, Watley stood by the stretcher, observing the body. Colm entered the room and flicked on the examination lights.

“Coroner’s not in for a few,” she said, turning to him.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Colm said, “I’m just going to take a look. Got any ideas?”

“Just from observing, there’s a tattoo on his neck. At first I thought it was just splatter from the stab wound, but it’s a different colour from the blood. Look,” she pointed carefully to just behind the body’s left jugular.

“Malcolm, my old friend,” said Colm.

“What?” asked Watley.

“That tattoo. It belongs to Malcolm Gordon. I don’t know when he adopted that name, or the skin colour he’s currently saddled with, but he’s been on the most-wanted list for as long as I’ve worked here. I bet if you scanned his retinas the words NULL - REBELLION would show up on screen, because Malcolm’s so old-fashioned.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“You’ve heard of Egon Beauman?” he asked, looking over the body with great care.

“Of course I have. Everyone has.”

“A lesser-known fact about everyone’s favourite genocidal rebel is that his eyes kept popping up on our scanners for decades, long after he and his cult had locked themselves away behind the Division. The reasoning before the Division was simple: Beauman was a luddite of sorts and refused body modifications of any kind to aid his anonymity. So instead, his followers, and other people with their own reasons, had his retina patterns copied and pasted over their own. The day after this brilliant little idea the military police at the time arrested Egon Beauman and were very proud of themselves, until they realized they’d arrested ten Egons. Well, they were all released. Post-division, the reasoning for getting his retinas is a little shakier. We’re talking people who read his manifesto and decide he’s really not that bad of a guy, and want to express their rebellion in a way that’s relatively painless and lower risk than arson or burglary. Either that, or they see the eye pattern available at whatever seedy hellhole of a bodymod shop they’re at in the Stretch, and think it’ll be cute with the new glasses they bought.”

“Interesting,” she said. “Seems strange to me people would change themselves.”

“Oh, people have reasons. I’d get rid of my fat if I thought I’d be able to keep it off.”

“Well, cosmetic reasons, mental health, that’s totally fine. But as part of a rebellion? Very strange.”

“It gets stranger,” he said. “We’re in an aluminum bucket floating between nothingness and zilch. How’s that for strange?”

Watley looked at him, confused. “Res isn’t aluminum,” she said. “Aluminum wouldn’t protect us from stellar radiation.”

Colm smiled. “Stranger, and stranger still. If you haven’t detected from my mannerisms and droopy eyelids, or from the lovely sheen of grease I’m sure has accumulated on my hair, I’m very, very tired.”

“You must be,” she said. “I am and I work the night shift.”

“Well, keep me posted, Watley. We get an ID on this guy I’d like to know. My phone may not wake me up, though, but leave a message. I’m off to eat.” He paused, looking at the body once more.

“Your first dead body?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

Before long, Colm was in line at Arthur’s, a common fast food place and, unfortunately, the only one that was open early enough.

“What can I get for you?” asked the young worker, absolutely bored out of his mind.

“Four breakfast specials,” Colm said. “Extra cheese. Throw some onions on there. Three of the specials in a bag, one I want you to just hand to me without a wrapper so I can eat it on the way back to my shuttlecar.”

Hey all, just a note from the author. If you’re terribly confused, this is just a spot that I’m putting my poorly-written novel up online to show it to friends. And though I don’t think anyone would want to steal this, I’d like to make it clear that I am ideologically opposed to the idea of intellectual property and copyright. The story is as much yours as it is mine (and therefore, you’re also to blame for it being so awful).

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