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thewestern · 1 month

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OFFROAD INTERLUDE

Young Chop on the beat

To the uninitiated, a guitar solo can seem self-indulgent, somewhat. Masturbatory, even, one could say, at the risk of surrendering to cliche. But there one is, moving one’s hand up and down a smooth, wooden neck. Contorting one’s face as one hammers on, pulls off, slides and bends one’s way up, down and around the G-major scale. Outstretching one’s fingers to hit just the right notes … that last one’s for you self-pleasing females out there, tapping your clitori like you’re Edie Van Halen. Okay, sure. But it’s more complicated than that, obviously. Like one getting off by one’s self, guitar solos sort of get a bad rap. It’s our puritanical culture that’s to blame. Did you know that supposedly there’s a version of Catholic hell wherein the damned are sous vide for all eternity in a bubbling cauldron? But the twist is that they’re boiling in all their own wasted ejaculate. Wasted, quote en quote, whereby the Pope’s lofty standards, would constitute all the jizzum not expectorated in the act of heterosexual, post-marital intercourse made in the god’s honest attempt at procreation. Well then likewise, perhaps for our purposes there’s a version of secular hell wherein one’s soul floats along a Lazy River Styx to the meandering tune of a never-ending, very noodly guitar solo. Good news: hell isn’t real. Better news: Heaven is. Ooh, it’s a place on earth. Yeah, baby.

Take a page out of the Plains Indians’ book. Although as recordkeepers, they were notoriously sparse, we do know that they didn’t so much dwell on the Life and Death of it all, or at least not on the difference betwixt them. Rather, they were early on the whole consciousness kick. We are one being. All but blades of grass, in the grand scheme. Buffalo grazes. Man eat buffalo. He go in the ground. (Likely on account of eating all that red meat.) Man become grass again. Buffalo eat man. At the end of the day, it’s the end of the day. You dig? Theirs was not a vengeful or a wrathful god. Nor was it even a god to begin with. Nigh, it was a Great Spirit. Non-personified and ungendered. None of this whole paternal bull shit. No daddy issues here. Now, they did have a Great Father. Actually that was what they called POTUS. But that was really more of a put on than anything. A bit of poking fun at our white devil bureaucracy. Fatherhood, as it were, was an altogether separate enterprise from the matters of church and state to the savages. Family in and of itself was more an extension of community. So then, if your Pop happened to up and die, be it he took a bullet off on a raid, or maybe he succumbed to the coughing sickness, it wasn’t no big thang. In a tribe, the Chief was everybody’s daddy. And he was a wise man, which is to say he didn’t just know things.

And, furthermore, as for religion, insofar as they practiced it whatsoever, was all about arranging that harmony with the natural world. Maintaining life-life balance. Therefore, whatever you have to do to keep that homeostasis — to square the circle of life, so to speak — that’s your fucking sacrament. Could be singing, dancing, chanting, smoking. Regarding the ritual form, they didn’t so much care. They were very results-oriented. So you do you, essentially. Long before any framers or founders, the Native Americans who observed freedom to worship, assemble or speak however you please. In their honor, then, say a prayer, have a hootenany, recite the fucking pledge of allegiance or maybe, baby, just beat it. (It, whether we’re talking about the famous Eddie Van Halen instrumental break on his genre-bending collaboration with Michael Jackson [Beat it {beat it}], considered to be among the greatest guitar solos of all time, or your meat.)

Still not convinced? Fine. So what, then, if a guitar solo isn’t an act of patriotism or at least enlightenment? Maybe you’re even thinking to yourself it’s a waste of time. Okay. But, then, is that so bad? When you’re in the groove jacuzzi, what’s the sense in getting out before you’re fully pruned? Crank up the bubbles, will you, Reggie? Try a couple different angles on for size. Really explore the space. What’s the big rush, honey? Procrastination — there’s another thing that gets a bum rap. Our protestant guilt ethic at work again. For a fact, the term itself derives from the Latin Pro- meaning forward, Crastinus- of tomorrow. So, in point of fact, procrastinating is actually keeping things moving. Like if Time is like a big circle, then procrastination is just rolling along. Not bothering nobody. Searching a bit around the edges is all. Yeah. That’s the ticket. Us procrastinators are Searchers. Maybe it’s we’re searching for meaning, or maybe just searching for something fucking better to do.

For his part, Billy could procrastinate with the best of them. Case in point, having only recently set in motion an event chain that could jeopardize his family legacy and fortune, he was in no particular hurry to make his next move. However, in his defence, at Yayo-L’s urging, Billy had been prepared to log into his brand new tablet — purchased for the express purpose of being the perfect-sized device for watching pornography, on the go — and launch an online propaganda campaign, so as to curry public opinion in the favor of his fictional political kidnapping.

Me see pon de social media, youth make da ting go Turn Up. Intenet gon mad. Respek, yadono.

Alas, he could not remember his four-digit security code. Prior to being locked out, Billy attempted five combinations, reproduced below in reverse sequential order from most to least likely:

0824 [his birthday]

1017 [his mother’s birthday]

0420 [ayayayay: smoke weed every day]

6969 [nicenice]

0000 [factory default settings]

Having to reset his password or code nearly every time he tried to access one of his many digital accounts or tech gadgets was one of the great stresses of Billy’s life. That, and because darkness was washing over the sleepy town of Stone Rock, he and Yayo-L agreed to decompress for the evening and attack the morning anew. Although rather than retiring to the bunkhouse after a hard day of scheming, they set out for the barn to raise a little hell. Like the bipedal staff, the remuda of horses — six months out of the year they lazily grazed the surrounding pastures, tasked only with escorting guests out on the occasional horseback ride, or otherwise performing a purely perfunctory roundup — had been dismissed for the off-season. For them to winter in, Uncle Ernie had erected a state-of-the-art stables out on the mud flats over by the airport, complete with a highly sophisticated alarm system for thwarting any enterprising horse thieves.

(In protecting against horse thievery, Uncle Ernie took the utmost precaution. It’s no wonder why, considering how many Western Movies he had watched in his late father’s private picture show, a mid-century precursor to a home theatre or entertainment centre. Quite often some expository character or other would utter the warning: Y’know … horse thieving is a Hanging Offense, around these here parts. [Spits.] It’s true that the trafficking in stolen livestock was a major economic liability in the pre-industrial period. But still, wasn’t it a little heavy-handed to always clarify as such? Of course it was a hanging offense. Just about everything was back then. Turning your sprinkler on between ten in the morning and six at night … that there is a hanging offense around these here parts, etc. Maybe the emphasis was on account of in the days before they laid track for the iron horse (the railroad), horses and mules and the like were your only means of transport. So this was something beyond petty larceny. A crime more akin to Grand Theft Equine. Because a man without a mount was plainly immobilized. And around these here parts — in these United States — that just won’t do. We Americans got places to be. Or was it more likely because stealing horses was the stock and trade of some native American tribes. [Based off the way we was branded / Face it, Jeronimo get more time than Brandon.] But even to them, it was more meaningful than a mere felony. It was an art form. One to be honed, and to be celebrated. Whoever could sneak into the white devils’ camp under the cover of darkness and snatch the most or the best horses, that brave got all the finest squaws and biggest props. Debates would rage among the camps, who was the best horse thief — the most about that life. Bruh, they was telling me bout this one Comanche hitter from the Quahidi set. No cap this dude could clean out a whole damn cavalry in one night. Turn them ma’fuckas out on they asses. Back into infantry, y’erd. Yo, I heard tell this nigga stole the horse off this the other nigga, while this other nigga was riding it … on god … bitch looked down and he was saddled on some bricks, B, in broad daylight. Brrrdat.)

Therefore, the period-accurate Livery Emporium was vacant, excepting for those stalls which were paved over and as such reserved for Uncle Ernie’s off-road armada of ATVs, gators, dune buggies, snowmobiles and, of course, sick ass fucking dirt bikes. The sight alone — neon plastic on polished chrome — would have been more than enough to deal Hank a massive heart attack. Nevermind the evocative aroma of the sputtering exhaust, so pungent you could taste its vegetal tannins on the undercarriage of your spittling tongue. Nor even their battle hymn sound played in four-stroke harmony. Mmm-m. The Mick, for his part, would have creamed his fucking coveralls.

(In actuality, it’s the two-stroke engine which emits that sweet, sweet smell — you know the one, that reminds you of yard work and your dad. The website Motorcyclist Online once asked a professional perfumist to analyze the fragrance profile. Paraphrasing now, her trained nose picked up traces of benzoin and balsam (tree resins), cade oil (a species of juniper), and just a slight hint of patchouli. She described the olfactory experience as: ancestral, ritualistic, ceremonial, and medicinal. Altogether, she said, the smell is very human.

[Hey, ladies. Looking for the perfect stocking stuffer for your husband? How about a two-stroke scented candle, handmade with gen-u–ine, high-grade lube. Per the marketing copy: with this candle, we’ve strived to engineer a nostalgic, reminiscent product, and still remain nontoxic, while achieving as close as possible olfactory experience with out burning raw oil and fuel inside your home.])

For their moonlight ride, Billy and Yayo-L selected the mini bike and mini ATV, respectively, on for which to convey themselves away. (Yayo-L was woefully inexperienced with extreme motorsports, so Billy suggested they start small. Not that he minded none. After all it was Uncle Ernie who always said, the minis were just like mopeds or fat chicks. Fun as all heck to ride, just so long as your friends don’t find out.) On their way out of town, they stopped off at the San Ernesto for to raid the robust wine cellar. Although Billy was deathly allergic to beer, he did enjoy the occasional glass of Burgundy, of which Uncle Ernie happened to be among the Western U.S.’s most prolific collectors. With an audacious nonchalance, Billy chose a bottle at random. Then, trudging back upstairs to the saloon area, he fetched from a sleeve of four white styrofoam cups he had previously stashed in a cupboard, dividing them equally between himself and Yayo-L. (Ayo, real quick, let’s talk a bit about styrofoam cups. Yeah, yeah, yeah. But ask yourself … if we don’t who else will? Okay, so, what we commonly know to be the styrofoam cup isn’t made of actual Styrofoam, which is in fact a brand name — it’s sort of a Kleenex or a Xerox situation — trademarked by the Dow Corporation, which developed the substance, albeit completely by fucking mistake, in the forties. [Inventor Otis Ray McIntire was going for more of a rubber replacement. Dow would go on to merge with DuPont in the mid-twenty-tens, at last joining the two largest American chemical companies in holy matrimony.] The generic name is extruded polystyrene, and the genius of it lays in the extrusion, which is basically the titular process of foaming. The result is this super material, that’s ninety-eight percent air, making it incredibly lightweight. However, it’s also so dense that it’s extremely durable, as well as it’s buoyant to boot. Thus qualifying Styrofoam for a range of use cases, from military-grade personal flotation devices — how it was first used dating back to World War Two — to building insulation — its primary present-day application. Now, quote-unquote styrofoam cups, as well as similar food packaging products, are likewise molded out of polystyrene, a synthetic polymer made from monomers of the aromatic hydrocarbon styrene, however rather than being extruded, it has been expanded. So suffice it to say, it’s even lighter than styrofoam, but considerably less durable, which makes sense given you only need to use a cup the one time. [The only downside being that it’s still durable to the extent that it doesn’t decompose, and boy is it a real bitch to recycle.]

William A. Dart of the Dart Container Corporation developed the expandable polystyrene cup in the early sixties. His sons, Kenneth and Robert Dart, after inheriting the company, would go on to renounce their U.S. citizenship in the mid-nineties, explicitly as a means of avoiding taxes on their foam cup fortune. [Listen, there are all kinds of tax dodges out there, but renouncing your fucking American citizenship is on another level, dude. Fucking sick.] The brothers Dart subsequently established a relationship with the nation of Belize, and generously offered to turn their shared residence — a mansion in Sarasota — into a consulate, with themselves serving as sibling co-consuls, thus shielding their estate from any further action made on behalf of the Internal Revenue Service. Alas, the State Department intervened, thwarting their entrepreneurial attempt at sovereign diplomacy. Shortly thereafter the place in Sarasota burnt down, suspiciously, and the expatriates fled to the Cayman Islands, which famously has a zero tax rate on income earned or stored. Freed at last of this burden, the reclusive Ken, for his part, has gone on to become the territory’s largest private landholder. Some Caymanians speculate he owns more than the government itself. Real estate speculation has emerged as the primary business of Dart Enterprises, as it’s now incorporated. It also trades in distressed foreign government debts, making a killing on the global financial crisis of the mid-two thousands, as well as tobacco company stocks. As for the foam container business, Dart has since spun it off.) Into these their grails, he poured three parts red wine, one part lemon-lime soft drink — fresh out the soda gun. Here was his own special blend, although he had not given this his proprietary wine cocktail a proper French name. Let’s all try together then. S’appuyer, sil vous plait? Or, how about, Boisson Violette? Phonetically, would it be, L'année, perhaps? Mmm. And what a bonne fucking one it was. Mixed with a coveted vintage worth in the ballpark of three times the blue-book value of Kitty’s fucking car, despite its being some decades older.

(Unbeknownst to Uncle Ernie, this bottle — as well as those from several similarly-appraised cases he had successfully over-bid for — was a counterfeit. Concurrent to this time, a young connoisseur out of Encino had been exploding onto the rare wine scene. Over the course of the previous calendar year, his vast collection had fetched him north of thirty million dollars at auction, the record for a single consignor. Alarm bells would be raised however when it was discovered by one suspicious estate manager that some of his wines were indeed so rare that they had in fact never fucking existed in the first place. One in particular, from a year inwhere a famous French vineyard had quietly suspended its harvest, owing to a catastrophic infestation of Japanese beetles. Of course, this good samaritan would swiftly alert his dear friend Uncle Ernie of the discrepancy, who would hire a Perlmutter Agency private dick on the WolffCo company dime to investigate matters further. This Brother Shamus sniffs around a bit, takes some pictures with a telephoto lens, slides them into a manilla folder, marks confidential care of Werner Wolff, calls it a day and tips off the feds. Thereupon raiding his seedy one-bedroom apartment, with a gen-u-ine Italian sports car conspicuously parked out front, the FBI would recover reems of label forgeries, every last one of them painstakingly hand-distressed like a pair of designer blue jeans. Working out of his kitchenette sink, often blending cheap grocery store wines — we’re talking two-buck chuck, here — this regular-ass dude successfully duped the entire fine wine world. And not just suckers who had it coming like Uncle Ernie, neither. Mother Fucking, Master Sommeliers, may it please the Court. Those whose palettes are tuned like a musicologist’s ear or trained like a police dog’s snout, so as to detect even the faintest subtleties of terroir or whatever the fuck. One whiff of a fart, it’s said, and they can discern without a shadow of a doubt what he or she who dealt it had for breakfast. But then here comes some guy, this criminal mastermind, an fucking alchemist apparently … and he takes them all for the ride of his life. In a fucking Lambo, no less. Mercy, mercy, me.

Shame then his ride had to end. The Encino Kid, as folks took to calling him, was indicted by the U.S. Attorney’s office representing the Southern District of New York, which had all kinds of time on its hands leftover from recusing itself of any prosecutions as it pertained to the perpetrators of the global financial crisis, the fallout to which was also taking place concurrent to these events. Perhaps the white-collar crime statutes were too opaque to be applied practically. All the while our antihero became the first defendant in the esteemed history of our justice system to be convicted on counts of what the presiding judge officially deemed, Wine Fraud.

[Voiceover: In the criminal justice system, wine-based offenses are considered especially heinous. {Fade in title card.} In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Vinos Unit. These are their stories. {Cue music, b-roll, intro credits: Starring Joe Pantoliano, Carla Gugino, Flea, etc., etc., From Executive Producer Dick Wolf.}]

Subsequently he was sentenced to ten years of which he served six. BOP #62470-112, incarcerated at the Ward County Detention Complex in Big Springs, Texas, a publicly-owned, privately-operated correctional facility ranked eighth on a list of the Ten Worst Prisons in America by the online edition of Mother Jones magazine. A distinction earned after widespread riots were provoked in response to, among a litany of other indignities, the sub-humane level of medical care made available to inmates. This after ongoing incidents culminated in the death of a prisoner held in solitary confinement, who despite repeated pleas from his family to fill his long-standing prior prescriptions for epilepsy medicine, had only been treated with ibuprofen for his severe seizures, to which he ultimately succumbed. Shortly thereafter, his comrades reported seeing his lifeless body being carried out in what appeared to be a garbage bag. Upon questioning, prison officials deflected, claiming that all healthcare services were subcontracted to a third-party provider. This was true. However it was also true that said third-party was awarded the contract strictly on the basis of its explicit promise to reduce the county’s expenses by cutting back on prescriptions, and other such costly Wellness Amenities. That, and some years later, State Senator Omar Uresti was brought up on charges of conspiracy to commit bribery, citing evidence that he colluded with Ward County commissioners to approve the contract in exchange for kickbacks and promises of future payments.

To reiterate, none of this has or had happened at the time of this writing. As far as Billy knows, the bottle he poured into that double cup was the real deal. Though he didn’t much care either which way. Had he known this was a phony — that he was consuming physical evidence in a federal case — well he would have been amused by that fact. His Uncle Ernie, on the other hand, when he would eventually find out he’d been had, would go on to blow his fucking stack, predictably.)

With one hand on the handlebars, they proceeded with abandon through the empty thoroughfare, past the JK Corral, and into the Curtis Hixon Sportatorium, an arena Uncle Ernie had erected for hosting VIP rodeo-based fundraisers for right wing political candidates and other conservative cause célèbres. (Hoedown for Hardline Immigration Reform, Giddy Up for Responsible Gun Ownership, Do-si-do for Subsidies-backed Domestic Crude Oil Production on Federal Lands.) Billy’s master key opened the announcer’s booth, where Yayo-L was able to get his MPThree player hooked up to the aux cord on the PA System, which previously had played only two songs — God Bless the U.S.A., words and lyrics by Lee Greenwood and The Star-Spangled Banner as performed by Alan Jackson. (His affinity for that particular rendition notwithstanding, Uncle Ernie was of the steadfast belief that the former should replace the latter as Our National Anthem, and had lobbied as such repeatedly to his dignified guests, of whom included several U.S. senators, three of the five conservative justices on the Supreme Court and one sitting vice president, among many other figures of political prominence. It was an issue he had great passion for. Also, Lee Greenwood was a friend.)

For his part, Billy had recently been put on to this rapper, Chief Keef, a Chicago-based artist from the city’s infamous, rough-and-tumble SouthSide projects. His shit had been blowing up online. Notably the music video for the smash hit single, I Don’t Like, had spoken to Billy. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before, and he’d been watching music videos on television — as well as even television shows about the making of music videos — for the longest. Billy was like an art historian for music videos. They say jazz is the only American art form. Nah, son. Music videos. Mosaics of money, hoes and clothes. (All a nigga knows.) Although, notably, this particular music video had none of the above. Mostly it was just a bunch of dudes with no shirts on. Chief Keef, only sixteen years old, and all his homies in a living room. Not a baller living room neither. No flat screens or stripper poles or crush velvet couches or exotic fish tanks to speak of. Only visible cracks and stains in the drywall. And all they were doing was smoking blunts and making gang signs. One guy was flashing his piece, a matte grey pistol with a High-capacity Magazine. And there was no breakdancing or otherwise elaborate choreography. Just headbanging. Chief Keef sported a mane of dreads, about the length of a Beatles mop top. He was rapping not about the lofty heights to which they aspired, but rather the lowly existence to which they seemed generationally relegated. As if their’s was a despair so routine to them, that it had metastasized — as despair so often does — in the form of these petty grievances with everyday life. That’s That Shit I Don’t Like, or These Are A Few Of My Least Favorite Things. Bootleg designer jeans, felony indictments, disloyal friends (a.k.a. fuck niggas, snitch niggas, bitch niggas … ahem, Jaime), shwag weed, parents that just don’t understand, so on and so forth. Billy thought it looked like the most fun ever.

He downloaded the mixtape and had been banging it, on repeat, ever since. Back From the Dead, it was entitled, in reference to one time Chief Keef got in a gunfight with the police. According to the responding cop’s accounting of the events, after a brief on-foot pursuit, the suspect turned and brandished a blue steel-plated handgun. His partner squeezed off two shots in the assailant’s direction and missed. Then yada, yada, yada, and the unsub was then apprehended without further incident. However, in contradiction to the official police report, somehow word on the street got out that Sosa had died in that officer-involved shooting. At least that’s what his opps were saying. On account of nobody had seen him around the block in a minute. But that was because, in point of fact, he was serving a sentence of thirty days’-home confinement at his grandmother’s house. So then he called his subsequent release BFTD as a tongue-and-cheek way of saying to all his haters: Surprise, Bitch, I’m not dead after all. I was at my Nana’s this whole time.

Billy had always loved hearing stories like that, about rappers putting in work. Back at Canaan Country Day, during certain art electives they were allowed to listen to music on the radio at a reasonable volume. Billy took Metals especially for that reason, and also because you got to use a blowtorch. It was the only class he would arrive to early, so that he could set the FM dial on the boombox to the local rap radio station. (Also for to call dibs on the blowtorch.) Sometimes, right before class, he’d even sneak into the Laura Bush Teachers’ Lounge, and dial nine for an outside request line.

Caller Number One?

Hey, DJ Clay! It’s your boy Billy Rolling on Dubs, reppin Canaan Country All Dizzay. Can you please play In Da Club by Fifty Cent?

Alright coming right up for ya, lil’ homie. Now shout out the radio station that gave you what you wanted.

Wild n’ One-Oh-Eight Point-Eight, Today’s Hottest Hip Hop and R&B!

Go (x6)

Go, Shorty

It’s your birthday

We gonna party like it’s your birthday

We gonna sip Bacardi like it’s your birthday

As the good Dr. Dre’s unconventionally off-beat rhythm harmonized with the cacophonic choir of circular saws and cross-peen hammers, Billy would try to endear himself to his rail splitting classmates by regaling them in Fifty’s escapades. Did you know he was shot nine times? How sick is that? As always when it came to matters of Billy, they just thought he was being weird, and pretended like they didn’t want to be distracted from whatever they were working on. Well, jokes on them, because It was Billy’s piece — the pimp cup with a soldered-on AK-47 — that was selected to the CCD Permanent Collection, where it remains to this day. His teacher Mrs. Reese heralded Billy’s chalice, as she insisted on calling it, to be: a subversive artistic statement on the relationship between toxic masculinity and violence in schools, or something to that effect. Shouts to Mrs. Rza. You da real MVP.

Do you know that feeling of falling in love with a song with your whole heart? Whether it’s a melody or a lyric or just a riff, it worms its way through ear canal and hooks onto the squishy part of your brain that controls your impulse. And then it keeps nibbling at it, scratching, so that you are compelled to listen again and again. And again, for days on end, until you can listen no more because the sound makes you physically sick to your stomach. Seriously, do you know that feeling? It was the kind of feeling Billy had that was so powerful, it made him wonder how anybody else could possibly could relate to it. The kind of feeling that if we all — people of earth — felt it at once the world would end probably. Maybe I just connect to music more deeply, he thought.

(If you’ve ever attended your favorite band’s concert, and seen tens of thousands of others sing along with the very same songs you know by heart, you’d know that music resonates strongly with lots of folks. Billy, for his part, hadn’t attended hardly any. Concerts, that is. Actually, not a single one. Sure, he had the means to afford the toughest of tickets, but have you ever been to a show alone? That’s some loser shit. Once he tried to run away from home to join the aforementioned Gathering of the Juggalos, where famously no one is alone. Rather, at the Gathering, when you’re here, you’re family. [The Gathering: Tonight’s the Night You Fight Your Dad. The Gathering: These Pants Aren’t Going to Shit Themselves.] He made it all the way to the airline ticket counter where he attempted to use his mother’s diamond-encrusted wolf broach — the closest thing to hard currency he could get his little hands on — to barter for a boarding pass to Lambert International Airport in Missouri, the very same from whence Charles Lindbergh took flight on the Spirit of St. Louis, which according to the directions he printed out in advance was a short three hour’s-drive from the site of the Eleventh Annual GOTJ, held at Cave-in-Rock, Illinois, a small hamlet on the banks of the Ohio River. [The namesake cave{-in-rock} was an infamous refuge stronghold for frontier outlaws and river pirates beginning in the late Eighteenth Century. River pirates, huh? Cool!]

Blast, as the albeit well-meaning ticket agent predictably snitched on Billy, handing him over to the proper authorities. In retrospect, though, he may have been lucky to have missed out. Many ninjas cite that year as a turning point for the festival. The Jugallos’ Altamont. Their Little Bighorn. In addition to the Psychopathic Records stable of acts, including Twiztid, Dark Lotus, Anybody Killa and Blaze Ya Dead Homie, all of whom were mainstays of Gatherings past and future, beloved by Juggalos the Midwest over, ICP, Inc. had padded out the lineup with more celebrity guest appearances than ever before. This in part to promote the world premiere of their second straight-to-DVD feature film, Big Money Rustlas, a slapstick Western prequel to their critically-overlooked debut, Big Money Hustlas. This year’s gathering is sort of like an ode to the Wild Wild West, says sweet Sugar Slam in the infamous infomercial, touting the Nation’s Only—True Underground Music Festival—With No Corporate Sponsorship. Luminaries of West Coast hip hop such as the regulator himself Warren G were in the hiz-ouse. Naughty by Nature, Vanilla Ice and Tone Lōc too. And since Juggalos are so well known for their axe-sharp senses of humor, comedic stylings would be provided courtesy of Gallagher (melon smasher), Tom Green (bum rubber) and Ron Jeremy (both of the above). Despite or perhaps because of their A-List statuses, to marquee names the likes of these, the Jugallos were often hostile. That is if the performers didn’t come correct with their A-Games — bring the wicked shit, per their parlance — they were liable to be booed, or worse, by the ninja throngs.

Tila Tequila was for what it’s worth, arguably the first-ever Social Media Influencer, amassing a following of one-and-a-half million Friends, mostly by way of posting sexually suggestive photos to a popular proto-social networking site. She parlayed that success into reality television stardom. And it was from that black hole of American culture that she attempted to revive her career, such as it was, with a pivot to rapping. Thus was the sequence of misfortunes that led her to the Gathering, where she was foretold to be the objectified of the Juggalos’ disaffection, taking the stage some three hours late on what festival organizers had quite optimistically billed to be, Ladies’ Night. Just as soon as she started in on lip-syncing her smashed single, I Fucked the DJ, the audience began pelting her with partway full cans of beer and other debris. [When they weren’t mixing Faygo-based cocktails, Juggalos were known to enjoy the Pack-line of sub-premium Wolffenbeir products.] Nevertheless, she persisted.

Cream in my middle like an Oreo

Got you on rock ride cock like the rodeo

Drop like stock you can check the portfolio

Cuz my pussy pop like it does e-44

Robert Hunter writes — in the preface to the book Box of Rain, a career-spanning compilation of his contributions to the Grateful Dead canon in his capacity as proto-poet laureate — that song lyrics are often embarrassed by print, and that some of his are no exception. Rhyme, rhythm and manageable phrasing impose restrictions on what may be said, he says; fortunately, once and a while, the very limitations help to create something which could be said no other way.

Tequila later alleged that she had been struck in the face by human feces that were catapulted from the mosh pit that night at the Gathering. Trying in vain to appease the seething mob, she acquiesced to their demands that she remove her sequined halter top. Regrettably, the gesture of baring her surgically mutilated bosom only aroused their ravenous delirium the furthermore. The fervor reached its apogee, when according to Tom Green’s eyewitness account, she was chased offstage to her trailer, hotly pursued by a posse of horny men in full clown makeup.

To this day, Juggalos and their apologists maintain that the frackas was wrought by rogue elements in the Gathering masses. That these were non-ninja, agent provocateurs. They submit into evidence how earlier that very day, at the ICP annual seminar, Violent J specifically implored to the Juggalo delegation that no harm be brought upon Tila Tequila’s acutely angular head. [Did you, or did you not, order the Mountain Dew Code Red?!] However, on cross-examination, the prosecution would be remiss not to establish for the record what Violent J’s partner, Shaggy 2 Dope, said immediately after that. Yeah, because I’M trying to fuck that bitch.

Whether or not this insurrection marked a loss of innocence — a failure, if you will, of their grand experiment — will surely be debated by generations of Jugallos to come. For Ms. Tequila, it could certainly be considered the incident that precipitated her own precipitous downfall. When her worm began to turn, as it were. Not unlike the aviator Lindbergh, her coping with this and other traumas manifested in a public flirtation with the tenets of national socialism. Starting with her sharing to social media a photo of her infant daughter, Isabella, miming history’s most infamous moustache. Hashtag: BabyHitler. Her radicalisation then crystallised with an entry to her blog, evocatively entitled — Why I Sympathize with Hitler: Part I. Shortly thereafter she posted a crudely photoshopped self-portrait, costumed as a scantily-clad, femme-Nazi, superimposing in front of the Birkenau gatehouse, straddling the train tracks that led directly to the gas chambers at Auschwitz II, a Waffen SS cap resting atop her shoulder-length bob, an auburn hue of blonde that could only be achieved alchemically, one hand held aloft bearing an American-made, nickel-plated Colt 1911, the other placed defiantly on her hip, so as to more prominently flash a red swastika armband, and probably also somehow to appear skinnier still.

And here's to you, Mrs. Tequila

Jesus loves you more than you will know

Whoa, whoa, whoa

God bless you, please, Mrs. Tequila

Heaven holds a place for those who pray

Hey, hey, hey

[Sung to the tune of Mrs. Robinson, by Simon and Garfunkel. {Made famous by the movie, The Graduate, although technically it doesn’t count as a needle drop, since it was written specifically for the film. Well, sort of. You see, the director Mike Nichols had been using a separate Simon & Garfunkel song, The Sound of Silence, off the duo’s debut album Wednesday Morning, Three A.M., released the year prior, but only in the editing bay as a placeholder and pacing device. However, when Nichols tried to substitute it with a track from the original score, nothing seemed to work as seamlessly with the images on the screen. So he paid dearly for the rights to keep that two-part harmony — Hello Darkness my old friend … — over that famous title sequence of Benjamin Braddock, the avatar for postwar suburban youth malaise, floating there in his parents’ swimming pool, no doubt obscuring a disaffected gaze behind his acetate sunglasses. Woe be unto you, Dustin Hoffman. Nichols’ use of a pop record on a film soundtrack was considered unusual for that time, if not altogether unheard of. Thus making TSOS among the first, if not The First Ever needle drop. [Surely someone could easily find this out. Surely.] Boy did they knock it out of the park with that one, huh? First pitch fastball. There’s a drive deep to left field by Castellanos, and that’ll be a home run.

For a fact, Nichols was so enamored by the way that melancholic arpeggio ascended the diatonic scale to his antihero’s disillusion in those opening frames, that he appealed directly to the guitar player himself, Paul Simon, commissioning him to write another song specifically for the film’s denouement. He wanted their music to bookend his story. Simon didn’t think he had the bandwidth to compose something from scratch, on account of he and Garfunkel were touring at such a breakneck pace. But there was this one idea he was working on, about times and peoples past — Joe DiMaggio, John Lennon, Jack Kennedy. It had been tentatively titled Mrs. Roosevelt, in reference to the first verse about the former First Lady Eleanor being institutionalized in a psychiatric hospital, which she never actually was, although there are probably several named after her. Simon sang Nichols the opening melody — Dee (x13), Doo (x9), Dee (x13). Nichols stood up out of his chair and said, whoa … kid … stop the record. I’ve heard enough. [Dramatic pause … Simon feared the worst. Say something!] It’s not called Mrs. Roosevelt anymore. It’s Mrs. Robinson. And the rest as they say is history. It went on to become the first rock and roll song to win the Grammy for Record of the Year. It would also have taken home the Oscar for Best Original Song, in all likelihood, had it not been deemed ineligible on a technicality. Fucking Garfunkel forgot to fill out the paperwork to submit it, of course.

Years later, at an Italian restaurant on Central Park South, Paul Simon bumped into of all people Joe DiMaggio, whose name he of course drops in the final chorus — Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you / Ooh (x3). What I don’t understand, Joltin’ Joe says, is why you say I’ve left and gone away / Hey (x3). I just did a Mr. Coffee commercial. I’m a spokesman for the Bowery Savings Bank. I haven’t gone anywhere! I’m Joe D, for chrissakes! Demredly as he could, Paul Simon replied that he didn’t intend any disrespect, clarifying that the lyric wasn’t meant to be taken literally. On the contrary, Simon considered him, DiMaggio, to be an American hero, and this song was explicitly about this turbulent time when those were in short supply. DiMaggio accepted the explanation, the two shook hands and parted ways. Shortly thereafter, Simon made a guest appearance on the Dick Cavett Show alongside none other than DiMaggio’s pinstriped slugging successor, Mickey Mantle. In point of fact, as a Jewish kid growing up in the Fifties, playing stickball in Brooklyn, probably — — everybody in Brooklyn in the Fifties played stickball, apparently — it was the sweet-swinging Mantle who Simon idolised, rather than DiMaggio, who by then had past his prime. Aware of his generational appeal, during a commercial break, the Mick came straight out and asked him: say, if I was your favorite ballplayer, how come you put that old Wop in the song instead of me? Put into the unenviable position of having to elucidate his creative process to yet another Yankee legend, Simon said, well, it’s because of the syllables, you see. Rob-in-son, Di-Mag-gio. (Roo-se-velt, Te-qui-la.) Three syllables. Three beats. Where have you gone, Mic-key Man-tle? There’s an extra syllable. Rhythmically, it’s no good. Although, and he didn’t tell him this, but metaphorically it wouldn’t have worked either. Mantle was nobody’s role model. He was like Elvis, Simon later told a reporter for the New York Daily News. An incredible burst of vitality and youth, and its eventual corruption.

(Mantle was asked to recount his favorite memory of the old Yankee Stadium, on the eve of it’s fiftieth anniversary and imminent closure for a multi-season rennovation project. He had a Hall of Fame career’s-worth of achievements from which to choose. Such as, during his triple crown season, hitting a home run to right off the famous outfield facade, which would be replicated in the renovation and re-replicated in the new Yankee Stadium. (Actually it’s known as a frieze in architecture circles.) That thing was up longer than Alan Shepard, remembered an onlooking little boy from Brooklyn. Paul Simon. Just kidding. Actually, it was Billy Crystal. And he was from Long Island if memory serves.

Rather, Mantle responded in writing, on the ballclub’s letterhead, to this the prompt of recalling an outstanding moment in his storied career at The Stadium, that he once received a blow job under the right field bleachers, adjacent to the Yankee bullpen. To the follow-up question, when on or about did this event occur, it was around the third or fourth inning, by his recollection. I had a pulled groin and couldn’t fuck at the time. She was a very nice girl and asked me what to do with the cum after I came in her mouth. I said don’t ask me, I’m no cock-sucker. [Sic. {According to the Guardian style guide, the only available online source and thus the authority on the subject, it’s cocksucker, one word. Cock-sucker and cock sucker are both incorrect.}]

Signed: *Mickey Mantle

*The All-American Boy)

DiMaggio died at the age of eighty-four in Ninety-Nine of natural causes. (Natural as in complications from lung cancer, resultant of keeping up a three-pack-a-day chain-smoking [redundant] habit throughout his Big League career and beyond. Those were the good old days, when a professional athlete could take a mid-game smoke break without having to worry about losing an endorsement deal with some bogus sports drink or energy bar. For a fact, DiMaggio himself was a pitchman, for cigarettes! You Bet I Smoke Camels. [Garcia’s brand.] Along With All That Swell Flavor, Camels Are Extra Mild, For That Fantastic Finish, Like A Walk-Off Home Run, Deep In Your Lungs.) As a companion piece to his New York Times obituary, Simon wrote in an OpEd about how his lyric had been a sincere tribute to DiMaggio's unpretentious and modest heroic stature, in a time when popular culture magnifies and distorts how we perceive our stars of stage, screen and sport. Quoting now: In these days of Presidential transgressions and apologies and prime-time interviews about private sexual matters, we grieve for Joe DiMaggio and mourn the loss of his grace and dignity, his fierce sense of privacy, his fidelity to the memory of his wife and the power of his silence.

So then he was the strong silent type. Gary Cooper. Also that explains the bit about Mrs. Roosevelt. You see FDR didn’t let his withered legs slow him down from chasing skirts behind his wife’s back. Before you weep for her, Eleanor was getting it on the side herself, as well as possibly even batting for the other team. (She was oft-rumoured to be a barely closeted lesbian.) But that’s beside the point, which according to Paul Simon was that whatever they were up to, they all kept their mouths shut about it, and also that such tawdry gossip hadn’t yet been commoditized as tabloid fodder. (Infamously, although it wouldn’t have been reported at the time, DiMaggio’s picture-perfect marriage to Marilyn Monroe had been marred by abuse — substance and spousal — behind the scenes. Quite literally, crew members recalled a violent incident on the set of Monroe’s star turn in the Seven Year Itch, wherein she has her famous closeup of the skirt blowing up from under the subway grate, the sight of which sent Joltin’ Joe into a jealous rage.)

The April following DiMaggio’s passing in March, for a special ceremony in his honor, Paul Simon performed Mrs. Robinson during the seventh inning stretch, making a lousy-fucking fill-in for Take Me Out to the Ballgame, thought most Yankee fans, probably. Singing to a sellout crowd, standing there alone in centerfield donning a baseball cap just like the one the players wore, beneath a billboard advertising a big-box electronics store local to the Tri-State Area that read — Nobody Beats The Wiz. You can faintly hear the Bleacher Creatures trying helplessly to clap along in four-four time over the sound of Simon’s tuned-down dreadnought guitar. That afternoon the Yankees beat the visiting Toronto Blue Jays by a final score of four-to-three. Second-baseman Chuck Knoblauch scored the winning run from third, batted in on an eleventh-inning, walk-off bloop single to the gap by Bernie Williams, DiMaggio’s fellow center fielder, as well as Simon’s fellow singer-songwriter. Bernie and the Bronx Bombers went on to win the World Series that fall, their twenty-fifth such title, sweeping their National League nemeses of the Nineties, the Atlanta Braves. Simultaneous to this, their second consecutive championship run, plans for a first-of-its-kind music festival were being conceived by Jumpsteady, brother of Violent J. The idea germinated while he himself attended Gen Con, the largest tabletop game convention in North America. The subsequent summer, the first of the new millennium, the inaugural Gathering of the Juggalos was convened at the Novi Expo Center in Novi, Michigan.}])

In any event Billy was feeling some type of way today. Stimulated, you could say. Re-sensitized. Colors appeared vivider. He even took a beat to appreciate the sunset, something he wasn’t usually want to do. Because, sunsets are gay, he’d once said. But tonight a blood-red dusk cascaded over the rolling desert plains, and although he wouldn’t have necessarily phrased it in just such a way, he could appreciate the natural beauty of the moment. His taste buds were likewise in bloom. All of a sudden, his immature palette could adequately discern the acidity of the wine as it contrasted with the sweetness of the soda, and also how the carbonation underscored that juxtaposition, quite playfully. Scent too. Whereas Stone Rock and the surrounding acreage generally wafted of hot dirt, a chilled, almost menthol aroma had rode in on the northerly wind — sure as good a sign as any of an impending winter storm. Also, Yayo-L had rolled a fat L with one of Uncle Ernie’s pre-Castro Cuban cigars. Although Billy didn’t partake for fear of inducing a debilitating panic attack, his number one hitter Yayo-L was for his part a prolific pothead. (This is a lifestyle choice not uncommon among information technology professionals, believe it or not. Keep in mind, even your run-of-the-mill IT guy or girl is still a huge fucking nerd, who will forget more about computers than you will ever know, or care to. Now square that with their job description, which entails troubleshooting bullshit support tickets — we’re talking, Talking Paperclip-level … Looks like you’re trying to write a suicide note — day-to-day, in and out, for absolute noobs making three times what they do, base salary. As such, it's a boon to one’s IT employee morale to be Off That Loud on company time, whenever possible.) Even if he didn’t blaze the weed, Billy enjoyed being around drugs, drug users and paraphernalia. It lent him a certain street credibility, or so he thought. And the earthy aroma was likewise pleasing to him. (And that I smell a dankness.) Did you know a lot of rappers have personal blunt-rollers on the payroll, he once asked his metals teacher, Mrs. Reece. That’s such a flex.

And whoa be to, The Sound. The triumphant roar of the synth brass infinet reverberated for miles down valley, like a regimental march come riding over the bluff to wage war on eternity.

I'm cooling wit' my youngins

And what we smoke one hunna

But, nigga, I'm three hunna

Click-clack, pow, now he runnin'

Billy felt three hundred years old, and at once born anew. (And you know we don’t give a fuck it’s not your birthday.) This in spite … nay, on account of there being so much drama in the club, proverbially, between him, Jaime, and his mother. With #x_brüing and Wolffenbeir and the New Frontier. His nemesis, the dastardly Dr. Lupus, and Billy’s beloved Howler, whose wayfarer sunglasses he still imagined in silhouette against waxing crescent moon, its sliver peeking out from around the encroaching stormcloud. Like the evening fog, today his burden would be lifted, as he was baptised in the currents of his own creation.

We are the boys that take delight

smashing the Limerick light when lighting

through all the streets like sporters fighting

and tearing all before us

All these sensations — his feeling like the luckiest man on the face of the Ea-Ea-Earth — emulsified in frequencies of equal amplitude between his legs. Not his loins, per say, although he had been unusually cognizant of his own libido of late. Whereas he usually regarded his appendage inanimately — as an on-demand application … a stress relief valve of sorts — today it had awoken with a mind of its own, in the form of morning wood. Albeit always welcome, his erection was irrelevant to the present moment. Because, like his heart pumping blood directly to the tip of his penis, now time itself was beating with tribal rhythm. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two. A highly unique, eleven-eight time signature, in the pocket with the vibrato of the Fifty CC engine on Billy’s mini-bike. He and Yayo-L were doubles barrel racing, riding mixed motocross. Tokyo drifting in perfect figure eights. Maxing out those little Japanese lawn mower engines to their absolute limits and beyond. Bursting through barriers of sound and color and common fucking decency.

There was an old saying that Billy had never heard. Hank had been known to use it from time to time. It went something to the effect, paraphrasing here: money is a sixth sense with which you may more fully enjoy the other five. Hank used it unattributed, naturally. Depending on your internet search algorithm, it was either the intellectual property of the early Twentieth Century English playwright, novelist and screenwriter, W. Somerset Maugham, whose masterwork Of Human Bondage tells the semi-autobiographical coming-of-age story of Philip Carey, a club-footed orphan who abandons his artistic aspirations to pursue his medical studies, only to be derailed entirely by a decidedly one-sided love affair with a manic depressive waitress. Among the authors who cited Maugham as a literary influence were Anthony Burgess, Ian Fleming, Stephen King and George Orwell, who said Maugham was the modern writer who inspired him the most.

Or, the quote might have belonged to Richard Ney, the American actor turned financial advisor to the stars. His big break arrived in the movie Mrs. Miniver, arguably the first of a great many Second World War films to earn sweeping critical and audience acclaim. One begrudging admirer was Joseph Goebbels, Nazi Minister of Propaganda, for its subtle and yet overwhelming accomplishment of an anti-German tendency, as he called it. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences was likewise smitten; Mrs. Minniver won six Oscars, including Best Picture, Director and Actress. The latter gold statuette went to Old Hollywood starlet Greer Carson, her fifth-straight in the category, tying her for the record for most consecutive Actress in a Leading Role wins with Bette Davis, who herself starred as the aforementioned bipolar server in the film adaptation of OHB, although she was snubbed for that portrayal. In Mrs. Miniver, Ney played a supporting role as Greer Carson’s erstwhile son. Subsequently, undaunted by their considerable age difference, he would enter a somewhat fraught offscreen May-December marriage with his onscreen mother, which predictably fizzled. Thereafter, Ney puttered around to various bit parts. Notably, he had a one-episode arc on the Western network television series, The Tall Man, playing a wealthy dilettante who hires Billy the Kidd to guide him into the wilderness for to hunt a mountain lion, but only as a clever ruse for efforting to kill Billy himself.

But eventually the acting work dried up, and by the middle nineteen sixties, Ney had successfully transitioned to a career as a financial adviser and wealth manager. Beginning at a Beverly Hills brokerage firm, he went on to start a successful investment newsletter — The Ney Report — which counted petroleum industrialist J. Paul Getty among its subscribers. Although he was an avowed capitalist and enthusiastic materialist — Ney was chauffeured everywhere he went in an extravagant motor carriage not dissimilar to Hildy’s — he maintained no illusions about the structural unfairness of our financial system. He would go on to write three books, each highly critical of stock market manipulation and speculative trading, including the New York Times bestseller, The Wall Street Gang. No place on Planet Earth hosts more sheer larceny per square footage than the New York Stock Exchange, he was attributed as saying. Whether or not for expressed purposes of manufacturing consent (what was it Noam Chomsky said about eating pussy?), Ney was one of two former guests to be banned for life from reappearing on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. The other was Ralph Nader.

The boys carried on revving their engines in reverie. Having grown up with unfettered access to these and other motorized toys, Billy was a skilled extreme sports polyathlete. Showboating a bit, he popped a wheelie on the zeitgeist right in Yayo-L’s grill mix. Bucking there on his back tire, he looked and felt completely invincible. He was like a damn Comanche warrior on horseback. Billy had heard how they could unload a full quiver of arrows hanging Upside down from Underneath their horse, this while galloping at a full clip, mind you. Uncle Ernie missed out on Vietnam on account of a dubious diagnosis of late-onset clubfoot, so rather he would romanticize about the Indian wars from the century previous, with which he would regale his incredibly impressionable nephew.

Recall how Uncle Ernie idolised the great lawmen and military personnel of the Old West, for civilizing the frontier at its bloody bleeding edge until it could be duly commercialized. (Equally he admired present-day troops and first responders, as evidence of his annual Hokey Pokey for Heroes, a bolo tie-optional gala benefiting double amputees that lost their limbs — must be plural … triple amps were also eligible to apply for the program — in the line of duty. ) Wyatt Erp, Kit Carson, the Texas Rangers, General Custer, the latter after whom he called his own beloved canine companion, who had a luscious golden mane just like his namesake. Although the pooch’s curls didn’t shed. Uncle Ernie had bad sinuses and hay fever to beat the band, so Georgie was one of them designer dogs specifically crossbred to not furry up all the furniture. (Of course Custer was famous for his blonde locks, but by the time all that bad business went down at Little Bighorn, he was already on the retreat in another fashion — male pattern baldness. It’s true. And you can bet that pretty boy son of a bitch took it hard. For he was as vain as they come. There’s even a historiographical school of thought that losing his trademark hair had him so out of sorts that it clouded his tactical judgment, which was otherwise well-known to be highly astute. Hence causing him to haul off and do something reckless, like send his already dog-tired battalion on a kamikaze charge of a heavily outnumbering encampment of savage hostiles. After such a scrap that ensued, it was the squaws’ domain to sweep the battlefield, and tidy up after any of the missed opportunities for post or preferably premortem mutilation that their husbands, brothers and fathers had overlooked — male pattern blindness. Supposedly when it came to ‘ole Custer, there wasn’t hardly any there left to scalp. Kind of a letdown. Because wouldn’t that have been the ultimate trophy. Alas, they settled for shoving a poison arrow up his piss hole.

But those were Sioux and Cheyenne. Not to be trifled with, to be sure, but also nowheres near the warrior horsemen that the Comanche were. The Lords of the Plains, as they were known on and around the plains. Apart from music videos and shows about the making of music videos, Billy’s favorite thing to watch on television was a basic cable program called Deadliest Warrior, wherein the producers would pit two of the most deadliest warriors from different historical eras against one another — such as Samurais versus Ninjas (Japanese, not juggalos), for example — and simulate which would prevail in a fight to the death. (The Ninja beat the Samurai on account of being much sneakier, in case you were curious.) The Comanche got matched up against a Mongol. A who? … you may be asking. Those old Chinese food bitches? How about they fight somebody that’s actually bad ass, like MS Thirteen. Whoa. Hold your horses, kimosabe. Mongols are no joke. Underestimate these bad mama-jamas at your peril. As a collective army, the Mongols probably had more bodies than any fighting force in human history. Forty million, according to some estimates, which at that time would have divided out to eleven percent of the global population. As for how they would fare one-v-one with a Comanche brave, now we know because each episode had a melodramatized reenactment — like in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, or on Unsolved Mysteries — where the producers and their consultants in historical combat would handicap the fight and choreograph out the moves. This particular back-and-forth bought looks like it’s about to go the distance, before the Comanch emerges victorious by twelfth-round TKO, owing in large part to his superior horsemanship.

Back in Stone Rock, our anti-heroes joy rode on out of the arena and back onto the access road leading through town. There was just enough twilight reflecting into the red dirt to guide their way. Yayo-L had misplaced the earth-toned, short-sleeved, button-down shirt he wore some variation of every day to work, and changed into a chinchilla coat he found in the San Ernesto, from behind one of those dividers women would get undressed behind in the olden days. It was two sizes too small but it fit him just right. Billy was likewise nips out, in shirtless solidarity with his companero, although he wore a protective rodeo vest, designed to shield bull riders’ vital organs from being gored-and-or-trampled upon. He thought it resembled a teflon flak jacket, similar to the one Fifty wore to perform In Da Club at the Video Music Awards, where he took home Video of the Year. Like Yayo-L’s mini-ATV, Billy’s mini-bike was fully Wolffenbeir-branded, as if they were being sponsored to compete in the Special X-Games. The numbers on the nameplate were four-twenty and sixty-nine, respectively.

Racing out past the property line and the barbed wire fence which marked it, without any particular destination in mind, they hung the same fateful left turn Billy’s grandfather had made every morn’ on his commute to the brewery. Rounding the bend, they reached the covered bridge which dissected from overhead the crystal brook. A picturesque scene by any other context. Skidding to an abbreviated stop, they saw there standing on the bridge — backlit by the dissipating daylight and staring straight through them — was a four-legged mammal of an as yet unknown genus. It was smaller than a wolf or a mountain lion, but bigger than a designer doodle or a one-eyed dumpster cat.

What kind of animal are you? Billy asked, rhetorically.

I’m a coyote, he answered back. But you can call me Peter. Pleased to meet you.

###

For a while after Uncle Ernie lost his power struggle for the Wolffenbeir Company to Billy’s mom, he would tell anybody who would listen how he was plotting his comeback. In what was akin to a corporate crucifixion, he believed Hildy and the Board had colluded against him. In the intervening period of his unjust exile he’d drunk approximately eight hundred Wolffenbeir beers in the span of eighteen months, for no apparent other reason than to quantitatively prove that the quality of the product had deteriorated under his sister’s stewardship, precipitously. Stay tuned, he forbode. Their day of reckoning was upon us. Like the mighty dragon, I will arise from the ashes, as he would often mistake his mythical creatures. Tales of my death have been exaggerated, greatly, he was lastly fond of saying, this time misquoting a line that had itself been misattributed to Mark Twain.

(Of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s famous observation that there are no second acts in American lives, Uncle Ernie was blissfully unfamiliar.)

Perhaps precisely by nature of his being the most quoted American author, Mark Twain is also the most misquoted. A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its boots, was a maxim also oft-mistakenly credited to Mister Twain. (Honorable mis-mentions: [A] Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it. [B] I would have written a shorter letter, but I didn’t have the time. [C] The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.) Unequivocally though, we can quote with the utmost accuracy what it was that Mark Twain said about coyotes. In his semi-autobiographical travelogue of the American West, Roughing It (originally titled, The Innocents at Home), he writes (emphasis added):

The coyote is a long, slim, sick and sorry-looking skeleton, with a gray wolfskin stretched over it, a tolerably bushy tail that forever sags down with a despairing expression of forsakenness and misery, a furtive and evil eye, and a long, sharp face, with slightly lifted lip and exposed teeth. He has a general slinking expression all over. The coyote is a living, breathing allegory of Want. He is always hungry. He is always poor, out of luck, and friendless. The meanest creatures despise him, and even the fleas would desert him for a velocipede. He is so spiritless and cowardly that even while his exposed teeth are pretending a threat, the rest of his face is apologizing for it. And he is so homely! -so scrawny, and ribby, and coarse-haired, and pitiful.

THE COYOTE IS A LIVING, BREATHING ALLEGORY OF wANT.

Damn, T-Swizzle. What a coyote ever do to you? For real, bruh. A Tolerably Bushy tail, you say? Well excuuse me.

In Roughing It, whole sections of which were borrowed by the Western television series Bonanza, Twain also writes very critically about sagebrush, local journalism and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As for the Mormons, he himself admitted them to be a popular, humorous topic capable of yielding a great deal of low-grade ore, which he had the ability to mine effectively. If Hank was correct in his assumption that Mormonism as the most American of religions — not only by virtue of its provenance, because according to the prophet Joseph Smith, the Garden of Eden was located in Independence, Missouri, four hundred miles by car to the foot, across the length of the Show-Me State, from Cave-in-Rock, Illinois — by extension can we say that the coyote is the most American animal. A living, breathing allegory of want.

Billy and Yayo-L turned away from the coyote without remark or incident. With the last dregs of light, they rode back to Stone Rock and up to the top of old boot hill, which overlooked the thoroughfare. Here, beneath a sprawling live oak, laid the Wilhelms, I and II. Whereas Uncle Ernie’s chosen aesthetic of Wild West kitsch and kabuki was anything but subtle, the Wolff family burial plot was understated and classy. A white picket fence with a modest, lattice archway. No moseliums or headstones of hand-carved marble. No Pax Eterna or any other dead language epitaphs. (Sic Semper Tyrannis, uva uvam vivendo varia fit.) Just the two wooden crosses.

Billy bypassed his grandfather’s and his great grandfather’s graves for the barren dirt just beyond. In yet another rare moment of reflection, he wondered if this was the empty space reserved for his eternal resting. Then he threw up. But, like, only a little bit. It was more of a wet burp. A purple, sizzurpy film coated his chin. Yayo-L untied the handkerchief tied frontways around his forehead and offered it over with a kind word.

You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.

Thanks, man. You’re my best friend, Ramesh.

That’s tight.

Hey, Yay. You know how I been saying about my boat?

Of course he did. Billy’s albeit-hypothetical boat was among his favorite discussion topics, in addition to womens’ asses.

Yea, Billy.

I think I changed my mind.

You don’t want a boat anymore?

Phst. Stop playing. Just about the name. I think I’m gonna call it Finally Rich.

###

Grateful Dead. 13 February 1970, Fillmore East, New York City.

Bill Graham was a Holocaust survivor and concert promoter. He got his start in the sixties in San Francisco, thanks in large part to a black fellow by the name of Charles Sullivan. Sullivan was the negro business king of the Bay in those days. Among his many concerns and holdings were a citywide network of cigarette vending machines, a jukebox rental business, the Booker T. Washington Hotel and a liquor store, as well as a vast portfolio of recreational spaces spanning a hamburger stand, pool halls, roller rinks, nightclubs, lounges and others, including the Fillmore Auditorium in the Upper Fillmore neighborhood of the Western Addition district of San Francisco. Sullivan — the so-called Mayor of the Fillmore — helped turn the surrounding area into the Harlem of the West by booking a stable of black artists the likes of Duke Ellington, Ray Charles and Ike & Tina Turner, whose band at the time included the talented player by the redundant stage name of Jimmy James, better known by his forthcoming nom de guitar, Jimi Hendrix.

In spite or rather because of its status as an burgeoning epicenter for black culture, the neighborhood was targeted by City Planners for sweeping redevelopment projects. The bevy of beautifications had the bypass effect of artificially raising rents, subsequently causing many such Black music venues to close rather unceremoniously. In feeling the squeeze, Charles Sullivan was no exception. Therefore, in a last-ditch attempt to preserve his tenuous grasp on the Fillmore, he sought to sublease the room to an enterprising white promoter. Enter Bill Graham, a struggling actor turned up-and-coming tastemaker, whose debut promotion, a benefit performance for the San Francisco Mime Troupe, a radical theater company, was a smashing success. Sensing opportunity, Graham secured an exclusive contract with Sullivan for all subsequent open dates. Shortly thereafter, after returning home from putting on a James Brown concert in Los Angeles, Sullivan was found dead beside his rented Impala, sprawled out across the pavement at the corner of Fifth and Bluxome Streets. (Precisely four miles as the crow flies due East from one of the most famous intersections in the world, according to the magazine Boulevard Digest, along with Times Square, Place Charles de Gaulle, Shibuya Crossing, Piccadilly Circus and Dealey Plaza.) The scene of the crime was a once industrial district, which is presently home to the San Francisco Giants baseball team and Golden State Warriors Basketball team, who play at Oracle Park and the Chase Center, respectively. Sullivan was shot directly through the heart with a .38 Special. Responding SFPD officers ruled the death a suicide. The City Coroner, meanwhile, strenuously disagreed and classified it a homicide. The case remains unsolved. Immediately following his former partner’s untimely passing, Bill Graham assumed control of the master lease at the Fillmore, where many of the musical vanguards of the sixties counterculture would go on to get their starts, including the Jefferson Airplane, Big Brother and the Holding Company and the Grateful Dead. Some thirty years later Graham himself succumbed to the fiery crash of his personal helicopter, after it struck a high-voltage transmission tower on a return trip from a Huey Lewis and the News concert in Vallejo.

Forgoing to bunk down amid the bountiful splendor of Stone Rock’s completely vacant five-star accommodations, Billy and Yayo-L returned to the yurt for to turn in on the pair of bedrolls the seasonal employees had set aside for sleeping off hangovers. Head-to-foot, they arranged them beneath the circular skylight, through which their weary eyes could see the stars crossfade into the night sky as it gave way to a reluctant dawn. Beyond the canvas walls of the tent-like structure, they were lulled to sleep by the high-pitched Hey-There’s of their new canine acquaintance. Similar cries had once haunted little Ernie, before he became the ever-jovial Eternal Uncle, when he was only just a soon-to-be orphan. Those were coyotes’ calls of distresses. They sounded like a woman screaming. Cries that harmonized with those of his newly widowed mother, who wasn’t long for this world herself. What Billy heard was of another octave entire. It was howling in a major key. A foxhunt yip mashed up with a banshee squall. Like the Comanche Whoop which beget the Rebel Yell. A war cry singing out. The sound was almost Pavlovian, in the sense that it commanded a response. Like an answer in the form of a question.

Shall we go, you and I while we can?

#novls of tumblr #chief keef #paul simon

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namelesswolffreak · 3 years

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"Boyfriends"

I've been working on this story concept for....3-4 years now and I've finally managed to work everything out to the point I'm confident in posting this little blurb of the main characters. So, I hope you enjoy and feel free to ask questions about them and their world.

Context: This takes place in a world of super powered people heavily inspired by MHA / Marvel / Miraculous. Waker (Way-kur) Atlas is Dare City's main hero who is put through quite a lot on a daily to weekly basis trying to beat the baddies and Cyrus Fauthrin is his infamous thief arch nemesis turned lover and best friend who causes trouble around the city just to get the Hero's attention.

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The melancholy of the day was waning on Waker as he patrolled the quiet streets of one of Dare’s many neighborhoods which was quite unusual considering every seven seconds a villain was after his head. The sun was barely above the clouds, no one was really awake yet and the only thing that accompanied him was his footsteps as he jumped, hopped and skipped to the next platform he summoned under his feet. He happened to be bounding over Lay Wind Park, the foxes fast asleep in their dens to his disappointment, but the Hero Monuments were still a sight to behold in the early sunrise as they shone with brilliance in what little light was filtering over the surrounding hillsides.

The wind blew past his frizzed locks as he stood above the park near a tree in the shade, expression steeled and focused as he watched for signs of trouble as he waited for a certain someone to arrive. Today was uneventful and rather slow, the kind of day Waker preferred if he were being honest. Heaven knew being bored all day was ten times better than returning home to the countless kitchen sink surgeries he’d have to do with worn needles and his mother’s thread pinching into his skin as he sewed up bloodied wounds full of shrapnel and debris. Much better. The birds were chirping a happy, lazy song as they flew by on the breeze and the distant hum of an awakening city filled the natural ambiance of cicadas and crickets quite nicely as he watched and waited. He dare let out a sigh as the scene took hold of him fully, a warmth washing over him that he hadn’t felt in the recent weeks.

Which wouldn’t be for long as the rustling of tree leaves and a “Boo!” have him falling off of his platforms and hurtling towards the ground with an embarrassingly shrill scream.

“Waker!” A concerned voice follows as a blue blur dives after him.

Ground spiraling as he falls, Waker braces for impact, too late to conjure any platforms beneath him to break the fall so, he readies himself, waiting for the hurt and pain that would surely follow with some scrapes and bruises…………...But it never comes. He unscrunches his eyes and removes his arms from his head to see a blue, sparkling light surrounding him.

Irritation and embarrassment take over him immediately.

His face turns a copious amount of red as he’s carefully scooped up in pale arms that hold him close and, humiliatingly enough, in bridal style. Oh god no, he curses mentally, murmuring a soft “No…” into his shield of arms. This was so not how he wanted to show up in front of his partner after their long and grueling few weeks of not being able to see each other outside of villain fights and breaks in between their testing week.

The sudden warmth of a chest presses against his side and the delicate rhythm of a frantic heart race beneath his one hand as the other quickly grabs for his cape to hide his strawberry cheeks. There was no way in hell he was letting ‘he knew who’ see him in such a state, there was no possible way he could let the witch-like thief catch him like this. A brave hero didn’t get scared or spooked by rustling leaves and the word boo! Absolutely absurd! Though a voice in the back of his mind said he already had.

“You are such a fucking clutz, I swear.” And a huge scaredy cat, the blue-clad ravenette doesn’t say aloud, but his tone implies anyways. “I should take you to my ballet classes sometime, maybe then you’d actually learn some balance.” The comment only makes him clutch the soft fabric tighter around himself.

He’s loathing the thought of unveiling himself now, but he knows he’s been caught, his normally stoic or serious persona now broken and practically burned away as he knows his cape isn’t doing much to hide his warm face or the tenseness of his grip. Plans to forever sink himself into a hole where nobody could possibly ever find him again after this mess are shortly abandoned for now and gaining courage Waker swallows the huge lump in his throat and tries to cleverly reply. “H-hey, what’s a-....What’s up, Witch Boy?” And he knows the intended playfulness doesn’t go through as he’s met with a narrowed glare.

The other isn’t amused. “Witch boy, really? Did I actually scare you that badly that you lost a couple of brain cells?”

“Shu-shut up, Cyrus!” He defends as this “Cyrus” just sighs at him, though his stare more sly than pointed now.

“Get out of that stupid thing so I can see your face.” He says with a tremble in his voice that Waker can definitely tell is laughter, the prick. “Or I’ll totally drop you again.” And like hell he will, Waker knows, but he takes the threat seriously nonetheless and loosens his grip on the cape just enough to see the Ravenette’s brilliant and ever playful smile.

For a moment Waker just stares and admires him, those brilliant blues sparkling, no, literally sparkling as he says something Waker doesn’t catch. The sun is framing his face so perfectly in the light, highlighting those perfectly red cheeks he would love to kiss every morning, and the slight upturn of his lips as he smiles down in reverence at him, and the slow flutter of his lashes that compliment his features nicely. Though braided off to the side Cyru’s hair never fails to make him look so ethereal as the gentle morning breeze brushes back his loose strands. Waker swears it looks like its made up of space itself when he lets it go during the night time, convincing himself he can see stars within the strands when he stands beneath the moonlight. It doesn’t take much to make the hero swoon regarding his partner nowadays. Daydreams of peaceful nights alone on the couch watching movies together after his nightmares keep him awake and alert run through his mind, or the times Cyrus has saved him from getting beaten to a pulp and they spent hours talking over stitching him back together about nothing at all, and every single time Cyrus has stuck up for him at school, reminding him of the warmth this person carries with them and all the love and affection he’s constantly showered in when they’re together. It’s strange how much Cyrus has changed over the past few months from raging emo to ride or die friend, but he wouldn’t change it for the world. He doesn’t even try to stop the lofty sigh that escapes his lips as more dear memories cross his mind.

And Cyrus is all too quick to recognize that dumb look on his face.

“Oh, hell no!” Is the only warning he gets before being promptly dropped, this time no blue aura to save him from hitting the dirt below, landing with a thud. “Not this early in the morning!” Though Waker could have sworn Cyrus was sharing the same look with him not minutes prior.

“Ow! Why’d you drop me, asshole!?”

Cyrus cocks his hips as he floats there, his wide brimmed conical now covering his eyes in an intimidating manner, making him way more menacing than he should considering his current attire. “Oh please, don’t even act like you’re hiding that stupid look on your face, Idiot! I ain’t dealing with your whole sappy dappy act this early in the morning.”

By “sappy dappy” Waker knows exactly what he’s referring to and scowls accordingly. Apparently, holding hands and having morning cuddles while complimenting everything about Cyrus is considered sappy and lovingly disgusting. Well at least to some people, it’s called affection and admiration!

“It’s a look that means I like you, asswipe!” Waker shoots back, malice nowhere to be found in his tone though, barring more on playfulness.

“Do you think I’m in love with you or something!?”

And they then stand there -well float there- in silence, both looking each other in the eyes, narrowed brows testing the other to make the next move or say the next snappy comment. And for a moment it looks as if the words really have cut too deep, but Waker isn’t one to remain serious for long as his shoulders begin to shake, prompting the other to clutch his stomach and stifle a grin as their eyes water over with laughter.

“Oh, no, not me, I could never.” Waker quips, leaning back and hugging both his arms, not caring for the dirt now caking his suit. Cyrus is quick to come back with his own natural snark.

“Pfft, as if! Absolutely not. Me and you, the orange haired frizz ball who kicks my ass more than twice a week over that one time I stole a candy bar? You gotta be fucking with me!” He bellows, Waker taking note of the boy flipping upside down where he floats in the air, his face a contortion of joy and happiness as his ripped dress flows with the wind.

He finds the display rather adorable, recalling that such a thing only occurred by accident when the thief was getting emotional. His inept ability to control his powers never failed to amuse the Hero. The little wrinkle of his nose didn’t quiet his thoughtful admiration either as he blushed in between bouts of giggles.

"I wouldn't have time to be your lover anyways!"

“It’s only 6am, when can I admire my boyfriend so it fits within your busy schedule?”

And the laughter is immediately quieted, a heavy silence filling the air, even the crickets and cicadas falling victim to it. The world is waiting in bated breath as if listening to the drama unfold.

Waker holds in a breath. Oh shit, oh fuck, he really fucked it up this time! Way to go, Atlas, you really did a number on today!

…………

………….

“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to, I just did-”

“It’s ok……” Cyrus breaths out, taking a long drag of air before finally finishing. “It’s….ok.” He manages to lower himself to the ground, dress falling at his sides, and crosses his arms in doing so. “We’re-I’m going to have to get used to it eventually.” He shrugs. “Right?”

There’s a weight to his words as Cyrus steps closer to the redhead that Waker recognizes near immediately. They’ve had this talk before, a talk that has led to a misunderstanding or two between them in the past and a verbal fight at that. The term “Boyfriend.” It was a touchy subject to say the least and while it had been a challenge for even Waker himself to start using it, it also seemed Cyrus was struggling to accept the lofty title. A long time ago before the two even met, the word had a different meaning to it for them both, but Waker had long since come to terms with it himself, but understood Cyrus’ hesitation in saying the word freely. He considered his next words carefully.

“I know you don’t exactly like the ter-”

“It’s not that I don’t like it Waker…..”

“I know, Cy, but.” Failing to put his thoughts into words Waker scrambles forward to catch Cyrus’ hands in his own, pecking each delicately, square on the knuckles, gauging his reaction whilst he does so. When Waker is met with a soft smile, he returns it, though his much softer and kinder in Cyrus’ eyes. “I shouldn’t have said it when you’re not ready. Just because I moved past it doesn’t mean you have.” Noticing his smile slipping he clumsily adds in, “And that’s ok! Really, it’s ok and I mean, and I love you and-uh, I get it and I mean I just say boyfriend because that’s what everyone else says, expects- wait no- I didn’t mean to phrase it like that uh-I don’t really get the need for a title for what we have anyways, like so dumb right!?”

Followed by more ridiculous rambling that has Cyrus covering his mouth trying not to giggle. It’s a nervous habit that has come to amuse the thief to no end. “And-it not like it means anything to us, its just there for other people so they know that um, we, us, you and I are an um item I guess wow that was cheesy and dumb and I am so sorry that you have to put up with me oh god I’m rambling and no, don’t look at me like that. I’m doing the thing again aren’t I-” Shaking with laughter again Cyrus has to put a hand on his shoulder to get him to shut up because he knows if he doesn’t Waker could go on well into the night and has before. It didn’t help that he could feel the tremble of the others fingers, realizing Waker was going to throw himself into an anxiety attack if he didn’t.

“Waker!” And Waker promptly closes his mouth, panic clear in his eyes that Cyrus quickly combats by brushing strands of orange out of his face and behind his ear. “Just take a deep breath.” And Waker does, following the instruction intently. “And let it out, slowly.” And Waker follows that too, looking that much calmer as Cyrus pulls him closer. “Slowly.” He rubs his thumbs over Waker’s hands. The trembling is still present, but less so. “There you go.” And doesn’t stop telling him to breath calmly until he feels Waker’s grip relax in his own.

Delicately and softly, each flyaway is combed back into place only to immediately pop out again, but Waker appreciates the sentiment anyways and Cyrus has no problem being given an excuse to keep combing through such lovely soft tufts. He loves the soft mane of fluff on his partner’s head that even since their first meeting has remained as untamed and wild as ever. -Such a shame he always ties it back when he’s on duty though- It just adds to the contrast between his actual self and hero persona, the sweet and endearing ball of anxiety vs the serious and battle ready hero of Dare city who couldn’t catch a break. And he wouldn’t be ashamed to admit to which one he preferred.

“You don’t need to tell me-er.” Waker quickly corrects, trying not to sound patronizing. “I don’t need you to explain yourself Cy. You-we don’t need to have a name if that’s what you want, that’s what I’m trying to say. Official or unofficial or whatever, I won’t treat you any different.”

“I know Waker. I…..I really want to call you that, just I-.......I just like what we have right now and-”

Waker just pecks him on the cheek quickly and pulls away to pat at a spot on the ground, looking longingly back up at him. A soundless “You don’t want to lose me.” goes unsaid as Cyrus complies, Waker taking the shorter one in his arms once more.

It wasn’t a matter of Cyrus being afraid to commit, though maybe it was, not even he was sure of what was going with himself anymore, but a fear that the wonderful friendship he’d built up with the hero would end or change or just not be the way it is now because they suddenly started calling each other boyfriends. He’s had it happen one too many times at this point, every one of his previous “boyfriends” changing everything once they started dating, acting as if kissing and romantic outings were supposed to be their only interactions from now on. They were no longer interested in the random silly things he found on the internet or just hanging out doing whatever, but were interested in using him, his body, parading him around and rubbing it in peoples faces, being denied having fun if it wasn’t their idea of “fun” and more. Cyrus' stomach curls remembering being ignored for weeks to months at a time because he wasn’t feeling up to being in bed with them or awkwardly sitting off to the side while his one boyfriend at the time showed him off to his friends and bragged. It was the same guy who he used to play videogames and eat cookies with on the weekends, talking about anything and everything…...It hurts him to realise there probably was never a friendship there to begin with. Just an elaborate ruse to get him into bed at some point.

And that was one thing Cyrus feared when they had held hands for the first time after awkwardly admitting to harboring feelings for each other after the high of a fight they were forced to join sides on. Never had the thief felt more relieved that his feelings were reciprocated, but also more scared that he had just ruined the one healthy relationship he managed to make in those many months spent together.

Cyrus removes his hat and huddles under Waker’s chin, placing his head right on his heart that gives out a steady, comforting rhythm and brightens when the taller of the two puts his head on him in return. No, Cyrus thinks, this is different.

A long silence falls between them as they cuddle in each other's arms, just watching the sun come up. Basking in each other’s presence, taking in the warmth of their bodies pressed together in this nice early morning, and relishing in the calm which was far and few in between with their double lives and they were thankful. There’s no need to exchange words now as a quiet understanding befalls them both.

It’s only after the sun seems to peak at the crest of the hillsides does Waker make himself heard again.

“Is that why you dropped me?” And Cyrus blinks for a quick second, processing the question before understanding and then playfulness cross his expression.

“No it’s because you’re a dunce.” He huffs. “And fucking heavy as hell.”

Waker chooses to ignore that last bit. “But I’m your dunce.” He boops his nose.

“Damn, straight you are.” And Cyrus retaliates with a kiss on his.

Boyfriend or just “friend who I like to kiss and hold hands with sometimes”, Waker loves him and Cyrus doesn’t doubt that for a second.

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duhragonball · 3 years

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Hellsing Ch. 70-76

I guess anything I say here is a spoiler, so yeah, this is “Heart of Dreams”, “Relics”, “Heart of Iron”, and the arc “Finest Hour”. Oh, and “Lunatic Dawn”. Gotta lotta ground to cover. Treacherous ground.

Not a whole lot to say about Anderson’s death. He tried to become a monster using one of the Holy Nails from the True Cross, and then Alucard defeated him anyway, once Seras gave him a little help and a reason to go on living. Alucard was pretty upset about Anderson’s demise, but Anderson says a few soothing words, and reminds him that Al only became a vampire because he couldn’t stand being a human, so it doesn’t make a lot of sense for him to cry now.

So yeah, as determined as Anderson was to kill Alucard, he’s a pretty good sport about losing this fight, and he seems to genuinely pity the man. He wonders how long Alucard will go on living with his regrets, and Al replies “Until my expansive future shatters my expansive past.” So, if we want to take that literally, I guess he’s trying to find redemption by being a good guy to make up for his years as a bad guy. Well, he’s been a vampire for 523 years, and a servant of Hellsing for 101 of those years, so I guess maybe he figures if he trucks along for another 321 years that’d balance the scales?

And maybe I’m finally starting to appreciate some of the complexities of Alucard’s character. The Team Four Star Abridged series spent some time on his desire for redemption, but I couldn’t tell if it was based on the original material or something they came up with for their own version. For instance, the Abridged!Alucard rejected the forgiveness offered by God himself, but later Anderson spoke of his desire for redemption and Alucard didn’t dispute that. It seemed contradictory to me at the time, but the manga does seem to support that. As Vlad Tepes, he refused to ask God for anything, preferring instead to fight and drive himself and his followers to the limits of endurance and decency as proof of their faith.

I find that idea heretical, because it suggests that a person can “earn” God’s favor, or God’s forgiveness, or a place in heaven. Arguably, Anderson tried to do the same thing, but I think he was coming more from a place of doing zealous deeds out of gratitude for the Lord’s grace, rather than trying to earn anything he didn’t already have.

The difference with Alucard is that he seemed to be really wrongheaded about his faith, trying to use violence to become a good person. Then it didn’t work, and he became a vampire, devoted entirely to his own selfish desires, and I guess he’s spent the 20th Century realizing that he’s back where he started, trying to fight his way to redemption, only now he has centuries of red in his ledger instead of mere decades.

Oh, anyway, while this is going on, Integra takes a sword and stands it upright so it looks like a cross to mark Anderson’s death. It’s like this quiet sign of respect. I’m not sure whose sword that is, but it looks like the one Alucard was using in his Dracula persona.

Anyway, fuck all that, because Walter finally shows up and stomps the ashes of Anderson just as everyone was having their final farewell with the guy. Rude.

Young Walter just looks kind of stupid to me. Why is he still wearing the monocle? He’s trying to be 14 and 69 at the same time and failing at both.

Seras asks what Millennium did to him, but Walter makes it clear that this isn’t some brainwashing trope. He’s doing this of his own free will.

He also doesn’t consider himself loyal to Millennium. They turned him into a vampire, but he’s doing this for himself, and he’s only cooperating with them because their goals are in alignment.

Yumiko Takagi tries to kill Walter for... Was she mad at him for stomping on Anderson’s remains? I mean, Alucard’s the one who actually killed Anderson, so shouldn’t she be mad at that guy?

It doesn’t matter, because Walt just slices her into pieces with his magic filaments. Now Heinkel Wolfe wants revenge, because she was her long-time partner in assassin stuff. The TFS Abridged series implied that they were lovers, too, which seemed authentic at the time, but I’m not sure there’s any confirmation to be found in the manga itself.

But before she can take the shot, the Captain shows up and shoots Heinkel in the face. Like, through one cheek and out the other, and the only thing saving her from serious injury was that she happened to have her mouth open at the time.

Side note: I caught myself referring to Heinkel as “him”, which frustrates me because I’ve known she was a woman for like five years now. When I first watched the OVA, I was confused, becuase I could tell it was a female voice actor, but maybe that just meant he was really young, like with Schrodinger. But the Hellsing Wiki set me straight, or so I thought. I didn’t think I’d still be making this mistake.

On the other hand, Yumiko sometimes looks a lot like Goemon from Lupin III, so her wearing a nun’s habit isn’t as heteronormative as it might seem. I’m getting off-track.

You’d think this would be leading up to some big double-team on the Hellsing group, now that the Iscariots are out of the picture, but the Captain’s only stopping Heinkel so Walter can have a clear shot at Alucard. That’s the sole reason Walter turned traitor, you see. He wants to fight Alucard and win, and for the last 55 years they’ve been on the same side.

But is that all it is? I never got to read or watch “Hellsing: The Dawn”, the prequel manga Kouta Hirano created after Hellsing. I’ve heard that it never got finished, but also an anime adaptation was released with the home video release of Hellsing Ultimate Episode VIII. All I really know about it was that there was this time where Alucard and Walter were fighting the Nazis, and the Captain showed up, and Alucard ran away because he didn’t think he could beat that dude. Presumably, he left Walter to fend for himself? But all three of them survived until 1999, so I’m not sure what the outcome of that was. I always wondered if Walter held a grudge over that. But maybe I’m reaching.

There’s also a suggestion of professional jealousy. Walter was a rockstar vampire hunter in his youth, but he’s been overshadowed by Alucard, who is--let’s face it-- a living legend. This would be doubly true in the 90′s, when Integra reawakened Alucard, and Walter having to step back even further from the spotlight. The only way for him to reclaim his former glory would be to challenge the greatest of all vampires and win. He’d go down in history as a traitor, but at least he’d be cemented as the absolute best.

Or... or, you can go with the TFS version, where Walter hints at his motives, only for Alucard to take the wind out of his sails and announce “because you wanna fuck me!” And I love that theory more than any other explanation, because it just brings everything together a lot more neatly. I guess you don’t need Walter to have had a crush on Alucard for 55 years, but it’s a lot more compelling than revenge or professional jealousy. Those things have weight, sure, but they work better as distractions, the things Walter might admit to because they hide the deeper reason that he can’t bring himself to say out loud.

And it’s not entirely rejected by the manga. Alucard remarks on how much more beautiful Walter looked in his old age, compared to this treasonous knockoff vampire look he’s sporting now. The last time he spoke this way, it was when he flirted with Queen Elizabeth II. The next time he does it, it’ll be with Sir Integra when she’s in her early 50′s.

Speaking of QE2, she’s safe and sound, because the Secret Service evacuated her to a fortified location in Dover before Millennium attacked. If things get really hairy, they’re prepared to send her to Canada, and if London can’t be secured, they’ll nuke the whole city, though the Queen is certain that Integra and Alucard will win the day. The vampires acting as Millennium agents outside of London are being contained and destroyed, so things seem to be getting under some semblance of control.

However, the Royal Order of Protestant Knights, also known as the “Round Table” is down to just three surviving members. Integra’s in London, but here we have Rob Walsh and Hugh Irons, reflecting on the death of their fellow Round Tabler, Penwood.

This whole scene struck me as a complete non sequitur when I first saw it in the anime. Walter’s betrayal seemed to sudden and poorly explained that it felt like the author was just winging it by this point, and now we have these two dudes struggling to provide some justification for the twist. But reading this manga in 2021, I find that it makes a lot more sense. We’ve already seen tons of Britons in rather lofty positions, all willing to sell out their principles for a chance to become a vampire. Walter is no different from any of them. It’s just more personal when he does it because we actually know the guy.

But as Walsh discusses the utter debacle of this Millennium invasion, he deduces what we’ve just learned back in London. There must have been a traitor in their ranks, because that’s the only way Millennium could have made it this far. I mean, they just flew a bunch of giant blimps full of rockets right into British airspace. That only worked because they had traitors sabotaging the U.K.’s defenses and communications, and Hellsing was especially vulnerable at the same time.

The only thing Walsh can’t figure out is who the traitor was, since it had to be someone at the Round Table, but they’re all dead now, except for Integra, Irons, and himself.

But Irons fills in the missing pieces. It doesn’t have to have been one of the Round Table’s members, but someone close to one of the members. Years ago, Irons warned Walter about Richard Hellsing. Irons knew that when Arthur died, Richard would try to make a play for the Hellsing estate. But when Irons’ fears came to pass, Walter wasn’t there. It’s like he wanted things to play out the way they did.

But why would Walter want events to play out that way? On her own, Integra had no choice but to unseal Alucard to defend herself, and she’s kept Alucard active ever since. And now, lo and behold, Walter reveals that he turned traitor just so he could take on Alucard. It’s like he arranged for all of this to happen years in advance. But how many years? Fifty-five, Irons wonders.

It’s never explicitly confirmed, but Irons’ reasoning makes too much sense to ignore. Earlier, the Major said that he decided back in ‘44 that Walter “Angel of Death” Dornez would have been a good “get” for his side. Now, Irons is suggesting that Walter might have agreed in the same year. So maybe Walter and the Major made a secret agreement even then. It’s possible that they might have done it later, but why not in 1944?

I mean, the whole backstory here is that Millennium is a continuation of a secret Nazi Vampire project that Walter and Alucard destroyed in 1944. Except they didn’t destroy it at all, which sure makes Walter and Al seem very bad at their jobs, unless Walter let them escape and covered it up.

Meanwhile, the Captain tosses a first aid kit to Heinkel, kind of like he’s saying that he doesn’t want to kill Heinkel, but he can’t let her interfere either. We’ll talk about the Captain later.

As for Alucard vs. Walter, Al wants to check with Integra before he goes through with it. He asks for orders, repeating his big speech from when he killed all those cops in Brazil. Yeah, Walter’s a traitor, but he’s been a close mentor and advisor to Integra for all these years. Does she really want Alucard to killerize his ass?

Yes, she does. If Walter stands against them, then he’s the enemy, and Integra has already ordered Alucard to destroy the enemy, no matter who (snif!) they may be. Integra doesn’t relish this command, but she refuses to compromise over sentimental feelings.

Man, fuck you, Walter.

Then the Major lands his airship near the battlefield and invites Integra to come aboard and fight all of his remaining guys. Alucard orders Seras to join her while he deals with Walter. I can appreciate Seras’ concern here, because the last time she watched Alucard fight alone, he took a flaming bayonet to the face. She probably doesn’t care for Integra and Alucard splitting up like this.

Before she goes, she thanks Walter for all of his support, which disarms Walter for just a moment. Man, fuck you, Walter. Seras is so nice and grateful and polite and cool and you just go right ahead with your 55-years-in-the-making Nazi Vampire Jilted Lover scheme. Fuck you, Walter. You don’t deserve to be in Seras’ life.

So the gals go on board the airship and Schrodinger’s there and Integra just shoots him right between the eyes without bothering to slow down. This is maybe my favorite Integra moment in this thing. I sort of wish Kouta Hirano had done a spin-off of Integra and Seras doing cool shit like this for 30 years.

Alucard taunts Walter with the fact that he no longer gets to be a part of Inegra or Seras’ lives anymore. It sounds kind of petty, but when you think about it, it’s a pretty sick burn. Walter may have been planning this for 55 years, but he still had to live that double life, and it’s not like he can just say he was faking it the entire time.

So they fight. Walter’s magic wire powers seem to be amplified, either because of his restored youth or maybe the boost offered by vampire powers, or maybe he’s always been this strong but now he no longer needs to hold back anymore. For instance, he can make mesh screens with his wires to deflect Alucard’s bullets. And when Alucard summons that dog creature he used to dispatch Luke Valentine....

... Walter just bisects it with a flick of the wrist. You really begin to see why he was “The Angel of Death” back in his heyday.

I never understood what this dog familiar was supposed to be. Walter refers to the Hound of the Baskervilles, but as far as I know that’s just a legend confined to the Sherlock Holmes novel of the same name. But apparently that concept was based upon “black dog” folklore of the same region. There’s a whole laundry list of “black dog” apparitions in Britain alone. Black Shuck, Padfoot, Hairy Jack, Bizarro Snoopy, and so on. So I’m not sure if Hirano is saying that Alucard was the source of these legends, or if they were all based on a single creature which Alucard eventually defeated and absorbed into himself.

Al tries to use the Jackal to kill Walter, but that’s kind of stupid, since Walter designed the gun in the first place. In the anime, I thought Walter somehow triggered a bomb he had planted inside it, but maybe he used his wires to make this happen. It doesn’t really matter, because we already saw that the Casull was useless against Walter’s defenses, and not because it had smaller ammunition.

Then Luke Valentine emerges from the black dog’s body. This part never made any sense to me, but I loved how the Major recognized him, but barely. “Oh yeah, it’s that guy from Volume 2! The guy with the brother.”

The doctor suggests that when the dog was killed, this allowed Luke to reassert himself from inside the dog. Something about a “control ratio”, whatever that is. Like, he was absorbed into the dog’s mass, but now that the dog is no longer conscious, he can think for himself again. Notably, only half of Luke actually makes it out . It’s like he’s half-Luke, half dead dog monster.

But before he can do anything else, Walter puts his wires into Luke and starts controlling him like a puppet, mostly so he can use the dog half to attack Alucard.

Alucard seems more impressed than threatened. Keep in mind, Walter was doing pretty damn well against him early on. You’ll notice Alucard’s missing his right arm along with one of his guns. This is better than Anderson managed to do. So why does Walter even need this Luke-dog puppet thing in the first place?

Well, it’s because Walter’s body is giving out on him. Earlier, when the Doctor was performing the procedure to turn Walter into a vampire, he spoke about how rushed the operation was. I mean, he had to finish the whole thing in one night, after all. And Walter’s a lot more powerful than Dandyman, whom the Doctor considered his finest artificial vampire work. So maybe Walter’s just too powerful for this, and he can’t sustain this form. The Luke-dog-thing is just to keep Alucard busy while he coughs up blood.

The Major sees this development, and likens Walter to a high stakes gambler who’s mortgaged everything for a single hand at a high stakes table. Walter’s risked everything just to tangle with Alucard, and it still isn’t enough.

Alucard does manage to finish off the dog-Luke thing, and this sets him up for Walter’s next attack, and then he goes to finish him off, so things seem to be going Walter’s way...

But Alucard used a decoy, disguising Luke’s severed torso as his own, all so he could sucker-punch Walter in the face. As it turns out, Walter’s physical breakdown is making him younger, which amuses Al to no end.

So Alucard follow suits and assumes the form he once used when they fought the Nazis in 1944. Yeah, say hello to “Girlycard”. I’m not sure why Alucard looked like a 14-year-old girl during World War II. I’ve heard this form described as a Japanese 14-year-old girl, and I can’t dispute it, but it also makes Girlycard seem even more random somehow.

I mean, I guess the idea here was for Walter and Alucard to be able to move inconspicuously through enemy territory. No one would suspect a couple of kids until it was too late. I’m imagining a similar scenario to the ones presented in “Cross Fire”. Heinkel and Yumi would play innocent bystanders, then whip out their guns and swords and go ham on the bad guys. Knowing Hirano’s style, maybe Girlycard and Young Walter operated the same way.

And this further supports the Walter-had-an-unrequited-crush-on-Alucard theory. He might have understood that Girlycard was a disguise. On an intellectual level he might have known, but maybe he still carried a torch, and told himself that there was some way that they could be together. Was he just in love with this disguise, or does he love the real thing? Alucard says that he told Walter the truth decades ago, and claims that this is the reason Walter turned traitor, so yeah, it sure feels like Walter couldn’t handle Alucard’s true nature, one way or another.

I mean, let’s assume that this isn’t just about Alucard not being a cute girl. Maybe Walter fell in love with Alucard in all his forms, whatever that means for his sexuality. The bigger issue is that Alucard’s a vampire, and he’s just fundamentally different from Walter, and maybe that was the problem all along. It’s interesting to think about, but the point here would be that there was some kind of problem, and Walter couldn’t let it go.

Meanwhile, Seras and Integra are busy looking like total BMFs. Just HBIC’s. What’s better than this? Two gals bein’ pals.

Hell yeah!

Bad ass!

The vampires on board this airship are happy to meet their doom, and Integra recalls what her father once told her about how vampires want to die on their own terms. Seras doesn’t get it, because if they want to die so badly, they could have just died in the war they were already in fifty-odd years ago.

So the Major gets on the PA system and explains to her that they want more than just a glorious death. They want bigger, better, more perfect battlefield, so as to make their deaths as meaningful as possible. That’s why I don’t understand that airship captain from a while back. Everyone else in Millennium seemed to understand that they weren’t necessarily fighting to win. Britain is prepared to nuke London if they have to, so it’s hard to imagine anyone in Millennium surviving past today, even if they won.

Anyway, as the Major explains all of this, the Captain appears before the gals. It looks like he’s here to stop them, or is he?

#2021hellsingliveblog #hellsing #alucard #seras victoria #walter c dornez #alexander anderson #heinkel wolfe #yumiko takagi #the major #the captain #warrant officer schrodinger #sir hugh irons #lt general rob walsh #luke valentine #really? luke valentine?

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officialyourdailyinspiration · 3 years

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Devotional Hours Within the Bible

by J.R. Miller

Jesus on the Way to Jerusalem

(Matthew 19:1-2 and Matthew 19:13-26)

The words, "He departed from Galilee," have significance, when we consider the circumstances, which give them a peculiar sadness. This was our Lords' final departure from Galilee. He had been brought up there. Much of His public ministry had been wrought there. In that part of the country, He had met with the kindliest reception. He had multitudes of friends in Galilee. He had performed countless miracles there, and had been a comforter of numberless sorrowing and suffering ones. Now He was leaving the dear familiar scenes - and the people He loved so well. No wonder the throngs followed Him. The farewell must have been tender.

Some incidents of the journey are given. One was a discussion with the Pharisees concerning divorce. Jesus in His words gave most important teaching on the sacredness of marriage. "So they are no longer two, but one. Therefore what God has joined together, let man not separate."

Another incident was the bringing of little children to Him that He might bless them. It is not said that the mothers brought them - but this is probable. The language in Luke strengthens this inference. "Then little children were brought to Jesus for him to place his hands on them and pray for them." The disciples probably thought their Master ought not to be troubled with babies and little children, and so they rebuked those who were bringing them. But Jesus was moved with indignation when He saw what His disciples were doing, and said, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." This was one of the few times when it is said Jesus was angry. It grieved Him to have his disciples try to keep the children away from Him. He would not have anyone kept from coming to Him - but if any are more welcome than others, they are children. Very beautiful is the picture we see. He welcomed the children to Him, took them in His arms, laid His hands on them and blessed them.

Another incident in this journey to Jerusalem is that of the rich young ruler who came to Jesus with such earnestness, and then went away from Him so sadly. All that is told to us about this young man's coming to Jesus, shows us his sincerity and earnestness. "A man ran up to Him - and fell on his knees before Him" (Mark 10:17). The running shows how eager he was, and his eagerness tell of an unsatisfied heart. He seems to have attained the best that a young man could reach, without taking Christ into his life. He was young, with powers fresh and full. He was rich, with the honor, ease, distinction and influence that riches give. The fact that he was a ruler shows the confidence his fellow men put in him. Is moral character was above reproach, for he said, without boasting, that he had scrupulously kept the commandments. He was a man of winning disposition, for Jesus loved him and was drawn to him in a peculiar manner. It would be hard to conceive of a man - with more to satisfy him.

Yet with all his good qualities, his worldly advantages, his good name and his conscience void of offense - he was not satisfied! He needed something more to make his life complete.

The question which this young man asked of Jesus is the most important question ever asked in this world. "What shall I do that I may have eternal life?" We do not know how much he understood about the eternal life concerning which he inquired. The fact, however, that he asked the question, shows that he had at least some glimmering of the better life for which he hungered. No matter how much pleasure, or how great success, or how high honor one may gain in the world, if at the end of three score and ten years - he passes into eternity unsaved - what comfort will it give him to remember his fine success on the earth?

A rich man failed in business. He gathered up the fragments of his wrecked fortune - a few thousand dollars. He determined to go to the West and start anew. He took his money and built a splendid car, furnishing it in the most luxurious style, and stocking it with provisions for his journey. In this sumptuous car he traveled to his destination. At length he stepped from the door of his car - and only then thought for the first time of his great folly. He had used all his money in getting to his new home, and now had nothing with which to use there. This incident illustrates the foolishness of those who think only of this life - and make no provision for eternity .

Answering the young mans question, Jesus turned his thoughts to the commandments. "If you would enter into life, keep the commandments." He referred him to the law, which he might show him how he had missed the mark, how far short he had come of gaining life by his own obedience. "You know the commandments." It is easy enough to imagine one's self quite obedient, while one puts easy interpretation upon the Divine law. But when one has seen the law in all its lofty purity, in its wide spiritual application, in its absolute perfection, and then has compared his own life with it - he soon learns that he needs a Savior!

A pupil may think his writing is good - until he compares it with the copy at the top of the page, and then all its faults appear. The young artist may think his pictures are fine - until he looks upon the works of some great master, and then he never wants to see his own poor painting again. So long as on has no true conception of the meaning of the commandments, he may think himself fairly good; but when he undertakes what the commandments really require, he is at once convicted of sin. There must have been pity in the heart of Jesus, as He looked upon the young man and heard him say glibly, "All these things have I observed from my youth." He did not know what he was saying, when he spoke thus of his own obedience. But Jesus very frankly answers his question, "One thing you lack!" (Mark 10:21). He was not far from the kingdom of God, and yet he was not in it. Many men are good, almost Christians, and yet not Christians. It may be only one thing that is lacking - but that one thing is the most important of all, the last link in the chain that would unite the soul to the Savior. It is the final step that takes one over the line - from death into life, out of condemnation into glorious blessedness. One may go to the very edge - and not step over; he may reach the door - and not enter. Almost a Christian - is not a Christian. Almost saved - is still lost.

Jesus made a very large demand upon this young man. He said to him, "Sell everything you have, and give to the poor… and come and follow Me." This is not a prescription for being saved by good works - that is not the way Christ saves men. He saw this young man's weakness, that with all his excellent qualities - his heart was still wedded to the world, and the test which He gave, required him to give up that which stood between him and eternal life. He would not be saved by giving his riches to the poor. Charity is not a way of salvation. But the young man could not be saved until his idol was broken! So the demand was to get him to give up his money - and take Christ into his heart.

It was a hard battle that was fought those moments, in this young man's heart. It grieved him not to be able to enter the circle of Christ's followers - but he could not pay the price. "At this the man's face fell. He went away sad, because he had great wealth." He wanted to go with Jesus - but he could not accept the conditions. Let us think of him after this day. He kept his money - but every time he looked at it - he would be forced to remember that he had give up Christ and eternal life for the sake of it. He would see written over his piles of gold and his deeds and bonds, "These things cost me eternal life!" His experience was just the reverse of the man who found the pearl of great price (Matthew 13:46) and then sold all he had - and bought it. The young ruler found the pearl, asked the price, and considered the purchase - but did not buy it, because he was not willing to pay so much.

As the young man turned away Jesus was grieved, and said to the disciples, "How hard it is for the rich to enter the kingdom of God!" Just so, it is not easy to be rich - and to be a Christian. Christ spoke many earnest words concerning money and the danger of loving money. Yet not many people seem to be afraid of getting rich .

One morning a pastor found on his pulpit desk a bit of paper with these words on it: "The prayers of this congregation are requested for a man who is growing rich." It seemed a strange request - but no doubt it was a wise one. No men more need to be prayed for - than those who are becoming prosperous, becoming rich.

A priest said that among all the thousands who had come to him with confession of sin - not one had ever confessed the sin of covetousness. Men are not conscious of their danger - when they are growing rich.

Jesus did not say that a rich man cannot be saved. He said, "With men this is impossible; but with God all things are possible." This means that every man growing rich, needs God in order to be saved. If riches master him, he is lost. Unless God is his Lord - he cannot enter the heavenly kingdom.

There is a story of a rich man, one of whose ships was delayed at sea. When one day had passed with no tidings, the man was anxious, and with each added day his anxiety increased. At length, however, he awoke to the fact that his money was having a tremendous hold upon him. He then ceased to worry about the ship and became anxious for his own soul. He was determined to break the perilous mastery, and taking the value of his ship, he gave it at once to a charitable object. We all need to deal thus rigorously with ourselves, whether we have only a little money or much - that money may never be our master - but that Christ may be Master always; and money our servant, to do our bidding and Christ's.

#Devotional Hours Within the Bible #Jesus on the Way to Jerusalem #Matthew 19:1-2 #J.R. Miller #Matthew 19:13-26 #July 30 #2021

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do-androids-dream-ao3acc · 3 years

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Another one for “The Forgotten Tales”. @deagle prompted me with a song, however, the story soon went totally wild. I’m afraid it has nothing to do with this song or any ideas you initially had; still, I hope you like it.

This is kind of a classic crime story. To find out how exactly the ruler of a small duchy died, Geralt has to visit the court in highly official manners. Which he, of course, does not like very much. And who’s to blame for this all? Well.

This is a rather silly little thing of around 8377 words. You can read it below the cut or on AO3.

The man behind the desk appeared uncomfortable, skimming through some papers spread out before him on the wooden tabletop. He wasn't the only one. The protocol officer pressed the documents he was carrying tightly against his chest as if he feared that the other would snatch them out of his hands. The guy, greyed before his time, looked so grim that the thought didn't seem so far from the officer's mind.

"Are you kidding?" the man asked in a grave voice.

"I certainly would never allow myself to do that," protested the protocol officer. "But those are pending decisions you are supposed to make. Besides, the magistrate is expecting you to confirm a long-delayed judgment, and the tax collector is waiting outside."

"I'll kill him," growled the white-haired man, solid and sinewy hands clawing into the ends of the tabletop as if to tear this heirloom of Duke Ghent to pieces.

"The tax collector?" the protocol officer asked in horror, taking a step back.

"My husband," the other replied, and the official thought that, for all his loyalty to the empire, perhaps this was an understandable reaction. Thoughts are free.

Geralt knew exactly how all this had started. In bed, of course, because whenever Emhyr wanted something from him that he could be sure Geralt wouldn't truly agree with, he would make his suggestions... well. After sex. Fantastic sex. He was damn good at smothering inevitable protest in kisses and at exploiting Geralt's afterward mood. The latter recalled that particular suggestion.

They had lain there, fulfilled and exhausted, Emhyr brushing hair from Geralt’s face tenderly, casually remarking, "There's something I need you to do."

Geralt had sensed that his fate was sealed at that moment, but upon hearing what it was all about, he'd still reeled off his defiant routine – knowing full well that resistance was futile. When it came to these things, he was inferior to the Emperor, who knew some subtle ways to remind him that he was his spouse. And the latter knew very well that there were a few things that Geralt particularly detested, including politics, which is why that was a topic they had – strangely cleverly – excluded from their shared life from the very beginning.

"There's this duchy," Emhyr had said, "a mere province, unimportant vassal state, you know." Geralt had refrained from pointing out that he didn't know because he didn't care. He had been smart enough not to say such things because that would have earned him either a little lecture or a disapproving look, and he hadn't wanted either.

"Not far from Ofir’s borders, one of the few provinces that engage in occasional trade without giving us any significant gain in knowledge about the southern lands," Emhyr had continued, and sensing that a lesson was about to ensue after all, Geralt had sighed and demanded that he get to the point.

The point was that the regent, Duke Ghent, had died suddenly in his prime. Such things happened; however (unsurprisingly), Emhyr had informants at this supposedly insignificant court who complained that things were not above board. Still, information from such a distance leaked slowly and not always reliably. The distance was certainly relevant because the farther a regent thought he was from the capital, the greater might his desire grow to do things his way.

At this point, however, an unrelenting and incredibly tedious litany had followed, the essence of which seemed to be that a visit by the imperial consort to the distant province would serve several functions. Geralt, who had already half fallen asleep by then (because it was damn pleasant to lie in those arms and listen to that voice, even if he wasn't listening at all), had been startled back up at the point when the details of that visit came up. Emhyr had uttered some lofty words and complicated reasoning that essentially boiled down to this: Geralt was to temporarily act as the official representative of the Duke, who regrettably had neither wife nor offspring, to show that the Empire cared even about the hindmost dump (admittedly, Emhyr had put it somewhat differently). At the same time, he was supposed to find out if there was any truth in the rumors about a non-natural death of the Duke. This was supposed to serve as proof that such a thing would not be tolerated but, on the contrary, would be severely punished.

Geralt had hardly been able to argue against it all, so it had come as it had to come: silly clothes, a hated portal, and already the imperial consort was an official emissary of Nilfgaard.

Geralt had found this idea idiotic at the time, and nothing had changed. What his dear husband had not told him was that his function here was by no means purely representative. This stick of a guy would take care of that; the nervous linnet with the stack of papers in his hand, who also expected Geralt to take care of the pile of scrolls on the desk. Moreover, he had been advised (by the very husband who was always persuasive when it benefited him) not to show up at court in armor, equipped with swords. As if, just because he wore Nilfgaardian clothes tailored to his body, he didn't seem like a man who would rip them off without hesitation to start a riot.

At any rate, the protocol officer seemed to think so as he stood there, almost crawling into the wall, looking at the suddenly protruding vein on imperial consort's forehead. No, the man was not what the official had expected – although, of course, word had spread even down here, to the southernmost tip of the empire, that the Emperor had married a witcher. But witchers had hardly ever strayed into these parts of the continent; that's why it wasn't easy to bring together legends, expectations, and facts.

However, the facts were indisputable that the Emperor had sent a witcher to solve problems that had nothing to do with any monsters, and that was what these mutants were doing, wasn't it? It was also a fact that it was not for the official to judge. His task was to bring this tall, scarred rake up to date on the duties of the duchy, but the latter didn't seem particularly interested. He had stood up (the officer had backed away a bit more, still clutching the papers tightly), scowled at the stack of documents on the desk, and then sat down on the tabletop.

"I assume the Duke is already buried?" asked Geralt.

The protocol officer wrinkled his nose. "Duke Ghent deceased three weeks ago," he replied indignantly. "In our climes, a quick burial is the custom for a reason."

The witcher gave the man a look as if he wanted to burn him with his eyes (and the papers on the table as well). For all the officer knew – and it wasn't much – that might be possible. Maybe the witcher was just another form of magician. Perhaps his way of dealing with monsters was like dealing with unpleasant tasks, destroying, burning, demolishing... The officer wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and tried to focus.

"Even in this climate, there should be enough left to tell if he's been poisoned," the witcher suddenly said, and it sounded like a threat. In the end, the official considered it that way. Was this guy trying to dig up the Duke, the great sun rest his soul?

"The tax collector," the officer said feebly.

The witcher frowned. "What's he got to do with it?"

"He's waiting. Outside the door."

The witcher snorted. "How big is this duchy?"

The protocol officer blinked. What a question. He sounded offended when he answered, "A, I want to say, stately provincial capital, prestigious for its jewelers. About a dozen villages, a few hermitages. With all due respect, sir, we may be His Imperial Majesty's most distant court from the capital, but there have never been any complaints about our annual – punctual – tributes."

"Tributes in what form?" asked the witcher, gesturing to the door with a nod of his head. "The tax collector, let him in."

The official sent a push prayer to heaven and opened the door.

For the next half hour, Geralt stoically endured (dead inside) a monologue about the Duchy's mineral resources. The only one who actually listened spellbound was the protocol officer. A strange guy. Nervous, of course, because Geralt's visit was so official, but there was a tug in the back of his head that indicated either the onset of a headache – which a witcher was not usually prone to – or instinct. The way the skinny schmuck wrapped his long fingers around the papers. His blushed ears (who blushed at the ears?). The plucking at the ends of the scrolls he held as if it were his life to defend them.

Perhaps this was somehow paranoid, and Geralt wondered why Emhyr hadn't sent Adan (who could handle paranoia much better) to investigate right away. He would have eaten his way through the kitchen, probably learned half a dozen secrets in the process, actually dug up the Duke in the end, and within two days, the matter would have been settled. But, alas. Politics, Geralt thought bitterly. Maybe it was just a headache in the end. In any case, he was expected to approach the matter with diplomacy. Oh, he would really kill Emhyr. While he was thinking up some interesting ways, which oddly enough turned into rather frivolous thoughts rather quickly, he half-heartedly listened to the tax collector.

He took from the latter's words that the Duchy might be small, but it had plenty of raw materials, such as copper and ore, and especially silver. This flowed abundantly from here to the capital – in fact, a large part of the Duchy taxes consisted of mined mineral resources. Of course, one would have to cross-check reports, but Geralt could well imagine that on the long way from here to Nilfgaard, a part of the cargo was lost every now and then. Or was diverted beforehand.

He sent the tax collector away and asked the protocol officer, "What is the succession plan for the Duke?"

The official put on a sorrowful face. "Unfortunately, there are no children, and his wife died of a fever years ago. Frankly speaking, as far as the family tree lineage is concerned, we urgently need support from the imperial palace. Duke Ghent was distantly related to His Imperial Majesty. However, even the fifth-degree relatives of a collateral line already own lands, and all of them live far away."

Geralt, still slouching on the desk, said astutely, "Meaning there will be an interim government, probably made up of close advisers, aldermen, that sort of thing. Until the palace decides who will be officially appointed as successor. Which may take time."

"That's right."

"Fine," Geralt said, jumping up (sweeping some of the papers off the desk, which the officer didn't like) and adding, "then there are plenty of suspects."

"Suspects, sir?"

"Someone," Geralt replied, his eyes suddenly sparkling with interest (which scared the official even more), "profited from the Duke's disappearance. It is possible that he was actually murdered."

The protocol officer paled and reflexively threw a hand over his mouth. A pile of parchment and scrolls noisily went to the floor, spreading ominous chaos.

In search of a clue, Geralt wandered restlessly through the ducal castle. Digging up the Duke to determine his cause of death seemed like a last resort – one that was not only radical but probably also against court etiquette. However, there was someone who had to know what Duke Ghent had finally died of, namely the one who had officially determined his death, perhaps even issued a death certificate. That was the only good thing about all the courtly bureaucracy: everything had to go its orderly way.

On his way through the unbelievably long corridors (why were they always so incredibly long in castles and palaces? How long did it take these people to get from one place to another?), Geralt ignored the curious looks as usual. Although it was apparent that he belonged neither in this place nor in these clothes – hell, he even walked like a warrior; besides, his back itched as if the missing swords were laughing at him – plenty of women and also a few men gave him interested looks. However, his attractiveness immediately dropped noticeably when they spotted the ring on his right hand.

And when it finally clicked inside of them, because they eventually connected charisma, appearance, scar, and hair mentally, it became apparent that word had gotten around even here whom the Emperor had married, and they almost stepped on each other's feet trying to get out of his way. At least he got enough out of the stuttering morons to find his way to the healer. The latter resided in a lavish, not exactly modestly furnished annex and sat, apparently unmolested by any patients, in a study crammed with bookshelves.

After a polite but reserved greeting – which did not change at the mention of Geralt's official function – he answered the question about the cause of death with certainty, saying that it had been the Duke's weak heart.

"From what I heard, the man was just over 50," Geralt said skeptically.

"But overweight, short of breath, and jumpy," the healer replied.

"Jumpy?" asked Geralt, frowning.

"Absolutely. Despite his stature, the man was decidedly nervous. A matter of diet, clearly, a consequence of the excessive consumption of honeycomb, which he could not resist. If one approached him in an inconsiderate moment, like from behind, or if he was engrossed in reading, he almost fell off his seat. No wonder he was afraid of shadows."

"He was afraid of shadows?"

The healer, who would also have benefited from some weight reduction, leaned back in his chair, which creaked in protest. He pulled a face, gesturing deprecatingly.

"Well, more likely from what he suspected to be in the shadows," he then said.

"Did he fear an attack?"

The healer sighed. "He was afraid of ghosts. A penchant for spooky stories and his physical weakness, not uncommon in the courtly environment, favored a certain… well, mental decay."

"Wait," Geralt returned, "he was jumpy, believed in ghosts, had a favorite food whose sweetness would mask many toxins..."

"You don't think he was poisoned, do you?"

The healer's bushy brows almost formed a line.

"A poison that would kill him in installments so that it wouldn't be suspicious. A sudden jumpiness and delusions might fit that," Geralt mused.

The healer shook his head, folded his arms in front of his chest, coolly remarking, "You witchers may be familiar with strange ways of death, but there was no sign of poisoning. Sometimes the most likely answer is the truth, and the fact is that the Duke was a fat, elderly, dissolute man who died of a weak heart – ironically when he went for a walk for once."

Geralt leaned forward and looked at the other man intently.

"Are you saying you didn't like him very much?"

The healer looked back calmly. "Don't overdo it, witcher," was all he said, and that was that.

Geralt had the protocol officer make a list that included all the council members – that is, all the participants in the transitional government. The list was surprisingly long, and Geralt postponed questioning all of them until the next day; after all, the Duke didn't come back to life from it either. But Geralt was almost convinced that this list would include possible candidates who had profited – or would still profit – from the Duke's demise. The longer it took Nilfgaard to appoint a permanent government representative (who in the end could also very well emerge from that very council), the more there could be wheeling and dealing at the ducal court.

Until then, however, the protocol officer (and apparently not only him) was convinced that Geralt was present in a highly official capacity – that is, to make decisions. The whole day the guy had been running after him, always waving some papers. At some point, Geralt, mainly to have his peace, had actually sat down and started to sign what was held out to him without bothering to read the stuff. He had met the judge and acquitted some promiscuous woman accused of adultery (which here, apparently, was a thing one ended up in jail for). This had caused a bit of an uproar, but Geralt thought it was no wonder the woman had started to look for something different – he had been presented with a book of nobility, which contained not only the complete lineage but also a drawing of the man.

When he lay in bed in the evening in his, admittedly, rather noble guest room, he was almost too exhausted by the whole charade to still feel the same anger as in the morning. Emhyr had made him step through one of the portals he hated, to pretend to be interested in reports of corn shipments or the malachite levels of individual copper mines in this godforsaken nest of duchy. It was a miracle that the Duke had not died of boredom, but certainly not that he had eaten heaps of sweets to overcome it.

Was this really about finding out if the Duke's death had been natural, or was Emhyr trying to teach him a less than subtle lesson in politics? When Geralt put his head on the pillow, he found that it was too soft. He sighed and absent-mindedly stroked the xenogloss that Triss had given him. His return ticket, with which he could call the sorceress and go back to give Emhyr a good telling off.

He turned around and realized that the bed was too small, which was crazy because it was a perfectly normal size. He could spread out in it completely undisturbed, and the following day he wouldn't find himself crouched in a narrow strip on the edge. But neither would he find himself in the arms that made sure he didn't fall out.

Evading the officer the next morning was surprisingly easy. Hardly anyone seemed to get with the first birdsong; even the maids at the Duke's court were granted a little more sleep. Geralt knew only one person besides himself who usually peeled himself out of the sheets at this time of day – and that person was responsible for the fact that he was trying to get as far away as possible from the room with the pile of papers. Besides, he preferred to spend the day wisely, such as putting the entire council through the wringer. In doing so, he wanted to avoid too much attention from the officer, who would surely try to make things difficult for him.

The question was how to use the time until it was reasonably decent to address the first alderman on the list. Geralt's path led him almost inevitably into the open. The gardens were not particularly lush, not much more than a few static rose beds and a few footpaths to stroll along, but still a welcome change from the castle walls. Around the castle ran a gravel strip, glistening in the sun, joined in most places by a patch of manicured lawn before merging into meticulously laid flowerbeds.

Here and there were a few benches for those exhausted even by a walk in the open air. Having circled the gardens in a short time, Geralt took a seat on one of them, facing the rear exit of the castle. It was quite possible that the official would be looking for him out here as well. It was probably impossible to hide from the guy permanently anyway, Geralt thought; after all, he knew the terrain better. His gaze wandered from the plain flowerbeds to the castle. Not a particularly exciting masonry. Neither exceptionally large nor interestingly designed, although the wall stones used glittered slightly in the sun, which was probably a particular feature of the material – perhaps it was due to a mixture with sand, which was abundant in the area, Geralt suspected. There were probably statistics about that, too, he thought with an inward sigh. But the stones were not the only thing glittering. Out of the corner of his eye, a sparkle caught his attention, clearly coming from the strip of grass in front of the east side of the castle.

That would probably be the most exciting thing he would see for the next few hours, so he stood up, curious enough to find out if he was simply dealing with a shard. But that wasn't it. The grass near the castle walls could have used a scythe, which was probably why no one had discovered the little gem yet. Because what had glittered in the sun was an earring. It had to belong to a woman with taste, which was why it was all the more surprising that no one had looked for it. Whereas maybe they had looked for it, but someone had simply not managed to find the piece. It was a pretty earring, an emerald green, oddly shaped pendant on a small, gold pin.

The shape vaguely reminded Geralt of something, but he just couldn't figure it out. He closed his hand around the piece of jewelry, stood up from his stooped posture, and turned around – only to see the protocol officer at the rear exit, a few steps away. He hadn't noticed him yet, and Geralt hastily pressed himself against the castle wall like a thief, slowly moving to the side until he reached an alcove behind which he could hide. His senses were sharp enough to tell him the officer seemed convinced that the damned witcher was not out here. Geralt continued walking in the other direction to be on the safe side until he found the next entrance. It was time to talk to the council members.

The aldermen had only good things to say about the Duke. He seemed to have been the purest figure of light (suggesting that they were exaggerating), but basically, their reactions were honest when Geralt brought it up. Duke Ghent had been kind, generous, and charming, and, what was often emphasized, extremely conscientious about the dues to the capital. Everyone seemed to think his penchant for copious amounts of food was the prerogative of a good regent, which also applied to his little quirk, as one of the councilors put it. One even claimed that the Duke loved to be afraid, not only because he liked to listen to spooky stories and devour ghost legends. Apparently, he had adopted what was said to be a foreign custom of celebrating a festival in the fall, the purpose of which was to drive away evil spirits with colored lamps. In truth, it seemed to be mainly about dressing up and giving each other sweets. Eccentric, but not the craziest thing Geralt had ever heard. It just seemed like a twisted form of the usual Samhain festival, and in Geralt's opinion, they could be glad that they had never been infested by banshees while doing so here.

The interrogations were largely inconclusive when it came to finding out whether the Duke had had any enemies. No one could remotely imagine that anyone would have disliked the good man. Geralt tried to figure out who might have benefited most from his demise, but it turned out that the aldermen mainly fulfilled small-scale functions. Each of them performed several tasks that may have been respectable in their own rights, still, relatively small: managing small estates, paying out wages, awarding contracts to local jewelers in the event of a surplus of silver, documenting travelers, and the like. All in all, they kept the duchy running, but none of them had an understanding of the big picture. That had been the Duke's responsibility; however, he had not taken care of it alone. One name came up particularly often.

"Nisbeer supported the Duke, in many ways," one of the aldermen said. Another claimed, "Without Nisbeer, the Duke could never have met all his obligations." Still another council member mentioned, "Nisbeer is probably the most diligent of all of us."

Johan Nisbeer, it turned out, was also a council member, but he was not on the list Geralt had received. "That's because he's just so humble," said one of the men Geralt questioned. "Besides, you must have met him already. Nisbeer keeps the books."

"The protocol officer is Nisbeer?"

This was confirmed, and Geralt began to ponder. He had no choice but to give up the game of hiding and look for the officer. However, the man was not in the Duke's study. The desk was neatly tidied, although there were even higher piles of papers on it than the day before. Geralt stepped up to the table and skimmed the documents. Most of it was unimportant stuff. Although every single one of it had Nisbeer's signature next to a blank line for the Duke – which would now remain empty unless Geralt took over that job again – it didn't seem particularly suspicious. Nisbeer was industrious, and presumably, he had occupied a unique position among the council members. Every ruler had a favorite, a confidant, someone to whom one could delegate particularly unpleasant tasks. Emyhr had Meredid, who was much more than his valet. And of course, Geralt, who couldn't refuse the damn guy anything. Loyalty and love were powerful driving forces but just as easily exploited.

Following an impulse, Geralt asked his way to the Duke's private chambers. The main room turned out to be a kind of copy of the study room – a similar desk, a lot of shelves, books, and scrolls. Even here, there was the obligatory portrait of the Emperor on one of the walls. It was all fine and dandy in the official office, but the fact that his spouse was now staring at him from the wall in the Duke's private chambers as well, Geralt thought was a bit excessive. Furthermore, there was some more comfortable seating, and on the table a tin of nicely wrapped sweets. It seemed to be true what he had been told about the Duke: a consistently good man who had taken his duties seriously, with a weakness for sweet stuff. Geralt took one of the candies out of the tin, unwrapped it from the wax paper, and sniffed it before popping it in his mouth. Anyway, the man had not been poisoned with it, if that had been the case at all. The documents on the desk turned out to be reports on ore and silver deposits in the duchy, including tables of statistics and figures that went on and on, making Geralt's head spin. He wondered, however, why the Duke had bothered with them, because the rest of the papers seemed simply another stack of decisions for him to sign – like work to take home.

The bedroom of the late Duke adjoined this room. The healer had said that he had not moved very much. In this room, it became clear that the Duke had also had a preference for a comfortable place to sleep for all his love of work. The massive four-poster bed of ornately, finely decorated oak was larger than usual, and it was trimmed with what must have been a dozen brocade pillows. Geralt was already looking forward to telling Emhyr that his penchant for giant beds wasn't all that unique.

Beyond that, however, there was nothing in the room that told Geralt more about whether the Duke had fallen victim to a greedy servant, or even a ghost, as he might have feared. On a small table next to the bed lay a booklet of ghost stories next to a half-burned candle. Duke Ghent had probably also spent his last night with his hobby. Beneath the window, framed by heavy, dark curtains, was a tall dresser on which the Duke had stored another tin of sweetmeats; sticky, durable cakes sprinkled with sesame seeds. Not quite the right bedtime snack for an overweight person, but oh well. Next to it was another box of fine porcelain, and Geralt lifted the delicate lid in anticipation of more sweets.

Instead, to his surprise, a piece of jewelry flashed at him. He reached into one of his pockets (which he had had to persuade the tailor to make – Nilfgaard's fashion absurdly did not provide for pockets for men's pants at all, what nonsense) and rummaged out of it the earring he had found in the gardens. In the box was its counterpart. Well, that was interesting. Nothing about the Duke's chambers suggested that he had received lady visitors. So why did he have an earring and a single one at that? It was time to find the protocol officer. He seemed to have been the Duke's confidant; perhaps he could shed some light on the matter – even if that meant Geralt would have to squeeze himself behind the desk again and take up the pen.

He caught Nisbeer in one of the corridors. The officer seemed to think he had instead caught the witcher, for he put on a punitive face.

"I've been looking for you all morning, sir," he complained.

"Hmm," Geralt mouthed innocently.

They walked the hallways together, passing endless rows of typical paintings – ancestors and relatives, famous personalities, lovely landscapes.

"There is some work to be done," the protocol officer continued. "We were wondering if your presence was due to settle the Duke's succession."

Geralt gave the man a sidelong glance. Considering that such decisions often took a long time and that his appearance so soon after the Duke's death might seem somewhat puzzling, even if the duchy's raw material resources were important, the assumption was probably justified. Geralt only hoped that Emhyr did not actually intend to leave this decision up to him. In any case, he had not mentioned it. Just as he had omitted to mention that Geralt was expected to put his name under documents that his husband must have suspected he would not read.

While he was still searching for a plausible answer, his gaze fell on the murals. Suddenly he stopped as if rooted to the spot, ignoring the officer's irritated "Sir?"

"Who is that?" Geralt asked, pointing to the portrait of a woman hanging in a gold frame between paintings of a desert plain with a thirsty panther (or what the artist had imagined it to be) and a portrait of a scowling older man. The painting was nothing special, a classic picture in oil, neither particularly elaborate nor especially appealing. The woman in it was illustrated up to her chest, an unassuming beauty with a slightly too large nose and brown hair that fell to her indecently bare shoulders. That was not the remarkable thing about the portrait, but the earrings the woman was wearing — narrow gold danglers with an emerald green, oddly shaped pendant.

"Her?" asked Nisbeer, apparently irritated by the sudden change of subject. He shrugged his shoulders. "A distant ancestor of the Duke, whose exact degree of kinship has never been fully clarified, which is why she occupies this somewhat inglorious place. The gentleman next to her is also presumably a relative of the same status. Little effort was made in earlier times to keep the books in order."

The last words came disapprovingly – no wonder, one put here, nevertheless, the greatest value on decent documentation.

"However," the officer continued, "the unnamed lady is the subject of a local ghost legend. It's amazing that this portrait, in particular, catches your eye, Sir. Duke Ghent liked it for some reason. Well, he liked ghost stories, didn't he."

"I guess he wasn't the only one," Geralt said thoughtfully, pulling the earring from the garden out of his pocket. He compared the piece with the painting. A very good copy of the jewelry of the lady in the picture.

Nisbeer frowned. "What does that mean?" he asked.

Geralt pointed his finger at him. "The duke was murdered," he said. "And I think I can prove it."

The officer paled.

Geralt strolled almost casually into the healer's parlor. The treatment table in one corner of the room was empty, but a collection of knives, hooks, and other medical equipment, as well as a bloody rag on the floor, were testimony that the man must have already had a patient that morning. He was in the process of cleaning his utensils with an alcohol-soaked cloth.

"Looks unpleasant," Geralt remarked, pointing to the rag.

The healer looked up, surprised to see the witcher again. His lips pinched reluctantly, but he replied, "No big deal. One of the guards cut himself on his own sword, that idiot."

"Sometimes, the most likely answer is the truth," Geralt said.

"Huh?" The healer appeared annoyed.

"Your own words, yesterday," Geralt calmly remarked. "You are a clever man. The best way to hide lies is to clothe them in a piece of truth."

"Are you accusing me of lying?" roared the other.

Geralt raised his hands placatingly. "No, you absolutely told the truth; you just left out a few interesting details. As his physician, you knew very well about the Duke's weaknesses. You were the one that told me he loved ghost stories."

"Which is true," the healer replied cautiously.

"That's right," Geralt said as he walked up and down the room, never taking his eyes off the healer, however. "What you didn't tell me is that you are also part of the council. You belong to the aldermen."

"Why would I mention that when you asked me about the Duke?"

Geralt shrugged. He stepped up to the healer's desk and skimmed a few of the documents, which the man tried to prevent by quickly gathering up the sheets.

"This is confidential patient information," he rumbled.

"Sure. Nice handwriting," Geralt said, pulling out the list with the names of the councilors. "Pretty similar to this one."

"The protocol officer wrote these."

Geralt shook his head indulgently. "It looks like it, I'll admit. However, it is only a forgery, albeit a well-made one. A lot of people in the castle are occupied with writing, including Nisbeer, of course. But also the physician, a person constantly writing reports. He needs good handwriting and a lot of patience. Both important qualities if you want to forge documents."

"Absurd," the healer snarled.

"Is that so," Geralt muttered. Aloud he said, "Anyway, it's noticeable that Nisbeer's name is missing from the list. So conspicuous that a smart man like you could be sure that I would take care of it. Still, the document is a fake, like this one."

With these words, he pulled out the earring. "How peculiar that this piece of jewelry so closely resembles that of a woman in a painting. Who happens to be the subject of a ghost story."

One of the healer's hands unobtrusively closed around one of the knives that still lay spread out on a small table next to the treatment table. Not inconspicuous enough for the keen senses of the witcher, who casually remarked, "I wouldn't do that if I were you. Here is my theory, and I admit I was quite wrong in my initial assumption that the Duke was poisoned. No, in fact, he was scared to death. Probably the whole charade dragged on for a long time, so no one became suspicious. Somehow you brought to life the legend of the ghostly figure of the woman from the painting. What did you do, probably the usual at first? Voices that seemed to come from the walls? Ghostly moving curtains? Things that suddenly moved through the area?"

There was a flash in the healer's eyes under his bushy eyebrows. Geralt put his hands on his hips (which, in those silly clothes, probably wasn't quite the threatening gesture as it usually was in his armor) and tilted his head.

"You didn't do it alone," he noted. "Too much effort, and hard to do by ordinary means, too, unless you're an amateur alchemist or know some harmless magic tricks."

A muscle twitched in the other man's face. Ah, how little they knew about the subtle stirrings of the body.

"The motive is easy to find," Geralt continued. "Greed united with a conspicuous lack of obedience to authority."

"What do you mean?"

"Of all the people at court, you were the only one who made anything approaching unflattering comments about Duke Ghent. And the only one who has not treated the imperial consort with a modicum of respect."

"I apologize if you got that impression," the healer replied stiffly with a pinched face.

"For such an answer, the Emperor would make you crawl in the dust," said Geralt contemptuously, beginning to feel like smashing the guy's face in. And definitely not because of his lack of respect.

Did the man sense Geralt's rising aggression, or had he just had enough of this conversation? Despite his rather bulky figure, his movement was surprisingly fast as he lunged at Geralt with the knife. The latter dodged fluently. The attack went nowhere, and the healer stumbled and fell to the ground.

"Ridiculous," Geralt growled. Even as he was about to kick the healer's knife away, the same grabbed Geralt's right ankle with a surprisingly firm grip. With clearly more skill than strength and astonishing speed, he executed a motion, and with a sickening crack, the joint broke. Too amazed for a sound, Geralt went down on his knees, thinking this would never have happened if he had shown up in his damn armor in the first place.

"Ridiculous," the healer replied with a superior grin as he struggled to his feet, "is probably rather how you underestimated how many vulnerabilities of the human body medical experts know."

"I'll show you what weak points you have right now," Geralt growled, dropping onto his back and kicking the other's soft parts with his healthy leg. The healer gasped and staggered back a step, which was enough for Geralt to get back on his feet, albeit somewhat awkwardly. The guy had taken hold of his table and suddenly threw one of his knives at Geralt, tearing the thin fabric of his doublet and causing a fleeting cut on his upper arm. In addition to the pain of the broken ankle, which was already visibly swelling, anger now joined in. A second knife came flying. Geralt dodged it effortlessly.

The guy seemed to forget that he didn't need his swords. Not even the knife, still on the ground, that the healer was squinting at. He ran out of throwing objects and seemed to gauge his chances of being faster than the injured witcher if he lunged for the knife.

"What was the reason, huh?" asked Geralt in a biting tone. "Too many honeycombs for the Duke, too few for you?"

The healer pulled in his stomach, noticeably offended, and reached for a bottle on the table. It contained a foul-smelling concoction, which became clear when he let the container shatter on the edge of the table. Threatened by a knocked-off bottle, Geralt began to laugh.

"He didn't even have to notice," the man hissed.

Geralt tilted his head. "What?"

"We've been sneaking raw materials past the books for ages. Somehow he's become suspicious," the healer growled, waving his improvised weapon. Geralt approached him slowly (well, he could only walk slowly, thank you very much).

"Stop right there! We can still make a deal. Why should I profit on my own? We can share the proceeds; it's all between us, a nice extra income..."

"You're forgetting who you're talking to again," Geralt replied with raised brows. "Wait. Let me guess. Your task is to give concessions to the jewelers? For the surplus silver? So it was never about the succession to the Duke."

"Do you think just because I'm on the council I have any chance of holding that office? I don't even want it. What am I supposed to do with this burden?"

"You said we," Geralt remarked, "Was it Nisbeer? Is he your accomplice?"

"Nonsense," said a female voice behind Geralt, and even as he turned in surprise, something extremely hard crashed against his skull.

As always, when several hours passed without any reasonable results in consultations, Emhyr's mood eventually changed from impatient to sullen. In this state, he regarded his staff of advisors to be dimwitted morons, too daft to put a signature to a piece of parchment. As they sat there, spread out around the long table in his conference room, while he almost fell asleep at their dopey litanies, he would have loved to stand up and knock all their ridiculous hats off their heads (or give those who didn't wear one a hefty blow to the back of the skulls).

Right now, they were arguing – most of them older men, except for one rather tough woman, the only one who occasionally said something clever – about a map, which they almost snatched out of each other's hands. They yelled groomed insults at each other across the table as if they had completely forgotten where they were and who they were dealing with. It was all about a ridiculous piece of land, and the problems were primarily of a legal nature, which is why a large part of those people was completely useless and had no say at all, but none of them seemed to realize that.

Emhyr rose slowly, propping his hands on the tabletop, and his gaze roamed over the group, which he thought at that moment was a bunch of incompetent crybabies, forcing himself not to throw out all of them immediately – or fire them, jail them, behead them. Whatever. For an awfully long moment, they didn't notice whose attention they had attracted and continued to argue, so he straightened up to his full height. Now his gaze was cold as ice, his patience at an end, and at last, his eloquent silence caught their notice.

He was just about to open his mouth to tell them what he thought of them and their plans when a loud protest sounded outside the large double door, and it was pushed open with a lot of momentum. Immediately, the guards on that side of the door crossed their halberds, and even as Emhyr wondered what had happened to those on the other side, Geralt rushed into the room. Behind him, Emhyr saw his court sorceress hurrying up, trying to catch up with Geralt. With a single wave of his hand, the latter brought down the guards, and a horrified murmur went through the room. The soldiers behind Emhyr's seat took a step forward, but he gestured for them to stop.

Geralt was angry; that much was obvious. His hardened jaw bore witness to copious gnashing of teeth, and his eyes glittered ominously. The reason for his discomfort might be that his face was covered in blood. Besides, his clothes were partly torn, and he was limping. No, he dragged one foot, the joint strangely twisted. It looked painful. He stumbled into the room more than he walked, pointed accusingly at Emhyr at the end of the table, and growled, "You ass. Did you know that stupid Duke employed a third-rate sorceress and just forgot to tell me? Oh, by the way, Duke Ghent has been murdered."

The words caused the advisors to murmur again, this time in horror. Perhaps even a small squeak could be heard from the only lady in the room. Emhyr knew that expression on Geralt's face. Oh, he might be angry, quite a bit, but there was more. He paced around the table until he was with him. Geralt reached out a hand to hold onto the table but missed it. Emhyr grabbed his arm. Geralt shook him off. "She hit me over the head with a vase and disappeared. Anyway, it wasn't a marble one like yours."

Emhyr glanced at those present, who were watching the whole thing partly with curiosity, partly with horror. Probably half of them now thought he was beating his spouse with marble vases. Great.

"But of course, they didn't count on witchers having hard skulls," Geralt continued as he left a neat trail of blood on the stone floor of the conference room. His voice and eyes worried Emhyr, and he tried again, more gently this time, to reach for Geralt's arm. He noticed Merigold slowly approaching from behind.

"Geralt, let me...," she began, but he impatiently raised a hand without turning around and continued, "I got the... the... healer and pinned him down, and I notified the guards, you should send soldiers and interrogate him so we can find out who this witch was…"

Finally, his broken ankle gave way, and he cursed and went to his knees. Emhyr sighed, caught him, and held him tightly. And Geralt? He suddenly grinned, that idiot.

When it came to the bedside, there was one more thing Emhyr was exceptionally good at. Even if the bed, in this case, was merely the treatment table in the small infirmary that Merigold had set up last year, now managed by a druid from Skellige, that treated most patients. Just not in this case – the treatment of the imperial consort was reserved solely for the court sorceress. However, what Emhyr was particularly good at on this bed was holding Geralt's hand, whether to stroke it confidently or to channel his pain.

The setting of the joint, the straightening of the broken bone was clearly painful, but Geralt endured it stubbornly as ever, as perhaps Emhyr's presence.

"Are you still angry with me?" he asked him softly.

Geralt made a slight sound, about as if he were suppressing a laugh, as he sometimes did when pretending to be angry, though one look into the amber eyes above him usually melted his anger like snow in the sun.

"You sent me there for politics," he said accusingly.

"That was the point, sure," Emhyr calmly returned.

"No, not that. You claimed that me showing off there was primarily for representation while you wanted me to find out what happened to the Duke, but you were after something else, weren't you?"

Emhyr sighed. "Would that be so bad?"

Geralt took a moment to lower his free hand, with which he was pressing a cloth to his head wound, and looked at him. He put his hand on Emhyr's and muttered, "Nice try."

The smile they exchanged was a very particular one, the meaning of which only they both knew.

"Tell me what happened. How did the Duke die?"

"Wait a minute," Triss interjected, and with one last, nasty jerk, the bone was back in place. "I'll refrain from telling you to take a few days off. Let me see your head. Yeah, I'll have to stitch that up."

As she began to search behind him for a needle, Geralt continued, "Well, he did indeed die as his physician had claimed: of a weak heart."

"But you said he was killed," Emhyr replied.

"He was. The interrogation will bring absolute clarity, but this is what I think happened: the healer, with his accomplice, had been doing business with the jewelers off the books for a long time. That is, he had given them more concessions to work with silver than the surplus raw materials actually yielded. Somehow, the Duke found out that something was wrong. The healer must have believed he would catch on to him, so he came up with a vicious plan. Duke Ghent was known for his penchant for ghost stories, which, however, made him afraid of ghosts. In my opinion, not a shameful fear; yet, they had no problems at all there with specters. The healer and his accomplice decided to change that. She can do some magic, but it is possible that she is not a trained sorceress. However, it was enough to bring to life one of the Duke's favorite scary characters. The physician had jewelry made like that of a well-known ghost legend, and the woman created some spooky effects. Then they probably slipped the Duke one of the earrings, so he believed the thing, or they lost them, and he found one, something like that. Ouch."

"Sorry," Triss said. "She hit you pretty hard; I need a longer thread."

"Hmm. Well, anyway, on the night of the Duke's death, they must have taken the game too far," Geralt continued. "But that had been their intention, after all. The healer knew that the short-breathed, physically lazy Duke had a weak heart. As much as he loved the stories, he was also frightened. Well, you can die of fear. The physician knew that."

"And the woman just disappeared?" asked Emhyr.

"I think she was a little surprised when I turned around and stared at her after she hit me."

"She didn't expect you to be so pig-headed."

"Or that you'd still be able to get up with that foot," Triss interjected.

Geralt shrugged and grinned. "Maybe she felt like she had seen a ghost."

Some time later, Geralt was lying in a bed of just the right size, head and foot resting on pillows of just the right softness. The only reason he noticed or even cared was lying next to him, unfortunately fully clothed (which he still planned to change), stroking his hair.

"You should get some rest. That was a nasty, massive hole in your head. Are you sure that wasn't marble?"

"Not funny," Geralt muttered, admitting that even lying down made his head spin a little. "I'm ..."

"Just don't say it," Emhyr sighed.

"...fine."

"You're not. And I'm sorry."

"Well, even though your advisors probably think so now, it wasn't you who hit me with a vase," Geralt mocked.

"You know what I mean."

"You mean you're apologizing for having failed colossally in trying to teach me a lesson?"

"You are an idiot," Emhyr replied tenderly.

"I know," Geralt said in an indulgent tone. "Now kiss me and promise you won't try something like that again."

"You want me to lie?"

"You always have to have the last word, don't you?"

"Of course," Emhyr said. And Geralt got his kiss.

#writing #fanfiction #Emhyr x Geralt #Geralt x Emhyr #Emralt #witcher 3 fanfic #witcher 3 #the witcher fanfiction

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it-begins-with-rain · 4 years

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Asian TV Recommendations: Masterpost

I’ve decided to consolidate my Asian TV Recommendations to a single post!

*Updated 10/04/2020: Dance of the Phoenix, The Lost Tomb, Reunion: The Sound of the Providence

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A Love So Beautiful

Language: Mandarin Chinese

Can the pure love of 17-year-olds endure through all the challenges of college and adulthood?

Chen Xiao Xi and Jiang Chen are high school friends and neighbors who grew up together. Xiao Xi is happy-go-lucky and doesn’t like to study much but she has a talent for drawing. Jiang Chen is popular for his good looks and high grades, but is cold and indifferent to other people.

Their friends include swimmer Wu Bo Song, who will do anything for XiaoXi, the dorky and over-confident gamer Lu Yang, and Lin Jing Xiao, the most beautiful girl in school (who Lu Yang is hopelessly in love with).

How will the realities of life shape the friendships and love lives of these young adults?

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Abyss (Netflix Original)

Language: Korean

Abyss is a spherical orb that has the power to raise the dead- with a kick: If you were a good person, you are resurrected younger and more attractive. If you were a bad person, your body could change into any form (generally you are at least decades older).

This is all well and good, until kind-hearted (yet unattractive) Cha Min is resurrected as a young hottie and given the Abyss. He finds an old man dead in the road and uses it to save him- unwittingly resurrecting a violent serial killer on his way to murder Cha Min’s best friend and lifelong crush, Criminal Prosecutor Se Yeon.

Cha Min resurrects the vain and petty Se Yeon (who returns to a body identical to her professional rival) and together they must hunt down the murderer- whatever his new face may be.

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Arang and the Magistrate // The Tale of Arang

Language: Korean

The foolhardy ghost of a young woman seeks to discover the truth behind her unjust death and meets a magistrate named Eun-oh, who has the ability to see ghosts.

She is in possession of a distinct hairpin given to Eun-Oh’s missing mother- meaning Arang was holding it when she died. Eun-Oh and Arang’s search for her memories and his mother will become the focus of gods and ghouls alike.

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Ashes of Love // Heavy Sweetness, Ash-Like Frost

Language: Mandarin Chinese

Jin Mi is the secret lovechild of the Flower Deity and the Water Immortal, conceived before the Flower Deity suffers a fatal wound.

The deity gives birth to a baby girl (Jin Mi) on her deathbed, and foresees the infant will face a terrible trial by her 10,000th year. To save her from her fate, the Flower Deity gives Jin Mi a pill that makes it impossible for her to ever feel romantic love. Upon her death, she forbids anyone in the Flower Kingdom from revealing the fact that she had a child.

Several thousand years later, Jin Mi is a bumbling little fairy trapped in The Water Mirror- a gilded prison where low-level fairies can live in peace. Jin Mi believes she is a small Grape Fairy, and lives a happy (if not dull) life within the Mirror with her friends.

When a charred bird falls from the heavens into the Water Mirror, Jin Mi decides to eat save the poor little ‘crow’-- who in reality is Xu Feng, the mighty phoenix son of the Heavenly Emperor. Her decision to not eat save the Fire God will put them at the heart of plots and schemes, romances and adventures spanning the Flower Kingdom, Heavenly Realm, Demon Kingdom, and the Realm of Mortals.

**Trigger Warning: Contains reference to off-camera sexual assault.**

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Because This is My First Life

Language: Korean

Nam Se-Hee is a single man in his early 30's. A highly logical and anti-social man, he is constantly pressured by his family to find a woman and marry her- something he has no interest in whatsoever. The only things that matter in Se-Hee’s life are his cat and working so that he can pay off the mortgage on his house in 30 years.

Yoon Ji-Ho is a single woman in her early 30's. An assistant drama writer, she has lofty dreams and barely two pennies to rub together. The home she and her brother live in is cramped and small- doubly so once she finds out her brother has been living with a wife he never told her about. Ji-Ho is forced out of her home and- due to her financial situation- moves in with a “young woman” she’s only met via text- Nam Se-Hee.

Events unfold that will force Ji-Ho and Se-Hee into a corner from which they can only find one way out:: Enter into a strictly contracted marriage, absent love, romance, or sex, and keep up their ruse around family and friends for a period of two years.

But as time goes on, the cold and robotic Se-Hee and hopeless Ji-Ho begin to develop feelings for one another beyond that of a Landlord and a Tenant. It is only too easy for them to slip into the roles of Husband and Wife.

**Trigger Warning: On-Camera attempted rape, numerous instances of sexual harassment and non-rape assault (ie, groping)**

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Cunning Single Lady

Language: Korean

Na Aera, a woman left with crippling debt after divorcing her husband, learns her ex has become a millionaire off a mobile app she inspired during their time together. She forms a plot to seduce her ex husband, re-marry him, and then take him for half his new net-worth. Her ex is well aware of this plot, and has been waiting for a chance to get some closure of his own for their abrupt split.

There are two questions the pair must find the answer together: How do you scheme against someone if you accidentally fall in love with them again? And why did Na Aera really decide to leave her husband in the first place?

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Dance of the Phoenix

Language: Mandarin Chinese

Feng Wu, a former genius girl in the Junwu Continent, was attacked by her old enemy Zuo Qingluan. In the attack, she lost not only her memories and abilities, but her “phoenix blood” which made her powerful.

In order to save Feng Wu her secret tutor, Master Mu Jiuzhou (a hero thought long dead whose soul is bound inside a ring Feng Wu wears around her neck), exhausted his vitality and fell into a deep coma.

The forces Master Mu Jiuzhou were trying to keep at bay are roiling again, readying for war unless Feng Wu can recover her memories, her power, and survive long enough to release him from the ring.

But if Feng Wu at full power couldn’t stop the evil Zhuo Qingluan’s attack and save herself, what chance does “normal person” Feng Wu have?

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Dear Judge // Your Honor

Language: Korean

Han Soo-Ho and Han Kang-Ho were born as identical twins, but live totally different lives.

Han Soo-Ho is a seemingly righteous judge, respected by all and beloved by his mother no matter how cold and dismissive he is. He is corrupt to his core and sells desired sentences to major corporations, no matter who gets hurt in the crossfire.

Han Kang-Ho, raised in his brother’s shadow, is a petty criminal with 5 separate prison terms under his belt. He flaunts the law and lives an angry and miserable life as the nobody his mother tells him he is.

When Han Soo-Ho is abducted by people intent on getting their own brand of justice, it coincides with Kang-Ho needing somewhere to hide. He secretly takes his brother’s place as a judge. He intends to just cut and run, but begins to fall for judicial intern Song So-Eun, whose blind faith in the justice system is both misguided and infectious.

Han Kang-Ho, once considered trash by his own family, suddenly finds himself highly respected and admired. As a veteran of the criminal justice system he knows every trick and trap, but will he use his knowledge to rake in the dough like his corrupt brother, or will he wield his newfound power to bring mercy to the law?

**Trigger Warning: Contains partially on-camera rape, references to rape, assault, and themes of assault-related PTSD**

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Fairyland Lovers

Language: Mandarin Chinese

Bai Qi is a “spiritual doctor” who travels the world to rid spirits of their obsessions and stop them from becoming monsters. Eons ago he himself was at the threshold of becoming an Evil Spirit, and was saved by a Divine Warrior who helped him find a way to move past his darkness before tragically losing her life.

Isolated from the world and alone with a sprig of his lost love’s peach tree, Bai Qi meets the sunny but hapless actress Lin Xia. Not only does the tree come to life in her presence- and not only can she use the tools left behind by his lost lover- she also has the same face.

Curious, Bai Qi enters into a co-habitation agreement with Lin Xia and she helps him cleanse souls before they can turn into Evil Spirits. As their lives intersect, a memory that Bai Qi sealed away for over ten thousand years begins to surface.

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Flower of Evil

Language: Korean

Baek Hee-Sung seems like the perfect husband.

A craftsman, his hard work allowed his metal-working studio to flourish and he provides a good life for his wife, Detective Cha Ji-Won, and their young daughter. But behind his perfectly sculpted mask hides a dark secret that even his wife does not know:

Baek Hee-Sung is really Do Min-Soo, a boy believed to have aided his father in a series of grizzly serial-murders 18 years ago.

Unfortunately, secrets have a way of coming out, and as a homicide detective, it is Cha Ji-Won’s job to uncover as many of them as she can. A murderer strikes, leaving behind all the hallmarks of the murders committed by Do Min-Soo’s father. Ji-Won finds herself on a dark path that could destroy the very foundations of her happy life.

Who is Baek Hee-Sung? What really happened eighteen years ago? And what will Cha Ji-Won do once she realizes just who she is married to?

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Guardian

Language: Chinese

Super-Detective Zhao Yunlan meets university professor (and powerful supernatural being) Shen Wei and the two men are instantly drawn together by a past one cannot forget and a future the other cannot guess. As they grow closer, they find themselves at the heart of a high-stakes supernatural battle between unknown enemies.

Will the heroic duo’s unique talents- and special bond- be enough to help them outwit the forces of darkness?

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Handsome Siblings (2020 Netflix Edition)

Language: Mandarin Chinese

Hua Wuque is a pillar of righteousness and virtue, the only male disciple of the powerful Yihua Palace cultivation clan. An orphan, he was taken in by the clan leader and her sister and raised with only one goal in life: to find and kill Jiang Xiaoyu, a mighty villain and enemy of Yihua Palace.

So who is Jiang Xiaoyu? Also known as Xiaoyu’er, Jiang Xiaoyu is an orphan himself- the same age as Hua Wuque in fact- raised by the five most feared and hated villains in the world within the confines of the Wicked Canyon. Into Jiang Xiaoyu the villains poured their knowledge, tricks, and ruthlessness, seeking to create the ultimate villain. There is only one problem: As he was raised in the Wicked Canyon and surrounded by nothing but villains, Jiang Xiaoyu mostly uses his abilities to… harm villains and protect the weak.

When Jiang Xiaoyu comes of age and leaves the Wicked Canyon (or rather, becomes too much of a trickster for the villains to handle anymore), Hua Wuque is unleashed to venture from Yihua Palace and hunt down his enemy.

But how could someone kept confined in the Wicked Canyon for the first 18 years of his life be a threat to Yihua Palace? And why must Hua Wuque be the one to kill him (under direction that Jiang Xiaoyu cannot die naturally, be killed by someone else, or kill himself)?

There is a piece of the story Jiang Xiaoyu and Hua Wuque do not know: they are orphans of the same tragedy, in which the divine hero Jiang Feng spurned the love of both leaders of Yihua Palace for a beautiful servant named Hua Yuenu. Hua Yuenu was forced to commit suicide and Jiang Feng killed himself rather than submit to the Ladies of Yihua–

Leaving behind newborn (non-identical) twin sons.

Yihua Palace’s plot is a simple (if OTT) act of vengeance against Jiang Feng’s memory:: Force one brother to murder the other, then reveal to Hua Wuque the sin he has committed and let it drive the boy insane.

Will the truth come out before Wuque finds and kills Xiaoyu, or will the evil Ladies of Yihua Palace finally have the vengeance they have waited for for over 18 years? As Wuque and Xiaoyu’s paths cross more and more they strike up an unlikely friendship, even knowing there is no escaping their dark fate.

**Trigger Warning: Later episodes include off-camera sexual assault and on-camera depictions of near-rape.**

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Hello, My Twenties

Language: Korean

With different personalities, life goals, and taste in men, five female college students become housemates in a shared residence called Belle Epoque.

Trigger Warning: Season 1 contains scenes of abuse and forced confinement; Season 2 deals with severe PTSD.

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Hi My Sweetheart

Language: Taiwanese-Mandarin

Xue Hai is a kindhearted (and extremely wealthy) but naïve man who has been sheltered by his big sisters his entire life. He decides to go to college in China- where no one knows him- under the name Da Lang and with the image of a poor scholarship student. There Xue Hai meets the dominant, friendless, and rebellious Bao Zhu. Naturally the two fall in love, but after 4 years together, just as he’s going to reveal his identity and propose, Bao Zhu viciously dumps him.

Fast forward three more years. Xue Hai has transformed himself into a handsome but ruthless playboy who treats women as nothing more than toys to be used and cast aside. When he chances across Bao Zhu once more, he decides to launch a campaign to destroy her heart as thoroughly and mercilessly as she did his.

Except Xue Hai is missing one important piece of their love story: Bao Zhu only left him to protect him from her domineering mother, and she has been searching for her beloved Da Lang ever since.

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Hit the Top // The Best Hit

Language: Korean

A free-spirited idol vanishes in the early 90s and reappears in 2017 where he is given a second chance to mend his previous relationships, form a bond with a son he never knew existed, and perhaps solve his own suspected murder before fate throws him back where he belongs.

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Hotel Del Luna

Language: Korean

Nestled deep in the heart of Seoul’s thriving downtown sits a mysterious hotel, the likes of which no one has ever seen before. Old beyond measure, the building has stood for millennia, an ever-present testament to the fact that things are not always what they seem.

The Hotel Del Luna is the final place on this earth lost souls pass through before they move on to the other side. For centuries the hotel has been under the control of Man Wol- a greedy and suspicious immortal.

When the multi-faced goddess of Fate plants a human in her path to take over as Manager of the hotel, she gives him a task: discover the truth of Man Wol’s grudge and heal her weary soul before Man Wol succumbs to past hatreds and destroys herself forever.

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The King’s Avatar

Language: Mandarin Chinese

In the online multiplayer game Glory, Ye Xiu is well known as the undisputed master of professional sports- though no one outside of the professional teams actually knows what he looks like as he hides his face from media and fans. A player since he was a child- and raised largely in professional player training camps- Ye Xiu has no understanding of the outside world.

Halfway through the season, the money-hungry company behind his team, Excellency Era, forces him out and replaces him with an undisciplined hot-shot. Penniless and with nowhere to go, Ye Xiu crosses the street and enters the Happy Internet Cafe. The owner is a diehard fan of the mysterious Ye Xiu, and hires Ye Qiu as an IT manager not for his experience, but for his shared love of the game.

When Glory launches their tenth server, Ye Qiu throws himself into the game once more. Equipped with ten years of gaming experience, memories of an unfinished pledge to a dead friend, and an incomplete self-made weapon, Ye Qiu will rise from the ashes, forge a new team, and take back his crown.

**This drama sees actor Yang-Yang once again assume the role of Legendary Gamer, as he played previously in ‘Love O2O’ (Recommended below)

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The Lost Tomb**

Language: Mandarin Chinese

50 years ago, a group of Changsha grave robbers known as the “Mystic Nine” dug out manuscripts of the location of treasures from the Warring States period, but soon after almost the entire group was hunted down and slaughtered.

In the present, the young grandchild of the sole survivor, Wu Xie, discovers a secret within his grandfather's notes as well as half of a silk manuscript that may reveal the location of the lost tomb. But there is one problem- the other half of the manuscript is held by a shady organization of tomb raiders eager to break in and steal whatever cultural relics are inside the tomb.

Wu Xie has a "National Treasure” moment and decides that in order to stop the objects in the tomb from vanishing into the black market he will break in first and recover whatever is inside (’I’m going to steal the Declaration of Independence...’).

Wu Xie is helped on his journey by his beloved “Third Uncle” Wu Sanxing, his uncle’s right hand man Panzi, and the mysterious Xiao Ge - a tomb raider who seems to know of traps before they are sprung and whose hand has been mutilated in a way not seen among tomb robbing families in over a century.

They expected to find a lost tomb, perhaps chase away some thieves, and learn about an exciting piece of lost history. What they did not expect was for the tomb to strike back, the dead to rise, and the past to fight and keep what secrets it holds.

Who exactly are this alternate group of tomb robbers? What are they searching for? What exactly is protecting the tomb? Whose side is Xiao Ge truly on? And- most crucially- can Wu Xie survive long enough to find the answers?

** This recommendation is part of a broader series of shows and movies, all adapted from “The Gravedigger’s Notebook” and its sequels::

The Lost Tomb (2015)

The Lost Tomb 2: Explore With the Note (2016)

Time Raiders (2016 movie)

The Mystic Nine (2016)

Tomb of the Sea (2018)

Reunion: The Sound of the Providence (which gets its own recommendation below; 2019-2020)

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Love O2O

Language: Mandarin Chinese

** O = letter, not number

Wei-Wei has both beauty and brains. A computer goddess, she aspires to be an online game developer. In her spare time, she plays her favorite online game ‘A Chinese Ghost Story’- where she has made a name for herself as the top female player on the entire server.

After her online husband dumps her, she gets a message from legendary player Yixiao Naihe- asking to become her online husband (marriages in-game offer certain benefits and quest lines single players cannot achieve).

Little does Wei-Wei know that Yixiao Naihe is also her college senior and the most desired man on campus, Xiao Nai.

Will their online chemistry lead to a real-life romance? Yes. Of course it will. It’s in the title.

** Can’t get enough of Xiao Nai (Yang-Yang) as the Legendary Gamer? Check out his new show ‘The King’s Avatar’ (Recommended above).

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My Roommate is a Detective

Language: Mandarin Chinese

Shanghai in 1925 is caught between gang leaders and the European powers colonizing China.

A resourceful young police officer named Qiao Chu Sheng is on the trail of a brutal but devious killer. Realizing that the police force will need some extra help with this difficult case, he decides to form an elite crime-busting detective team. He reaches out Lu Yao, a Cambridge graduate a slick con-man.

Qiao Chu Sheng has learned that Lu Yao has remarkable powers of deduction and a brilliant mind – and believes he can help crack this difficult case. To round off the team, he enlists the help of Bai You Ning, a focused young female reporter for a daily newspaper. A free-thinking, independent young woman, she has a strong sense of justice – and pledges to help catch the killer.

The trio form a small detective squad that specializes in solving strange and unsettling murder mysteries.

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Mystic Pop-Up Bar

Language: Korean

Mystic Pop-up Bar tells the story of a mysterious outdoor drinking establishment run by an ill-tempered woman named Wol Joo, an innocent part-time employee named Han Kang Bae, and a former afterlife detective known as Chief Gwi who visit customers in their dreams to help resolve their problems.

To atone for a devastating mistake in her past life, Wol-Joo must aleviate the suffering of 100,000 individuals. After 500 years the counter stands at 99,990, but the impatient judges of the afterlife are tired of Wol-Joo’s bad attitude and increasing hatred of humanity.

She now has just one month to save 10 people, or else her soul will be destroyed forever.

**It’s worth noting the heavy similarities between Mystic Pop-Up Bar and Hotel Del Luna, though it should be said that Mystic Pop Up Bar’s script was finished first while Hotel Del Luna was made more quickly. The similarities between the two shows appears to be coincidental.

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Oh My Emperor

Language: Mandarin Chinese

Fei-Fei, a young doctor, is wounded in an accident and finds herself trapped in the ancient and mystical nation of Huang Dao. The people of Huang Dao are ruled by a king born of the stars- the physical embodiment of one of the twelve zodiac constellations. To keep discord from arising among the people, the Twelve Zodiac Masters govern together to keep the peace.

But a thirteenth sign has been forcibly subjugated, it’s Lord executed, and its people scattered to the wind. The lost sign- Ophiuchus- is rising once more- and Fei-Fei is its (unwilling) Master.

It only complicates matters slightly that Fei-Fei finds herself between the handsome and charming Master of Aquarius and his nephew- the cold Master of Capricorn (who is also the Emperor). Can Fei-Fei keep her identity secret long enough to solve the mystery of the Ophiuchus purge- or is Huang Dao doomed to destruction?

**This drama is a showpiece for members of the Chinese pop group X-Nine, do not judge it by the same standards as a traditional drama. Showpiece dramas tend to be a bit silly.

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Oh My Ghost

Language: Korean

Soon-Ae is the ghost of a woman who died a virgin. Believing getting laid is her only chance to move on before she becomes an evil spirit, she possesses the body of Bong Sun- an introvert with extremely low self esteem.

Acknowledging it isn’t an ideal arrangement, Soon-Ae decides help Bong Sun and focuses her seductive attentions on the man Bong Sun is secretly in love with. Bong Sun reluctantly agrees, hoping Soon-Ae’s influence will make her more outgoing and self-assured.

There are two problems with the girls’ plan once it goes into motion: Bong Sun’s colleagues worry she has had a mental breakdown and refuse to take advantage of her; and the longer Soon-Ae is in Bong Sun’s body the more she remembers of her own brutal assault and murder.

Soon-Ae’s unfinished business might have more to do with justice than tapping a hot chef, but can she solve her murder without putting Bong Sun in danger?

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Psychopath’s Diary

Language: Korean

In the wrong place at the wrong time, kind-hearted and timid Dong Shik plays witness to a gruesome murder. As if that weren’t bad enough, he stumbles across the killer’s diary-a horrible record of his heinous crimes and the psychotic ramblings of a narcissistic sociopath.

Chased by the killer, Dong Shik runs into traffic and is hit by a police officer. After waking up from a brief coma, Dong Shik is left with 2 things: total amnesia, and the murderer’s diary. Dong Shik mistakes himself for the serial killer, and his personality begins to twist.

Can a timid man become a monster? What of the actual serial killer? With no diary to ground him, it’s only a matter of time before the killer loses what little control he once had.

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Reunion: The Sound of the Providence**

Language: Mandarin Chinese

Wu Xie, “Fatty” Wang Pangzi, and the quasi-immortal tomb raider Xiao Ge (AKA Zheng Qiling, Kylin, and “Poker Face”) have faced many dangerous tombs together over the past twelve years.

Now, it is time for them to go on their last great adventure as the so-called “Iron Triangle” before Wu Xie sets off on the journey all must eventually make: death. He always thought his end would come in a dangerous tomb, but instead it will be lung cancer that claims his life. With only 3-4 months left to live, Wu Xie hides the truth of his illness from his friends and family, revealing the truth only to Xiao Ge.

Once upon a time, Wu Xie was told that when a man meets his death he must do so with a clear conscience. But something has been weighing on Wu Xie- his Third Uncle’s disappearance at the end of their first adventure. Right on time, a message from his long lost uncle appears, setting Wu Xie on a desperate mission to find him before the cancer eating away at his body destroys him at last.

This will most likely be Wu Xie’s final journey, but he will do anything in his power to make sure his friends and family will be safe long after his time is up. In the final 3-4 months of Wu Xie’s life he will seek to unravel the mystery of the “Thunder City”- starting with the most dangerous tomb he’s ever explored, The South Sea King’s Tomb.

The sound of thunder hides a secret men have killed for, but is there really a way to hear the words of gods within it? Someone clearly thought so, but who? Is Uncle Sanxing still alive, or is someone in the shadows guiding Wu Xie to them?

Wu Xie’s enemies thought he was dangerous before, but now he is a dying man with a mission. There is no telling what lengths he will go to in order to achieve his goals. He might just manage to die in a tomb after all...

** This recommendation is just the latest installment in an entire series of stories adapted from “The Gravedigger’s Notebook” and related novels::

The Lost Tomb (2015)

The Lost Tomb 2: Explore With the Note (2016)

Time Raiders (2016 movie)

The Mystic Nine (2016)

Tomb of the Sea (2018)

Reunion: The Sound of the Providence (2019-2020)

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The Romance of Tiger and Rose

Language: Mandarin Chinese

Chen Xiao Qian has dedicated her life to making her dream of becoming a well-respected screenwriter come true. Standing on the production set of sweeping dramas she penned through endless blood, sweat, and tears, Xiao Qian can hardly believe what she is seeing: her work, come to life!

Except it isn’t a set. And her work truly has come to life.

Her script is a simple one: the heirs of two rival cities who seek to destroy one another enter into a doomed romance that will lead to endless betrayals and a war that will kill the male lead, Han Shuo.

There is just one problem- Xiao Qian wakes in the body of Han Shuo’s first wife on the day he will murder her! The only way for Xiao Qian to return to this world is to survive the story, but in keeping herself alive longer the script begins to change, and Han Shuo begins to fall in love with the wrong person.

At first it is easy for Xiao Qian to keep herself alive- just go along with the script! But the story wants to return to the original plot, which means characters who should be friends become enemies, enemies become friends, and Xiao Qian might not live long enough to find her way home.

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Secret Healer // Mirror of the Witch

Language: Korean

Once upon a time an evil shaman helped the Crown Princess conceive twins- but into the Princess’ womb she also cast a dark curse capable of destroying the nation. Her plans were thwarted by her former mentor- who at the command of the Princess consolidated the curse from two twins into just one- the female child. The world believes the shaman destroyed the princess, burning the baby in holy flame to purge the curse- but instead he decides to raise her and try to help her break the curse upon her.

If she dies before the curse is lifted, it will unleash hell and destroy the nation. To break the curse she must fulfill wishes- but the evil shaman’s life is bound to the curse she cast so long ago. As the curse starts to break, she realizes the child is not as dead as she was lead to believe and begins a campaign to root her out and destroy her.

The princess forms a bond with a young scholar who becomes entangled in the princess’ curse and will stop at nothing to help free her. Her curse carries a catch though: Anyone she loves will die... and anyone who loves her will also perish.

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Strong Woman Do Bong Soon

Language: Korean

A freakishly strong- but totally sweet- woman is caught between the love of her arrogant but handsome boss and her disinterested lifelong crush.

Her boss wants her to embrace her supernatural strength and use it proudly, but she loves that her crush treats her like someone weak and in need of protection. Bong Soon will have to chose for herself if she will suppress her strength for her childhood crush or unleash herself to protect those she loves.

A murderer prowling the streets might make that decision for her though...

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The Untamed

Language: Mandarin Chinese

On the cliffs of the Nightless City, upon defeating his enemies in a bloody slaughter, the cruel and vicious Yiling Patriarch- Wei Wuxian- threw himself to his death.

Sixteen years later, he is resurrected by a madman and given a second chance to right what went so terribly wrong long ago. Wei Wuxian reunites with the honorable, righteous, and stern Lan Wangji- his confidant, soulmate, and best friend.

How can someone as upstanding as Lan Wangji befriend the monstrous and hated Yiling Patriarch? What turned the happy and popular Wei Wuxian into the man who slaughtered thousands at Nightless by weaponizing the souls of the dead?

And what terrible secret was Wuxian resurrected to unearth?

The past is not always what it seems, and there is no clean line between right and wrong.

**This story is told in two sections: Episode 2 enters a 30-episode flashback sequence showing Wei Wuxian’s path from popular youth to the monster upon the Cliffs of Nightless, with the first 1.5 episodes, and the last 20, dealing with the “present”. Don’t worry if you’re lost when the show starts, that is by design.

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You’re Beautiful

Language: Korean

Go Mi Nyeo has only one goal in life: To take her final vows and become a nun. Her twin brother, Go Mi Nam, desires nothing more than the life of an idol so that he can use his fame to find their missing mother.

Go Mi Nam’s dream is in jeopardy after a botched surgery and his twin must put her life on hold to quite literally step into his shoes and cover for her brother.

She joins the band A.N.JELL and quickly ends up on the bad side of their more devil-like leader. Can Go Mi Nyeo hide her true identity from her band-mates long enough for her brother to return?

No. No she cannot. By the end of the first day all but one- the goofy and loving Jeremy- know that she is no man... But they let her think she’s fooled them. It’s funnier that way.

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W: Two Worlds

Language: Korean

Is it possible to live in the same place at the same time, but in a completely different dimension?

Yeon Joo is a second-year cardiothoracic resident doctor. Her father, creator of the world famous web series ‘W’ suddenly disappears one day. While searching for him Yeon Joo finds a strange man covered in blood and only barely manages to resuscitate him before the words “To Be Continued” flash across her vision and he disappears.

When she returns, there is a new chapter of her father’s blockbuster series available online- one that features a doctor with her exact name and clothing saving a man covered in blood...

Where is Yeon Joo’s father? How is the story updating itself? As she is dragged into the world of ‘W’ with increasing frequency Yeon Joo and the story’s leading man, Kang Chul, must answer the most important question of all:

Is it possible something from that world escaped into this one?

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Well Intended Love (Season 1: Drama Version)

Language: Mandarin Chinese

Seasons 1 and 2 of “Well Intended Love” feature the same stars playing the same characters, but the storylines are alternate-universes of one another telling the story from a different genre. Each season is its own wholly contained entity that does not impact- and is not impacted by- the other season in any way.

A third-rate actress with leukemia becomes entangled with the handsome but cold CEO Ling.

In order to receive a bone marrow transplant and contniue her career as an actress, Xia Lin enters into a secret marriage with Ling Yi Zhou. Despite the conspiracies and misunderstandings they encounter, the two begin to find true love.

But one question nags at Xia Lin’s mind:: Why did the cold, controlling, and distant Ling YiZhou need her to play the role of wife?

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Well Intended Love (Season 2: Rom-Com Version)

Language: Mandarin Chinese

Rising TV superstar Xia Lin finds herself embroiled in scandal after a run-in with business mogul Ling Yizhou at a party. To clear up any misunderstandings the two prepare a joint press conference-- where Xia Lin is stunned by Ling Yizhou’s statement that the two are- in fact- an engaged couple.

Ling Yizhou convinces Xia Lin to play fiancee for a period of one year, after which they can go their separate ways. To save face in front of her fans, Xia Lin agrees. She gradually begins to fall for the lovable and doting Ling Yizhou.

Someone works in the shadows to destroy everything Ling Yizhou holds dear- and the closer he gets to the heart of the conspiracy, the more he realizes Xia Lin may have a target on her back as well.

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What’s Wrong With Secretary Kim

Language: Korean

Can you be so self-absorbed that you have no idea what’s truly going on around you? Yeong Joon is Vice President of his family-owned company, Yoomyung Group. He is so narcissistic that he doesn’t pay attention to what his trusty secretary Kim Mi So is trying to tell him most of the time.

After nine years of making Yeong Joon look good and stroking his very large ego, Mi So decides to quit her job, citing a desire for a life outside of work and the chance to fall in love. Yeong Joon does not take the disruption of his routine well, and decides the only logical course of action is to make Mi So fall in love with him, thus guaranteeing she will stay by his side.

A dark secret from Yeong Joon’s past may hold the key to why he can’t let her go, but will Mi So stick around long enough to discover the truth?

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satonthelotuspier · 3 years

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There Are Two Ways To Live A Life

“There are two ways to live a life either forget everything or, remember nothing.” - Santosh Kalwar.

Jamais vu: From the French, meaning "never seen". The illusion that the familiar does not seem familiar.

We have only one person to thank for this (again) - Dee - @BangpurpleTan - this idea is based very strongly on her indescribably brilliant edit here. All Dee's edits are a blessing on the timeline but this one fuelled the plot bunnies immensely.

This fic is endgame Xicheng.

If you follow me on Twt or on AO3 you’ll probably be aware this is already updated to chapter 5 over on AO3 - I’ll post the rest to tumblr over time if there’s any interest.

Chapter 1 - If Snow Melts Down to Water

“If snow melts down to water, does it still remember being snow?” ― Jennifer McMahon, The Winter People.

He could smell nothing but fire and death; the scent of blood hung in the air; between that, and the smoke, it was almost too thick to breathe, even where the smoke was less thick, here, as he lay on the courtyard floor in front of the great hall, in a pool of blood that was both his own and from the other’s lain slain around him.

It was red flames and redder blood that were the last things he saw before his eyes drifted closed, and everything else faded to black.

Jiang Shao woke suddenly from the nightmare, taking in a deep gasp of air as if he really had been struggling to breathe, suffocated by the smoke from burning buildings.

But a nightmare was all it was, wasn’t it? His hands tightened in the quilt covering him, but he forced them to relax, as his movements woke the sleeping figure at his side.

“Shao-er?”

He tried to force his breathing to steady, and cleared his expression, as he turned it on the now wakened Xue Rong.

“It was just a bad dream. It’s faded now. I’m sorry to wake you.” He sounded normal. Or at least like he’d sound if he was woken from sleep by a normal nightmare.

“I have to leave soon, so it’s fine. You should stay and try to rest a little more though.” A soothing hand squeezed his shoulder, intending to offer comfort.

Jiang Shao nodded, and lay back as Xue Rong rose, threw on his robes, and, with a final goodbye, disappeared into the still-dark morning.

He was glad; it gave him time to consider the thing that bothered him the most about the nightmare; the death of the woman who looked exactly like Jiang Shao.

Could it be that it wasn’t a nightmare, that it was an actual memory trying to surface?

He didn’t know.

In reality he could remember nothing about his childhood. He had no memory of who his parents were, and therefore the figure in his dream could either be formed from a subconscious remembrance, or his dreaming mind making up a maternal figure; what else did he have to go on except his own features?

His earliest memory was waking up in the home of a farming family somewhere near Yiling. A merchant prince passing through had, apparently, stumbled upon him wandering dazed and barely alive in the wilderness, and taken pity on the severely injured young man, paying for the village healer to tend his wounds and the family to board him until he was well enough to leave.

Less honest folk might have seen the opportunity to accept the gold, slit his throat the moment the merchant had moved on, and profited greatly from him; luckily he hadn’t fallen into the hands of dishonest people.

He didn’t know his exact age; the best guess that could be made was he had been in his mid to late teens when found. He didn’t know where he was from; though they claimed his dialect was that of Yunmeng.

When he had healed enough he helped during the harvest season alongside the family’s own sons, as thanks for their kindness, and then left in search of the merchant who he owed his life to; he had no better idea of what he could do than to pledge himself to that man to repay his goodness.

There had been a part of him that hoped the travelling would spark memories; but it hadn’t helped at all.

Once he had caught up with the merchant in Jiuzi, that kind gentleman had again taken pity on him, and had offered him military training, as long as Jiang Shao joined his personal army, and they were both pleased to find out that, though Jiang Shao’s mind didn’t know it, his muscles clearly showed the memory of martial training.

Jiang Shao was thankful that he could be useful, and had found a place in a world he didn’t really know.

A little while into his tenure in the private army of Ye Qingyan he had been part of the forces his master had loaned to join the imperial army to quell an invasion from the northern kingdom. He had recommended himself to the son of the Emperor by saving his life on the battlefield; he had taken a wound that had been meant for Xue Rong, earning his gratitude and thanks.

They had met again some years later. By this time Jiang Shao had undergone training as an assassin and spy for his merchant prince master. Ye Qingyan had rendered some service to the then acknowledged Crown Prince, enabling the two to renew their acquaintance and friendship. Some time later the merchant had elected to step away from court life in the capital and retire to his family estate in a distant province, to focus on his new young wife and the children she would hopefully bear him. A father and a husband had no need for a spymaster and assassin, so Jiang Shao had been ‘gifted’ to Prince Jin, as a final act of service and good regard by Ye Qingyan.

It wasn’t long later when the old emperor’s failing health had put his intended Crown Prince on the throne, and Xue Rong had donned the Dragon Robe.

Now Jiang Shao was the Tianzi’s secret weapon. His hidden blade.

To the court he was passed off as a male lover the Emperor had taken as a young man, who he still occasionally bedded, and appointed to a minor ministry role, which sent him travelling around the empire. A perfect cover for a man often sent from the capital to enact the will of the Emperor in secrecy.

Jiang Shao turned over, and pulled the blankets over his head, trying to calm his swirling thoughts.

Despite Xue Rong’s orders, he didn’t think that he’d be able to sleep again that night; but undeterred by his doubts he did drift off again just before dawn.

***

The moonlight shone through the laden branches overhead, giving the night an ethereal glow, making it feel almost unreal, as they walked along the paths together. No matter how much he tried to give himself the courage to meet the other’s gaze head on, he still couldn’t steal more than quick glances from beneath his lowered lashes.

The other was too handsome. Too perfect. Especially with the moon’s pure gaze limning his jade-like features. It was almost overwhelming to be near someone as gentle and warm as dawn light; and to think that he might like him too.

Overwhelming.

Jiang Shao’s heart had begun to flutter in his chest as the taller boy paused on the pathway, reached up into one of the overhanging bows, and pulled free a sprig of magnolia blossom.

His mouth formed a tender smile, and he held the sprig out to Jiang Shao; who reached for it tentatively. It was all he could do to stop himself from clutching the gift to his chest, and he felt a rush of heat climb up his neck in the still night air.

“Thank you.” The words were barely more than a whisper, as loud and as forceful as he could manage past the lump in his throat.

They walked on a little further, to a cluster of buildings, where Jiang Shao mounted the steps, and the taller boy paused at the foot.

Jiang Shao stopped, and turned.

He felt unutterably sad.

“Tomorrow I’ll have to return home.”

“I know. I’ll miss you. But I’ll wait for you. Forever if I have to, A-Cheng.”

Some of the sadness melted away at his words.

“You will?”

“I will.”

He felt an answering smile shape his mouth, before the other took Jiang Shao’s ( A- Cheng’s?) hands in his own, then, leaning up due to Jiang Shao’ s position on the steps , brushed a gentle kiss against his cheek.

The dream faded, and Jiang Shao woke up plagued by a feeling of indescribable sadness and loss.

He was frustrated that whenever he experienced these unusual dreams, he couldn’t tell whether they were created from his lost memories, or purely formed from nothing at all.

He had spent a long time under the yoke of regret, caused by the hopelessness of knowing nothing about his previous life, whether he still had parents living, or other family; whether he was been missed, or had been mourned, when he vanished. The feelings were crushing. And there were something that, if he hadn’t learned to put aside and compartmentalise them, would probably have destroyed him by now.

So he had learned to put those feelings aside, bury them deep and only take them out when he was feeling particularly maudlin or introspective.

A luxury he didn’t often afford himself.

To the rest of the world, what little he interacted with of course, he was a cheery young man with a ready smile who went with the flow of life, no matter where it took him.

That mantle was heavier some days than others.

***

The sun was bright and clear that morning as he stepped foot back in Jiankang after several weeks in the provinces.

He still wasn’t entirely used to the hustle and bustle of a capital city; especially after he had been away for any length of time. There was something that always seemed to make him feel like a country bumpkin when traversing the packed streets of Jiankang.

It was probably the air of importance everyone seemed to try and give themselves in the capital; it was never a feeling that manifested itself in small agricultural towns with equally as busy markets, for example.

His discomfort told him he had never been a city boy, even in the past that he couldn’t remember.

It seemed, to him, that people in the capital considered that they were made more important by mere virtue of being so close to the Son of Heaven.

If that were genuinely the way it worked, however, it made Jiang Shao particularly lofty in rank.

In reality, the idea amused him immensely; it wasn’t a concept he could take seriously. He was a nobody who had had the good fortune to recommend himself to Prince Jin before his ascension, and who proved useful still to the Tianzi.

And that was all Jiang Shao needed from life. A purpose to drive him on. And what more purpose could he wish for than to serve his Emperor in protecting the Empire and it’s people?

He paused at a vendor and bought Jianbing; if he ate on the way back to the royal city he could quickly bathe and be ready to report to the Tianzi when the Emperor’s schedule allowed.

He wandered along the packed streets as he ate.

The thing he missed most when returning to Jiankang was the food. His palate naturally craved spicier foods than were typically available here; he was a long way from what might have once been his home. Although home was an assumption he made only, going only on the dialect he spoke with, which had been softened over the years by his travel in the private army of Ye Qingyan and then his life in the capital in service of the Emperor.

He pondered as he walked; perhaps it was time to request a little time away from the palace, so he could return to Yunmeng to investigate his possible origins. He had wandered through the lakes soon after he’d left the farm near Yiling, hoping to stumble across some clue as to who he was, or jog his lost memories, but the area was occupied by invading forces, and was a bloody war zone; it wasn’t safe for ordinary people to be caught in the crossfire of two massive armies.

He had heard tell of a slaughtered family, of young generals making names for themselves, and he privately wondered if, before his memory loss, he might have been part of the defending army, and that was where his wounds had been earned. But how was he meant to pinpoint one missing life in a sea of so much death and destruction? It would have been impossible, and he couldn’t stay, and take the risk of falling into the hands of either side; how could he when he didn’t know friend from foe? Interrogators wouldn’t believe a story about lost memories if he fell into the wrong hands and was thought to be an enemy spy.

So he had abandoned his search and continued east in pursuit of Ye Qingyan, avoiding battles and armies as he travelled across the Central Plains.

Now, with his gained skills as a spymaster and information broker, he might still come up against the same impossible task of identifying one lost grain of rice in a field full of it, but he had more hope than he had then. Even with the passage of time a cold trail might sometimes be stumbled upon.

He had spent so many years putting the sadness, the emptiness, the sense of being broken, less than his whole, aside, covering it with a smile and a laugh. He hadn’t dared to dwell on it, lest it crush him.

But every little while, he would dream one of those unusual dreams that seemed too real to be purely imagination, but not real enough that he could be certain they were so. They plagued his sleep in clusters, and now those clusters came with increasing frequency.

What if it was his past life trying to break through to the surface, now the trauma had faded?

He should at least try to see if there were any trails to follow in Yunmeng. And he had a possible birth name to begin with.

Chéng.

It wouldn’t make things easy but it would ensure he was able to disregard some leads.

He finished his makeshift breakfast, called briefly at his lodgings in the barracks to bathe and change out of his travel-stained clothes, (oh how it annoyed Xue Rong, even now, that he refused to use the ministerial palace that had been allotted to him,) and made his way to the Emperor’s hall.

He intended to let Xue Rong’s aide know he was back and ready to report at the Tianzi’s leisure, then spend his time bringing himself up to date with happenings while he had been away from the capital.

Due to the fact he approached from the barracks and not the city gate, he saw the group approaching before any of them would have been able to see him.

He halted like he’d walked into an invisible wall.

One guard escortedtwo gentlemen cultivators

He guessed from their dress and the easily identified symbols of their clans that these two were likely Lan Xichen of the Gusu Lan sect, and Jin Guangyao of Lanling Jin, and current incumbent of the title of Chief Cultivator.

One was dressed in richly appointed gold robes, decorated in a peony motif, he was of medium height and bore a vermilion mark on his forehead. He wore a gauze hat, which was just as exquisitely embroidered and jewelled as his robes.

Jin Guangyao, Lianfang-zun, half-brother to the current Jin Sect leader.

And the second man should really have been overshadowed by the first, considering how plain his garb was in direct comparison to his companion’s. But in reality was like the dawn light measured against a star in the sky; it could only outshine.

This man was tall, willowy, and perfectly graceful in figure, movement and look.

A pristine white headband decorated with clouds sat at his brow and he was robed in pure white.

Lan Xichen, Zewu-jun, current sect leader of Gusu Lan.

That gentleman looked at his companion, as Jin Guangyao spoke to him, with gentle amber eyes. Eyes that Jiang Shao sometimes saw in his dreams.

Pure white robes.

Mourning robes. A strident, mocking voice, one he knew so well, but not at all, sounded in his head.

Gentle amber eyes.

A-Cheng. Tender tones spoken lowly in a rich timbre.

There was such a clamour in his head suddenly. He must have made a noise, or they caught his movement from the corner of their eyes, because the pairs’ gazes turned his way.

But he was a creature of the darkness and secrecy, and he didn’t wish to be seen. Not yet. Not like this, when he didn’t know up from down or real from false, so he ducked out of sight, and sank to the ground when he was assured he was unseen.

The implications were overwhelming.

If the jade-like lover of his dreams was real, how many of the others who appeared there were?

Chapter 1 Notes:

This is a post I referred to quite heavily, originally from lansizhuis blog but added to, as is one of the beauties of tumblr, by even more useful and helpful information by various people. I, and no doubt others who've found the information useful, can only thank them for their sharing their findings with the rest of us.

I needed an idea of what would be going on at court for the Emperor and Jiang Shao in the mdzs timeline. Xue Rong is therefore enthroned as the Emperor of the Southern Dynasty, who's capital would have been Jiankang, (present day Nanjing), in the 450's, which is situated georgraphically between where the Jin clan was based in Lanling, (present day Linyi), Shandong province, and the Lans in Gusu, (present day Suzhou, just south east of Nanjing), in Jiangsu province.

It's perfectly fair to say that an Emperor, at war with a powerful neighbouring empire would be very uncomfortable with these two powers almost pincering his capital, and would be suspicious of them if they weren't openly declaring for or against him. The entire arena for what happens in MDZS is in the borderlands between the Northern and Southern Dynasty's lands, it would make both north and south very nervous.

This is canon time divergence AU MDZS, but alternative universe SGQJ, which was set in the Zhou Dynasty. over a thousand years before when the likely time for MDZS to be set is, as per the research done by anon and others in the post linked above.

#mdzs fanfic #the legend of two sisters in the chaos fanfic #crossover #shaorong #xicheng #chaptered fic #mdzs canon divergence #alternate universe two sisters verse #blood #injury #amnesia #torn loyalties #slow burn xicheng #TWTLAL AU #Shay's stuff

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obsessedwithbbandsuju · 4 years

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True Love [Rewritten]

You been so convinced that Donghae was that special person for you. But then you began to notice that things were changing.

*Rewritten version of this

Pairing: Lee Donghae/Reader

Warnings: Infidelity

___

eonni: a term used by a female to refer to another female, older than her, that she is close to

___

True love.

It was never something you had really believed in, until you met Donghae. Maybe it was because your idea of true love was just too lofty. You wanted everything you read about in the books. Unshakable devotion. Absolute trust. Untouchable intimacy. Your idea of true love was the kind of love where no real work was needed between the two parties, because they belonged together. The kind of love where both parties were willing to move heaven and earth for the other. The kind of love where there was nothing else in the world that both partners valued over each other. The kind of love where both parties would sacrifice anything necessary for the other person. The kind of love that always burned high and never died down under the test of time like so many people around you told you relationships worked. The kind of love that a person never got over, no matter how many long, trying years passed. No matter how many of your partners left you, no matter how badly your relationships turned out, you seemed incapable of letting go of that ambition. It didn’t matter that you heard countless accounts of how love was nothing but tricks that hormones played, that all romantic love eventually became platonic love or just died, or even the many pessimists who claimed that love wasn’t real. You believed in your idea of true love, you believed it was possible to achieve that, and you wanted to achieve it. To find the one person that was meant for you.

You found that true love with Lee Donghae. God, how could you describe him? He was everything to you. You loved everything about him. There wasn’t a single thing in the world that you wouldn’t give up for his sake. If Hell existed, you knew you’d even willingly go there if he needed you to. You happened to run into him, by pure chance, when you went on a vacation to Korea. He walked into you, quite literally, and when you’d recognized the man apologizing profusely and offering you a hand to help you stand, you, as an avid Super Junior fan, had practically exploded.

But even that was nothing compared to how you felt when he asked you to be his girlfriend. You’d never felt such an intense, consuming high in your life before. It was more than you expected was possible for one human body to accommodate. How could you possibly have said no? You’d do anything for him. You gave up your close proximity with your family and moved to Korea, to his place. Now, normally, you weren’t one to rush relationships so much. You preferred to take it slow, and you had no interest in winding up in some man’s house only to go through the trouble of moving back barely three months later. But with Donghae, you knew it would be different. You’d never loved anyone before as much as you loved Donghae. His kindness, his humor, his liveliness, his charm, his smile, him – you were head over heels, you knew you were head over heels, and you were unapologetic and unashamed of acknowledging and admitting it. He was your entire world, and it was easy for you to tell that if you had to be in a long-distance relationship with him, you wouldn’t be able to take it. You usually wouldn’t be too keen to be dependent on a guy – after all, your Korean might be fluent since your parents had taught it to you since a young age, but you had no job, no way to make money. But Donghae, you trusted him completely.

You even gave him your first time. Even though he wasn’t your first relationship, and you leaned toward the preference of physical intimacy after marriage, he was the first person to make you feel like you could really find a home in him forever. He was the first person whom you trusted enough to give something so important to.

For nearly three years, the relationship felt flawless. The two of you would do everything together. Donghae would take you on walks outside and watch the sunset, holding your hand, smiling at you and telling you how beautiful, how perfect, you were. He’d happily help you with the laundry when he wasn’t busy with schedules, and often it’d end up in a childish fight of throwing clothes at each other until you’d made a mess and both of you were breathless and flushed with laughter. He’d lay in bed, holding you in his arms and telling you every little piece of himself. Often, he’d switch the topic to you then, making you flush with embarrassment as he described all the sweet things he’d thought about you and as he expressed how he couldn’t seem to breathe when you weren’t there with him.

Sure, you two had arguments here and there, but they ended rather quickly when you apologized. You couldn’t bear seeing Donghae angry, and neither did he enjoy it – he almost instantly accepted your apologies. He was loving, caring, and attentive, paid attention to your every detail and took the time to learn every single one of your likes and dislikes, so he could surprise you and please you on the appropriate occasions. When he was away, he always made sure to call every day, to ask how you were and to assure you that he’d be home soon. Even when he was exhausted with schedules there would be times when you walked out into the kitchen to see that he had made you a meal. He wasn’t the greatest cook in the world, but the thought and the love that had gone into the food made everything he made for you absolutely scrumptious.

Donghae was so impossibly good to you. He made you feel secure, full, loved, and protected, always, and your love for him burned. Sometimes, you thought it might just swallow you whole with its searing intensity. You couldn’t possibly ask for a happier relationship in every way possible, except…

Except the fact that you were jealous of his best friend.

You knew it was irrational – every empirical fact told you that it was, and you considered yourself a logical person. Yet for some unknowable reason, you were just unable to shake that feeling of envy that enveloped you whenever you saw Donghae with Hyukjae. You knew that their fans were fond of their relationship, you even knew they had a ship name, Eunhae, but you never thought you would pay it much attention. You trusted Donghae completely, after all, and even beyond that, you just weren’t a jealous person in general. In fact, you hated clinginess. But here you were, desperately trying to hide the fact that you turned green with envy whenever you saw Hyukjae with Donghae. You couldn’t place your finger on why.

Maybe it was just everything about Hyukjae’s relationship with Donghae made you draw unintentional comparisons with your relationship with him, and with every comparison yours seemed to be inferior. Hyukjae had known Donghae far, far longer than you had, which meant, at least in your mind, that he knew him much better. They had been best friends since practically adolescence, after all. How could you compete with that, with your measly three years of knowing your boyfriend? And it was always Hyukjae who made Donghae laugh, Hyukjae who Donghae had a visible soft spot for, Hyukjae who Donghae was clearly partial to. Meanwhile, it was always Donghae who made you laugh – your sense of humor just couldn’t seem to keep up with his. Not to mention, both Donghae and Hyukjae were absolutely gorgeous. You weren’t so bad yourself, but compared to them, you felt plain and unremarkable.

It was Hyukjae who had this undeniable, flawless chemistry, this sense of balance in every aspect, with Donghae, a kind that you just couldn’t seem to achieve. A kind that, you knew, you’d make a fool of yourself just trying to achieve.

And you didn’t mean to, but sometimes you’d catch yourself being snappish around Hyukjae. He was charming and nice and had never been unkind to you a day in his life, but you found yourself being curt, borderline rude, towards him. It was the only issue that had ever caused a significant rift between you and Donghae. The one thing that he raised his voice to you over.

Of course, you apologized because it was you who was in the wrong, and Donghae accepted your apology like he always did. But still, you never forgot that the one thing that made him truly shout at you was your unpleasantness towards his best friend. Out of all the things, that was what ticked him off the most? Combined with your insecurity regarding Donghae and Hyukjae’s relationship, you felt even more distressed.

Regardless, you kept your mouth shut about the issue. It had to be just you being illogically jealous, and there was no need to drag other people into that personal problem. Besides, if you spoke up about it you were pretty sure no one would take it seriously. Hell, even you couldn’t take it seriously most of the time. Why would you be jealous? There was no need to be – or so you kept telling yourself.

Then, late in the third year of your relationship with Donghae – almost the fourth – you realized your jealousy had been justified.

Donghae started acting differently around you, especially when he was around Hyukjae. Before, he would cling to you like a baby koala, peppering your face and neck with kisses, running his hands over your fingers, resting his chin on your shoulder. He was always absolutely overflowing with physical affection, as he considered it one of the best ways to express his feelings. But now… most of the exchanges that the two of you shared were comprised of short, quick greetings and farewells, and maybe the occasional kiss on the cheek from Donghae. When you tried to initiate anything beyond that he shied away, made excuses, apologized. He would leave early in the morning, even on days when Super Junior had no schedules, and came back late at night when you were already asleep. You barely even saw him around the shared apartment anymore, and when you did he always seemed nervous. Guilty, even. You weren’t an idiot – you didn’t need someone to spell out what was going on.

It honestly might have been better if he’d just cheated on you with a random someone, but no – like you said, your jealousy was justified. Because around Hyukjae, Donghae bloomed in a way he never did anymore when he was with you. He had practically become one with the other man, following him everywhere, smiling whenever he smiled, laughing whenever he laughed, sitting with him in corners and conversing intently with him like they were the only two people in the world. He would cling to Hyukjae, whisper playfully in his ear so the two of them would break into laughter at whatever secret joke they’d just shared. He’d complain when they had to be apart for even a second, forgetting completely about you as you walked silently next to him. When Hyukjae was there, Donghae all but ignored you. It wasn’t even like it was borne out of malice; he was simply so taken by Hyukjae’s presence that he couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to anything you.

As if the world was mocking you, as if that wasn’t enough evidence, you had opened your eyes late one night while dozing off on the couch to see Donghae coming back home after a meeting with Hyukjae, his lips swollen and his unbuttoned collar failing miserably to cover the hickeys on his neck, which most definitely weren’t from you. Anyone with half a brain would be able to figure out who exactly Donghae’s little fling was.

You were even certain that you knew the exact day that it had first started, which was an amazing testament to just how atrocious at covering themselves up Donghae and Hyukjae were. It was four months ago – a stressful day for you. You’d received a call from your older brother, Mingyu, that your father had collapsed from sudden cardiac arrest. Thrown into an absolute panic, and utterly, utterly afraid for your father’s life, you’d anxiously waited for an update on his condition, pacing the empty apartment you shared with your boyfriend for hours, breaking down and sobbing hysterically more than once or twice. Every ten minutes, you found yourself calling Donghae, who’d left about twenty minutes ago, because you were terrified. All the possibilities that might become reality were making you dizzy, sick, nauseous, and faint, and you needed him there to comfort you. You needed him to hold you to his chest and assure you that everything was going to be alright.

But he never picked up.

It was only after everything was over, four hours after you’d received the news, that your father was stable. You could have collapsed from relief right then and there.

Donghae had called you an hour after the situation was resolved, worried at the sheer volume of your calls. You’d been snappish and frazzled – rightfully so – demanding to know where he’d been for so long that he couldn’t pick up your calls. He’d apologized, telling you that he was out with his members, discussing the direction of Super Junior’s next album, and he’d left his phone off. You had forced yourself to calm down and told him you got it. And when Donghae got home, he was quick to embrace you and comfort you. The last thought that flitted through your mind as he wrapped his arms around you and you forgot everything in his warmth was the curiosity of why he seemed slightly sweaty. It wasn’t a hot day.

Of course, after that he’d gotten progressively easier to see through, until you’d pieced it all together, as anyone with half a brain would be able to. For a few months after it all clicked in your head, you didn’t say anything. You weren’t really sure what to say, honestly. Your heart had been shattered to pieces – that much was undeniable, and yet this wasn’t just any normal heartbreak. You couldn’t figure out how you were supposed to react. Sometimes you cursed Donghae’s name, other times you raged on your own at Hyukjae, other times you hated yourself for maybe not being good enough that Donghae would look at other people, and still other times you found yourself hoping that he would just stop it eventually. But he didn’t.

That particular day, you had shown up at Super Junior’s music video set, having bought some food for all of them. The boys all expressed their gratitude enthusiastically; Leeteuk called you their savior, Heechul gave you a dramatic hug, Kyuhyun profusely declared his thanks while practically devouring the food with his eyes, and even Eunhyuk approached to say thank you. (He had been trying to avoid you since roughly the time his relationship with Donghae started, although when you did have to interact he was nothing but pleasant, if a little distant.) You nodded stiffly, torn between glaring at him and not looking at him. Donghae gave you a hug, another peck on the cheek, and took some food to the far corner, standing with Hyukjae. You could make out the two men talking, completely absorbed in each other, while they ate. A lump grew in your throat. You were about to leave, but Heechul stopped you, invited you to eat with them as thanks. You really didn’t want to, but you also weren’t about to refuse his kindness. Even so, noticing the disappointed look in Donghae’s eyes when he heard you weren’t leaving yet was almost enough to make you break down in front of the entire group and their staff.

Somehow, you managed to weather the ordeal without letting your distress show. You said your goodbyes to the boys, and just when you were about to leave Donghae approached you, Hyukjae at his heels. The sight almost made you turn and haul ass away from the set, but you held your ground and miraculously kept your expression under control.

“Thanks again for the food,” Donghae said, smiling at you. He looked like he was excited but trying not to let it show. You knew why.

“Yeah.” Your voice was toneless. “I’ll see you at home.”

“Bye.” This time it was Hyukjae from behind your boyfriend. Or, you supposed bitterly, his boyfriend. There was such potent guilt in his voice that you wanted to slap him. If he was going to feel so bad about cheating with Donghae, he could at least have the indecency to be shameless about it. But no – he was doing it when he knew full well how wrong it was, and felt sorry because of it. Somehow, that made you angrier than the alternative.

You nodded once. Not wishing to hear anything more from them, you quickly left the set, your jaw clenched.

When you got home, you laid down and cried. There was nothing you could do except cry, thinking of all the times that you and Donghae had spent together, completely absorbed in and enamored with no one else but each other. You should have known better than to trust anyone, least of all him. You had given him everything, you had made him your entire world, you had left your home country and surrendered your independence, which you cherished so much, for him. You had given him your first time, going against your previously firm conviction that physical relations were for after marriage, believing in your heart that he wouldn’t betray you and disappoint you. And now everything – everything – was ruined. He’d taken all that you’d offered freely to him and then flung it callously to the wolves. And Hyukjae – he had taken Donghae, knowing how hopelessly in love with him you were. And what was more, he had the audacity to feel bad about what he did. If he was going to take Donghae from you he might as well do it like he meant it. But no – he had to be sorry for what he did. You hated them both – for doing this to you, for going behind your back like this, for letting whatever was between them go this far when you were in the picture, and most of all, for not being fucking honest. If they decided they were going to fuck then they could at least have had some goddamned human decency and told you about it so you didn’t have to find yourself involved in their bullshit.

You must have spent hours crying like that, curled up on your bed with your face buried in your pillow. No, this was your fault. It was you who had never done anything to deserve someone as amazing as Donghae. If only you’d been a better girlfriend. If only you weren’t so clingy. If only you weren’t so insensitive. If only you were prettier. If only you were more charming. If only you were more remarkable, Donghae wouldn’t have cheated on you. But you weren’t – you were just you. I’m plain, I’m boring, I’m dull, I’m just not worth it. Who cared if they hurt your feelings? Hell, who cared about your feelings? You should have been better. Swamped by similar negative thoughts, you began crying harder, just when you thought you were beginning to calm down.

When you finally raised your head from the pillow, your eyes blurry and raw and your throat hoarse, you saw that it was almost dinnertime. You weren’t hungry. You didn’t think food could ever be appetizing again.

Numb and weak, you sat up in bed. Your heart still felt like it was splintering in your chest, and the anguish of Donghae’s actions were as stark and potent as ever. You still wanted to cry, you still wanted to sob your heart out like you’d been doing for the past few hours, but your body wouldn’t produce any more tears.

Who cares about me? I’ve never deserved Donghae. Of course he’s tired of me and together with Hyukjae now. He should have someone better than me, anyway. Someone who isn’t as selfish. Someone who’s more fun. Someone who matches him. I’m not that person. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.

Except. You sighed heavily, reaching up and rubbing your swollen, tear-streaked eyes. Except you knew that wasn’t true. You weren’t about to let such stupid negative thoughts get to you. It was never a woman’s fault that her boyfriend cheated on her. It was all on him. You knew that – you’d known it since you were young. It wasn’t your fault, none of this was. It was solely, completely, Donghae and Hyukjae’s for fooling you the way they had.

Or trying to, you thought bitterly. They were awful, awful liars. The worst you’d seen in your life, probably.

Whatever else was true, it was clear that you weren’t going to let Donghae slide tonight. You were still helplessly in love with him – of course you were, otherwise this wouldn’t hurt as much – but even your feelings seemed like a child’s joke now. You’d given your heart to him willingly and he’d just spat back in your face. And you were angry.

It took another four hours for Donghae to get back. You sat on the couch the entire time with your elbows on the table in front of you, staring at the wall ahead and playing the words you wanted to say to him in your head. But when you heard the apartment code being put in, all your plans flew out the window. Nothing calculated was going to work here. You were just going to be upfront and say what came to mind, you decided, as you sat up and watched the door.

It swung open, revealing your cheating boyfriend, whose eyes immediately met yours. He froze slightly, probably not expecting you to be awake at this time. Usually you were in bed and dead to the world by now.

For your part, you had to fight back a scoff to see that Donghae’s hair was mussed and his lips were swollen. Once again, his collar was unbuttoned, barely halfway closed. Oh, he and Hyukjae had fucked recently? Right before Donghae was about to go home? For the love of fucking God, they were terrible at having a relationship in secret.

“What’s the matter?” The voice spoke from behind Donghae, and you very much recognized it; even before Donghae’s eyes widened, you knew who it was. This time, you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from bursting into laughter. What the fuck was this? He’d even brought Hyukjae all the way to your shared apartment now? Just how incompetent of a cheater could Donghae be?

“I – I brought Hyukjae over, Y/N,” Donghae stammered. “We need… we’re going to talk about the… a scene in the MV.”

You stared at him, silent with disbelief at the flimsiness of his excuse. Not to mention, even a toddler would be able to tell that he was lying.

Looking slightly frazzled at the unexpected fact that you weren’t asleep yet, Hyukjae came into your line of sight behind Donghae. “Hey, Y/N,” he greeted. It would have been casual if not for the nervous tremble in his voice. “Sorry – this idiot told me you’d be asleep by now.” His eyes flickered uneasily to Donghae before focusing on you again. For his part, your boyfriend looked like he was trying to gather his composure.

“Should I go?” Hyukjae asked. “We can talk about the scene another time, Donghae.”

“Yeah, that would probably––”

“No,” you interrupted, lacing your fingers together in front of you on the stand. Both men’s gazes snapped to you – they were being so visibly jumpy that it was painful to watch. “I’m actually glad you’re here, Hyukjae. Come in.”

A little uncertain, they did as you said. No sooner had they taken off their shoes and come half a meter into the apartment did you speak, too disgusted at the sight of them to hold your tongue any longer.

“I heard you two are together.”

Donghae and Hyukjae froze. Their eyes widened, almost in unison. Even that was an infuriating sight, seeing evidence that apparently they were just so in sync that they did everything simultaneously, unintentional or not. Maybe this was what people called soulmates. It made you want to pick up the stand and hurl it at their faces.

They tried their excuses at the same time, stumbling over their words, even though they really needn’t have bothered; both of them had gone so pale that any further confirmation would be pointless.

Donghae stammered. “Wh-what are you––”

Hyukjae avoided your eyes like he’d get the Black Death if he met them. “Who said something like––”

“It’s up to your answer.” You were in no mood to listen to their pathetic attempts at feinting their way around you. “You can be honest – or you can lie to me. If you’re honest––” your voice strained as you went on from the effort of trying to choke back the ugly, venomous bitterness that was overflowing up from the very bottom of your heart, “––I’ll resent you both for the rest of my life.”

They were silent – the kind of cowed silence that was usually seen on irresponsible children being scolded by their parents.

“But if you lie,” you continued steadily, only the faintest tremble of your voice giving away any hint of your fury, “I’ll never forgive you.” If they lied to you, that would be the worst betrayal. The two of them – your precious boyfriend, whom you were hopelessly in love with, and his dear best friend, who’d always been so friendly and welcoming to you – had disregarded you, trampled over your feelings, humiliated you, deceived you, for long enough. Enough for an entire lifetime. The least, the very fucking minimum, that they could do now, was not lie.

“You decide what’s better for you two. That’s all you’ve been doing when it comes to me, anyway.” Making decisions for yourselves, for the sake of this relationship between you two, not bothering to think about me. Not bothering to even be honest. Your words hung in the air, unchallenged, undisputed, as the two of them stared hard down at the ground. They seemed unable to even turn their faces in your direction.

“I heard it started that day four months ago,” you said when they refused to speak, with calmness that was eerie to even yourself. Donghae and Hyukjae looked at you, their eyes wide with shock. You just wanted to laugh; there was, quite literally, nothing for them to be shocked about, not with their lying capabilities. Your voice shuddered with disgust as you went on. “The day I was alone in the apartment crying over what would happen to my father. The day you lied that you were with your members!” The last sentence ended as a scream. “I called you, Donghae, so many times because I was so scared, and you two were off fucking each other?” There was a scoff in your tone. You realized that your eyes had teared up, and that you were smiling – smiling at the utter hopelessness of the situation that had started four months ago. Smiling at the utter wreck that had become of your relationship with the man you’d been willing to give your everything for.

Donghae and Hyukjae looked away. They were looking at anything but you – at the wall, at the floor, at their feet, at the windows – anywhere but at you. You faintly wondered what exactly it was they saw when they did look in your direction.

It was like they’d gone temporarily mute. Donghae opened his mouth, still avoiding your gaze, and then closed it again. Hyukjae’s lower lip trembled, like he was about to start crying. If he did, you might just shove him – them both, in fact – off the balcony with your own two hands.

“Who told you this?” Donghae said finally, though it was so quiet that it might as well have been a whimper. Anyone could tell he really wasn’t curious. It was just an attempt to forget his guilt, to block out the accusation in your stare and the venom you were practically spitting at him and Hyukjae. You weren’t having it. He deserved every bit of that venom and then so much more.

“Answer.” Your voice was a whisper. “Am I right?”

They didn’t. They were frozen, staring at you with crippling guilt in their eyes.

“Am I?!” you shrieked.

Donghae shuddered. Took a breath. You could see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he sucked in the oxygen. His answer was practically just an exhale – short, strained, stricken, choked.

“Yes.”

Behind him, Hyukjae sagged.

For a long second, you just stared at them both, and they stared back, fear stark in their eyes. You took in the sight before you – your boyfriend and his best friend, who had fucked behind your back four months prior and had continued fucking behind your back since. Your boyfriend and his best friend, who had made the touching decision that they were going to get together and it didn’t matter that you were still involved with Donghae. Your boyfriend and his best friend, two pathetic cowards who didn’t even have the courage to let an uninvolved bystander extricate herself from their business. The fans had always thought they’d suited each other, you’d always thought they’d suited each other – and that was right. They did suit each other – very, very well.

You laughed. At first it was just two quiet, breathless heaves, escaping you as you looked away from them. A tear slipped down your cheek. You brought your folded hands in front of your face, your head slumping against them as you stared despondently at the table. Then the laughter came harder, evolving into quiet chuckling, and you hid your face in your hands as your shoulders shook with each tired chortle that slipped from your mouth.

It took you a few seconds to regain your composure. You raised your head and rubbed your hands together to dispel the wetness from your tears before you let them fall back on the table in front of you, facing Donghae and Hyukjae once again with a small, bitter smile. It wasn’t fake at all.

Sucking in a ragged breath, you studied the men in front of with perverse fascination, intrigued despite how viscerally repulsive you found the sight of them. “Just what the hell are you two?” you choked out disbelievingly, unable to keep the scorn from your tone.

“I’m so sorry,” Donghae whispered. You were silent. It was impossible to express in words how meaningless his apology was. Next to Donghae, Hyukjae’s head hung. You noticed that his fingers were entwined with your boyfriend’s, the two of them instinctively holding hands for comfort against the force of your rage.

“It must have been such a beautiful moment for the two of you,” you said quietly. You could practically picture it. One of them confessing, the other accepting it, both of them deciding that they were together now and declaring their love for each other. How sweet.

They both flinched.

“So? How did it go?” The smile you gave them was weak and mirthless. “Did Donghae confess first? Hyukjae? Did you hold hands and cry with joy that you both returned each other’s feelings?”

It was only then that Hyukjae finally seemed to regain his voice. The words came out feeble and shriveled, but they came out nonetheless. “It was me. I confessed first. It was backstage of a concert, right before we performed… the one we had the day before your father collapsed. I told him…” He trembled, his voice cracking for a second. “I told him I’d loved him since we first met.”

You stared wordlessly at the table.

“Then I knew,” Donghae burst out, like he’d been burning to say this forever but had kept hesitating until now. It must be satisfying for him, you thought. Finally being forthright with you after four months of lying. “I knew that I – I loved him too. It was like all my feelings came crashing down on me.”

So then, the next day, you left me in the apartment and was off fucking him when my father collapsed. Bitterly, wearily, you put it all together in your head. That’s what happened.

“Please… Please believe me, Y/N,” Donghae’s voice shook. “I did love you. I really did. You were everything I thought about when I thought about happiness. But then Hyukjae confessed to me, and I realized… it won’t work out between us. We aren’t meant to be.”

“I’m sorry.” Hyukjae sounded near tears. “This is my fault, Y/N. I shouldn’t have told him how I felt, but I couldn’t help it. Please… hate me. Don’t hate him. It’s me that got between the two of you.”

Your teeth clenched as white-hot heat flared up inside you. Really? That’s what they were apologizing about? No. No, they were talking like they’d wronged you, yes, but they just couldn’t help it because they were just so in love. And maybe that was true. And it hurt that you and Donghae’s relationship had crumbled so laughably – but that wasn’t why you were so revolted by them. It was because there was something they should be infinitely sorrier about.

“Who said anything about me and him?” you hissed, glaring at Donghae. He looked shocked at your callous words. It made you angrier. “You fucking idiots. You disgusting, pathetic, cowards – do you really think the problem is that you two are together?” You stood, knocking the stand in front of you over with the force of the movement. “No. You two are sobbing about how sorry you are for ruining my relationship – how about being sorry for, I don’t know, not telling me earlier? All you had to do – really, all you had to do was come to me four months ago and say, ‘I’m sorry Y/N, but we’re together now. There’s no place for you here anymore.’ That was it.” You wanted to smash a bowl against their faces and hear, feel, the glass shattering at the force of its impact with their skulls underneath the skin.

“You couldn’t do that? You couldn’t extend me that basic courtesy? You couldn’t just say it to my face so I could get out of your business? So I wouldn’t have to spend four fucking months wallowing because of your bullshit?!”

“I…” Donghae looked stricken at your words, like he’d never even considered that the worst thing he and Hyukjae had done to you was simply not having the very rudimental decency to tell you upfront. “I didn’t want to hurt you. But it looks like I – I hurt you anyway. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

You laughed again. It was still a short spurt, but this time, it came out shrill and incredulous, even as your body felt like sagging from weariness at just how ridiculous this was. Had you just heard him right? He didn’t want to hurt you? What a joke.

“No, this is because of me.” This time it was Hyukjae who spoke. “You can… you can hate me, Y/N. Shout at me, hit me, slander me. Tell the public that I’m a lying scumbag, if you want. Just… just leave Donghae out of it. Please.”

“No,” Donghae cut in, shaking his head desperately. “Don’t hurt Hyukjae, Y/N. This is all my fault. I should have stopped myself from doing this to you. You can do anything you want to me, so please… please don’t touch him.”

You clenched your fists, their pleas for you to leave the other alone filling you with ugly resentment. They really were so in love – even your eyes, you who didn’t want to see it, could pick it up easily. For a moment, you were tempted. You thought of all the things you could do to both of them. Screaming at them, punching them, kicking them – that was the least of it. If you wanted you could even spread information that might leave an inerasable stain on their images. You could ruin their careers if you got lucky, leave them humiliated and waist-high in scandal and unable to appear in public again.

But…

You weren’t going to do it.

You were smart enough to know that it would bring you no kind of satisfaction. You didn’t think anything you did to the two men in front of you would satisfy you. Even if they got on their knees in front of you and begged you to forgive them, even if Donghae ended it with Hyukjae to have you back, even if you somehow got some sort of sick revenge on the both of them, you wouldn’t feel better. You’d never feel better again. Exhaustion washed over you.

“Just leave me alone while I pack my things,” you said tiredly. “That’s the only thing you two can do for me.”

“P-pack your things?” Donghae stared at you. “Y/N, are you…?”

“I’m leaving.” There was no point in you being here any longer. You were returning to your home country, to the family you’d left behind, putting this rotten mess in the past for good. You would have laughed if you had the energy. You recalled arriving at this apartment three years ago, Donghae’s hand in yours as he smiled at you, your chest filled to the brim with anticipation and hope for the future. You thought you had countless long years with him by your side stretching ahead of you. You’d been so sure that he was the one; you’d been so sure that there was no one who could ever be better to you. And now here you were, about to pack up and leave because he’d cheated on you, kept you in the dark for fourth months, taken the adoration and love you’d offered him and thrown it back in your face. And yet, a traitorous part of your heart hoped that he would try to stop you. To convince you to stay with him. Something to show that he still, deep down in there somewhere, in any way possible, loved you.

But he didn’t.

Of course not, you thought, even as you could feel your heart splintering to pieces in your chest. Why would he? He has Hyukjae. They’re probably rejoicing. This is probably the perfect opportunity to get rid of me without feeling bad themselves.

Wordlessly, you walked past them and to the bedroom that you and Donghae shared. Refusing to look at the bed that you two had lain in together, the framed pictures that you two had taken together, the scattered sheets of music that you two had written together, the books on the shelf that you two had read together, you packed your things. The movement were almost mechanical; your clothes, your toothbrush, your hairbrush, your makeup, your phone – the essentials. You had no desire to take anything else. You wanted to leave this chapter of your life completely behind you. You wanted to forget that Lee Donghae had ever meant anything to you. And yet, the crushing, agonizing pressure in your chest told you that that would be impossible.

You loved him. The true love that you had wanted so fiercely since you were young. As you shoved the last of your items into your suitcase, everything settled around you. This was it. You were leaving him. He’d fallen in love with somebody else. They were happy together. And you – you were doomed to spend your entire life without him – crying over him, longing for him, hating him, resenting him, and yet still so irrevocably in love with him. That was your future.

And that entire time you were miserable, he’d be happy with Hyukjae. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. It was cruel – and yet it was your reality that you had to live the rest of your life with. You wanted to cry, but your body would produce no more tears. You were entirely drained.

“Y/N, you can’t just go charging out there,” Hyukjae said as you emerged from the bedroom, your suitcase packed. “How will you get home?” Next to his friend – his boyfriend, Donghae nodded, worry and shame in his eyes. “Hyukjae’s right. At least make plans. I’ll pay for everything.” His offer rang hollowly in your ears. It would have been preferable if both of them just ignored you.

“Don’t worry about it,” you replied flatly. “You two have ever worried about me anyway.”

That shut them up. Not sparing them another glance, you left the apartment and made your way down the hallway and down the stairs. Once outside, you called a friend.

“Hello? Y/N-eonni?” The calm voice of Pandora’s leader on the other end of the line somehow seemed to ground you.

“Taeyeon,” you greeted her.

“Are you okay?”

Well, shit. You weren’t planning on sounding so obviously despondent, but clearly your feelings were harder to hide than you thought they’d be. Your chest ached as you thought of the entire life, the entire world, that you’d just left behind. A lump formed in your throat, and you had to choke past it painfully to speak. “…No.”

You and Taeyeon weren’t exactly the closest of companions, but she did like you and you did like her, and she was the kind of person you could see yourself hitting it off with extremely well were you not headed back home. You were close enough to be called friends, even though a few years ago you never thought you’d be able to label your relationship with Pandora’s leader as anything remotely similar to that. Since you had dated Donghae for a considerable amount of time, and she was a good friend of Super Junior’s, you’d met her and gotten closer to her.

“Why’s that?” That was part of what you liked about Taeyeon. Despite her obviously being able to tell that you were down in the dumps, she didn’t treat you differently like you had become some wounded animal that needed careful handling. She sounded sympathetic, but not cautious or afraid of poking somewhere too painful.

“I broke up with Donghae.”

Without giving her the details, you explained that you’d parted with your boyfriend and needed a place to stay until you could make your plans to leave Korea. She accepted and invited you to live in her apartment for the time you needed.

You remained at Taeyeon’s place for about a week, getting everything together in preparation for your flight back home. You had no money, since you’d given up your financial independence like a goddamn fool when you’d fallen for Donghae, but Taeyeon had you covered. She insisted that you didn’t have to pay her back, but you insisted even harder, not being the type of person to like being in any kind of debt, even potential. So you two agreed that you’d pay her back within a month of your flight back home.

It was only until you were on the plane and sailing over the ocean that it all crashed down on you once again. Your head pounding and your throat tightening, you tried to muffle your intense sobbing as to not disturb the passengers near you, although the bewildered, annoyed, and worried stares that bored into your skin the entire way was more than enough to let you know that you hadn’t exactly succeeded in that regard.

When you got back home, your family gave you a warm welcome back. Having them with you again made you smile genuinely, but the pain was far worse than any joy you could feel.

You got a place back at your old job and threw yourself into work. It did feel good to be in control of your own income again, even if you had to start from the bottom after three years of absence, but that satisfaction was completely engulfed by how heartsick you felt. When you had time you found yourself staring listlessly at the ceiling or the wall, sometimes bursting into tears as you curled up in your bed or on the sofa, your chest feeling like it was going to split right down the middle one day soon. You couldn’t stop thinking of Donghae constantly – in fact, he was probably the one topic that occupied your mind the most. How was he? Did he miss you, like you missed him? No – of course he didn’t. He had Hyukjae, and evidently Hyukjae had mattered more to him than you ever had. Did he even bother to think of you, even occasionally? Even just once since you’d left?

You couldn’t even find any respite in your dreams. You’d often struggle your way to consciousness before the sun was up, your eyes wet with tears and the blunt, crushing pain in your chest pressing down on you, making it hard to breathe. You’d have dreams about the days that you and Donghae had spent together when the two of you were each other’s world, dreams of him lifting you in his arms and spinning you around, dreams of him embracing you and holding you to his chest, dreams of him kissing you. You’d even have dreams as mundane as walking through a bustling street with his hand in yours, your steps perfectly synchronized. Sometimes, if the universe was feeling particularly cruel, you’d have dreams of him and Hyukjae, happily, contentedly, in love.

And you tried. You really tried to smile through it all, but deep down inside, you could feel the sense of desperation choking you. This was how you would live from now on, for the rest of your life. Longing for a man who’d discarded you like trash. You’d spend your days wallowing in your misery, unable to forget Lee Donghae.

Sitting on the couch of your apartment, you found the tears overwhelming you again. You tried to swallow them, to push them back, to bury them and tell yourself that crying was no use, that you were fine, that you’d be fine – but it was all pointless. A tear slipped down your cheek, and your fragile defenses completely broke. You sobbed, burying your fingers in your hair as your cries shook your entire body, drowning out all other thoughts. This was it. This was the life you’d have to live. In constant pain, crying your soul out for a man who’d betrayed you and found happiness with someone else after it. He might have cheated on you, but you’d truly loved him. You’d truly loved him, and true love didn’t go away. It never faded, it never got better, no matter how much time passed.

You were doomed to this until you died.

But then something changed. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but you could tell something was different. Your thoughts were still constantly occupied with Donghae, but there was a little bit less agony that seized your body when you thought of him, a little less resentment and a little less bitterness. He still made you cry, and you still hated how he was undoubtedly happy without you, but the pain and betrayal you felt towards him – towards both him and Hyukjae – was just slightly less. You brushed it off, because surely, you thought – surely, it’d come back soon, stronger than ever.

But it didn’t.

It only got lesser and lesser as time passed. That lump of ferocious, acrid emotion that had lodged itself in your chest since you’d found out about Donghae’s infidelity and had only been growing for all those months began to shrivel inside you. At first it was just subtle things; your tears took a little less time to come when you thought about him, or there’d be tiny little increments of the day when you forgot he’d ever been anything more than just a celebrity to you. The changes were so small that you didn’t even notice them.

But then kept getting more and more drastic. Once, you came across a Super Junior D&E video on your YouTube recommended, and the thumbnail was Donghae and Eunhyuk. As your gaze settled on them and recognition flared inside you, you braced yourself for the rush of anger and sadness that was sure to come. But it never did. Another time, you found yourself mindlessly thinking back to the time you’d broken up with Donghae, when you’d confronted him and Hyukjae about their relationship. It took you a good few minutes to realize that you could hardly feel anything in you when you pictured that day again. You should be feeling all kinds of negative emotions, you should be starting to tear up again, but you weren’t. Your dreams dwindled, too. You slept better, fuller, longer, and no longer woke up feeling like you were about to start crying. You woke up feeling rested and content and ready for the day ahead of you.

Often, you had to consciously remind yourself to think about Donghae. You had to remind yourself to feel sadness when he came up in your mind. The love of your life, the man who gave everything you offered him and spat it back in your face, you reminded yourself, and yet the overflowing misery and resentment and pain you thought you’d feel forever when you thought of him just wouldn’t well up inside of you. That’s when you began to wonder. It crept into your mind, gradually, surreptitiously, like some snake sneaking up on a mouse.

What if I didn’t…

No. No, you told yourself.

So you actively began clinging to misery, to resentment. I’m sad and I’m angry at what Donghae and Hyukjae did to me, you told yourself. I am. I have to be. You deliberately thought about the two men, you deliberately made yourself relive what they’d put you through, in an attempt to make that same awful pain of betrayal and heartbreak stick with you. You tried to tell yourself that you loved Donghae, that you truly loved him, and that you were never getting over this. Over him. You were bitter, you were angry, you were heartbroken. You were.

The alternative was… too sad.

But by the sixth month of your parting with Donghae, you couldn’t try any longer.

You sat on your couch, on the same spot that you’d spent so many hours curled up and crying thinking about him. You weren’t crying now, you weren’t even close to crying now, but there was a certain heaviness to your heart.

In one last-ditch attempt, you took yourself back in time. “Yes,” Donghae said, in response to your question. Yes, he and Hyukjae were together. Yes, he and Hyukjae were in love. Yes, he no longer loved you. Yes, this was the man you’d given up your entire world for, telling you to your face – yes, he had betrayed everything you freely offered to him: your trust, your belief, your love, your heart––

Cry, you told yourself. Cry, Y/N.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Resigned to your reality, you stared at the stand in front of your couch. I’m sorry, Donghae, you thought. This was the undeniable truth, the ridiculous, dejecting outcome of it all. You thought of how Donghae had betrayed you, you thought of how Donghae had lied to you, you thought of how Donghae had tossed you aside for someone else, you thought about how Donghae was happy with Hyukjae. And you just…

You didn’t care.

You’d tried, but it was impossible. You couldn’t make yourself care.

There was nothing for you to do but accept the truth you’d come to realize about yourself. You’d gotten bored of being heartbroken over Donghae. You’d gotten bored of Donghae.

For months you’d tried to deny it – you’d tried to deny what was only becoming clearer to you. You were recovering from what he’d done to you, you were getting over him – forgetting him. The thought of him did nothing to you anymore.

You’d thought – no, you’d sincerely believed – that you loved him. That it was your true love that you’d felt towards him, whatever it had been that he felt towards you. That true love that a person never recovered from, that true love that never died down no matter how many long, trying years passed.

But it had. It had died down. Whatever you’d felt for Donghae, it was gone. And it hadn’t even taken years. It hadn’t even taken a single year.

Did I even really love you?

Silent, you folded your hands on your lap. Your apartment seemed to have wilted with your admittance of the truth.

No. You hadn’t.

You once thought there was nothing that could be sadder than what happened to you six months ago. Nothing could be sadder than parting from the love of your life in the way you had. But you knew better now. This was it. There was nothing that could possibly be sadder than this.

You’d believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that you loved Donghae. You’d definitely loved him so much, so fervently, so fiercely, that you were willing to give him your world, you were willing to give him your everything. You called him your everything – your sky, your stars, your sun, your moon, your blood, and your oxygen. But in the end, it was nothing but the passing of time that saw it all crumbling to pieces. You no longer cared about Donghae, you no longer cared about what he and Hyukjae had done to you – simply because you’d gotten bored of caring. This was the man you thought you could have died for, and in the end, you walked away because you were bored of him.

There was nothing else to it. It wasn’t because of some self-enlightened realization that you were better off without him, it wasn’t because you’d found someone else who was so much better than he was, it wasn’t because you’d decided that he wasn’t worth your sadness after he’d cheated on you, it wasn’t because of some life-changing epiphany that you’d experienced. No, it was solely, completely, and only because you were bored of him. It was just that easy for Donghae to lose all meaning to you.

That was sadder than anything else in the world.

You opened the gallery on your phone. It was still full of pictures that you and Donghae had taken together. Numbly, almost mechanically, you went through and deleted every single one until just one more remained. At it, you paused. It was a selfie that you and him had taken together within the first year of your relationship. You studied Donghae’s handsome face, tracing your eyes over every contour of his skin – but nothing stirred inside you. You remembered how you felt taking this photo. You had been on cloud nine, giddy and ecstatic that you were dating Lee Donghae, and completely convinced that you were in love with him, totally and undeniably.

And yet, here you were, faced with the undeniable reality that all it had taken was time for him to become nothing to you. You hadn’t even had to try.

“I’m sorry, Donghae,” you said quietly. And you were. Sorry that you and he had wasted three years of your lives, mistaking whatever you’d felt towards each other as love. Sorry that you and he had ever bothered with each other when the both of you could have spent that time doing something so much more meaningful. Sorry that those three years that the two of you had spent together now meant nothing to anyone – not to him, and not to you.

“We were a pretty good couple,” you told the photo, toneless. Apathetic. “That’s reason enough.”

It would have to be reason enough; otherwise, the three years you and Donghae had been together would really and truly be meaningless.

The words hung in the air, tragic and dull but undeniably true. It was sad. You thought you’d loved him with every ounce, every atom, of your entire being, so much that you felt like you would burn up with the force of it, but in the end, all you could sincerely say was that the two of you had been pretty alright. That was all the two of you together and all the times you’d spent by each other’s sides amounted to. Pretty alright.

You deleted the photo.

“And you, Y/N, and your team are assigned to Super Junior.”

Well, fuck.

Four years after you returned to your country, your company had risen and grown until it encompassed a significant portion of the world’s fashion business – and you had risen and grown right alongside it. You were the leader of a team of stylists and designers whose entire focus was to delve into and become involved with the kpop industry. You weren’t exactly famous, but you’d become quite well-known around your area of business in your own right, which was a weird thought that you tried your best not to dwell on.

And now your team was assigned to work with Super Junior. You weren’t against it – you recognized what a big opportunity this was for you, your team, and your company, and you knew how to remain professional. But the odds of the situation were certainly worth a little amusement.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Mingyu, your older brother, asked you when he heard the news. “I don’t know how that bastard hurt you, but you were a wreck after you came back, Y/N.”

“Stop it,” you chided, hitting him lightly on the head. “Don’t call Donghae that. You shouldn’t be holding grudges when even I already forgot what happened between us. I’ll be fine.”

A few weeks later, you walked into the meeting room with your team behind you to be introduced to Super Junior. Rin looked calm and collected as she always was, her black hair tied neatly behind her and her gaze steady. Joohyun had been alternating between nervous silence and nervous jitters, but she seemed to have gotten a grip of herself, her head held high and her eyes sharp. Sejin was taking a deep breath, but otherwise, she was composed. Kaito looked faintly terrified – he was the youngest, newest, and least experienced on the team, after all – but otherwise, he looked like he knew what he was doing.

“I’m L/N Y/N,” you greeted Super Junior, ignoring the recognition and then the shock on their faces as you bowed deeply. “I hope we’ll get along well. Please don’t hesitate to approach me or anyone in my team if you think there’s something about your styling and outfits that could be better.” As you talked, your gaze swept each one of them, seeing pretty much the same expressions of complete surprise – at least until you came to Donghae and Hyukjae, sitting next to each other at the meeting table.

They were absolutely paralyzed. There was no other way to describe it – it was like they’d been told the entire reality they lived in was a fabrication or something. You couldn’t really fault them for their reaction, but for everyone’s sake you hoped they got it together fast. There was a time and place for that shock, and now was not it.

Irritation flickered in you as you realized you’d probably have to speak to them separately if you wanted to avoid any unnecessary tension that would interfere with business. Keeping your face neutral, you let the other members of your team introduce themselves.

After introductions were finished, you and your team spent an hour discussing things with Super Junior. As you’d expected, they were all experienced enough to know not to bring up the many questions they undoubtedly had about your new position working with them, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t clearly see their curiosity.

Following the meeting, you decided that the sooner, the better.

“You guys go on ahead,” you told your team, “I have something to discuss with these gentlemen.”

Once you and Super Junior were alone, absolute awkwardness settled over all of the people in the room. You wondered if it was their first time being faced with one of their members’ exes. Finally, tired of the stuffy silence and annoyed with their apparent inability to say anything, you spoke first.

“I know this isn’t what any of us expected, but I’m sure all of you are aware that we’re here for business. It’ll be hard to stay professional if you guys keep remembering that I’m the ex of one of the members here––” You could have sworn Donghae and Hyukjae both flinched a little, and wondered if they’d told the others what exactly had happened four years ago, why you’d left so suddenly. “––so don’t think about that. You’re all my clients, nothing more. Let’s all get along and do our best. Okay?”

They all agreed, almost a little too eagerly. Looks like they’d been worried about how they were going to manage this situation. You were a little concerned, too, and you knew it’d be an experience, but you were confident that it wasn’t going to affect your professional performance. Whatever had happened between you and the members – especially a certain two – ended four years ago. It already felt like another lifetime. You were so different back then, naïve and full of ridiculous, idealistic dreams. You knew better now.

About a month later, Super Junior was preparing for their comeback, and it was the day of their costume fitting. Each team member had been assigned a certain few members to design clothes for and style, and it was just your luck that you got Donghae and Eunhyuk. You’d groaned a little when you saw that you got them, but there was nothing to be done about it, and you supposed it would give you an opportunity to talk with them. All the other members had become more natural around you except for those two, and you were pretty sure that the rest of Super Junior, as well as your team members, had noticed something was amiss. Not good.

You arrived at the SM building, the clothes you’d hand-designed for them and three cups of coffee at the ready. You remembered what flavors both of them liked, and hoped that they hadn’t changed.

When Donghae and Eunhyuk saw you waiting for them, they went the smallest bit pale. You waved them over, too impatient to let them gather themselves.

“Here,” you said briskly as you put each respective coffee in front of them on the table. “I hope you both still like the same flavors that you did four years ago.”

Donghae’s eyes flicked from the coffee, to Hyukjae, to you. “Y-yeah. We still do.” He sounded like a little kid, uncertain and shy, not knowing what to do. His boyfriend – were they still together? – didn’t seem to be faring much better.

“You two need to relax,” you scolded, but you knew just the words weren’t going to do much. If you wanted them to feel comfortable around you – and you did, an appropriately comfortable relationship was important for good professional partnerships – you’d have to ease them into it. Talk to them. You weren’t going to get rid of the tension between the three of you any other way.

“How are you guys?” you asked. “Are you still together?”

Both men looked up at you, wariness in their eyes. You wanted to sigh, but instead you took a sip of your coffee before looking at them again. “It’s not a trick question, you know. I’m curious.” And you kind of were; the sort of fairly apathetic curiosity that motivated you to ask, but most of the time it wasn’t something that you really gave any thought to.

“We are.” Hyukjae’s reply was cautious. There was a hint of shame in his voice that you thought was unnecessary.

“That’s good,” you said, genuinely. They, at the very least, seemed to have really, sincerely, loved each other, if your memory served you right – which was more than what could be said about you and Donghae. It would be sad to hear that a couple that cared so much about each other ended up breaking up eventually, too.

Both of them flinched again, as if they’d somehow wronged you by staying together. You rolled your eyes.

“You don’t need to feel sorry,” you told them, ignoring the surprise on their faces that their feelings had been picked up. You had been in your business long enough to be pretty good at reading people.

“How can we not be?” Hyukjae asked softly. “You probably still hate us. It feels wrong to flaunt it in front of you.”

Pursing your lips in surprise at his belief that you still hated them, you eyed the two of them with mild amusement. “Don’t worry about that.”

Confusion filled Hyukjae’s eyes. “But… don’t you hate that we’re together? Don’t you hate us? After what…” he faltered, hesitant to bring the past up. “… after what we did to you?”

You glanced down at your coffee briefly, wondering how to articulate how exactly you felt about Donghae and Hyukjae being a thing and how exactly you felt about Donghae and Hyukjae. Mild congratulations for their relationship and mild fondness for them, maybe, but other than that, nothing.

“No, I don’t really have any thoughts about it,” you replied truthfully, looking back up at them. It had been over three years, nearly four, since you’d cared about or given much consideration to Donghae and Hyukjae. You knew they were together, but it was never something that had held your consideration for more than a few seconds. In fact, you hadn’t given it enough thought to even realize before now that it wasn’t something you particularly cared about.

“How have you been, Y/N?” This time it was Donghae – the first time he’d asked you a question. He looked somewhat afraid to hear your answer, like you were going to tell him something harsh. Well, you thought idly, Donghae always did worry a lot.

“I’ve been fine, I guess,” you said. “Actually, I’ve been good.” And you had. You’d changed a lot in the four years it had been since you saw Donghae and Hyukjae, but it was all for the better. You were more self-assured, more level-headed, more willing to take the initiative, and you’d abandoned your fanciful notions of romance and love. For that last part, you had the two men sitting in front of you to thank.

“That’s… that’s good.” He seemed to be grappling with something before he added uncertainly, “But it’s not exactly what I meant.”

Taking another sip of your coffee, you raised your eyebrow at him.

Seeing your beckoning look, he continued. “I might be overstepping my boundaries, but… after you left. What did you do?” Next to Donghae, Hyukjae was watching you with a twin expression of guilty curiosity as his boyfriend.

“Well, I went back home and got a place at my old job,” you began. Donghae had worded his question like he would be satisfied with just that answer – after all, that was pretty much the only significant thing you’d done when you arrived back home after breaking up with him – but you could tell that he was asking about more than that. Not just what you’d done after you got back home, but how you’d felt. You wondered briefly if it should make you angry that he and Hyukjae wanted to know how you’d felt – after all, they were the reason you’d been so miserable and had spent so much of your time just crying during the first few months of your arrival in your home country. But you weren’t angry at them. There wasn’t much that you felt towards the two men sitting across from you, except maybe still apologetic towards Donghae.

Speaking of which…

“Oh, there’s something I need to apologize to you for, Donghae.”

The two of them stared at you; you could practically see the question in their eyes. Something that you need to apologize to Donghae for?

But you did need to apologize to him for this. It was something you felt sincerely sorry about.

“When I first got back home,” you said, “I was torn up. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I thought I wouldn’t be able to live the rest of my life without you.”

There was a flicker of something in Donghae’s eyes. If you put a name to it, you’d almost say it looked like hope, but what place did that have here? You must have been mistaken, even though your intuition was usually accurate. Hyukjae glanced furtively over at Donghae; you wondered if he’d seen that emotion, whatever it was, in his boyfriend’s gaze. It wasn’t really of concern, though, so you went on after another sip from your cup.

“But it didn’t take a long time until that all faded away. I was surprised, at first. I was so convinced that I’d never be able to get over you and what you did to me, but all it took was a few months before I didn’t care.” You didn’t know why you were being so candid with the two of them. You hadn’t been intending to tell them all this, but, now that you were here, you felt like you had to. You felt like it would be the last step in completely and ultimately leaving behind that chapter of your life. You had found your closure four years ago; now you needed to give Donghae and Hyukjae closure, too.

“I tried to be sad, you know,” you told them. “I tried to convince myself that I was angry, and heartbroken, and that I was never going to get over you, Donghae. But I guess I should have known better – just trying is never enough for anything, after all.”

You met their eyes, one at a time, slightly confused by what you saw there. Donghae looked a little shocked and dejected, and Hyukjae looked worried. Wondering if you were missing something, you went silent briefly, studying them. Before you could draw any conclusions, though, Donghae spoke.

“Then what happened?” he asked, his voice faint. “Why did you want to apologize to me, Y/N?”

“Nothing really happened,” you admitted. “It’s just… strange, Donghae. I was sure I loved you with all my heart. I was willing to give you my entire world – but all it took was a few months for me to become bored of missing you. To become bored of you. Accepting that I never really loved you was jarring.” Reminded of the quiet despondency that had surrounded that realization four years ago, you took one last sip of your coffee, finishing it off.

“I guess I want to say… I’m sorry that we wasted so much time on each other, Donghae. We could have both been doing more useful things while we were busy playing at being in love.” You smiled grimly at him. “I thought nothing could be more heartbreaking to me than the way we parted, but realizing that all it takes is a few months for the person I was confident that I was completely in love with to lose all meaning to me… there’s nothing more depressing than that.”

Donghae and Hyukjae were silent as you reminisced. It had been years since you thought of that despondency that had come over you when you realized you could no longer deny that what you’d felt for Donghae had never been love, but it was just as sad to feel now as it was back then.

“I… I see.” Donghae sounded strained. “It’s okay, Y/N. I was – I was happy with you for a long time.”

“If you think of it that way, I’m grateful.” You were sincerely glad that he was able to take the optimistic version of it. Standing, you gave both men a genuine smile.

“We were a pretty good couple, Donghae,” you said. “That was a good enough reason for our relationship. And I have a feeling that you two will make it through anything.”

“Thank you, Y/N,” Hyukjae murmured.

“I’m just being honest,” you assured him, satisfied that you’d been able to resolve the issue by clarifying to them that you didn’t care anymore about what had happened in the past between the three of you. “I’ll be waiting in the fitting room with your clothes. Take your time.”

As you walked off, Hyukjae put a hand on Donghae’s shoulder. “Are you… are you okay?” he asked his boyfriend worriedly.

Donghae shook his head, staring down at the table. “I’m not sure.” He really didn’t know how to feel, how to take this information. We were a pretty good couple, Donghae. For the nearly three years that he and you had spent together, thinking of each other as your entire worlds, to amount to nothing but we were a pretty good couple to you… he could tell you were being truthful, if your apathy as you talked about how you’d first felt after breaking up with him wasn’t indication enough.

Accepting that I never really loved you was jarring.

Donghae had always wondered if one day, you’d show up to get revenge for what he’d done to you. You weren’t that kind of person and he knew it, but after the way he’d hurt you, he wouldn’t have been surprised if you changed – if you’d become bitter and spiteful and wanted to see him ruined. He couldn’t have blamed you for that – for wanting to hurt him.

But this… it hurt more than anything he could have imagined. Your admission that it had taken you only months to stop caring about him – when he still wasn’t completely over you, even now. Your admission that you’d never really loved him – when, four years later, he was still in love with you and he still regretted that he couldn’t have convinced you to stay with him.

He supposed this was your revenge. The fact that it was unintentional, innocuous, that you weren’t even aware how much your words had burned, made it all the more painful.

I’m sorry we wasted so much time on each other, Donghae.

It hadn’t been that to him. He had felt blessed for being able to spend so long with you, and hoped against hope that someday that time could somehow come back. But he knew now that to you, it had just been a waste.

#super junior reactions #super junior imagines #super junior scenarios #super junior #donghae scenarios #donghae reactions #donghae imagines #donghae x reader #donghae x you #super junior x reader #super junior x you #lee donghae #donghae #eunhae scenarios #eunhae imagines #eunhae reactions #eunhae #my writing

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 4 years

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Michael in the Mainstream - Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain

Metal Gear games are some of the only video games I really feel like I can talk about in my review style, because these games are about 85% story and 15% gameplay, and even that might be a generous estimate. But what about a Metal Gear game that is infamously criticized for a lack of a story? Or, well, I should say an incomplete story. Metal Gear Solid V is a game composed of the somewhat short epilogue Ground Zeroes and the sprawling main game The Phantom Pain, and together they combine to make quite a divisive package, with many citing the absolutely stellar gameplay as a selling point while condemning the supposedly sloppy and incomplete story as a major downgrade. Some have seen this game as a step down from the lofty heights of Kojima’s previous four games, while others are just as likely to embrace it. I suppose that is the nature of Kojima’s work; it always sparks discussion and debate.

I’m certainly not going to debate on the gameplay here; it’s a very fantastic open world sandbox that gives you a lot to do, from capturing animals to spiriting away guards with the Fulton system to finding the oodles of cassette tapes so that you can blast “Take On Me” while you ride a horse guns blazing into a fortress full of armed Russian soldiers. You can play stealthy or straightforward, pacifist or violent, and you can do it all while Joy Division and Spandau Ballet blare over the speakers of your helicopter. This is easily some of the best gameplay the series has ever had, and there are plenty of little missions and side objectives to do while you scour the maps for things to do. But I’m not here to sell you this game based on its gameplay; any game reviewer worth their salt has done that already. No, I’m going to make a case for the story and characters, and hopefully convince someone that they’re not nearly as bad as some have claimed.

The centerpiece of this game is Venom Snake. Venom might actually be my favorite Snake of them all; this sounds blasphemous, but his character arc is just so beautifully tragic to me, and how he compares to Big Boss, it just really makes me love him. Venom is a man who was never given much of a choice; it was decided he should be Big Boss’ “Phantom” while he was in a coma. And when he wakes up, while he looks the part and can act the part, he just doesn’t have the wit or talkativeness that Big Boss does, leading to Venom being a bit more quiet than most of the other protagonists in the series. But his silence masks that, unlike Big Boss, to the very end Venom was a truly noble man, never mind he believed himself a demon. Unlike Big Boss, who may or may not have outright brainwashed people into joining his cause and who didn’t break a sweat at training children for war, it never even crosses my mind that Venom used torture and brainwashing, and he never fights to have child soldiers after Kaz tells him no – he drops it without much of an argument. Venom is a good man, one who does some dark things in the name of keeping the world safe, but he never truly sinks into anti-villainy the way the man he’s doubling for does, at least not in this game. Any man who would spare Huey rather than execute him immediately has a bottomless well of compassion in their soul and higher moral fiber than most of us.

Of course, the real reason I love Venom is the two most meaningful arcs: his coming to terms with Paz, and his relationship with Quiet. The former is a hauntingly tragic look at Venom’s psyche, something that shows that even though he doesn’t remember who he was, the memory of his failure to save Paz still follows him like a shadow, and the moment when Paz leaves the phantom tape telling him to let go and live – a sentiment Big Boss himself would eventually echo at the end of his life – is poignant and beautiful. As for his relationship with Quiet… everything about it just really gets to me. It’s such a beautiful friendship they form, from enemies to partners with a mutual respect, one that works even better as both are characters who speak very little or not at all. It gets to the point where, yes, the two seem like they do love each other, with culminates in the most adorable scene in the entire franchise as they splash each other in the rain… but it’s a love that can never be, as despite her respect and admiration of Venom, Quiet has a desire for vengeance that she lets consume her… and it leads to her a demise, though it is a demise of her own choosing that she brings about in a final effort to save Venom. That moment that ends their story together, which has Venom running through the desert only to find the tape with Quiet’s first, last, and only words to the man she loved, is just utterly heartbreaking and the perfect depressing capstone to their partnership.

Venom is not a character that gets happy endings. In fact, after it’s revealed he was turned into the body double of Big Boss, it’s shown that ultimately he would go on to die in Big Boss’ place during the Outer Heaven uprising depicted in the original Metal Gear. The ultimate tragedy and heartbreak that Venom goes through in this story and the others is ultimately what draws me to him and adore him; unlike Solid Snake, he never gets to earn his happy ending, dying for the cause of his commander, loyal to the bitter end, having lost almost everyone he loved and cared for along the way. Unlike Big Boss, he never gets to ultimately realize the fruitlessness of his actions and truly come to terms with the fact that all he lost just wasn’t worth it in the end. He’s just so fascinatingly sad, and it’s a sort of sadness that really draws me in. I wouldn’t say he’s a better protagonist than Solid Snake is, and he lacks some of the finesse and charm that Big Boss does, but there’s just a lot to Venom that makes him an incredibly compelling character in his own right, and all with only the bare minimum of a vocal performance.

Speaking of minimal vocal performances, there is Quiet. Quiet is such an odd character, even for this series; she is blatantly designed to be an over-the-top fanservice character in a series that has tons of gratuitous fanservice in the first place, to the point where it’s kind of weird and uncomfortable. Of course, thankfully, as Kojima is incapable of just leaving a character as one-note and superfluous, he gives Quiet the standard bonkers backstory nearly every character in the franchise gets, and as mentioned before gives her wonderful chemistry with Venom. It’s to the point where I seriously can’t imagine anyone wouldn’t feel a bit misty-eyed at her death scene, or the beautiful song her actress Stefanie Joosten sings over the credits of the episode Quiet dies in. She’s a bit much even for this series, but I think her relationship with Venom and her impact on him as well as how she fits thematically into the story more than makes up for any shortcomings she may have.

One of the MVPs of the game is undoubtedly Kaz, who got ridiculous amounts of characterization and some of the most iconic lines (“They played us like a damn FIDDLE!!!!”). He went from being something of a background character to almost the moral core of the game, the shoulder angel to Venom in contrast to Ocelot’s shoulder devil. Of course, much as everyone else, Kaz is consumed by revenge, which leads to him taking the final reveal of who Venom is and Big Boss’ betrayal of him rather badly, and any fan of the franchise knows how his desire to take down Big Boss goes. Still, his presence goes a long way towards making up for Ocelot’s shocking lack of presence; frankly, Ocelot in this game is a bit of a minor character, which on one hand is understandable as he’s only here to keep up appearances while the real Big Boss kickstarts Outer Heaven, but it’s kind of sad to see the guy who is perhaps the franchise’s greatest character take a backseat for vast chunks of the game, only chiming in now and again to give Venom some info or record a tape.

And then we come to the villains. Skull Face is a rather intriguing villain, who lives up to the hammy nature of past villains in the franchise; just see where he howls as Sahelanthropus is taken control of by Eli’s sheer hatred and, ahem, lust for revenge. Skull Face is just a wonderfully thematic villain, and while he is tragically cut down a bit earlier in the game than he should have been, his impact is still felt, as in a manner of speaking he is the reason for the events that plagued Solid Snake’s life due to his crippling of Zero with parasites. We also have some more minor villains, such as Eli (AKA Liquid Snake), Psycho Mantis as a kid, and the Man on Fire (which is actually the reanimated corpse of Colonel Volgin from Snake Eater. Sort of. It’s complicated). The more minor villains seem a bit excessive, especially seeing as the former two don’t actually get to have their arc in this game pay off in a meaningful way due to the Kingdom of the Flies portion unfortunately being cut, but they still lead to some entertaining and exciting moments, particularly young Mantis. Eli is really the only minor villain who feels like a missed opportunity, since all he really does is act like a haughty little brat and adds very little to the overall story, which is a shame considering who he grows up to become.

Of course, no discussion of evil in Metal Gear Solid V would be complete without mention of Huey, the father of Otacon. Huey is the complete and total antithesis to his son. Where his son took responsibility for things that were not even his fault up to and including his own rape, Huey deflects all blame and throws it onto others to make himself seem an innocent victim; where Otacon had the courage to face up to the horrors of the world, Huey chose to be a sniveling coward who hid behind anyone who offered him some semblance of safety; and where Otacon and Solid Snake were true companions and friends to the end who managed to raise a wonderful child together, Huey was an utter bastard who backstabbed his friends repeatedly and killed his own wife via inaction because she dared to stand up to him and not allow her child to be a battery for a Metal Gear. Huey is one of the most detestable, loathsome, and pathetic characters ever conceived in all of fiction… and I love him for it. He is just so void of any sort of redeeming quality that he becomes the poster child for “love to hate.” There is a beauty to a character like this, and it helps that he does get his comeuppance and he’s never shilled by other characters; in fact, not one of his so-called “friends” likes or even trusts him, and all of them think he’s a pathetic, delusional liar. He’s a nasty, spiteful, egomaniacal hypocrite, and I wouldn’t want him any other way.

Now I saved the story for last, mostly because the story is infamously a bit short and incomplete. Still, I feel a lot of the hate for the story is a bit unjustified; while it is true and incredibly frustrating that nothing involving Eli gets any payoff outside of descriptions of what would have happened, all of the story with Skull Face, Quiet, the parasites, Huey, and the side quest involving Paz are all rather engaging in that crazy Metal Gear way, and the prologue Ground Zeroes definitely helps to round things out. If we’re only counting the Solid games, I’d say this is at least as good story-wise as 2 in its own way; where that one is a much more cerebral story involving metatextual elements and deconstructs a lot of concepts, this game’s story is more of a showcase of the toxicity of revenge. Almost every character in the story – Venom, Kaz, Skull Face, Quiet, Eli, the Man on Fire, and Huey – has some desire for vengeance against those who have wronged them, some need to bring some semblance of closure… but it never comes. As is demonstrated in the scene where Skull Face dies, Kaz and Venom both realize that even if they killed Skull Face then and there, it wouldn’t bring back their dead comrades, it wouldn’t return the time they lost, it wouldn’t bring back their missing limbs. Ultimately, revenge is a bitter, futile waste that will only end up consuming and destroying, as it did to Skull Face, as it did to Huey, as it did to Quiet, and as it would do eventually to Kaz and Big Boss. In the end, all that has been done is that a cycle of violence has been perpetuated, and no one is better off for it.

While it’s obviously not the first story to use these concepts, I do like how it ties into the series. It all feels like it fits. Add in the fact that this game finally resolves some long-standing plot holes, such as how Big Boss survived Outer Heaven to end up in Zanzibar Land and how Kaz went from singing the praises of Big Boss to saying he was a monster who deserved death in Metal Gear 2, and while it is a technically incomplete story, it is most certainly a solid one that gives you just enough to think about that I can’t really see calling it “bad” as a logical statement. Could it have been better? Oh, absolutely. But is it still good on its own merits with a lot of standout moments due to the themes and the wonderful cast of characters? Absolutely.

I think the game’s true strength lies in its moments. This game contains some of the most powerful emotional beats in the entire series, hands down. The conclusion of Paz’s side quest, Quiet’s exit, Venom having to deal with a breakout of the parasite among his own soldiers… even if the overall narrative isn’t as cohesive as the four previous games, it still manages to pack so much emotion and power into some of its scenarios that you will feel something. The tapes too manage to be powerful and emotional, from Paz’s final “phantom” tape to Strangelove’s final moments recorded to Zero’s lament that he couldn’t ever apologize to Big Boss, there’s just so much to love here in terms of writing and emotion that I really don’t care about the main story being cut short a bit. It does suck, but I’m too busy sobbing over Quiet and Paz’s fates to really care about the fact I didn’t get to smack Eli upside the head one last time.

The Phantom Pain and Ground Zeroes are not perfect games, far from it. But they are good games, end even if a small part of the overarching story doesn’t get a satisfying conclusion, Most of the rest does, and there are so many powerful moments in here that it reminds you this series with its roid-raging nanomachine senators and gay vampires who can run on water and giant volcaloid AI robots can actually be poignant, heartfelt, and heartbreaking. It’s a fantastic game, and if you love the series you’ve likely already played it, but I definitely recommend it to anyone who hasn’t, though play through Snake Eater and Peace Walker first. It’s definitely worth your time, and far more rewarding than some have made it out to be.

#Michael in the Mainstream #Review #Game review #Metal Gear #Metal Gear Solid #Metal Gear Solid V #The Phantom Pain #Ground Zeroes #Hideo Kojima #Fuck Huey #Venom Snake #Big Boss #Quiet #Kaz

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minaa-munch · 4 years

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@furrymakerkid asked: writing request for you sweet mun. Minato was too smart to know no feeling was good. How did he cope with it? He didn't have Jiraiya Kushina or his team in the beginning.

Here’s a short answer: He didn’t.

Warning: Kinda dark and maybe NSFW if you squint. Possible triggers may include blood, gore and morbidity [it’s war, ne? Although I’ve restrained my descriptions...er, tried to. I hope you can read it, @furrymakerkid]

Disclaimer: This is my interpretation. Yours may be different and that’s okay - to each their own.

Image credit: Rurouni Kenshin

The trees whispered in soft, breathy murmurs as a gentle wind meandered past their many, leaf laden branches. All was calm, almost eerily silent sans the constant patter of boots against the bare crumble of rock; hushed whispers that were broken by the faint whistle of weapons and the occasional intake of breath. The usually relentless, rough soil was wet, almost muddy; yet there had been no downpour in weeks.

The land of Tsuchi no Kuni wept, while the heavens above bled. The glowing embryo of the sun surrendered to a cocoon of fluffy cumulus, lofty rays bleeding shades of red and orange across the darkening skies as a massacre quietly unfolded below; a beautiful painting, if only in the nature of its innate, organized chaos.

It would be nightfall soon.

“...”

It didn’t matter who raided which settlement first. What mattered was the fact that both sides had to keep an even body count. The dictum regarding warfare they were taught in the academy hardly covered such tactics; a few measly lectures so that bright eyed academy students wouldn’t take the trade less seriously.

It was all fun and games until someone lost a limb on their first field mission. Minato, in that regards, had been rather lucky. Where most cadets would rely on a team to ensure the success of a raid, all he needed was a handful of kunai.

He had always been ridiculously fast - even by regular standards.

The metal loop settled comfortably against his palm as tan digits curled around the hilt, seamlessly pushing it through with one, smooth movement before wrenching the weapon sideways, slicing the unexpected chest like one would tear open a package. Bloodied entrails followed the blade’s wake; peeking out of the soft folds of uneven, torn skin as the still pumping organ convulsed uselessly against twisting branches.

It was a quick execution; a means he had devised after their last field run. The metal loop of his kunai swung easily around his index finger as the waste was swiped off with a sharp flick of the wrist. Blue hues barely caught the woman’s expression as she dropped to her knees; he was already moving, the chakra signatures from his earlier sensory scan twinkling like quaint little targets.

They would be quick kills, for Minato hardly had the time for mercy. A kunai through the eye for anyone stupid enough to look his way, the splattered remains of a skull of a nin ambitious enough to try and sneak up on him, whereas most of the others barely got a chance to blink before deft digits pierced their forms with relative ease. Pure chakra would bounce off his skin like a controlled gale, as his natural wind affinity reduced muscle to fleshy ribbons.

It wasn’t needlessly cruel, per se; it simply happened to be the most effective in ensuring a kill. Besides, he had stopped feeling the warmth of skewered innards ages ago.

“Kami willing may you choke on your own blood”

The words drifted into the faint breeze that swept past their drenched fields; the scent of copper and compost intermingled into a sickly fragrance which sunk into his skin, down to his very bones.

Kami willing? As if Kami existed for people like them.

And then he heard it; a constant low hum that swelled to a certain crescendo, painting his subconscious in a murmur of static. Minato blinked curiously at his quivering fingers before casting a furtive glance around the field of littered innards and crimson. Hardly a soul in sight and yet...trailing off, blue hues returned to the tremble that had somehow seeped into his wrist. He couldn’t feel the slash decorating his palm, but he could definitely see the discoloration associated with poisoned weapons. Ugly strokes of yellows and blues bloomed all over his hand like pale, deathly flowers and he nearly dropped his weapon.

Fuck.

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

“Er...it wasn’t your first kill, was it?” The question was asked nonchalantly enough, as practiced hands wound a roll of gauze around his discoloured counterpart. Minato shot him a flat, unimpressed look which was met with a barely concealed smirk as he tied both ends with a vicious tug.

“I mean...you never get injured.” He continued, as Minato retracted his hand, giving it an experimental poke. “Lucky for you, you got back in time otherwise you’d lose your good arm.”

He was making fun of him, wasn’t he? “Yeah. Lucky.” the blond replied, tone as dry as the man’s wit before he curled his bandaged digits, “What about the hallucinogenic side effects?”

Would it have even mattered if it had been his first kill? The nin had been alive one moment and then he just…hadn’t. Was he supposed to feel something special about that? Besides, he had attacked Minato first.

Regardless. It had been so long ago, he hardly remembered the face associated with the deed. Since his deployment at Kusa, he had killed so many more with seldom a thought that he couldn’t be bothered to remember what they looked like. His last count had been, what, thirty three consecutive solo kills in thirty minutes? That was more than one life a minute.

Mere statistics. It didn’t matter.

“Noise huh? It's the first I'm hearing of it.” Cue the methodical tap of wood against an unshaven chin, “Say, ever considered signing up for the psych evaluation thing they proposed back at HQ? I mean...there's nothing physically wrong with you. Maybe it's in your head." He placed his brush down on the makeshift table before letting out a snort, much to Minato’s chagrin.

“If what they’ve been harping about at HQ was true, we’d all be classified as nuts anyways.” The medic laughed, his grey hair reflecting warm honey in the dim lighting of the medical tent. Bemused, he took off his glasses to wipe a tear, before shooing him away with gloved digits. “Get going, Namikaze. We need you on the patrolling grounds. The war will be over soon, ne?”

Coloured hues met dark counterparts, bleeding ink and whispering false nothings.

“Ne?”

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

Hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, and the persistent whine in his head refused to shut up. Many an evening would witness the blond shifting his reading scroll to the side, just to press rough finger pads against his closed, burning lids.

He couldn’t recall the last time he had slept. Granted, Minato wasn’t one to sleep much to begin with; he was young, ridiculously curious and had the collective energy of twelve hyperactive gerbils. Still, he had always managed to clock in a few hours before, but this...

It was so damn loud. Minato couldn’t even concentrate for more than a few minutes before the constant low hum poked at his subconscious like a poisoned senbon. It tore at his mental-scape and sensory peripheral akin to flames consuming dry bark. Gone was his natural, healthy tan that had stayed resolute despite their meagre military rations, only to be replaced by a yellowish pallor, along with dark smudges underneath his weary hues.

A part of him was tempted to write to Jiraiya; the man always had answers to all the questions. They were in contact, of course, despite the state of the war and whatnot. Courier runs were few, but very dependable - but could he really divert the Jōnin’s attention from the frontlines where he was undoubtedly needed?

No, he couldn’t be that childish. Their local medic had dismissed his concerns too, so clearly it wasn’t that big a deal.

Right?

His seniors had different answers. Some blamed the weather, some considered the possibility that an enemy had contaminated their food supply [“I’ve been feeling kinda itchy myself.”] While some had nothing to offer at all. No answers. They figured he was finally losing his mind, after killing so many - in fact, most were still wary of him since even the older Chunin in their unit showed a little hesitance when it came to those child scouts who were no older than academy students.

But Minato? He operated on autopilot. For someone so young and without a hint of malice on his features, he was surprisingly cold hearted. Most of the new Chunin cadets steered well away from him, either in awe or fear whereas his older, more experienced counterparts often regarded him with complacent silence.

Not exactly friends, but comrades. They could probably share a few drinks together. Not converse though. Perish the thought.

The constant, low drone was driving him mad.

Arizuwa Yana; an experienced Chunin from the reserve strike unit apparently had a few theories. Said theories were dry at best, with little speculation as to the nuance of phantom sensations, though with plenty of promises of actual sensations.

Somehow, one thing had led to another and they had ended up intertwined together in one of the darker corners of the many, many tents in their unit. He was a few years younger than her, but apparently that wasn’t a problem.

Age didn't matter, gender didn't matter - nothing did.

The problem was that despite the hands ghosting his clothed sides, he still couldn’t feel anything; it was like his insides were frozen with nothing sans the constant thrum of sound for company. A frown settled between his brows at the thought as slender, yet calloused fingers tangled themselves within his hair, tugging with an odd sort of insistence.

It did nothing to quell the static he alone could still hear, could practically sense crawling under his skin like wild, feverish ants.

Static. It seemed that was the only thing he could feel these days.

And this…this wasn’t helping. Blue hues flickered to dark, older counterparts before tan digits removed themselves from the soft swell of her pretty face. “I’m sorry, senpai.” Is all he managed to say, not really sorry at all before the same fingers found her forehead, jutsu a mere whisper against her flushed skin.

Yana senpai was out cold in the span of a heartbeat. Dull orbs stared at her peaceful features for a few precious seconds before he rolled over, gaze fixed on the sloping ceiling and a forearm resting against his forehead.

Maa...what a waste.

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

Jiraiya sensei,

How are things at the front lines? Yuuhei taicho told us that Amegakure had officially joined the fray and you would be deployed there soon. Gambatte, sensei.

Ano…sensei, I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I’ve stopped feeling things. It started out as a weird sort of numbness, as if I was looking at the world through someone else’s eyes. I don’t even feel the sting of a cut anymore.

I’m scared. Is this a good thing? Oh by the way, you won’t believe what I found about that fuuin combination you told me about that one time. If it’s truly what you say it is, the Nindaime might have been on to something. See, if you swap the earth and wind constructs then the combination gets altered. I tried something with one of my fuuin tags today and the results were kinda wonky but in a good way. Let me know when you get this and I’ll send you all the workings I did.

Minato

He purposefully left out the bit where a part of him wanted to hide behind the elder, shaggy white mane and all, and stay in the comfort of his towering shadow. He had wanted to, though - desperately, too. But his writing brush had paused, a lone drop of ink blotting the parchment and upsetting his neat signature.

That had decided it then, hadn’t it? Gloved digits had rolled the parchment in a neat scroll, bound it with a convenient little fuuin and handed it in for the next courier run.

His paranoia was silly. Kusa was one of their priority outposts; full of experienced comrades and they were armed to the teeth. They were as safe as they would ever be. Besides, he had a near perfect kill streak - no one in their right wits would target him; Konoha’s number one rookie genius.

He felt so horribly alone though.

You’re not a child anymore, Minato.

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

Three weeks. No reply. The constant fighting was taking its toll on all sides; with dwindling numbers and increased recklessness. Their tiny little outpost presently served as the main rendezvous point between the frontlines fighting Iwa and the reserve forces that had set up camp a few miles away. The war would enter its final phase soon and everyone was too bone tired to complain.

Minato wanted to send another message, but if Jiraiya hadn’t had the time to respond to his previous letter…

Sigh. Clothed shoulders sagged a little while the side of his face met loosely curled digits, expression forlorn. Next to him, Inuzuka Saito quirked an eyebrow but said nothing. They were both stuck with watch duty, in case the platoon that had been sent out to assist their frontlines against Iwa a few days ago came stumbling back.

Initially, Minato had been a part of it too, but Yuuhei taicho had ordered otherwise. He and a few others would be used to sneak from behind and attack Iwa’s unguarded backs. His experimental jutsu was perfect for the purpose, and he had a near flawless strike record so far.

And in the off chance he failed? It would be...understandable. The wars saw their fair share of victims and the Memorial was an honour for any loyal, Konoha nin.

The very thought made him taste bile. Tan digits curled into a trembling fist at his knee, as frigid blue hues glared a hole through the encroaching shadows of dusk that surrounded their camp. Kusa was known for its rich forests; gigantic fauna and rivers that made it the perfect terrain to hide and lie in wait. Nightfall usually witnessed the shadows that clung to its natural, beautiful scenery slip from their places and creep inwards, bathing all matter; living and non-living, in its eerie, peaceful silence.

Yet he had not experienced any blissful silence in so long; the static was a constant thrum in his mental-scape, one he had learned to accept. The Namikaze would be damned if he lost what constituted as his sanity to a useless murmur of sound; he had not survived through the countless murders to plead death by insanity, had not endured the constant stench of rot and copper which hung around his frame like the scent of mustard oil that he used to maintain his weapons.

Had not sliced through flesh despite the whimpers begging for mercy--

Cue a shuddering sigh as eyes squeezed shut and he felt the urge to rip out his own hairs. Trembling digits inched upwards, intending to do just that before Saito’s voice broke the spell.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

Namikaze Minato was going insane. Maybe he had always been insane and by Kami, he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. Blue hues snapped open, staring listlessly at the dark and he swallowed thickly against his now dry throat. His frame tipped forwards; forearms resting against his knees as long, blond bangs hid his terrifyingly monotonous expression.

They would learn to loathe him, to fear him and he would slaughter them like the pointless sacks of meat that they we--

“Mail call!” A second interruption, though this time something actually managed to hit him in the back of his head. Fumbling hands barely caught it before it could hit the ground as the designated courier nin giggled, “Sorry, Namikaze.” Boots crunched against the leaf littered floor before he moved inside the camp, similar calls echoing in his wake. Minato blinked owlishly at the nin’s retreating figure, before shifting his gaze to the messy paper wrapping and miniature scroll that hung listlessly from one of the many corners.

It wasn’t from Jiraiya sensei.

Minato no baka,

Heard you were stuck in Kusa. That sucks ne? You’re surrounded by giant weeds and laughing shrooms. I’ve sent you some of those weird sticky quail egg things you like to cheer you up.

Guess who’ll be deployed soon. Me, that’s who! Maybe we’ll even be at the same outpost. You can show me all the nice napping spots ne? We got news the other day that the war wouldn’t last long. It’s been years already. I hope you’re still…you know, you. I miss you. Why did you stop writing?

Take care of yourself. Better not die or I’ll drag you back from the clutches of the shinigami just to kill you myself.

Kushina

Weird sticky quail egg things? Wait, was she talking about the sticky sweet beans he had accidentally spilled on her once?

“What are you grinning at?”

“Hm? Nothing, nothing.” And yet, there was something. He couldn’t help the silly little smile that tugged at his lips while his current patrol mate shot him a weird look. He was about to open his mouth to ask a second time, but then he saw the half open wrapping resting in the crook of Minato’s arm and made a quick swipe for it.

“Is that natto? Kami it’s been so long! Can I have some?”

“Sure.” Minato wasn’t even paying attention to the greedy fingers that had grabbed the miniature treats as soon as the words left his lips. Blue hues were still trained on the inky scrawl that denoted the kunoichi’s kanji. Kushina had always been an unpredictable little oddball. He didn’t even remember the last time he had written to her, but she clearly did. It made him feel strangely warm.

---And now he wanted to rip his own heart out and squeeze the treacherous, woeful thing until it would beat no more. Trembling digits rolled the scroll before a sweaty palm was pressed harshly against his aching forehead, the fingerless, leather glove providing little comfort to the uncomfortable warmth that stung his tightly closed lids.

Kami...what was wrong with him?

As if Kami existed for people like them.

Endnote: This took me far longer than I thought I would. Apologies! Ano, extra trippyness can be accorded to Koko, ne? She mentioned insanity, and since you had already tempted my inner crazy...

#Namikaze Minato #war #Uzumaki Kushina #Jiraiya #story post #furrymakerkid #tw; blood #tw; gore #tw; a little trippyness #Minato is kinda...nuts #hints of impending MinaKushi #I love exploring twisted minds #angst #my giant pile of drafts is on you furrymakerkid #blame Koko for added trippyness ne #separate post because the read more option died in the first one #apologies for polluting your individual dash(es)#headcanon

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hibenjibye · 3 years

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Apocalypse Dog

The first red flag in my relationship with God came in 2000 when Sega released Poo-Chi, a robotic toy dog.

I was 11 and had recently become obsessed with a kid's magazine called K-Zine or Kid-Zone or K-Hole or something, which was comprised of ads for toys and clearly fake interviews with teen idols.

K-Hole: You did a great job in Titanic! Thanks got sitting down with us, Leo! What's your favourite colour?

Leo: Definitely brown! I asked the director of Titanic to give my character lots of brown clothes! I think that's a cool colour!

To this day my compulsive cover-to-cover digestion of this magazine, full of people and things I cared nothing about, remains a mystery that gives me a sense of curious unease whenever I consider it. Probably because it serves as a reminder of the ultimately transient nature of personality and the fundamental unknowability of the self. When I, a phlegmatic child who enjoyed novels about family sagas and drinking coffee with the emotionally incestuous adults in my life, pinned a free poster of Nikki Webster wearing a bubblegum pink tube top and body glitter on my bedroom wall, who was I in that moment? What invisible audience was I performing for? Who did I believe I might become via this strange action?

It is for a similar reason, I suppose, that 20 years later I still think about a competition the magazine ran which offered readers the chance to win a Poo-Chi.

I had no idea what this dog did, other than represent the spirit of the new millennium with its sleek metallic body and tense stance. As the child of Jehovah's Witnesses I entered this century with the suspicion that a long-predicted apocalypse might be fulfilled at midnight, January 1st 2000, and with every day that fiery hail did not fall from the sky that year I developed an exhilarating sense that I was living in an unpromised and unpredictable cyber-future too advanced and impressive for God himself to interrupt. Maybe this was what I saw in Poo-Chi's dead red LED eyes: a sleek defiance of our Lord's bipolar love and threats.

Either way, I knew when I saw the ad for the competition that I must win the dog. I had never wanted anything so singularly in my life, suddenly. This is odd because I had never wanted a toy from any ad before -- The closest I came was shaking my mother awake one morning a year earlier when I uncharacteristically woke up at dawn and discovered a TV show where a woman was showcasing gorgeous pieces of statement jewellery that were marked down and disappearing fast. The woman rued the fact that there weren't enough topaz necklaces for her to buy one herself and I cried into my cereal when my desperation to procure one of these treasures, which I would have kept in my bottom bureau drawer and looked at every day, was unfairly dismissed.

A similar chasm opened up in me as I wrote my submission to the magazine explaining why I deserved the dog most. I tried to funnel my absolute need for it into my words, which did not seem to convey the urgency of the situation. I had a vague sense that if I received the Poo-Chi, which surely I would, it would be my best friend and possibly learn to perform tricks that a lesser child would not know to teach it. It seemed like the kind of magic robot whose arrival might catalyse the beginning of a child's adventure in a movie, and I had been waiting my whole life for my movie to begin. I'm not sure I managed to articulate any of this in the letter.

This memory becomes its strangest when, on a grey Sunday morning, I interrupt my mother’s vacuuming to ask if Jehovah would be insulted if I were to ask for his assistance in winning the dog. I've always prayed, at this point, and never asked for any selfish favours so it feels very likely that my good karma is ready to be cashed in. But first I want to make sure that God won't be offended and potentially even stop me from winning the dog to teach me some sort of rude lesson. I feel so close to winning by now and I don't want to let anything fuck up my plan.

My mother says there's no harm in asking but I should make it clear in my prayer that I know I don't necessarily deserve the robot dog, I'm just asking in case God is open to making my dreams come true and was waiting for the right opportunity. She reminds me of children suffering and dying in the world and I feel a stab of compulsive grief for them but I also feel that our situations are apples and oranges.

I pay an awkward amount of attention to my posture when I pray that night, not wanting to look like an entitled slob as I kneel over my bed asking for a handout. I keep my back straight and my fingers lightly laced. I confirm that I'm just asking, no worries if not, but this wish does represent everything I've ever wanted and I will be sad for a long time if I don't get it.

I do not mention the fact that the last time I requested something via prayer it was for a drunken brawl between my parents to come to a quick end but it indeed lasted all night, rattling my heart through the wall as I lay in bed. It seemed tacky to bring up this overlooked request however I felt hopeful that God would remember it and feel guilty, and this would compound my chances of getting my wish.

I forgot all about the competition but received a velcro wallet in the mail months later, one of three runner-up prizes. I was elated to have won something and showed it to everyone, even though it was ugly as shit with a picture of the weird dog and his robot cat friend on the front. I used it for years.

There was no doubt in my mind that the wallet was a message from God. It was both an acknowledgement of my prayer and a rebuke of my hubris in making such a lofty request. The wallet was a spiky little joke, meant to comfort and humble me. It was haloed in an odd dissonance which felt connected to my broader feelings about the unpredictable man in the sky.

In my teens when I began to pick apart all my ties to religion and to my family's unique version of reality, I didn't consider the awkward prayer about Poo-Chi to share any throughline with the uncanny path of spiritual emancipation and disconnection I ended up on. But in retrospect all of those strange feelings swam in the same pond. The wide-eyed waiting for a punctuating sound through the wall or from the sky. The rickety hope of walking out into a still-standing world every day, with its dubious promises and nonsensical lessons.

I continue to look for easy adventures and strange friendship through electronic devices. I am still mesmerised by statement jewellery and emotionally derailed by other people's conflicts.

If this story had an ending, which it doesn't because it isn't really a story, I would imagine it to be the above two sentences appearing during end credits over a freeze frame of me smiling and giving a goofy thumbs-up.

There would be a tricky post-credit scene as everyone stepped out of the theatre, of a Poo-Chi standing on a cloud in Heaven. A sandalled God walks over and leans down to pet the little friend, whose LED eyes light up red and beam out zooming rays. God shouts once as he takes the death ray right in his solar plexus and explodes into a dozen pieces. His still-sandalled foot is dragged to a quiet corner of the clouds to be chewed. The volume of a pop-rock song playing in the background returns in full. The end.

#nikki webster #jehovah #apocalypse #2000s #nostalgia #trauma #poo-chi #humour #essay #mental illness #topaz

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spiltscribbles · 5 years

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Hamilton Friends AU | The One With The Engagement

Notes: Okay so this is so late, I beam the craziness f this summer. But a huge Thank you to the ever lovely @aswithasunbeamwho prompted me this perfect Friends episode to write in a Hamilton AU. You’re an amazing soul and I hope you enjoy<3<3

“Your face looks weird.”

“Rude.”

“Just an observation,” Angelica, as appraising and blunt as ever, chides at Alexander with a probing finger to his cheek. In turn alexander just scowls her way and sticks out his tongue for good measure.

“She is correct my friend,” Lafayette, currently trying to balance a fifth book on his head after proclaiming that yes, in fact he is as graceful as any of those fucking Disney princesses, tacks on. “As if your face has gone all goopy permanently.”

“It’s like you’re staring at Eliza even though she’s not here,” Hercules clarifies with a shrug.

“You’re all awful people and I don’t know why I’ve ever agreed to be your friend.” Alexander huffs.

“We’ve gone and made him all sour,” Peggy snorts and Laurens begins to mimic his peeved off expression in-between his own cackles.

“Awful!” Alexander reiterates. “Awful, awful people.”

“Answer the question at hand loser,” Peggy charges on, standing up from the sofa and swinging her weight to her left hip, defiant. “Why do you look so eerily unbothered, so, un-Hamilton like. For Pete’s sake even when you’re happy you look like there’s a hundred different things that are annoying the fuck outta you.”

“Harsh.”

“Accurate.”

“Fine,” Alexander twists his lips in annoyance of getting caught out. “If I tell you lot you better swear on everything you own that you won’t breathe a word.”

“Mysterious,” Laurens leers.

“It is Burr, he has died a most awful death! This is the source of your happiness, no?” Lafayette accuses.

“Ah, erm…. Not quite yet?”

“Well get on with it then,” Angelica scolds with no real heat. “Some of us have actual lives to get too.”

“”Drag race is on tonight and me and Ange have got a bet going.” Peggy explains.

“Which I will win,” Angelica sniffs.

“Fine, fine,” Alexander harrumphs, long acquainted with the larger than life personalities of all the Schuyler sisters, his heart contracting and stomach swooping once thinking of one in particular. Of her long, dark hair, and impossibly bright eyes, and the way her smile makes it feel like Alexander’s floating in midair.

Eliza.

She’s quite literally the most beautiful, brilliant, strong willed and even stronger hearted woman he’s ever known. She’s everything Alexander wishes he was and nothing but wonderful. He knows that, is positive, even if he concedes that she in fact is not an angel sent from the heavens above. Eliza’s not perfect just because Alexander swears she is. He knows that she is a bit of a clean freak, that she can get neurotic if plans aren’t followed through exactly as she had laid out. He knows that she was brought up oblivious to her insane level of wealth and that sometimes it takes full blown arguments for her to speak her mind instead of trying to spare him or anyone else of their feelings. Alexander knows all these small quirks and he doesn’t care because they only make him love her all the more. He loves Eliza more than the sun and stars and all the galaxies above combined, he loves her so much that somedays Alexander thinks his chest might crack with it.

But it never does, and she’s always there, and what they have is everything Alexander has ever wanted, and Eliza is someone who he never thought he could have. All this to say that he has absolutely no doubts in his mind when he pulls out the small velvet box from his trouser’s pocket and opens it to reveal the sparkling engagement ring he’s spent months saving up for.

“wholly fuck,” Peggy balks, scurrying closer to snatch it out of Alexander’s grasp, Angelica right on her coattails.

“No way!” Laurens crowed the same time Lafayette let out a strange, indecipherable squeal that Alexander is almost positive was only partially in French, partially in English and then a hodgepodge of other languages he’s never even heard before— all the books cascading down to the wooden floors in a crescendo of thuds.

For his part, Hercules just begins to tear up with a stiff lip and quivering hands. “Get the hell outta here.”

“You guys don’t like it,” Alexander asks with a shit eating grin.

“Don’t be cheeky dork,” Angelica reproves, never taking her eyes off the ring, swatting at Peggy to give her a chance to hold it.

“Don’t speak that way to your future brother-in-law,” Laurens snickers, claps Alexander on the back with an encouraging hug. “I’m so proud of you Ham, you’ve finally found the one.”

Alexander gives his oldest friend— the man he once thought would’ve been his forever if they hadn’t had such contradictory views on what that meant— a watery smile. “thank you Laurens, but don’t get too excited, Betsey’s still gotta say yes.”

“She’s crazy about you,” Peggy says airily, waving off his worries with a lazy hand. “Of course she’s gonna say yes.”

Alexander bites down on a smile, casts his gaze to the floor so to hide his reddening cheeks. He’s still in such disbelief that this is his life. He’s got the world’s greatest friends, an amazing job that he actually enjoys, and now he might actually get to keep the dream girl. So far away from the lonesome days and hard nights of St Croix. Far away from dying mothers and flighty fathers and cruel brothers who never bothered to keep in touch. This, right here, these people, Eliza, the Washingtons, hell even Burr on a good day… They’re his family, the people he’d die for and who he’s sure would die for him too. What a strange feeling that is, to love and be loved. How strange it is that he gets to keep this sense of belonging, of balance.

“God, now enough with the sappiness,” Peggy gripes. “I can see it on your face Hamilton, and just because you’re technically my brother now doesn’t mean I won’t beat your ass if I feel like it.”

“Charming,” Alexander deadpans.

“I thought so,” Peggy says with a magnanimous grin.

“So what’s the plan? How are you gonna pop the question?” Hercules interjects from where he’s now examining the rose gold band and round cut diamond accented with sapphires.

“I was planning to take her to that really posh French restaurant near fifth avenue that Laf showed us. Bets loves hearing me speak French,” he explains with a wink.

“My people’s language does arouse a certain, how do you say, sultry emotion.” Lafayette leers.

“For the love of God stop talking about having sex with my baby sister.”

“Right, ahem.” Alexander concedes. “Well after that I was gonna order us a bottle of her favorite, ridiculously priced champaign.”

“We use to drink it when we’d summer in our villa in the South of France,” Peggy explains, totally impervious to how fantastical that sounds to Alexander.

“Friends with too many rich people,” Hercules mutters morosely, handing the ring off to Lafayette, face scrunched up in displeasure all the while.

“Do not hate us for our good fortunes mon grand,” Lafayette sniffs. “Especially now that Alexander is considered part of our lot after he and Eliza’s inevitable union. One that is written in the stars mind you.”

“What’s written in the stars?”

Alexander’s heart stutters to a rapid staccato just as soon as he sees the door to the apartment swing open, revealing a disheveled, but radiant Eliza strolling through, one perfectly manicured brow kinked.

Before Alexander can take a breath, Lafayette impulsively stuck the ring— the symbol of his undying love and eternal devotion to Eliza— into his fucking French, snail eating mouth.

“Gross,” he hisses, to which Lafayette just tossed him the bird.

“Ah, the fact that Thundermist is totally beating Vivian October tonight,” Peggy blurts out in a totally high pitched voice. Jesus fucking Christ half of them work in politics and the other half are lawyers, save for Hercules whom’s perfectly content as the head of Ralph Lauren merchandize. But still, Alexander expected that they’d all be better at lying than this pathetic display!

He’s subsequently shown up the moment Eliza flickers her gaze towards him, a knowing smile blooming across her face that makes Alexander’s heart ache with want. He supposes it’s more the person who they’re all lying to rather than the act itself.

“You and Ange need to stop making everything a competition love, it’s teetering on ridiculous.” She toots, tosses her and Alexander’s mail to the counter before excepting the peck he can’t help but offer her.

“You know how daddy is with his horses,” Angelica argues. “It’s in our blood.”

That just makes Eliza role her eyes, totally fond, before she excuses herself to change out of her pencil skirt and red bottom heals.

“Hey is there paint on your top?” Laurens asks, brows furrowed.

“Oh yeah,” Eliza blushes. “The kids had arts and crafts today at the orphanage and wanted me to help out so I just set all the paperwork to be done tomorrow instead.”

“THat’s my top!” Angelica squawks, affronted.

“It’ll come out,” Eliza shoos her off with a lofty tip to her head.

Once she’s shut the door on her to change, Alexander cuffs Lafayette on the back, hard.

“This is the love you show me after I successfully kept your little romantic gesture a secret,” he harrumphs.

“Now I’ve got your French cooties all over it!” Alexander hisses.

“Many a men and women would have died to get my delightful French saliva within a ten mile radius of them.”

“We really need to talk about your ego one of these days,” Peggy snorts.

“I have Adrien as my wife and you lot are blunders in love, I shall not permit any judgment from any of you.”

“Hey, I’ll be joining you in that marital bliss soon enough,” Alexander contends, totally giddy smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Gross,” the remainder chorus in varying degrees of exasperation, dosed in pride.

Alexander’s really never had the best luck, most especially when it was the romantic sort. Before Eliza he’s never had a relationship that lasted over six consecutive months, or one that he didn’t constantly feel as if he had to garnish a facade of brilliance and magnetism that he’s never truly felt he had any right to own. Before Eliza Alexander never was able to picture himself settling into the domestic sphere quite so willingly. Never thought he would’ve yearned for quiet Sunday mornings in bed where Eliza’s head was propped up on his chest, and the early morning light would cascade atop her cheekbones and lips and glimmer in her hair. Those mornings where all Alexander could focus on was counting the quiet breaths she would let out and plotting out all the ways he could always make her look so at peace and lovely. Alexander never thought he would ever want the house in the suburbs with a large yard and rose gardens and everything his mother had tried to give him when she was still here. Alexander never had wanted it until Eliza came and he realized he could have it with her.

He remembers one particularly pitiful night towards the end of L2 when he had just cut ties with Cornelia Lotts because he had woken up that morning and had just not found her as interesting as the night before, which obviously meant he had drunken himself silly at some sleazy bar and tried picking up someone knew, just for the fun of it. Instead he was met by Angelica’s expectant, irritated glower once he was three drinks in, telling him on no uncertain terms that the reason his love life sucked so hard is because he always went for the obscenely wealthy and tragically pretty folks that always infested ivy league institutions. The same folks with too large egos and too little self worth to ever consider having an actual relationship with someone outside of their social circle— A circle that the Schuyler family were the crown jewels of is what Angelica didn’t have to say but Alexander heard in screaming clarity all the same.

“Fuck you.”

“You wish loser.”

That was when she tugged him by the ear to get out of the city with her for the long weekend to clear his head. When he slept in her family’s country home upstate. When he had stumbled downstairs in the middle of the night to be face to face—for the first time— with the sister he’s seen millions of pictures of and heard even more stories about by a beaming Angelica. The one who had just spent the year after graduating Yale in the peace corps. That was when Alexander’s heart had first swelled and he was a goner.

“Eliza.”

“Yes love,” Eliza smiles up at him through her lashes now, so many years detached from their first meeting. Years composed of unrequited crushes and tentative laughs that morphed into a strong friendship and shy words of sincerity. Eventually leading them to first kisses and first nights and all the in-betweens Alexander’s never gone through with any other relationship. Nothing else felt as vital, as permanent, as the one he shares with Eliza. Nothing else felt like it deserved his efforts in quite the same ways that he’s always known Eliza has. Nothing else has made him experience this distinct sort of want.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” she giggles, mouth partially hidden from the lip of the flute of champaign she’s nursing. “Is everything alright deer? You look a little pale.”

Alexander’s throat closes up and he rinses his hands with anticipation.

“Yeah, yes. Everything’s Perfect Bets, it��s been perfect for a while now… Honestly ever since you agreed to actually go out with me. You. You make things perfect.”

Eliza doesn’t answer him in so many words, just cups her hands around hiss face and kisses him nice and thorough. Alexander wonders if how she makes everything inside of him go golden with every press to the lips will ever fade.

He seriously doubts it.

“Now, let me get this out, okay?” Alexander begs, squeezing her hands with his own and kissing the tops of each of her fingers gingerly.

“Oh, Andre.”

Alexander’s heart stills and the breath from his lungs escapes— It feels like something awful and freezing has just clutched his heart and rinsed it dry.

“No, Alex—- I’m Alex.”

That only makes Eliza role her eyes at him before nudging her head to where a ridiculously handsome, obviously well off man stands.

“Oh, yes…. erm that is Andre.”

“Maybe he won’t see us,” Eliza offers before he’s lead directly to the recently vacated spot besides them by a completely oblivious host.

“Maybe he’s blind now?” Alexander says hopefully.

“Lizzy Schuyler is that you?”

Alexander curses every ounce of bad luck he’s somehow accumulated before standing up to exchange awkward pleasantries and spending the remainder of the night refraining himself from knocking Andre/s lights out every time he stares a tad bit too longingly towards Eliza for his liking.

The pampered bastard.

Still inwardly fuming while drinking his morning coffee, Alexander was accosted by someone cuffing him on the back of the head, hard.

He isn’t surprised to turn around and Find a surly looking Angelica glaring at him, hands on her hips and mouth curled in a distinctly predatory fashion.

“What happened last night Hamilton?”

“How do you know something happened?”

“Well when I gushed to look at Liza’s hand this morning, instead of a rock on her finger she just looked at me like I was insane! I had to pretend I wanted to read her palm.”

“So confirming the insanity suspicion then?” He asks owlishly.

“Hamilton!” She says in a hiss.

“I couldn’t do it, okay.” Alexander snaps back, waspish.

“You chickened out,” Angelica accuses, depositing herself on the sofa besides him in the small cafe and snatching the muffin from his hand.

“No.”

“Then what? You changed your mind? My baby sister not good enough for you?” She needles, prickly as he’s ever seen her.

“Don’t be ridiculous Anne.”

“Then wh—“

“Andre showed up,” he blurts with absolutely no tact.

“No fucking way,” Angelica gapes, dropping the aforementioned muffin.

“I’m cursed aren’t I?”

“Kinda,” Angelica consoles with a pout, cradling his head on her shoulder.

“Ah oh, not a good sign.” Hercules observes once taking a seat with his own latte.

“Hamilton’s cursed,” Angelica informs him, matter-of-fact.

“Why this time?”

“Because Eliza’s fucking perfect ex-fiancé somehow showed up last night with his own date and sat there besides us looking all handsome and waxing all poetic and reminiscing about how he and Eliza were caught fucking in her childhood bedroom her sophomore year of college and making her laugh and I couldn’t get a damn word in edgewise!”

“Oh not the thanksgiving story,” Angelica winces.

“So I reckon you didn’t propose?”

“I was gonna do it tonight instead, but thanks to Mis babble mouth over here,” he elbow checks Angelica. “Eliza most definitely suspects something is up now.”

“Hey! It’s not my fault that you apparently committed some sort of horrendous crime in a past life.”

“Who asks to look at someone’s hands!” Alexander hurls.

“People who think their sister was just proposed to!” Angelica defends.

“It’s fine you guys, we’ve just gotta throw her off the trail a little. Make her think marriage’s the furthest thing from your mind.” Hercules placates.

“Yeah, yeah Herc, you’re right.” Alexander nods, is thrown to alert the moment the cafe’s bells chime— indicating a new customer— and it’s Eliza’s soft timbre that rings in his ears.

“I swear, I don’t care what Laf says, French people are total weirdos.” She sheds off her jacket and assumes the seat in Alexander’s all too willing lap. “I walk into his place to pick up some papers I left there and the first thing he wants to see is my hand to see if it’s proportionate to his.” With a huff, she grabs the coffee mug from Alexander, face scrunching up adorably at the excessive amount of sugar he always mixes in. Totally oblivious to how his heart is pulsing and his face is infused a bright red.

“Oh— Hah, how weird,” Angelica titters awkwardly.

“Why do you sound so strange Ange?”

“No she doesn’t,” Alexander quickly pipes in.

“Yes…. She does.” Her brows furrow, the smallest dent between her eyes telling Alexander that she’s suspecting something. “What’s going on?”

“We were just reading this article in the New Yorker is all,” Hercules explains, saving all their asses. “It’s making her worry about her relationship with Mr Big.”

“His name’s Church, stop comparing our lives to Sex In The City characters,” Angelica admonishes with no heat.

“Whatever Miranda.”

“So what’s this article that’s got you all frazzled Angelica?” Eliza asks worriedly.

“It’s about marriage,” Alexander answers instead, seeing his opportunity and plunging for it.

“Marriage?”

“Yeah, just about how it’s a total scam. I mean think about it Bets, legally timing yourself to another person? Doesn’t that sound Orwellian to you? A ploy by the government just to get our money and to keep us in check if you ask me.”

Eliza’s frown somehow, impossibly, sinks deeper.

“That’s not what you think Alex, is it?”

“I mean, ah yeah—“ His voice most certainly does not screech like he was a character from Saved By The Bell. “I mean you know me Eliza. I mean marriage didn’t keep my dad around for my mom.”

He can’t believe he just used that card on her. He totally deserves to go to hell for that one.

“It doesn’t always have to end up like that hon.” She cards a hand through his hair, kisses his cheek gingerly. And yeah, eternal damnation here Alexander comes.

“Eliza like 60% of all marriages now days ends in divorce,” Angelica contends. “Can you even name a couple that hasn’t been separated at least once.”

“Our parents,” she sniffs.

“But is it worth taking that chance,” Alexander says, reminds himself of how happy she’ll be tonight after he pops the question, when Eliza shakes off the hand that’s trying to lace their fingers together.

“Yeah, Yeah Alex I do think it’s worth that chance! And you know I do!” She starts to get up now, properly mad. “I mean don’t you guys want to promise yourself to the person you love in front of all your nearest and dearest. Be bound to someone so intimately and permanently. To get to show off your love to the world to see!”

“Sounds kinda selfish to me,” Alexander counters and Hercules and Angelica mumble their agreements.

“Okay,I’m running late for work.” In a cloud of carefully concealed fury, found in the pinch of her shoulders and downturn of her lips, Eliza collects her bag and jacket before storming out. A quiet fury in total opposition to her sisters’ brash words and ear shattering shouts.

Alexander yet again reminds himself of her beaming face when she doesn’t dip down to give him the customary kiss goodbye.

“This’s gonna workout just fine.”

#Hamilton #Hamliza #Eliza Schuyler Hamilton #Alexander Hamilton #Spilled Ink #Friends Meme #aswithasunbeam #SPILT ink #friends AU

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