Tag: cross post

Cross-Post: Untitled (Thurs 8 Nov)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

original here. dated 2012-11-08.

[A/N: apparently I remembered this enough to do this related drabble in January]

~

None of them know where they are when they wake up. This, at the very least, they can trust each other in. Beyond that, though, it’s every person for themselves.

Well, every pair for themselves. They’ve been instructed to create partnerships, and none of them want to end up like that poor idiot who rebelled. He had been disintegrated. All that remained of him, the two coloured wrist bands everyone had. It’s another thing they woke up to and were forced to accept. She has one blue and one green, her partner–a boy several years younger than her–has red and yellow.

He hasn’t told her his name, she hasn’t told him hers, so she supposes they’re even. She’s not sure if it’s because they’re both waiting the inevitable moment when whoever has them playing this sick game makes them turn on each other. Regardless, on the likely chance either of them dies, neither of them wants to get attached; though perhaps that’s an effort doomed to fail from the start. She calls him Robin in her head (and that one time he got hit by an opposing team’s attack).

Now they’re sitting in a rickety wooden boat in the middle of a slow moving river. She’s created a mist around them, a fog so thick even she’s having some trouble seeing him two feet away. He’s turned off the fireball in his right hand, though, just in case. No need to alert them to the enemy. Neither of them are particularly good at offensive magic–though you’d think the opposite would be true with Robin’s combination of fire and lightning. The team currently after them, on the other hand, is. She has the bleeding leg wound to prove it.

“Just a mild shock, we don’t want to hurt any of the slower ones.” She’s talking about the swans living in the reeds of the riverbanks. Vicious creatures.

He nods in agreement, but he keeps staring at her leg. His fire magic manifests as support-type skills; light, warmth, healing. Not exactly what she was hoping for when she originally created the partnership, but she doesn’t regret it.

The other team splashes noisily into the river–from what she can recall, neither of them had a blue wristband, it’s not a fake out. It’s time to spring the trap. With her left hand, the one with the green wristband, she makes the reeds and other plants along the riverbanks rustle and shake. Enough to startle the nesting swans into a confused rage. At the same time, Robin uses his yellow-encircled hand to send a shockwave along the water, hopefully stunning or paralyzing the enemies. She freezes the surface after that, enjoying the sounds of angry swans attacking their hunters.

His part complete, Robin has already begun using his right hand to burn and tear off the section of trouser fabric necessary to access the wound. Luckily it’s not too high up, but everything below her left knee has to be scrapped. Her head is spinning. She thinks it may be from blood loss. Nonetheless, she keeps using her own ability to propel the tiny boat further upstream silently.

When they first woke up, there were over one hundred of them. But once the rules were announced, and people paired up and turned on each other, their numbers swiftly dropped. She thinks there are maybe less than twenty now. To some extent, she and Robin have been lucky–with her abilities they’ve managed to hide from the majority of the fighting, with his they’ve managed to survive off the wilderness.

Neither of them have the stomach to kill someone, though it’s starting to look they’ll have to soon enough. The teams that have lasted this long do for a reason, for a reason different from hers and Robin’s.

The scent of burning flesh hits her before the sting of healing. She sucks a breath between her teeth, this is the third time in as many days she’s had to go through this. It’s for the best, though, her abilities lean towards traps and evasion–she doesn’t know much about healing. He looks worried, this is not something they need right now.

“Hey,” She’d reach out to give him a reassuring shoulder clap if she could, but one hand is in the water while the other grips tightly, white knuckled into the bench. “Hey,” she repeats, so that he’ll look her in the eye, “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you survive this. Okay?”

He doesn’t say anything. He frowns briefly, but she assumes that the grip tightening around her calf means he understands.

~

They were chosen because, apparently, all of them had some magical potential. They were obligated to participate because all of them had a wish granted. Sort of.

He wanted to know more about his mother. She had died in childbirth, something that still haunts his father though he’s always been quick to assure that it was Not Your Fault. But he doesn’t know much about his mother besides that. It’s not exactly something that has determined his life, though there’s always been that aching, isolated feeling, but he knew exactly what to ask for when the wish was offered.

He blacked out immediately after. They hadn’t even granted his wish before he woke up in this messed up tournament. They duped him. Or at least, that’s what he originally thought. But now he isn’t so sure.

Something about Batgirl–his partner has blue and green wristbands, BG (he’s always been a huge DCU fan, always assigns himself the role of Robin)– something about her makes him reconsider. She’ll say something, or make a reference, that he doesn’t quite get. It can’t be the age difference, they’re maybe only five years apart at most, but unless she’s got an obsession with the pop culture and fashion from two decades ago there’s a lot more at play here. He just can’t believe what he’s thinking.

“What did you wish for?” In between bouts of violence and running scared for their lives, there are long lulls of nothing. Conversation is one of the few things they can do to keep themselves entertained and mildly sane.

“I didn’t wish for anything.”

What?

“My sister did, but they said she was dying. They said they couldn’t grant it, so I volunteered to pay her debt. Of course, I don’t actually know if they’ll follow through since basically as soon as I volunteered I woke up here. But I assume both of them are okay.”

“Both of them?”

“Yeah, my sister and her kid. I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl. We couldn’t get to the hospital on time, there was some sort of traffic accident, and I think also some sort of complication, but if I’m here that means they must have both made it.”

“What was your sister’s wish?” He thinks he knows the answer. He thinks his original hypothesis was wrong–he wishes his new idea is wrong too.

“For her child to live, healthy and unharmed.”

Cross-Post: Untitled (Mon 15 Oct)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

original here. dated 2012-10-16.

~

During the night I woke up three times cold, paranoid, and heart pumping with adrenaline. Each time I lay back down to sleep I decided whether or not I wanted to continue this nightmare, for surely that’s what it was. From a narrative stance, it was one of my more entertaining dreams, but experiencing it in real time was one of the worst. I kept going, because I wanted to know the ending. I kept going, because I wanted to know the beginning.

I had committed a heinous crime. I’m quite sure it involved multiple accounts of murder, for there had been flashes of gore and blood and limbs all around what looked like a police station. There were also two missing people–a police officer and his son–the public was unsure if they were alive or dead. And so was I.

In my dream, I had woken up with a head injury, amnesia, and my picture being shown on all major news channels as a dangerous fugitive. I had no idea what I had done or why I had done it. All I knew was that I was being chased, and I couldn’t be caught. It was dark, my coat covered in blood, and I didn’t know where I was or where I was going.

The dream featured a number of people from my real life, faces I had merely seen in passing and family and friends. It was interesting to see who fell on which side–the side to help me escape or the side that would turn me over to the authorities with my memories still lost.

One of my sisters, I was surprised and almost betrayed to see, was on the side of the law–hunting me down with a pair of what were her old teammates. While they had been viciously and sadistically enjoying the chase (we had never gotten along in high school), my sister seemed almost sorry for what she was doing. It wasn’t her fault: firstly, she was a bounty hunter, it was her job. But more importantly, she was my sister, if I had really become the remorseless kidnapping and murdering monster that I appeared, it was her duty to bring me in herself. She almost caught me.

I woke up; heart racing, somehow cold while still being strangled by my blankets. The white noise my roommate played, once irritating, now calmed me. I was not running for my life, lost. I wanted to know what happened next.

My childhood best friend somehow managed to find me and help, despite how disoriented and afraid and mistrusting I was. She rescued me from the metaphorical hounds at my heels, running alongside me despite the danger it must have put her in. She couldn’t fill me in much, only that I had called earlier, before I had lost my memory, asking for a favor. “Anything,” she recalled to me, “I said you could ask for anything.” But the situation looked terrible. “Anything,” she repeated.

The me that called her, that remembered, had instructed her to bring me to an inn called The Sleeping Swan. My childhood best friend had enlisted the help of her father–physically frail and elderly, but still quite the hellion–as a hilariously effective getaway driver, pushing the blue minivan to it’s limits as I changed out of bloodstained clothing in the back. The police was still on my trail, make no doubt about it, but this ridiculous minivan was a fragile bubble of relief.

Soon enough we were skidding to a stop outside of the inn. That was as far as my childhood best friend and her father went. Because that was as far as I would let them go. Thanking them again, so much; please be safe. They parroted the words back, though just as concerned if in a different way. I wondered, briefly, where my current best friend was; if she would appear at some point in this madness. We said our goodbyes, because we knew we would never see each other again.

The Sleeping Swan was simultaneously a trap and not. The phone call had been monitored, and a pair of federal agents were lying in wait for me to arrive. One of them, who I now recognize from one of my classes, was desperate for my arrest–he needed to prove himself, needed the glory from being the hero to stop the villain that I had been portrayed as. The other, based off a friend living on the floor above me, was actually there to help. Me, that is.

The common area was crowded–I must have been pulling images from movies; the rowdiness of a medieval tavern, but the design of a fairly nice hotel lobby–but I was still able to find her. Her outfit I remember clearly, because it’s one I’ve actually seen her wear: a no-nonsense black skirt suit with an electric blue, cheetah patterned scarf. She sat pristinely on a white sofa, I went to sit across from her.

She couldn’t speak for long, she told me, “My partner’s waiting for a signal, and I can’t stall forever. I have some things to give you, some details I couldn’t print out, but I’ve emailed them to a dummy account. The details are here,” She handed me a hastily scribbled card and an envelope, “The others have made it safely to the meeting point, they’re so grateful. I am, too. You’re very brave for doing this on your own, hang in there, you can do it.”

I wanted to ask her, because she seemed to know, what I had done. Why did she think was brave or even vaguely good when everyone was being told otherwise? Who were the others? But before I could, her partner stormed in and shot me with his gun.

I jolted upright, gasping, my limbs flailing out in defence. I punched the wall, my knuckles still hurt. I have read somewhere that when your sleeping pulse drops too low, your brain thinks it’s dying and so shocks you awake. I was so paranoid, so afraid, I was still feeling the effects of being hunted. I needed to know what happened next.

I was lucky he wasn’t a particularly good shot, though it still burned as it grazed my side. The other people scattered, as did the agent across from me–she couldn’t help me if she were caught or shot. I’ve always been pretty good at weaving through crowds, a trait that served me well in the dreamworld. He was larger and so couldn’t follow easily, but he was still in front of the exit, so I had to go further in. I spotted a door hidden under the stairwell everyone else was going up–so I went down.

For some reason, I knew that The Sleeping Swan was run by a pair of brothers. Their mother was the owner, a lonely and somewhat senile old lady who lived in the basement. Which is where I went. She was very nice, looked like the ladies I see everyday on my walk to school; she was willing to loan me some bandages to wrap my wounds and her sons’ clothing. She let me borrow her dinosaur of a computer, which thankfully had internet even though it must have been the slowest connection in the world.

It was so slow. Agonizingly slow. The agent chasing me had already cleared the upper levels, and I heard him questioning the brothers–it was obvious where he was headed next. It was nerve-wracking, waiting for the information I so desperately needed to load on the screen. His steps were noisy on the wooden stairs, too close! The email finally came through; luckily the message was short, but it was still the key to the papers inside the envelope I was sure. That’s when the agent came crashing through the door.

I panicked. He shot in my direction, not only missing me entirely but also hitting the old computer tower. Still panicking, I threw a quick thanks and sorry to the owner and crawled through the window at the top of the room through a lovely bed of flowers. I just barely fit; the agent wouldn’t be able to follow my route, but I still had to keep moving.

I walked for the longest time. Walked is probably the wrong word. I scurried and ducked and hid and sidled until the sun was up. Then I kept going until I got hungry. I figured a fast food restaurant would be safest, they wouldn’t pay attention to customers’ faces especially this early in the morning. I ordered a quick breakfast meal and took a seat away from the windows; multitasking by going through the envelope and eating. Some cash, a bus ticket, a map, a photo.

The photo felt familiar, a man and a boy. I wondered where I had seen it before when the news on the tiny television mounted on the wall showed the same photo in my hand. They were the missing police officer and his son. It was a story about me. It was then that I learned what I was being accused of, the footage showed the graphic and terrible remains of a police station. They had yet to identify all of the remains, they were not too sure how many victims there were. It was a bloodbath.

I didn’t understand how I could have done that. I’m squeamish and pacifistic and rather weak, to be honest. Logistically, I shouldn’t have been able to go up against what seemed like multiple trained police officers and rend them limb from limb on my own. Perhaps that was it. There were others, accomplices to my murder-spree, or perhaps I was the accomplice to their murder-spree. And what of the missing officer and his son? Why would I be given their photo, and where were they?

The employees of the fast food restaurant were starting to murmur, looking at me, at the phone. It was time to leave. Quickly, but unhurriedly. Wouldn’t want to be obvious. As I made my way down the street as subtly as I could, I noticed a hair salon. I heard sirens in the air–decision made. Five hundred, I offered, for a quick shave and a wig and discretion. They complied.

I wasn’t that far from the marked out point on the map–at the edge of the next town over, presumably the bus station for the ticket. But between there and my current location, was an empty stretch of road; pedestrians were unusual, and it was heavily monitored to prevent speeding. How would I get there without the authorities seeing me?

The answer was: I didn’t. Hesitating confusedly on a sidewalk was apparently some kind of signal for a group of armed robbers to hold me hostage in their getaway pickup truck. Forced to get into the truck’s bed, I simultaneously praised and cursed my luck–praised because, on the one hand, I was being brought to my destination. On the other hand, it was at gunpoint. In this nightmare, guns and I had an odd relationship, different from the one I have with guns in the real world. I apparently was raised being taught gun safety and care, could shoot a handgun or a rifle with ease and accuracy since my teen years, but was nonetheless scared witless of them. Just something about the look of them freaked me out and I–those were not real guns. I was being held up at fake gunpoint!

Well, in that case. I kicked a foot out towards the robber in the back with me, catching him in the ribs. Startled he dropped his fake rifle. Even if it was fake, in that I couldn’t shoot anything with it, it could still be used as a weapon. Grabbing the prop by the muzzle, I swung it at the closest of my captors who, for some reason, responded by jumping out of the truck. While we were still moving. The driver, startled, swerved and braked kicking up a cloud of dust, while the passenger turned to deal with me. I jabbed him in the face with the end of the rifle, intending to break his nose, but only succeeding in pushing his head back.

I could see the bus station not that far away, surprisingly large for a small town. I could probably run to it, if the police prioritized the robbers over the mass-murderer. Unlikely. The passenger, who I identified as a grown up version of one of my elementary school bullies, opened his door to step out. A plan forming quickly in my mind, I swung as hard as I could to knock him out; cathartic and practical. Grabbing his handgun, his very real handgun, I jumped into the cab of the truck holding the driver at gunpoint. All of this, from hostage to hostage-taker took less than two minutes. I demanded him to drive, if he knew what was good for him and his friends. He could backtrack to pick them up, if he was fast enough he might even beat the police on his trail.

“You’re crazy,” he screamed, perhaps finally recognizing me from the news or panicking at being on the other side of a gun, but obeying nonetheless. The sirens were drawing closer, the authorities no longer hesitating upon seeing two of their now-unarmed-robbers lying prone on the ground.

As we neared the bus station, I could see two police cruisers standing guard–probably the only available perimeter. Okay, plan change necessary. The driver kept going, possibly fear overruling his logic, and we were about to crash into the cruisers. I pulled the trigger, in reflex he stepped on the brake, and we skidded to a halt less than a foot in front of the shaking cops. The smoking hole in the upholstery and the gun placed strategically next to the driver would have to be enough, shoddy as it was. I opened the truck door, falling to the ground, asphalt biting into my hands. Quickly getting to my feet, I ran. Straight into the nearest cop.

I woke up again. Muscles tense, afraid but determined. There was no way I was going to just leave it there.

Strands of hair from the wig obscured my face, making me look frenzied, fearful. Excellent. “Please, he has a gun, I’m so scared,” I sobbed, laying it on thick. If I had misjudged, if they were suspicious, if they recognized me, then I had literally put myself into their hands.

Fortunately, though, they believed me. The one I had run into ushering me to sit in the back of his cruiser as his colleagues bravely, but unnecessarily, made their way around the truck with their guns at the ready. “I’m sorry, could I. Do you have any water?” He reassured me and made his way to the trunk. I just needed him preoccupied so I could make the five hundred yard dash to the bus station, he was old, embarrassingly pot-bellied–the spitting image of my former landlord–I easily outran him.

The bus station was crowded enough that I could easily hide myself amongst other people. I hid behind a fake tree, disposing of the wig, and my shirt (thankfully wearing an undershirt), and donning a pair of sunglasses poking out of someone’s bag. The bus tickets I was given specified a platform but not a time. Making my way to platform seven, I cautiously approached the driver, unsure what I would say about my flawed ticket.

An announcement went on the PA system overhead, “Attention please, do not be alarmed, we are looking for a woman…” I didn’t hear the rest of it, I froze staring at the bus driver because there was no way I could get out of this. Instead, she just smiled and gestured for me to come on board. Pressing a hand to my shoulder, she guided me up the steps, following after me. There were only seven of us on board, including the bus driver, but she started up the engine and pulled out of the station calmly and unhindered. Soon enough, we made our way out of the small town and on the open road.

I still didn’t know if I was safe or not. I curled up in my seat, cheek pressed against the window. I was so sick of this, so tired. I couldn’t keep this up.

“Are you okay?” The seat next to me creaking with someone’s weight.

“I don’t know where this bus is going,” I said. I don’t know what I’m doing, I thought.

“Does it matter? We can go wherever we want, now. Do whatever we want.”

That was a weird answer, I looked over to see a familiar teenager–the police officer’s son! “The news says you’re missing!”

“Yeah, and it also says you’re a crazy mass-murderer who somehow single-handedly tore apart fourteen people without any weapons. I know you’re pretty badass, but we helped too. I mean, thanks for taking the heat, we were worried you weren’t going to make it… are you okay?” He repeated because I was crying and now the other passengers were gathering. And I knew them, I finally knew what was happening. Because these were my friends, in my dream, the ones who I had committed some a heinous crime with and for. I spotted my current best friend, my last roommate, the barista from my local cafe, my economics professor, the bus driver now recognizable as a family friend. All of them disguised as strangers on a bus.

“Dad, come here! You’re being ungrateful,” the teenager yelled towards the man seated in the corner; the missing police officer. I turned to look as well, and someone grabbed my chin keeping my head still. Fingers tracing the sore spot on my head that I had been pushing against the cool glass, “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” And I still don’t.

Cross-Post: Ode to 11010201, Chapter One

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

original here. dated 2012-08-29.

[A/N: okay… if I’m going to be extremely honest, this started out as an SI!OC Teen Wolf fanfiction. And then considering how divergent from the series I wanted to make it I just readapted it into “original fiction.” So… I guess I’ll tag it as both? Obviously Zim Szymanski = Stiles Stilinski.]

~

She does not get the letter in her mailbox. What is this, the fifties? The only thing people get in their mailboxes nowadays are bills and coupons for grocery stores. No, she gets the letter on top of the very short paperwork stack her PA is allowing her take home during her mandatory three week vacation. It’s a sad anemic pile, it’ll hardly last one day in her enforced boredom. It goes in her bag anyway.

When she asks what it is, why is he doing this to her, can’t he just let her spend her vacation in the office and just tell HR she didn’t, he makes emphatic eyebrow movements but doesn’t actually say anything in response. Patrick had tried planning an itinerary for her. Ha! As if trips to the museum or spa days or hiking of all things organized in a similar fashion to her normal work schedule could lull her into accepting via familiarity.

Striding gracefully, not marching petulantly no matter what Fred the receptionist will later report back to Patrick, she heads to the elevators and makes her way out of the building for the last time this month. Flying Spaghetti Monster, she won’t be back until August! That’s an entirely different page on the calendar! She can’t do this, she can’t do this, she can’t–and Ann, head of security, is standing just on the opposite side of the glass doors with a look that somehow manages to be simultaneously stern and amused. So she completes the turn, a full three-sixty instead of a one-eighty back inside, as if she had planned that entirely. A playful twirl, people do that all the time, right? Patrick will still probably hear of it.

The journey back to her apartment is off-putting, mostly since the sun is still up, and she has likely convinced at least three passersby of her impending psychotic break. The experience is so harrowing and exhausting she immediately faceplants into bed. No, that’s a lie. She does in fact take the time and effort to change into pajamas and brush her teeth clean. Then she closes the blinds, because Lost Island of Atlantis, the sun is still up. Then she faceplants into bed.

She doesn’t think about the paperwork, and by proxy the letter, until a full sixteen hours later. Fifteen of those were spent unconscious. She will never tell this to Patrick, but he may still find out anyway.

~

After polishing off the scant amount of food in her apartment, she sits on her mostly unused couch in a daze of confused ennui. She has no idea what to do now. She’s debating with herself on whether she should do all of the paperwork now, leaving her with a gaping hole of unproductivity to look forward to, or to save it for the end as a sort of constructive reward for making it through, or even to create a daily ration of work, though there’s a part of her cringing at the inefficiency of only doing two and a third pages per day. This is sad. That her life has been reduced to this is pathetic.

She’s about to call Patrick and complain, because at least that’s something to do, when she spots the letter. And then stares. It is weirding her out. The addresses are handwritten for one, badly so and to such an extent that they’re nearly unreadable. She just barely knows it’s intended for her, and only because her name is unique enough that legible or not she will always be able to recognize it. How the post office was able to deliver it to her, she has no idea. Also, why would Patrick even let this through? There’s no way this is for business, and anyone she knows beyond that would never send her a letter. It’s the age of email and text messages and social networking, who is sending her a letter? Not even her mother, quirky and elderly woman that she is, sends anything through the post.

The return address does, if she’s reading this correctly, come from California. Which doesn’t narrow it down much. Given she was born, grew up, and went to school–kindergarten to master’s–in California, this could mean anyone she’s met in the first twenty five years of her life. Also, most of her family lives in California. And her family is huge; on her maternal grandfather’s side alone she has so many relatives that they keep track of each other through numbers–she’s 110103 and proud of it.

She opens it. Because there’s only so much apprehension one can have about an envelope before finally biting the bullet and opening it. There is a single page; the writing is the same though more carefully penned, she doesn’t want to gouge her eyes out. She skims it first, then stops halfway through, goes back to the beginning and reads slowly, focused. When she gets to the end, she reads it again. She tries to read it one more time and gives up. She grabs her phone, wallet, shoes, and coat, then walks to the grocery store down the block. Yes, still in her pajamas.

She waits until she’s inside the store before she calls Patrick, because that way she’ll be forced to keep her voice at a reasonable level or otherwise suffer the awkward and annoying glares of employees and other customers. She grabs a cart still, since she does actually need to get food, and goes to the very last aisle. She intends to work her way backward, until either her cart is full or she gets to the first aisle; she intends to keep her rant at Patrick civil.

It just gets to the second ring when he picks up. “I thought you would at least get to tomorrow before you called,” she knows he means for it to be teasing, but right now all she can hear is condescension.

She doesn’t angrily hiss ‘how could you’ because that is stupidly cliche and also wouldn’t make much sense within this context. “You couldn’t have warned me?”

But he’s always been very good about understanding her without context, anyway. “I would never open a letter from your long lost nephew without asking you first, that’s an invasion of privacy.”

“Don’t give me that. You’re practically paid to invade my privacy,” She’s already at the cereal aisle. She wants to get Lucky Charms, but her doctor’s been on her about hereditary diabetes and proper nutrition and all sorts of nonsense she doesn’t really understand but feels obligated to obey anyway.

“You should get Special K, instead. The strawberries ought to make it up to you,” She has no idea how he does it, but it figures he’d be in cahoots with her doctor and her grocers. Or they’re in cahoots with him. How do cahoots work? “I booked you a flight home, it’s on Monday. Helena misses you.”

Her mother too? “Don’t bring my mother into this, we have weekly phone calls. Stop trying to guilt me into going. It won’t work.” It will totally work. She cracks easily, like overly bleached eggs at the bottom of the stack, placed carelessly into the cooler by a bleary eyed teenager. On the topic of eggs, she grabs a carton of twelve; it’s one of the few things she can actually cook. “Anyway, you know how much I hate going home.”

She loves her family. That’s probably a bad way to start, because leading with that just begs for it to be contradicted and that shouldn’t have to be stated but she will anyway. She loves her family. She just hates being at home. It’s why she’s moved to the entire other side of the country, on the coast of an entirely different ocean, three entire time zones away. She talks to Mama at least once a week, and not just a perfunctory ten minute minimum, but full hours of updates and emotions and inside jokes. It’s much easier with her sisters, they have an email group and spam each other’s profile pages daily with pictures and random comments.

Well. Not all of her sisters. Not the one who has apparently given birth within the past seventeen years since they’ve lost contact. It’s part of the reason why she doesn’t go home that often, though she has to admit that she never really liked it even before then. It used to be the four of them; the few times they weren’t a united group, they had the tendency to split into pairs in a variety of combinations. The gaping hole in their quartet is less obvious if she stays away.

Ugh.

“Grunting, excellent. Your eloquence is impressive as always,” There was once a time when her PA was not so snarky, did not know her enough to manipulate herself and the world for her benefit. She doesn’t remember that time. She wouldn’t choose to go back, his concern is as comforting as it is irritating.

“I’ll only have tomorrow to pack,” The well lit rows of fruity yogurt cups are tempting; but she probably shouldn’t buy any dairy products right now, since she’s apparently agreed to go home for vacation.

“I’ve also booked you another flight for Friday.” In that case, the yogurt will still be good when she gets back, “It’s to Belleview. Well, the nearest airport, it’s not large enough to have it’s own.”

Belleview? What’s Belleview? Why–oh.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” He sounds understanding and sincere, which means that he will be horribly disappointed in her if she doesn’t. She ends up with salads for lunch when Patrick’s disappointed. They don’t even have chicken in them.

She sighs. She cracks so, so easily, “They better be window seats,” She puts the yogurt back.

“Of course,” He responds immediately, as if he actually were a subservient PA, but she can hear the laughter in his voice, pleased as punch.

The items in her cart aren’t so quickly perishable. They’ll keep until she gets back, and there’s no need for this shopping trip to go to waste. She heads to the check out line, “I’ll probably end up calling you again at some point during this… vacation.”

The reply is a quick and noncomittal, “I’ll see you in August,” and Patrick hangs up. She stares at her phone in betrayal.

Sean, her usual cashier, absently says, “He worries about your health. You need to relax. And eat healthier, of course.” She stares at him in betrayal, too, as he sets aside her chocolate bars without scanning them in. Cahoots!

~

She’s not a nervous flier. She’s been hopping on and off airplanes since before she was a teenager and her parents separated and her father moved to Canada while still demanding her presence during summer breaks. Flights are not bad at all. Her voice is high enough and her face round enough that flight attendants still sometimes assume she’s a minor; they ask if this is her first flight alone, which is annoying, but they give her extra snacks so it all balances out. The point is: she’s not a nervous flier but she just happens to be nervous while she’s on a plane. The well-meaning, but misinformed flight attendants are looking at her worriedly. Her fellow passengers are obviously annoyed, which in turn makes the flight attendants annoyed at them. She makes an excellent helpless puppy face.

A nephew. Abominable Snowman, an actual nephew. Not just the son of a distant cousin. But a son of one of her sisters. Paul Bunyan’s Blue Ox, that’s weird.

She has nieces. Her eldest sister Daphne has two daughters, Tiffany and Audrey. When she flew home during her first week of vacation, they had also been visiting her mother. It helped fill what she had feared would be tense secret keeping–because she sure as pecan pie wasn’t going to spring a long-lost grandson on Mama. The girls are both bright and noisy. It works since they’re still in their cute years. She shudders to think what they’ll be like as teenagers. She speaks from experience; all of her sisters were unabashed extroverts and there was always drama happening. Always. Well, until her most dramatic sister pulled the most dramatic act in their shared history; running away and burning bridges willy nilly.

To be honest, she’s not all that clear on the details; she had been studying abroad that year. It was as if to her everything was normal, then she went to school, came back, and suddenly only had two sisters instead of three–everyone obsessively avoiding the topic of her missing sister. She’s only ever heard bits and pieces of the tale, from her mother and sisters when they’re tired or drunk or forgetful, and even then she thinks she only has one side. She had thought the other side would forever be lost to her.

She wonders if her mysterious nephew knows the other side of the story. What this version must contain for him to put effort into finding her. Or perhaps finding her was never an issue–perhaps her sister had always kept him informed of his family. Their family. She should be wondering why now. Why has he contacted her now?

~

The plane lands in Cadmium City. It’s not a big city, but it’s decent-sized and she appreciates the design–the roads are neatly arranged and the buildings uphold a sense of efficient yet tasteful aesthetics. The airport is similarly well organized and it takes her no time at all to find the loading bay for taxis. It takes her much longer to find a taxi driver willing to bring her to Belleview, but she does eventually. Mostly because Emma, the driver of the hilariously lime-green taxi (why didn’t she choose this one first?), lives in Belleview and is going home for the day.

“We don’t get many visitors. The town is self-sufficient. Me having a job as a cab driver in Cadmium is practically rebellion; even then I would never move there, Belleview is home. It’s not terribly exciting, but home shouldn’t really be. Why are you going there anyway? It’s not much of a vacation spot, but then again, I can’t really imagine anyone going there for business purposes,” Emma is friendly and talkative, sincere in a way that makes her want to reciprocate.

“Family…” Is it union since the ’re’ part of ‘reunion’ is invalid?

“I know how you feel–family, not exactly business but definitely more effort than leisure. Do you know where you’re staying for the night?”

“I… huh,” She must be really jet-lagged, “Did I not specify where I was going beyond Belleview?”

“No, but it’s a long enough drive that I figure you’d have enough time to say. Are you not staying with your family?”

“No,”

“No?” Emma prompts, because that’s how conversation works.

She can’t expect a total stranger to understand her tone, the nuances that say she hasn’t seen her sister in seventeen years, that she doesn’t know what kind of welcome she’ll get, that she wasn’t even really invited, that her PA took a vague ‘hope to meet you’ from her surprise long-lost nephew as an excuse to book her a plane ticket to some tiny town apparently in the middle of nowhere.

“I haven’t seen my sister in a long time, this is sort of a surprise visit. I wouldn’t want to impose.” Close enough.

“Maybe I know your family; the town isn’t that large.”

“They’re the Szymanski family?” The name fits oddly in her mouth, she’s unsure how to pronounce it. She’s trying out the softer ‘sh’ sound, like her pre-journey research says, but perhaps she’s still mangling it.

“Your sister’s a Szymanski?” Emma pronounces the z, sharper and further from the original Polish, “I only know of one Szymanski family, but it’s just… well, maybe it’s a different one.”

It doesn’t seem like it’d be that common a name, but maybe Belleview has a lot of Polish descendants. Regardless, she has a somewhat more pressing matter to attend to, “Can you recommend a hotel in Belleview?”

Emma bursts out in laughter, through the rearview mirror she can see it’s with crinkled eyes squinting almost closed. It’s not mean. “Sorry,” she apologizes anyway, “it’s just that, if I hadn’t decided to be a cab driver in Cadmium, I’d have gone into the family business.”

She waits for the punch line.

“We own the only inn in Belleview.”

~

She waits until the next day before navigating her way to the Szymanski household; she’s fairly good with maps but she couldn’t have done that without getting lost before a good, solid rest. Her sleep hadn’t been quite as lengthy as her first day of vacation, but long enough to worry Emma’s kindly mother. The bonus home-cooked brunch was delicious, but she could have done without the matronly patronizing… matronizing?

The return address on the envelope leads her to a cul-de-sac near the edge of the woods–because apparently Belleview is surrounded by forests and hills and her life is steadily becoming more like a fairy tale or soap opera each day. Regardless, the houses along the road are charming two-story structures, identical in their layout, no doubt, but each having individual personalities through unique paint jobs and competitively distinct gardens. One, with a utilitarian grass-and-tree only front yard, has the most disastrous looking car she has ever seen parked in the driveway. It’s an old SUV, colored an unfortunate brownish yellow, with more dents and scratches than a vehicle not in a warzone should have.

Yup, matching the number of the house with the number on the envelope, that’s the house. Figures, she thinks to herself as she heads towards the door and thus the SUV, her sister’s taste and relationship with cars had always been awful. There are windchimes on either side of the porch steps, intricately carved wood ornaments hanging alongside metal bells; she has a similar one in her apartment, reminiscent of the ones they grew up with as children. Besides that, she doesn’t really sense anything else that reminds her of Iris. But seventeen years can change a person.

She rings the doorbell and waits. She doesn’t give herself time to hesitate or backtrack. What happens next is out of her hands.

And really confusing.

The door is opened by a teenager holding a hockey stick who immediately drops a length of rope between them, “I don’t know how you did it, but you definitely can’t get past this. Also, what is your plan, even? Coming alone in the middle of the day. Sure it’s just me right now, but it’s not like the others aren’t capable of getting here in an instant. Is this some kind of psychological power play happening? Go after the weakest link? Trying to offer me something so I’ll betray my friends? Yeah, well, not gonna happen, so you can just turn around right now and go. I may not be a canine, but I am loyal.”

What?

“That’s… good? Loyalty is good.” Seriously, what does she say to this? “Sorry, I was looking for the Szymanski residence; is this not the right address?” She holds out the envelope, it’s creased where she’s kept it folded in her pocket and it wasn’t exactly pristine when she first got it, but the address is still visible.

He doesn’t take it from her, but he seems to recognize it. “No, that’s here. That’s me, us, I mean, the Szymanskis. Are you…” He alternates between looking at the envelope in her hand and her face, getting less angry and skeptical, more floundering and confused.

Ok, they’re on the same emotional page at least, “I’m R Chacone. Well, Arke Rayniero Michalis Chacone– my full name is terrible, I have no idea why my parents named me that. So I usually just go by R…” She clarifies, “I’m your aunt?”

“Oh,”

Good, progress is–

He shuts the door, then opens it again slightly, the rope snaking along the ground as he drags it inside with his foot, then shuts it again.

Never mind then.

She’s not really sure what to do now. Why didn’t she just call ahead? Or write a letter back instead of springing up all uninvited and awkward. Family interaction is difficult. Even more so when you don’t have a routine to fall back on.

Poking one of the windchimes, she sets off a tiny chorus of bells. Should she ask to see Iris? But the letter was from him and she’s pretty sure curious nephew would react better than estranged sister, so extrapolating from his reaction… Maybe leave a message?

The other windchime has darker stained wood and more rectangular bells, overall a deeper sound. This was a terrible idea. She should just leave. She tried, her efforts fell flat, it’s not on her anymore.

The door opens for a third time.

~

They’re seated across the kitchen table, set with a glass for each of them, water for her, milk for him. She lets her eyes wander around, categorizing what is, isn’t, and could be hints of her sister. The wallpaper could have been from previous owners, but the whale shaped cookie jar is obvious. She’s not sure if the bone structure of his face is different from teenaged Iris because he’s male or because he takes after his father, but his ears have that slight Chacone tapering that she sees in the mirror and in family photos.

It’s been six minutes. He is pointedly staring at his own hands, as if mesmerized by the tiny landscape of knuckles and veins. She can’t tell which is more nerve-wracking, the hum of the refrigerator or the arrhythmic pattern of their breathing.

“Sorry, this is–” Frustrating, awkward, disastrous. Her fingers can’t stop tapping against the glass, “I should have–” Written instead? Called ahead? Never come? She makes to stand, but her legs are too far under the table; the back of her knee jostles the chair, the grating sound of wood against wood.

“Why are you even here?” He’s scrubbing his hands across his face, eyes squeezed shut. He has constellations of moles and freckles across his skin, just like his mother and his grandmother, entire galaxies it seems.

“You wrote to me.”

“And that’s it? It’s as simple as that?”

And she had vacation time coming up. And she needed something to do. And her PA booked her flight for her. And she’s curious. And…

“You’re family.” Family is important. Family may be frustrating and awkward and disastrous, but it’s important.

His groan is muffled, head bowed into his hands.

They don’t know each other well enough that she can reach out and touch him, drag his hands out of the way so that he’d look at her. She… apple pie à la mode, she doesn’t even know what his real name is, just that he prefers to be called Zim, “We may not have the same name, and I know I’ve missed out on basically your entire life because I didn’t even know you existed until last week, but you found me. You found me and reached out to me and you’re family. So I’m here. Because you wrote to me.” She repeats, “And you’re family.”

The refrigerator buzz is back. It’s practically disdainful. Judgemental.

She drinks her water. There are copper molds in the shape of fish hanging on the wall above the sink. Mama has roosters and suns, Daphne has grapes. Zoe’s home address is technically Mama’s, but only because her job requires her to travel so much that having her own place is impractical; perhaps the suns are actually Zoe’s. There is nothing in her own apartment besides what is necessary; she’s pretty sure all of her walls are white.

He looks up at her with a huff, it could have been a chuckle if it were not so forced, “We do share names, you know.”

“What?”

“I go by Zim for the same reason you go by R,” They share a timidly commiserating smile; she knows where this is going and there’s a blooming warmth in her chest at this tiny bond. “I always wondered why Mom would give me a name so easy to make fun of. I also wondered why Dad agreed because, you know, aren’t second opinions supposed to prevent bad ideas? But I guess she named me after you. Well, not completely, my first name isn’t Arke but we have the same second name, and third name, too. Why do you have a guy’s name–Rayniero, that’s not a normal girl’s name. Not that it’s a normal name to begin with, but it doesn’t fit gender norms. I mean, not that I’m saying you have to, conformity is evil and all that; but mostly I’m just wondering what your parents, er, my grandparents were thinking? Because that decision seriously trickled down. Consequences, they exist.”

Her grin is shaky now, because she’s trying not to laugh–not at his rambling, because it’s nervous and heartfelt and it doesn’t remind her at all of Iris or herself or anyone else; it seems uniquely Zim, and she’s glad that he’s not just an amalgamation of familiar traits. She’s relieved and she feels lighter than when she woke up this morning, than when she was on the plane, than when she read that letter. She’s so happy and she wants to laugh because it’s either that or hug him and that’s not an option either. They’re not at that level yet, but they could be. They’re both willing to work at it, and that’s fantastic.

Cross-Post: Red brainstorm

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

original here. dated 2012-03-20

~

Every other day, after helping Mother out with the tavern, Rose Red hitches a ride on the Woodcutter’s cart to Grandmother’s house in the forest. This is because Rose is Grandmother’s apprentice–Grandmother being the kingdom’s old court magician. Twenty years ago when the then-prince (now King) of the kingdom rescued and married Snow White, her distaste for magic caused Grandmother to be removed from the prestigious position. This stigma against magic permeated throughout the kingdom such that Rose is a pariah in the town, however she knows that magic is her only chance to make something of her life. Most of her duties, however, are simple things like finding ingredients for various potions and charms.

On one such outing, Rose encounters Wolf in trap. Feeling particularly adventurous, she tries to free and heal Wolf; she succeeds (even if it does take multiple attempts). In return, Wolf steals her cloak (a sensible dark green) and runs away. When she returns to town before sundown, Mother scolds her for losing yet another cloak and makes her wear her childhood red cloak; hence the nickname “Little Red Riding Hood.”

Rose sees Wolf more often, he becomes friendlier and even begins to help her with her chores. Wolf undoubtedly becomes her best friend, as sad as that is, such that she begins to go to the forest every day now. As noticed by the friendly Woodcutter (who is in love with Mother, but does honestly care about Rose). She takes care to keep Wolf a secret from him.

Soon, though, a newcomer arrives: Huntsman. Rose, Grandmother, and Woodcutter do not trust him (though that may be only because Mother is charmed). Unsurprisingly, Huntsman is after Wolf. Because he’s staying in the rooms above the tavern, Rose hears his plans before they occur and goes into the forest to protect Wolf. Then the Hunt.

Rose and Wolf are able to evade Huntsman for the day, though he is undoubtedly getting closer. Then sundown. Rose has never been in the forest at night before. She has never seen Wolf at night before. That’s because Wolf is in fact the Prince! Not too long ago Prince was cursed during some important event (perhaps coronation or first battle/hunt). He was meant to be hidden away in the castle, however he was let loose. Snow White, as queen, has offered a reward for those who can find the Prince-Wolf, however Huntsman doesn’t understand that he needs to bring Prince-Wolf alive.

Just before dawn, Huntsman finds the two of them. Before he can harm either of them, however, Woodcutter, who had been tracking them down at the behest of Mother, arrives to stop him. Soon follow Snow White and Grandmother. Prince-Wolf is cured so that he is now just Prince. Woodcutter gets the reward (which he splits with Mother for the upkeep of the tavern). Grandmother is offered the reinstated position of court magician but refuses, saying she always hated the politics. Prince proposes to Rose.

And she says she has to think about it. Because, really, even though he’s known her for a while and fallen in love, she’s only known that he was a human for one night. One night spent in paranoid hiding. So yeah, she’s got to think about it. She stays in town and continues to learn from Grandmother, Prince visits every month and everyone treats Rose better, but she says she needs time to think about it every time. On the day Prince is going to go visit again, Rose arrives at the castle to apply for the position of court magician.

~

The sequel of Red, with a title more imaginative than Red II, would be about Rose adjusting to court life. The other courtiers are prejudice against her, due to her magic, her commoner status, and the fact that Prince obviously favors her over his peers. The sequel would mostly be about Rose proving herself worthy of the position of court magician: she perseveres despite the others’ expectations (and breaks a curse that has been plaguing the kingdom for years?). There are also smaller issues she settles since Rose does represent the reintroduction of magic (including negotiating with the faeries about a recent noble birth and a possible faery godparent?). She not-so-ironically finds allies with the dwarves, The Seven being the queen’s now ignored advisors, the next generation of dwarves being subsequently disrespected.

There are moments of Prince’s and Rose’s relationship progressing–the Prince often seeking her out despite both of their busy schedules. There is conflict, however, because even though his love for Rose is steadily becoming more requited that is inversely related to how everyone else views her and they both know it is unlikely anything will come of it (his marriage will be political not romantic). She does make some friends and even if they are servants their influence in court helps Rose immensely.

Cross-Post: Untitled (Fri Mar 16)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

original here. dated 2012-03-16

~

He’d saved her because what else could he do? He hadn’t been good enough to save his sister or his annoying brother-in-law, but the least he could do was save their daughter. His niece.

“Saved” in the loosest sense of the term. He had been too late to save her from the burning rubble costing her her legs, from the smoke inhalation that ruined her lungs, from the flames that grilled her skin and eyes. Without him, she would have had to wait another ten minutes for the fire brigade and she wouldn’t have survived that long.

Of course, without him, her pleasant childhood in the suburbs wouldn’t have been obliterated by a bomb meant to teach him a lesson.

She’s now under his guardianship; he wouldn’t abandon her again, but the agency won’t let him go either. He’s not necessarily their best nor is he irreplaceable, but it’s much easier to take care of a handicapped little girl than to find and train another loyal agent.

She grows up in that sterile room in headquarters. They give her an education but put her on media blackout. They provide rehabilitation but deny her freedom. He hates going to visit her, but he would hate himself more if he didn’t.

Then he gets shot in the chest. He’s lucky it was from a turncoat agent in headquarters, near enough to a state of the art infirmary, near enough to a genetically viable replacement heart. Lucky in the loosest sense of the term.

“They said you were going to be up and about soon,” The cardiopulmonary bypass machine is a glaringly obvious addition to her room.

“Why would you…” Because they’re not that kind of family. Because he knows that he might have saved her, but he also ruined her. Because that bomb and that fire had destroyed almost everything, her parents, her childhood, her life, her dreams (she had wanted to be an artist once, before she lost her ability to dance and her lovely voice and her love for painting). Almost everything, because it had left her heart alone.

He keeps ruining her. Now he has a heart too small, and she doesn’t have a heart at all.

Cross-Post: One Can Only Hope So Much…

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

original here. dated 2012-02-29.

[A/N: This was after teasers for Elementary had come out, but before the season premier. So… not canon-compliant. And the author’s notes below are from 2012–I don’t agree with all of it now, but I thought it would add some perspective on my thought process]

~

[[… Before One Must Start To Act. 

So I’m writing this CBS!Elementary fanfiction before it actually comes out. To be honest, as I’m a BBC!Sherlock fan and this is a preemptive “I hope Elementary doesn’t suck, but I’m not really placing my hopes all that high” fanfiction. From what I’ve heard, in particular regarding CBS’ remake of John Watson as Joan Watson, I guess I kind of understand–because this is America, and they’ve seen all the shipping of Johnlock and goddamn America’s homophobia sometimes– not that I particularly like the idea. But then again, how many of us BBC!Sherlock fans haven’t read a genderbent fanfiction, am I right? So… it’s not that John is now Joan that bugs me. I also rather like Lucy Liu, and I like that they’re not restricting themselves to a Caucasian actress so that’s cool. What pisses me off about their remake of John to Joan is that Joan isn’t an army doctor. And… I don’t get why that is. So… this is me… trying to fix that?]]

Joan was a good girl. She got good grades. She held a small position in student council. She played clarinet, even if she didn’t really like it, because she was told that music was important to be a well-rounded person. She played softball because she liked it, but she didn’t pursue it as much as she wanted because she was told that academics were more important. She didn’t get into fights at school. She had a healthy, if modest, number of healthy, if modest, friendships. She was quiet and obedient and did everything that was expected of her.

Joan was a good girl. She graduated from high school, top of her class. She applied to colleges with good pre-med programs, and was accepted. She spent another four years getting good grades. She didn’t party and get drunk every night. She did not experiment with drugs. (She may have joined a few poker tournaments that may have had actual monetary stakes, but it was not that big a deal. She made nearly as much as she lost, anyway.) She did volunteer work at a nearby animal shelter and vaguely considered switching to veterinary medicine, but decided to stick with humans.

Joan was a good girl. She received her bachelor’s degree, magna cum laude (pre-med was a very difficult track), then went on to med school. She spent another eight years getting good grades and learning what it meant to be a good doctor. She did not crash and burn like some of her peers, nor did she (ironically) depend on drugs like others. She was in charge of a study group of equally responsible med students, and did not get drunk that often.

Joan was a good girl even in med school. Unlike a large majority of the other good girls, the other quiet and obedient girls, she did not go into pediatrics or oncology or neurology. She was particularly good at surgery. She was especially good at trauma surgery.

Joan’s parents were proud of her. She was their favorite child by default because, as far as they were concerned, she had not done anything wrong. (Not like her sister who became pregnant and only just barely graduated from high school. Not like her brother who was caught selling weed and was still living at home, constantly damaging the family cars.) She was quiet and obedient and did (almost) everything that was expected of her.

Joan was a good girl. She wanted to become a good woman. She joined the army. (She was still her parents’ favorite child by default, but they did not approve.)

Joan was a good soldier. She did everything her commanding officers told her. She completed every task given to her. She did not punch every moron who made a Mulan joke in the face. (Though really, that one was hard.) She went through fire arms training and discovered she was a also a good shot (a fucking fantastic shot), but she stuck with her medical training because that was good that was important (sometimes winning the war isn’t about beating the other side, but making sure your side survives). She saved some lives, and lost others (and killed others) but she was still a good medic. Joan was a good soldier because she was a good woman.

Then she got shot. (She thought she died)

Then she survived. Then she got shipped back home. (She thought she would have rather died.)

But Joan was nothing if not a good woman. And that made her a good soldier even if that made her not a good girl anymore.  She could handle living in her parents’ home again, in that bedroom that used to be hers when she was a good girl, listening to her parents say I told you so’s and asking when she would find a husband, putting up with her sister’s visits and condescension about her family and her house and her perfect suburban lifestyle, dealing with her brother’s inappropriate jokes and his wrong assumptions about how the military worked (his stupid video games kept her up at night and sometimes she just wanted to take her old softball bat and go into his room and just start wrecking things until that ache in her chest just went away, jesus christ she was already 40 what was she doing with her life, she needed to get out of there, she’d do anything).

“Yes, can I speak to Dr Stamford? Tell him it’s Joan Watson… Hey Mike, about that job opening–no, I know I said my shoulder would make surgery difficult. But I’ve been doing physical therapy. Ha, yeah, I know–as if I weren’t a doctor, right? But listen, they actually said I’m making surprising progress. I should be at one hundred percent by next month. Oh, really? Two weeks? I can do that. Thanks, Mike, you’re a life saver.”

Looking at the medical records that clearly document the severity of her nerve damage, Joan doesn’t feel like a good woman anymore.

[[Basically the idea is that Joan falsified her records regarding her recovery so that she could get that job as a surgeon. It wasn’t until she lost a patient and they sued did people discover her fraud. As I understand it, that’s the premise CBS is trying to pull off (instead of giving Joan her rightful place as an injured army doctor). In a way, CBS!Elementary kind of has to be about both Joan and Sherlock failing then trying to redeem themselves.

Because, think about it, what would make Sherlock Holmes leave London? He fucking loves London. The only way he would leave London would be if he were exiled or if he felt like he didn’t deserve London. So that means he failed big time. And, you know, is punishing himself by going to New York. In turn, Joan has to be just as desperate and have failed to match.

The thing about BBC!Sherlock is that, though I love both Sherlock and John, they’re perfect. They are characters more than they are people. And that makes sense for BBC!Sherlock. But for any Sherlock Holmes to be outside of London, he has to somehow no longer be a Sherlock Holmes. Elementary’s Sherlock has to be a flawed Sherlock–and not only in the way that Sherlock Holmes as a character is flawed– but as a Sherlock Holmes.]]

Cross-Post: No Lament For Perdix

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

original here. dated 2011-11-21

[A/N: This was before the DCU reboot but after the promotional re-designs were out]

~

[[Based off the debut art and teaser of DCU Teen Titan’s reboot: “Tim Drake is forced to step out from behind his keyboard… etc.” Though I guess this is just an AU, since I don’t actually know what the reboot is like. I had assumed that they had completely rewritten Tim’s backstory; and that his debut as Red Robin was his first role as a physical vigilante. Also, I’m trying to make sense of that costume. That costume… Oh, Tim dear, what are you wearing?]]

Most people, if asked, can tell you who Icarus is: that Greek guy who flew too close to the sun and died because of it. Some people, if they’re particularly well-read and fond of mythos, may be able to tell you that Icarus died because he was too eager and ambitious when he flew on wax-and-feather wings. Icarus died because his father Daedalus the inventor made him wings to escape the tower they were imprisoned in, and Icarus had been so overjoyed at finally being free. Few people can tell you how the father and son had gotten into that predicament. Daedalus, beyond being the father of Icarus, is a background character in many other Greek mythos. For example, he was the architect who built the Labyrinth; famous for housing the Minotaur of Crete. King Minos of Crete trapped Daedalus and Icarus in the tower: unwilling to have the scandalous secrets of both the Labyrinth and the Minotaur spread but unable to kill them. This was because Daedalus had not always been the King of Crete’s inventor.

Daedalus had been born in Athens, not Crete, and he had been a prince. He attempted to kill his nephew Perdix: not for a politically-acceptable reason like to steal the throne, but because Perdix, even at his young age, had shown signs of being far more ingenious than Daedalus. Perdix, by looking at the discarded bones of a fish, had come up with the idea for the saw–now a primitive cutting tool, but then a revolutionary innovation. Daedalus had thrown his nephew off a cliff but Athena, the goddess of wisdom and mother-deity of their kingdom, saved Perdix by turning him into a bird. She banished Daedalus from Athens, and branded his skin with an image of his nephew’s new form to remind him of his punishment. It was this image of a bird that inspired Daedalus’ escape plan, that brought about Icarus’ brief freedom and sudden death, that caused one boy’s death to become an iconic myth, but not another.

Tim’s mother scoffed at the romanticization of Icarus in Greek mythology. She scorned mythology in general, knowing how ancient poets embellished the facts and how history is written by the victors, but she gave Tim books of mythology anyway; Greek, Egyptian, all kinds, because no child of hers would be ignorant of the past. Archaeology–the study of the past to understand the present and to prevent the same mistakes from happening in the future. Tim may not have much interest in ancient and civilizations, but he understands the utility of pattern recognition and misconduct deterrence. Janet Drake, in her own way, had been a good mother. She had also been a terrible mother, by normal standards of maternal affection and nurturing, but without her Tim would be a very different boy.

Jack Drake, on the other hand, could only be called a father in the technical sense. He provided half of Tim’s biological signature, provided the basic amenities of life, and provided whatever objects he believed Tim would need or want based on his well-meaning but misconceived but view of his son. If Tim didn’t have eidetic memory, he might not recognize his father’s face, though as it is he doesn’t remember what his father’s voice sounded like. Sometimes Tim wonders what he would have been like had his father been around more often. Sometimes Tim wonders what he would be like if they were still alive. But, if he’s going to be honest, he doesn’t imagine he would be all that different. He already lied to them constantly when they were alive, if anything it just makes his life less complicated now that they’re dead.

Tim doesn’t need time to wonder who, if not his parents, would have altered his life had things gone differently. He knows who has changed his life, and who he has to thank or blame for who he is today. Tim’s first memory is so burned into his mind, it has been branded onto his soul much like Daedalus’ punishment was branded onto his skin, and it is similarly of a bird-who-is-a-boy. Even without his photographic memory, Tim could never forget that day: a promise, a performance, two deaths, and a newly made orphan. Richard “Dick” Grayson doesn’t even know Tim’s name, let alone know how significant a role he played in Tim’s life; while a part of Tim will always be that child craving affection, this state of affairs is just fine.

Tim’s opinion of Batman aka Bruce Wayne aka Batman is just as conflicted as the man’s identity. On the one hand, Bruce Wayne had adopted Dick, on the other hand Batman had endangered Robin. Batman was a hero, Batman was a monster, Bruce Wayne was a liar, Bruce Wayne was insane. Bruce Wayne had adopted a boy from the streets, Bruce Wayne seemed to like young boys an awful lot, Batman had replaced Robin, Batman had killed Robin. Batman had failed to save his parents, Bruce Wayne had offered to adopt Tim. Bruce Wayne had rescinded that offer when Batman had discovered Tim’s use of Tim’s computer skills. Batman introduced Tim to Bruce Wayne’s friend Barbara Gordon aka Oracle aka goddess-to-hackers-good-enough-to-know-of-her-existence.

Barbara Gordon. Oracle. If Tim were the literary type, he would say she was his Athena, but he hasn’t decided if he is Perdix or Daedalus or Icarus or a tragic combination of the three or none of them at all so he’s not too sure if that would be a proper comparison. She’s his older sister and his mentor and his guardian angel and his shoulder devil and his everything and Tim is hers. Tim belongs to Barbara. Tim belongs to Oracle. Tim does whatever she tells him to: hacker grunt work, bug installation, Bird of Prey diplomacy, Clocktower cleaning, grocery shopping, whatever. When Barbara tells him to increase his physical training and start constructing those engineering side projects, Tim gives her a look but says nothing in protest. When Oracle tells him to review Batman’s encrypted files of known metahumans, vigilantes and villains alike, Tim hesitates only to ask if he should leave a reassuring message for Bruce. When Tim is given a mission to aid super-powered teenagers against an international organization, Oracle tells him it will not be as a Bird of Prey or as a Knight of Gotham, Barbara tells him it will be as founder of the new Teen Titans.

Cross-Post: The Toss Up (2)

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original here. dated 2011-01-19

[A/N: Continuation of yesterday’s The Toss Up (1), which is itself partially based on #3 from iesika’s Tim Drake AU post here]

~

It is several weeks after the attack of the mutant armadillos and Jaime is enjoying having the base to himself, even if only for a little while. It’s not that Tim shows up everyday–even with KORD Industries branching out to El Paso, many of Tim’s duties are still in Chicago–but on the days that he calls ahead, Jaime tries to get there first. To show that he’s not as inept as Tim makes him seem. Though, to be honest, on days when he knows for sure Tim will be in Chicago (or Metropolis or San Francisco or Gotham or wherever KI sends him that’s not El Paso), Jaime doesn’t even use the bases (they only have three but it’s still three too many). It’s not like he really needs them. [tim doesn’t need them, either]

“You can put me down now, Booster.”

“No way, Nymph, you’ll probably shatter.”

“Please put me down now. And don’t call me that.”

Jaime doesn’t really understand the relationship between Tim and Booster Gold. Then again, he doesn’t really understand Booster Gold or Tim separately, so trying to figure out their relationship is like trying to figure out the relationship between quantum physics and ancient Greek philosophy. Theoretically, someone might be able to do it, but it certainly isn’t Jaime. Shut up, Khaji Da. [khaji da did not say anything]

“You’ve told me once, you’ve told me a thousand times. You should just stop resisting. Nymph.”

“Never. Also, you used that expression wrong.”

“Pshaw, that’s what you think. Just wait ‘til the 25th century, it’ll all make sense to you.”

Even if he doesn’t get it, Jaime can still reap the benefits from their weird, barely functional relationship. Whenever Booster visits, and that’s an emphasis on when, Tim’s ire immediately shifts from Jaime and his perceived mistakes to Booster and his… Booster-ness. Usually, Booster visits because he needs Jaime’s help [khaji da’s help] with his latest adventure and not even Tim has figured out how to make comms transmit through time. And sometimes, very rarely, Tim and Booster will reminisce about Ted Kord when Jaime is around to hear it. (Plus, Booster always calls Tim ‘Nymph,’ and that’s just hilarious.)

But right now, Jaime’s just confused. Because right now, held in Booster Gold’s arms is Tim, whose cheek is beginning to darken with a bruise and whose no doubt once expensive suit looks like he walked the entire 1,500 mile trip from Chicago to El Paso.

“What happened to you?”

“Nothing. I’m fine. Booster, put me down.” Tim bites out, if Khaji Da hadn’t told Jaime months ago that that was how Tim dealt with embarrassment Jaime would be really insulted. This time Booster complies, uncharacteristically lowering Tim to the ground gently. Now free, Tim makes his way to the base’s bathroom with a noticeable hitch in his step. [abrasion on his right ankle. struggled against assailant–kicked unknown blunt weapon.]

When Jaime hears the sink start running, he turns his attention back to Booster and asks, “What happened to him?”

“Hmph, I don’t know if I should tell you, rookie… But I will anyway! His plane was hijacked as soon as it left Chicago. They were holding Nymph and the other passengers hostage for ransom money. But Nymph fought back, just like I taught him to–he would have regained control of the plane all by himself if it weren’t for Superman.”

“Really?” Superman? He’s awesome. [khaji da is better]

“No, not really, they were a five man team. Unless you mean Superman, then yes, he was really there,” Shoeless, in sweats and a t-shirt, a bandage wrapped around his right foot and winding upward, holding an ice pack to his face; this is one of the few times Jaime has ever seen Tim look his age. Like a teenage boy who got into a fight for no reason other than aggression and hormones instead of the KORD Industries’ youngest and most successful CEO who survived yet another hostage situation.

“Did you have any specific reason for being here now, Booster?”

“Do I need a reason to hang out with you guys?”

“Yes.” “No.” [based on past encounters, statistically yes]

“Harsh, Nymph, why can’t you be more like Jaime? I even brought you here when you asked me to.”

“No, you volunteered to bring me here when it looked like Superman was going to do it. And I agreed, because I thought you would also have a reason to see Jaime and Khaji Da.”

“Well I don’t. I came here to help you.”

“Then you can go now, because I don’t need your help anymore.”

“You don’t have to do everything by yoursel-”

“Please go, Booster, I’m tired and you’re not helping.”

“Nymph-”

“Hey,” With the way both Tim and Booster swing their heads to look at him, like snakes staring down prey, Jaime almost regrets speaking up. Almost, “If you don’t need anything from us, you can go. We’ll see you next time,”

“Yes, another time, Booster.”

“Well alright, kiddos. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” And with that, he was gone.

“Thank you, Jaime,”

“He was right you know, you don’t have to do everything by yourself. You’ve got Khaji Da and me,” [yes]

Cross-Post: The Toss Up (1)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

original here. dated 2012-01-19

~

[[Based somewhat off #3 from this post by iesika. Basically, it’s a world where Tim is Ted Kord’s protégé, but Jaime still becomes the Blue Beetle. I don’t know that much about the Blue Beetle comics, though, so I’m kind of just making shit up.]]

When Jaime gets to this week’s hidden base after school Monday, Tim has already set up shop on the widest work table. Figures. Jaime’s hope to get there first was clearly futile.

“How was your day?” Tim asks without looking up from his sketch, which Jaime–in a completely indifferent and unsupportive manner–thinks might be something cool. But he doesn’t care at all. [it’s blueprints for hover shoes] Damn it, that’s kick ass.

“Fine.”

“I wasn’t asking you, I was asking Khaji Da,”

Jaime is really trying not to shoot a rocket (or twelve) at Tim’s serenely smug face. He may not actually be smirking, but Jaime knows he might as well be. It doesn’t help that Khaji Da is doing that not-laughing thing which feels like the something is vibrating in Jaime’s brain. And the damn scarab would never let Jaime hurt Tim anyway. [tim is an integral part of the Blue Beetle. as much as khaji da and jaime] “I thought you were going to be in a meeting until late,” by which Jaime really means, I wish you would just stay at work and never leave so that I don’t have to interact with you ever again. Please.

“The board of directors were far more compliant than I had anticipated. Probably because my tech won K.O.R.D a government contract that Wayne Industries was also gunning for. Hmm, gunning for. The contract was for a better armor.” Is Tim… smiling? [yes] Is that (an attempt at) a joke? [also yes] Well, he did seem less… bitchy. [tim is never ‘bitchy’ to khaji da]

“Oh, that’s… really… congratulations?” Less bitchy was definitely something Jaime wanted to encourage, “I’m sure Mr. Kord would be proud of you,”

That makes Tim look up at him. Blue eyes wide with shock for such a brief moment, Jaime thinks he imagines it. [jaime didn’t imagine it. tim’s eyelids were 2.174 millimeters more open than his default] Then he looks away, curls up on himself like Tim always does (but pretends he doesn’t) whenever Ted Kord is mentioned. But he’s still smiling.

“I hope so,”

And that’s all they say for the rest of the day. Until mutant armadillos start rampaging through the town and they get into an argument over the comms because Tim keeps backseat driving and Jaime keeps making the situation worse because he’s not listening and Khaji Da keeps flying in nauseating loop-de-loops.

Cross-Post: Assassin!Katara brainstorm

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

original here. dated 2012-02-01 

[A/N: Please note that this was before The Legend of Korra so… yeah]

~

Partly has to do with how much I would totally LOVE being a waterbender/bloodbender/healer like Katara and how she is kind of the most important character of Avatar The Last Airbender even if she doesn’t have the super awesome legacy like Aang and Zuko seem to. So I guess there’s three ways this assassin Katara could come about:

1) Simply by continuing the series. We know Aang and Zuko are all about being publicly good and whatnot, but there are always darker sides to politics and such that the two of them seem to be unable or unwilling to deal with. Enter their better halves Mai and Katara. A lot of this would be Mai and Katara learning how to get along and learning things from each other, both of them being the shadow/hidden power behind the thrones. Toph apparently goes back to Ba Sing Se to teach metalbending to the eventual police force, Mai’s closest friends are crazy prisoners or all the way at Kiyoshi Island with new friends of her own, so Katara and Mai would drift together. But because of their mutual awesomeness and distrust of each other, their friendship wouldn’t just click because Mai has to learn to not just obey orders and Katara needs to find a purpose beyond being ‘team mom’. So they’re both trying to find themselves and along the way they become besties. It’s probably somewhat darker than just two girls becoming women and friends–because lets face it, the series has put teenagers in charge of the entire world and they can’t really trust the older generation. So it’s a bit like, as Aang and Zuko travel around showing people that the war is finally over and whatevers, Katara and Mai also travel with them and get shit done.

2) A Katara raised by Fire Nation and being a pirate. She’s an assassin pirate. Something along the lines of her being kidnapped by the Sea Ravens maybe, because the Sea Raven’s mission to the South Pole was kind of weird to begin with. First off, how did they even know there was a waterbender in the Southern Tribe? There was only like… 50 people max in the village and who would tell? Unless they thought that Hama (and that’s what leads to universe 3) had gone back to the Southern Tribe, but that was AGES ago. Also, Katara was only maybe 4 years old, she wouldn’t have been much of a threat. I’m assuming that the Sea Raven captain only killed Katara and Sokka’s mom because if she HAD been the waterbender then she would have been a major threat. Also, they only go into the village to kill one person? They had the manpower to do some serious damage if the simply wanted to remove the threat. My guess, which is what this universe would be based off of, is that they wanted the waterbender as either a type of tool or a research subject or because they thought maybe the Avatar was somewhere in the water tribes and they couldn’t easily get to the North Pole. Seeing that Katara was only 4, the Sea Ravens would kidnap her instead. Maybe incapacitating or killing her mom, but Katara would be raised by Fire Nation as a super badass waterbender. While I doubt she would have interacted with the fire nobles, I’d like to think that Katara and Azula have some kind of rivalry in this universe. Maybe Katara turns on the Sea Ravens and becomes a mercenary, gets temporarily mentored by Jin. (She maybe stays a while in the fishing village on the river and becomes The Painted Lady during her identity crisis)

3) Hama escapes from prison and goes back home to the South Pole. She changes a lot of the South Pole’s history. Helps rebuild it, protect it, etc. But she’s far more cutthroat than Kanna prefers and so there’s this tension between the two of them as the eldest and thus most influential members of the tribe. It doesn’t help matters when Katara is revealed to be a waterbender and starts taking lessons from Hama who teaches her everything she knows. I’m thinking that in Hama’s travels back to the South Pole she meets the swamp benders and gets some ideas about multiple water tribes. Not just those stuck at the poles. At some point I would like for Katara and Hama to go to the North Pole and be all your misogynistic tendencies are stupid to Pakku. This one is more scheming than badass Katara. In this universe, it’s not just Fire versus Earth with Air being extinct and Water being very close to that, It’s Fire versus Earth with Water on the rise to being it’s own contender in the fight. And there are some repercussions beyond that–obviously, Earth Kingdom wouldn’t like Water Tribes taking official Earth Kingdom land, even if it is swamplands. And Fire Nation would definitely hate their natural enemies of Water gaining power.

TL;DR:
1) Katara and Mai become the badass power behind Aang and Zuko’s “thrones.” They do what’s necessary to help rebuild the war-torn world and protect their partners have become. They become friends while changing from girls into women.
2) The Sea Ravens kidnap Katara instead of (or along with) killing her mother. Katara is raised to be mercenary and mistrusting; possibly turning on them when she’s old enough, having a rivalry with the Fire Nation nobles or a mentorship from Jin.
3) After escaping from prison, Hama increases the power of the Water Tribes–restoring the South Pole, riling the North Pole, and establishing the swamplands as Water territory. Neither Fire Nation and Earth Kingdom are happy. Katara is her heir apparent.