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2013-01-17T03:44:47Z

Fic: Red is the Color of Laughter (Part 2)

2012-08-11T07:06:11Z

Title: Red is the Color of Laughter (Part 2)
Word Count: 2732
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Batman, Joker, Jokester, Owlman
Summary: Jokester sometimes thinks that if he'd had the misfortune to have lived in Gotham all his life, he wouldn't know what color is.
Disclaimer: This work is based on characters and concepts created and owned by DC Comics, Warner Bros. and other entities and corporations. No money is being made and no copyright and/or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: Disturbing imagery, non-explicit mentions of torture. Nolanverse version of Earth-3 alternate universe. Also, unbeta'd.
Notes: It's been waaaaay too long since I posted the first part of this. I also have no idea where I'm going with it. This was supposed to be a one-shot. Then it grew a plot.

Red is the Color of Laughter: Part One

Red is the Color of Laughter: Part 2

Somewhere beyond the looking glass, in a place where everything that matters has been flipped, a man with a bag on his head holds a gun. It's not a normal gun; it has shiny silver coils for a barrel and instead of a magazine clip it has a glass cylinder filled with bubbling fluorescent blue liquid.

It's the first time that Crane has tried building anything like this gun (he's a psychiatrist for god's sake, not a mechanic), so he holds it awkwardly and fingers the bright red button like he's afraid of it. Like he knows that he's not one-hundred percent in control of the situation, and hates the feeling.

A man with green hair and bright clothing stands twenty feet ahead of him and out in the open. He's carrying a submachine gun and he's wearing clown paint that's supposed to give the impression that he's smiling.

It doesn't. No one will ever mistake the expression on the clown's face for a smile, no matter how much red he uses.

The streets and buildings and air of Gotham are all grey; grainy and off-white like a ratty old photograph. Everything is shades of black and white, crumbling at the edges where decay creeps in. But Gotham isn't lost yet; the city holds itself upright with blind pride and clings to ancient, abandoned ideals.

As if ignoring the rot is going to make it go away.

As he watches the clown skip down the middle of an open street, the sackcloth-masked man is reminded of decay. With his sickly colors and his crazed smile, the clown looks like a voracious bacteria that infects everything it touches with delirium and necrosis, eating a hole into the universe. Or maybe , Crane thinks, just eating away the top layer. Everything has more than one face, he knows. Personas lie hidden beneath myriads of masks made for every time and place. Peel away the fragile flakes of Gotham’s mask, and you will reveal the true nature of human beings festering underneath—the truth that everyone is so terrified of.

Crane holds the gun close to his chest. Fear is his interest, not chaos like the man skipping down the street in front of him. But, for the moment, their aims coincide. The clown wants to prove that people are only as good as they can afford to be, and he wants to have fun doing it. The psychiatrist wants to watch what happens when people are forced to confront the horrors within themselves.

Also, you just don’t argue when the fully-armed homicidal lunatic busting you out of Arkham tells you to help out with his latest scheme. No matter what his former colleagues might say, Crane isn’t that crazy.

“Heeell-o La-dies and gentle-men,” the clown crows, flinging his arms—one hand still clutching the machine gun—wide and spinning in place. There are policemen lining the streets, but they don’t fire. The Joker’s coat is open, the blooming purple edges of a mottled sickly green bruise, and there are enough explosives strapped to his vest to annihilate the street, everyone on it, and the buildings nearby. He’s even wearing fuzzy purple earmuffs decorated with blasting caps blinking with red lights and wired into the explosives on his chest, just in case the police get the brilliant idea of trying to headshot him. The good cops won’t chance it, and the bad cops have already been bought. “Did’ja miss me?”

Crane hangs back amidst the cluster of henchclowns. He does not feel safe here, even though the henchclowns are heavily armed, and the police are focused mostly on the Joker. Crane is the one holding the fluorescent, strange gun, and the Bat has never been inconvenienced overly much by mere minions.

“Ya know, you guys are good,” Joker says. He wags an index finger, and the tone of his voice is somehow both patronizing and touched with grudging respect. “With the ferries? Ha-ha! I really thought I had you there.”

Crane nervously scans the silhouettes of the buildings against the darkened sky. He only has one shot at this—literally one shot. He eases his trembling fingers away from the red button, takes a deep, steadying breath, and waits.

+ + +

Jokester knows that he isn’t dead; his head is one massive ache that throbs in time with his heartbeat. He’s tied to a chair, but he’s alive, and he doesn’t know why or where or who is responsible (though he can hazard a pretty good guess on that last one). But thinking is painful, so instead he reflects on how cheated he feels. Exploding off stage right, while trying to help a battered and lost child? Now that was an exit. Except it looks like someone had the bad manners to take him alive, which probably means torture in his near future.

On the bright side, this means he’ll get one final punchline. So maybe it isn’t all that bad.

Jokester can smell dust, musty and old and stale, mingling with what he would think is rust if only he didn’t know better. The soft creak of leather and the cold, sharp hiss of shifting metal blades tells Jokester whom else is nearby.

“I know you’re awake, freak,” Owlman says.

Jokester rolls his head towards the sound of Owlman’s voice. He can’t see; his eyes are bound with a heavy cloth, the pressure of which around his head really isn’t helping with the throbbing inside his skull. “You are the lousiest date ever,” he says. “I mean, I dig the blindfold and handcuffs. But,” he gives the air a distinct sniff, “a storage shed? A girl’s got standards.”

Silence.

Okay , the Jokester thinks. Fine. “You could’a just told me and I’d’ve shown up. Didn’t have to use a little kid as a lure.”

The creak and shuffle of leather moves abruptly closer to him, and a rough, gauntleted hand rips the blindfold from his head. Pressure explodes into a halo of white pain. “OW.”

“I want you,” Owlman growls, “to see how pathetic you are.”

Jokester waits a couple of seconds before he tries to open his eyes. When he does, nausea shoots up from his stomach and sinks claws into his sinuses. The single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling appears to sway, but, then, so does the blue and silver smear which can only be Owlman. So Jokester closes his eyes again. He’ll open them once the room has had enough of gymnastics and decides to stick a landing. “Ya know,” he drawls, “You’re really shit at the whole witty banter business. I don’t ask for much. Would it kill ya to—”

The only warning he has is the sharp creak of leather fractions of a second before something impacts his jaw, snapping his head to the side and burning his thoughts as white pain explodes behind his eyes and at the back of his skull. “Shut up,” Owlman snarls. The harsh tone scrapes the inside of Jokester’s head like sandpaper on flesh. He grimaces.

“All I want to hear from you is screaming,” Owlman says. Jokester’s head is throbbing too much for him to to snap a witty retort. Instead he flexes his arms to test the ropes holding him down, and feels what can only be wire wrapped around his limbs.

Jokester hears Owlman shift away from him, his footsteps receding a few feet away. Then he hears the scrape of metal on metal, and he thinks, Here we go.

+ + +

Batman always takes out the henchmen first. Crane remembers this, even if he remembers little else from the night that Ras al Ghul descended upon Gotham. But there is nowhere else to hide for the moment, so he remains where he is, armed with a strange, volatile weapon that the cops keep eyeing nervously, and surrounded by brutes holding uzis.

The Joker grins. The expression looks more like a bloodstained grimace. “No one—none of you—know what reall-y happened. You think that your ah, little White Knight got eaten up by the Big Bad Bat. Let me tell ya what really happened.”

Crane looks away from the madman, no longer paying attention to his rambling, and scans the crumbling lips of the apartment complex roofs around them. Somewhere in the shadows, the Bat is watching and waiting. Threads of nervous anticipation spider up from his churning stomach and knot in his throat. Crane never used to feel this nervous. Fear was something that other people experienced. And then Ras al Ghul fell upon Gotham, and Scarecrow burst fully-formed from Crane’s mind. What was left behind knows how it feels to be afraid.

+ + +

The simplest tortures are sometimes the most effective ones. Owlman does not need pears or racks or cradles to cause unbearable agony. Rats are plentiful and hungry in Gotham, and razors are easy to obtain. Owlman likes using knives the most, particularly when it’s personal, and he wants to watch the Jokester bleed.

Jokester keeps his eyes open, partly because it’s easier to bear the pain when he knows it’s coming, but mostly because he knows that Owlman wants to see the agony and surrender in his eyes, and Jokester will make sure that Owlman never has the satisfaction; he will laugh with his eyes when his voice no longer can.

Thomas Wayne was a surgeon before he joined the Gotham PD. His son inherited his steady hands and his keen interest in anatomy. Bruce Wayne knows how to exsanguinate a man, slowly and painfully, with hundreds of tiny lines incised over the entire body. When the razor finds the Jokester’s throat, he knows that Owlman isn’t going to slit it open. One gloved hand seizes Jokester’s purple hair by the roots and yanks his head back. The other hand slices tiny cuts in his throat, from his chin down to his collarbone, too shallow to pose any threat in and of themselves, but deep enough to sting and draw blood. They will bite sharply any time the Jokester tries to speak.

As if that will stop him.

But, then again, that’s probably the point.

Once the razor moves from his throat, the Jokester chuckles even though the movement hurts. He feels the sharp edge travel down, snagging on fabric. At first it strikes him as odd that Owlman has left his clothing on, but as he listens to the purr of parting threads, he thinks he understands. Jokester’s clothing is a part of what he has become. Without it, he’s just Jackie. With it, he’s the Jokester and everything that the Jokester represents, and by slicing through the costume, Owlman is cutting down the symbol along with the man.

“That kinda tickles, Owlsie,” the Jokester says. He knows full well that he’ll pay for it in blood, but hey, he’s going to die anyway, right?

Owlman punches him and leaves a slice in his cheek, parallel to his scar. Blinding white pain explodes in his already purple-bruised jaw, and the trickle of liquid spilling down his skin is both familiar and oddly grounding. Jokester spits out blood and grins up at Owlman’s stony, masked face. He feels his cheek split further apart with the movement. “Ya know, red is the color of laughter.”

“I’ll make it the color of your screams.”

+ + +

The Joker is laughing. The sound scrapes against Crane’s thoughts like sandpaper tearing through rotted cotton. Crane’s eyes dart away from the rooftops and focus on the clown instead.

That’s when it happens.

No one sees the shadow detach from the overhang three stories up. The darkness has collected there unobserved, and now it drips down, sudden and silent, until at the last seconds Crane sees the Joker’s murky green eyes flicker upwards, and Crane follows his gaze in time to see shadows bloom outward above him.

One shot! One shot only!

Crane sweeps his gun up, his fingers darting for the red button as the fluorescent chamber illuminates the panic in his eyes in a nauseatingly neon blue light. The gun doesn’t swivel even halfway to its target before Batman’s boots connect with a muffled crunch, and Crane’s gun skitters out of his grasp as his head cracks against the pavement and darkness consumes him.

It all happens very quickly from that point onwards. The henchclowns are fodder, meant to buy a few seconds of time. The good cops (what few remain) are confused but ready; if they can take Batman down without the entire block going up, so much the better. The rest of the cops don’t intend to fire at all; the Joker knows how to threaten when he cannot buy a man’s loyalty, and the combination of both has given him the local PD in the palm of his purple-gloved hand.

Batman has taken out the obvious threats: the henchclowns and Crane’s strange, glass-chambered, glowing gun.

But with the Joker, the obvious threats are not always the real ones.

+ + +

Owlman slices the razor through the fabric over Jokester’s left shoulder. The tip cuts through skin as well as cloth, pulling up rivulets of red in its wake. Jokester won’t shut up. He hasn’t stopped talking since Owlman started in on him in earnest. In this final act, silence would be a sign of defeat, and Jokester will never be beaten. Not even when breath rattles from his lungs in one last parody of laughter.

He can see Owlman’s jaw grinding his teeth together. Jokester’s voice is high and grating—deliberately so—and the more that he chatters and jibes, the more frayed Owlman’s patience becomes.

Jokester is bleeding from over three dozen cuts by now. The skin of his throat, left shoulder, and the middle of his chest where his vest and shirt have been ripped open are slick and scarlet and stinging. But the pain reminds the Jokester that he’s still alive, and the red reminds him to keep laughing.

+ + +

The Joker moves like a predator: either slow, deliberate stalking, or lightning-quick strikes. It is the latter that he displays as he drops his submachine gun and whips open his coat. In a fluid movement, he draws a gun similar to the one that Crane has dropped, only much smaller—the size of a pistol—with a clear glass chamber that houses a bubbling fluorescent green fluid. The Joker grins, lips splitting open around a skull-like grimace, and aims. He does not fire. Batman is a flurry of movement, and the mad clown cannot risk hitting one of his henchmen by mistake.

The last henchman drops. Batman looks up. Joker fires.

+ + +

A high-pitched giggle bubbles up from Jokester’s throat. “It doesn’t matter what you do, Owlsie. I’ll always be the one that you could never break.” Jokester licks his bloodstained lips and says, “Who’s laughing now?”

Owlman bares his perfect teeth in an ugly snarl, and turns his wrist, the edge of the razor aimed at Jokester’s purple eyes. The muscles in his arm bunch, and Jokester prepares to see red.

Instead, he sees a flash of green right before the room explodes.

+ + +

The is no time to dodge. As green envelops his vision, Batman flings a batarang in one last attempt to disable the Joker’s weapon before it can be used on anyone else. The black steel snicks through the air and lodges with a crack in the glass chamber just as the glowing green shot impacts Batman in the center of his chest.

There is half a second of silence in which the Joker’s eyes go wide. Then, the gun explodes, sending a shockwave flashing through the street. Policemen shield their eyes against the blinding green light that is erupting from two epicenters: Batman and the Joker. Both figures are knocked back by the force of the explosion. Space itself seems to ripple, bending light like still water after a stone has been dropped in.

Then, something even stranger happens. The epicenters become mirrors—whatever the green liquid hits suddenly splits and kaleidoscopes outwards, equal and opposite reflections of one another. When purple clothing and black armor are thrown backwards, green clothing and blue-silver armor are thrown in the opposite directions.

When the ripples settle and the flash fades, four figures lie stunned on the cracked and grimy Gotham street where moments before there had only been two.

(to be continued)

Ficlet: Not Enough

2012-08-01T02:49:56Z

Title: Not Enough
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 237
Characters/Pairings: Simm!Master/Tenth Doctor
Prompt: Written for the Best Enemies' 100 prompt Anniversary challenge. The prompt chosen was 'not enough'.
Summary: This is an AU that begins on the Valiant, as the Doctor is begging the Master to regenerate. I neglected to post it for...months. So yeah. Here it is now.

The Master says ‘yes’, and his blood dissolves into golden dust and his eyes become blazing suns that burn his whole world away until all that remains is its core—the Doctor, whose joyous smile sears more brightly than the Master can bear.

When the light fades, he expects to feel different. His body settles around him like a new set of clothing that hasn’t been tailored yet. But he doesn't expect that when the gold is gone and the tingling sparkle of regeneration fades, all the brightness in the world will have left along with it.

The Doctor takes him away. The Doctor makes promises to him. The Doctor tries to keep them. The Doctor shows him snapshots of eternity—flashcards in space and time all neatly labelled and untouchably static. The Doctor presses him down and tries to smother the ache of the drums with his mouth. The Doctor tries to help him. He tries everything except for what they both know would work.

The Master sees the sparks that he’s lost swirling in the Doctor’s eyes. The Doctor holds the boundless universe singing beneath his skin. The Master sees him glow like a bottle of golden wine held up to the sunlight, full to the brim, stoppered, and just beyond his reach.

The Master wants it all back. He’ll have it, even if he has to pull the Doctor down and smash him open.

I bring you Doctor Who PODFIC

2011-12-12T20:59:24Z

So, podtor_who is doing a month-long challenge in which people sign up, record, and then post as many newly recorded, non-crossover Doctor Who podfic as possible. I got bitten by the podfic bug (it is so much fun omg), so I wound up doing no less than three days and four podfics (one of which is quite short). The last one I will wait to post, as I haven't heard back from the author on if anything needs fixing with it.

So, without further ado, I give you....PODFIC.

Title: The Sea Devils and Mrs. Pond
Author: dragonofmemory
Reader: _rubber_chicken
Length: 41:50, 6969 words
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Third Doctor, Amy Pond, and minor appearances by the Brigadier, Sgt. Benton, and Rory
Summary: This is the first story in the "Amy Pond in Three-Era" verse. Mrs. Pond gets stranded in the 70s and winds up captured by the Sea Devils, only to be rescued by the Third Doctor and unleashed upon UNIT.

Beware of my Sea Devils impersonation.

Links: audio (megaupload) (mediafire) // text

Title: Zombie Plan
Author: dragonofmemory
Reader: _rubber_chicken
Length: 13:30, 2114 words
Rating: G
Pairing/Characters: Third Doctor/Delgado Master, Jo, the Brigadier
Author's Summary: Written for the best_enemies anon meme. Three/Delgado. The Master has once again attempted to Summon Stuff, and it has once again gone wrong. Except that this time he was attempting necromancy, and as a result, a plague of zombies is sweeping England. He and the Doctor have to work together to overcome the zombie hordes. Extra points for Jo and the Brig, and as much crack as you can cram in at the seams.

Links: audio (megaupload) (mediafire) // text

Title: A Car with Character
Author: dragonofmemory
Reader: _rubber_chicken
Length: 2:15, 329 words
Rating: G
Pairing/Characters: Bessie, Third Doctor/Delgado Master
Summary: Bessie is a car with character, and she is not going to put up with these shenanigans.

Links: (megaupload) (mediafire) // text

Fic: Self Sabotage, Part II

2011-12-05T03:51:05Z

Title: Self-Sabotage, Part II of II
Word Count: 10,308 in total
Beta: dragonofmemory
Rating: PG-13 for swearing
Characters/Pairings: (Academy Era) Theta/Koschei
Summary: This is a revised, much-improved response to a prompt at best_enemies (I am actually de-anoning here): Theta/Koschei. The two are best friends, then Koschei gets jealous after (mistakenly) assuming that Theta has a girlfriend. Because the universe /needs/ more Academy fic. Or it'll like, implode or something.
Notes: Same notes as in Part I apply! I had to split this post into two because it was too long. First time that's happened to me.

Back to Part I

Self Sabotage, Part II

No one in the Applied Sciences C building gets much work done over the subsequent two weeks, including Koschei. He’s used to spending the majority of his time with Theta; they’d tackled homework together, collaborated on all of their projects, eaten lunch every day together, and filled their free time together with games, mischief, and daydreaming. But since Koschei had left for his class trip, he hadn’t been able to spend any time with Theta at all. The awful, empty loneliness that had haunted him during the entire week he’d been gone hadn’t ended—it had gotten worse. Time has stretched itself out and feels thin without his best friend there to give his days structure and meaning. Theta has removed himself from Koschei’s life, and the holes he has left behind are too deep and wide to fill.

It doesn’t help matters that Theta seems to be managing just fine. Koschei watches him as surreptitiously as possible the day after the localized spacetime warping event. When Theta isn’t in his lab (presumably devising a suitable counterstrike), he spends his time with Vera. They study together in the library, pouring over books with their heads close together, gold mingling with copper red, the same way that Koschei and Theta used to. They lie out in the red grass watching the second sun chase the first across the sky. When they laugh, Koschei thinks that they must be planning their future lives together, and his throat burns with anger while his hearts grow leaden with longing.

Koschei sulkily tries to throw himself into his schoolwork, but he finds that he can’t concentrate. His mind invariably drifts towards Theta and Vera. So when that fails, he decides to pour every scrap of his considerable intellect into the only remaining link he has with Theta: planning sabotages and counterstrikes in his war to take Theta back.

At first, the escalation is slow and mostly confined to their respective laboratories. Theta retaliates first by polarizing every single one of Koschei’s non-polarized capacitors, and reversing the polarity of the currently polarized ones. Koschei returns, switches the power supplies on, and shrieks as hundreds of firecracker explosions pop sparks and twisted, charred metal in every single activated electronic apparatus. Ash grey smoke curls feebly up from ruined experiments like tiny flags of surrender.

The next day, while Vera and Theta are busy chatting outside over a game of four-dimensional chess—and acting far too sickeningly cozy for Koschei to stand watching—Koschei lets himself into Theta’s lab with one of the several copies he’d made of Ushas’s spare keys. He shuts the door closed, switches on the lights, and then stares in abject horror at the sight that greets him.

Theta’s lab is in shambles. There are wires everywhere and the projects once so neatly contained to individual tables have now spread outwards and spilled onto the floor, swapping components between themselves and creating exceedingly precarious footing for anyone trying to maneuver through the room.

Koschei’s first thought is that someone else has managed to pull a prank on Theta, and he feels prickles of possessive outrage over the idea. How dare anyone else try to insinuate themselves into what is solely Koschei’s and Theta’s business! But then he realizes that the timing isn’t right—Theta had left his lab not long ago, and he would never have done so without first cleaning up if it had been someone else’s trickery that had caused the mess.

Koschei frowns and steps carefully around the clutter towards the nearest set of notes. In them, he finds his answer. Any and all details of Theta’s projects are missing—presumably moved—and in their place is a message, left specifically for Koschei.

Koschei:

As you have apparently decided to childishly use your free time to sabotage me, you will now find that my notes and projects are no longer organized in a manner that will enable you to understand them. Since you clearly cannot be trusted with knowledge of my experiments, I have taken the liberty of revoking this privilege from you.

-Theta

Koschei stares at the note for a good half a minute before, in an explosion of fury, he wrenches it off the table and crushes it between his trembling fingers. He turns and glares at the rest of the laboratory, breathing heavily against the pressure closing inside his throat and between his hearts.

Does Theta really believe that this will be the end of it? Does he really think that Koschei is so easily foiled? Rage and indignation boil in his chest. I might not be able to do any more hands-on manipulation with your precious pet projects, he thinks savagely, but you aren’t the only one who can build a Remote Spatio-Temporal Manipulator as equally complex—no, even more so than the one you’ve made.

Theta will learn very quickly not to underestimate him.

Koschei waits until Theta is in class, and then remotely turns the floors of Theta’s lab completely frictionless. He later listens to the satisfying THUDS of Theta careening helplessly into walls while he desperately attempts to find purchase long enough to reverse the damage.

The next day, Koschei walks into his lab to find every single surface coated in a thick layer of syrup.

Koschei gets his revenge by breaking into Theta’s lab and channeling his compulsive neatness towards cleaning up the deliberate mess Theta has made of his equipment. Once he’s finished, the lab is pristine and tidy…and completely out of order, since Koschei has no idea what components belong to which project. He takes particular pleasure in organizing all of the micro-pulse emitters according to color rather than frequency range, and in hiding all of the wires behind the shelved signal generators. The end result is a neat lab as incomprehensible to Theta as the messy version had been to Koschei.

Theta waits two days for Koschei to become complacent. Then, in the middle of a highly delicate procedure, he transmits a sonic frequency to his lab that shatters every piece of glass in the room…as well as two rooms in all directions.

That’s when things start to get ugly.

Koschei plants a quantum randomizer in Theta’s lab that winds up turning the entire building’s water supply into Roquefort cheese.

Theta decorates Koschei’s lab with a dozen artfully placed naked singularities whose gravitational effects, while balanced, are not contained within the laboratory walls.

Koschei rigs his remote sonic emitter to broadcast audio recordings of the lost poetry of Nancy Paula Millstone Jennings.

The next day, they’re both summoned to the office of the Prydonian Chapter Head, an old man whose sense of humor had drained out of him sometime over the course of his past eleven regenerations. Koschei scowls sullenly at the floor, miserable and frustrated. He’s fallen behind in his classes, not had any Theta Time for three entire weeks, and now the Chapter Head himself is reprimanding him, and Koschei doesn’t even have anything to show for it yet. Theta hasn’t stopped spending the majority of his free time with Vera. Theta has, however, stopped even looking at Koschei, and as a result Koschei’s hearts are constantly torn with an exhausting blend of anger, misery, and desperation. The only benefit he can see for the immediate future is that maybe Theta will be forced to talk to Koschei now that they’ve both been summoned into the same room for a reprimand.

Theta (whom Koschei is in no way surreptitiously observing out of the corner of his eyes) is clutching white-knuckled at the lapels of his outer robe and staring at the Chapter Head. His face is carefully blank save for the tight press of his lips, but Koschei knows that expression—Theta is furious.

“Koschei, Theta Sigma,” the Head greets them, his voice rumbling like oily gravel. “Would either of you care to explain yourselves?”

Theta stares and remains stonily silent. Koschei shifts his feet uncomfortably. “No?” the old man frowns and leans forward, lacing his tree bark fingers together with elbows rooted on his desk. “Very well. While I’m sure that your colleagues appreciate your…ingenuity…neither they nor I will tolerate these disruptions any longer. If I hear of one more incident, I will have you both expelled from the Academy.” He pauses, and then his eyes glitter in a manner that Koschei really doesn’t like. “If that isn’t enough incentive, do consider that I may just as easily hand you into young Ushas’s care. She has not appreciated your interruptions any more than the rest of your unfortunate colleagues.”

Both boys turn pale.

“Yes, sir,” Koschei says immediately, because he’s seen some of the things that Ushas grows, and he hasn’t forgotten her earlier threats. Next to him, Theta gives a stiff, quick nod in assent.

The old man eyes them critically for another moment and then waves them out of his office.

Theta spins on his heel and strides out the door, stiff-backed and, once he passes into the hallway, rigid with anger. Koschei follows him for a few steps, but his feet drag to a stop when Theta doesn’t slow or even bother to turn his head and acknowledge Koschei’s presence behind him.

Koschei stares, arms limp at his sides, and watches Theta disappear around the corner. He’s seen Theta in a snit before, usually the nights prior to an exam when he’s realized just how far behind he is in his studies and locks himself in his room, snarling through the door every time Koschei approaches to knock.

But this…this feels different. Koschei had thought that maybe Theta had been enjoying their intellectual spar at least a little bit. In spite of the hurt, anger, and betrayal, Koschei had found matching wits with Theta to be refreshingly challenging and wonderfully stimulating. Theta appreciates genius as much as Koschei does, and Koschei had at least hoped to impress Theta with his own brilliance. But instead, Theta looks furious, and Koschei doesn’t think it’s just because they’ve been threatened (again) by their Chapter Head.

Koschei meanders through the crimson lawns aimlessly for a while before finally ensconcing himself in the library. He has no classes today, nothing to take his mind off of Theta and how everything has gone so inexplicably wrong.

Koschei curls up in a chair by a window and plants his chin atop his knees. He stares outside. Beyond the shining dome, the mountains of Solitude rise out of burning silver seas to touch the twin-sunned sky with jagged white-gloved grey fingers. He’s never been particularly sentimental about the view beyond a Time Lord’s innate appreciation for artistic beauty, but now that he gazes into the mountains, he finds himself measuring the distance to the topmost tip of their snow-glistening peaks and finding them immeasurably far away.

Time Lords rarely venture outside the Capitol. House Oakden’s estates are settled as far out as most ever go. But Theta has been to the steepest slopes of Solace, has clambered down from dizzy heights and pressed his fingers deep into the cold snow, has been close enough to see that the stones are actually gold and red and blue and silver—hidden color within pointillist grey.

Koschei has known for decades now that Theta will never be content in the small glass world that he’s been born into; Theta sees too much. He takes ordinary things apart, cracks them open and finds cascades of beauty and miracles inside. Theta is a rebel, fresh and forceful and fierce, and he will shatter whatever mould their society tries to trap him inside. It’s one of the many qualities that Koschei has always loved about him. Koschei has never cared much for Gallifrey’s unimaginative, stagnant neutrality, so he has always believed that wherever Theta winds up going, they will go together.

Koschei isn’t sure of that anymore. This isn’t as simple a matter as climbing a mountain, or co-piloting a TARDIS, or promising best friends always with that special word for Time that means eternity in a way that no other species can comprehend. It’s been two weeks, and everything that Koschei has tried to do has just seemed to push Theta even further away from him. The more time that passes, the more Koschei fears that the rift between them will never close. Theta is leaving Koschei behind, and none of Koschei’s plans have ever considered that possibility.

Koschei hasn’t given up, of course. He will never give up, not as long as he still has regenerations left, but this isn’t a battle that he wants to fight. And at the moment, what with the Prydonian Head’s ultimatum and Theta’s icy fury, he’s not sure how to fight it.

Koschei is so deep in his thoughts that he fails to notice when someone sits down in the chair next to him.

“Kosch?” Drax’s voice startles him, and he snaps violently from distant mountains back to awareness like a rubber band stretched and cut.

“Drax? Ah. Hello.” Koschei tries to hide his disappointment that the person who sought him out isn’t the one he wants to see most of all right now.

Drax’s smile wavers, brittle with sadness. “Hey. I heard about…” he waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the Administration Offices. “It was pretty impressive though—everything you two did over the past couple of weeks.”

Koschei stares silently at Drax and waits to see if his friend has a point.

Drax falters and stares back for a second. Then he slumps and sighs. “Koschei, what’s up between you and Theta? We all know there’s been a falling out, but why? You’ve been inseparable practically since you were born. And…you both look so miserable now.”

Both? Koschei wonders. Oh, right. I’m upsetting his newfound besotted bliss. Good. Koschei folds his arms loosely over his stomach and maintains his stony silence

Drax holds out for another few seconds before shaking his head. “Kosch, I’m your friend, and Theta’s friend too. I just want to help.” He searches Koschei’s grey eyes and then continues, slowly. “If you don’t want to talk to me, then at least consider talking to Theta. Okay?”

Drax isn’t going to go away until he gets some kind of positive response, so Koschei nods once.

“Okay,” Drax says. “Okay, good.” He hovers in the chair for a moment longer. “See you in study tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Drax nods, stands, and leaves Koschei alone with his thoughts once more. Koschei stares out at the mountains. A weight that feels uncomfortably like defeat settles in his hearts and aches. He suddenly feels so tired. Drax may have a point, he realizes. It’s not as though Koschei has any other recourse left to him. He could target Vera next, sure, if he wanted to earn Theta’s undying hatred, which he really doesn’t. Just go and talk to him, he reasons with himself. Get it out in the open. Have him explain that he’s getting married and settle the rift between us instead of letting it yawn open, unsaid. Get closure of some kind. Maybe work out how we can stay friends, somehow. Maybe it won’t be too late if I talk to him soon.

Maybe tomorrow.

Koschei picks himself up out of the chair and trudges back towards his lab. He hasn’t cleaned it or ordered it since Theta’s latest attack, and his spectrograph is in absolute shambles.

Koschei deadlocks the lab door behind him, more out of habit than security these days, and scuffs listlessly over to the nearest workstation in need of repair. He sifts broken shards of glass between his fingers. Their edges feel like feathers slipping across his palms. He pushes his notes—charred in corners and smoke-curled along the edges—off the table and into the dustbin below. Then he stares at the jumbled mess remaining, and his energy drains away with the realization that he can’t recall what any of it was for, and neither does he care.

Koschei is so absorbed in his own misery that he fails, for the second time that day, to realize that someone else is in the room with him.

The lights switch off, plunging the room into a dim, burnt-orange second sunset that is rapidly vanishing from the windows into darkness. Koschei whirls, throat tight and hearts pounding in panic, towards the light switches by the door, his body tensing instinctively in anticipation of yet another prank. The dark shape—shadow outlined in grey—of a slender, blurrily familiar figure stands there. Koschei doesn’t need his sight to know who it is; the brush of Theta’s mind against his own tells him before Theta even speaks.

“Koschei.” The other boy’s voice is even, measured, and far too calm. “We need to talk.”

They really, really do, Koschei knows, but he’s also really, really not ready for this yet. “What are you doing in here? And how did you get in? I deadlocked that door.”

Koschei can feel Theta’s smirk even if he can’t see it. The smugness that exudes from him is palpable. The shadow’s arm shifts, and Koschei hears the light jingle of metal. “You aren’t the only one who can get access to Ushas’s spare keys to make copies.”

Koschei swallows, scowls, and takes a step back. He crosses his arms stubbornly, like a shield against his chest between himself and Theta. “The Chapter Head said no more sabotage. I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan on getting kicked out of here just yet.”

“I didn’t come here to sabotage.” Theta steps forward, hands gripping the lapels of his outer robe, from the shadows into the spill of dying sunset. His hair is on fire, and his eyes are coal dark with irises that spark cinder-blue. Koschei swallows and forces himself to hold his ground. His back is against the lab bench anyway, so there really isn’t anywhere to retreat to. Instead, Koschei leans against the hard edge of the table top, arms still crossed, and smooths his face with careful masks of boredom and disdain. “I came to talk,” Theta continues, still stalking slowly forward.

“You didn’t seem particularly interested in talking the day I got back,” Koschei snaps.

Theta stutters in his steps, confusion flickering like static in his eyes.

Koschei’s temper flares. “What, don’t you remember? The park? You were talking to Vera.” Koschei smears as much contempt as possible into the syllables of her name. “You noticed me and ran.”

Theta scowls. “You didn’t exactly give me a chance to explain afterwards.” He resumes his slow, predatory approach.

“You could have talked to me anytime, Theta,” Koschei says.

“So could you.”

“I already know what’s going on, all right?” Koschei’s fingers dig, clawlike, into his arms, but he doesn’t even notice the pain. His sight is stained with anger, and all he feels is the strangling tightness in his throat and the black hole crushing his chest.

That freezes Theta dead still. An expression of horror peels away the carefully masked layers in his face until what’s left is a naked fear and vulnerability that Koschei isn’t used to seeing exposed. “You do?”

“Yes,” Koschei snaps. “And I don’t want to hear it! Not now! You could have done me the courtesy of telling me sooner instead of hiding it like a coward!” Theta looks stricken, but Koschei doesn’t care. He sees the pain and wants to dig for blood, wants to punish Theta for having ever been so cruel to him. “Or was it all just a game for you? ’Let’s see how well I can lie to my best friend. What a fun exercise in deception!’” Koschei leans forward. “When did you find her, Theta? Was it a year ago, when you began avoiding me? Or was that just when you started getting sloppy?”

Instead of the knife twisting home, like Koschei expects, Theta just looks confused. “Her?”

“Yes, her!” Koschei shouts. “Don’t you dare insult me by playing stupid! Vera. You know, your girlfriend, or fiancée, or whatever in Sepulchasm you’re calling her.”

Theta stares at Koschei. His expression twists from complete confusion to intense concentration, and then all of the pain, bewilderment, and annoyance is washed away as comprehension and a flood of relief sparkles in his blue eyes. He chuckles with amusement, and quirks his mouth in a small, smug smile. “Vera isn’t my girlfriend or anything of the sort. No, indeed. How utterly preposterous. Whatever gave you that idea, Koschei?”

Koschei blinks. What? “What?”

Theta smirks and closes the remaining few feet between them. His hands drop from his lapels and press against the table on either side of Koschei, pinning the shorter boy between his arms. Koschei swallows nervously, eyes wide. He leans back against the table, away from Theta but still trapped. “I’m hardly interested in Vera, Koschei,” Theta says, slowly as if speaking to someone incredibly thick.

Koschei is too flustered and confused to be insulted. “What…then what about the park, and you avoiding me more and more this past year and spending time with her instead?”

Theta shakes his head slowly. The smirk is still clamped infuriatingly on his mouth. His eyes have Koschei pinned just as effectively as his arms do. “I don’t know how you do it, Kosch,” Theta murmurs, “You can be so clever. Hm, yes, very clever indeed, and yet so unbelievably stupid at the same time.”

Annoyed and definitely insulted this time, Koschei opens his mouth to retort with something scathing, but then Theta’s arms curl inward, the left one around Koschei’s lower back and the right cupping the curve of his neck, holding him gently but firmly in place as Theta dips his head down to claim his mouth.

Oh…

Koschei has never been kissed before. He hasn’t realized until now how often he’s wondered what kissing Theta would be like, because none of his fantasies have prepared him for this. Theta tastes of sunlight and warmth, of electrified desire and all the spiced, unstoppered wildness that the Time Lords have failed to bottle away behind their dusty rules. The sensation is overwhelming.

Koschei willingly surrenders.

Theta sucks at Koschei’s lower lip, then enfolds his mouth over Koschei’s and coaxes it to open like a flower blooming beneath molten sunlight. Koschei has gone limp in Theta’s arms, boneless with shock and desire. He parts his lips and gasps. His whispery breath pulls Theta in, and the other boy explores his mouth while Koschei learns how to kiss him back. Koschei’s hands have crept upwards and are clutching tightly around Theta’s lapels, anchoring himself against Theta even as Theta’s arms tighten around him to do the same.

They part long after their respiratory bypasses have activated, and then only so that Theta can press his forehead against Koschei’s and stroke loving thoughts through his open mind.

Idiot, Theta thinks.

Why…why didn’t you say anything? Koschei asks, still dazed but coherent.

I didn’t know how to tell you, Theta admits. I wasn’t sure how you’d react.

Idiot.

Hm. Yes, the both of us, really. Theta pauses. Then, I’m sorry about Vera.

Koschei curves his thoughts open, questioningly.

I went to her for help, Theta explains, on how to tell you. The week you were gone on your trip was the perfect time, but then I’m afraid I forgot when you were coming back—too preoccupied, I suppose—so, mm, you could say that I panicked a little bit.

Koschei stares at him. We ended up sabotaging ourselves, didn’t we?

Theta chuckles and nods in agreement.

Koschei curls his arms around Theta’s waist and holds their bodies close together. He can’t quite believe that this is real. Not fifteen minutes ago he’d thought he may have lost Theta completely, and now he suddenly has everything he’s longed so desperately for, and it’s wonderful. He closes his eyes and tucks his head beneath Theta’s chin, his nose gently nuzzling the other boy’s throat. His mouth is still tingling with the lingering impression of Theta’s lips. He can feel Theta’s heartsbeat and hear his breathing. You’re my idiot, though. Mine. My Theta.

Theta’s mind bubbles softly with amusement and affection. Yes. And my Koschei.

And that sums up what Koschei has wanted for the past three weeks quite nicely.

END

Fic: Self Sabotage, Part I

2011-12-05T03:42:55Z

Title: Self-Sabotage, Part I of II
Word Count: 10,308 in total
Beta: dragonofmemory
Rating: PG-13 for swearing
Characters/Pairings: (Academy Era) Theta/Koschei
Summary: This is a revised, much-improved response to a prompt at best_enemies (I am actually de-anoning here): Theta/Koschei. The two are best friends, then Koschei gets jealous after (mistakenly) assuming that Theta has a girlfriend. Because the universe /needs/ more Academy fic. Or it'll like, implode or something.
Notes: I cannot thank Mem enough for beta-ing this for me. It went through....four? five? revisions at the very least. She, among other things, 1) helped me with my Theta characterization so that he actually sounds like One now, 2) told me where my imagery just plain failed and how to fix it, 3) helped me to flesh out my Koschei motivations, during the process of which much Koschei-torment was added, 4) prodded me to give Vera more presence in the fic, 5) inadvertently reminded me that I had, in the original response, completely forgotten to add an ENTIRE SECTION. The fic has grown by about 2,500 words, and quite a bit of the rest has changed. In short, don't read the original response. This is SO MUCH BETTER NOW. It is practically a new response by this point.

Read Part II here

Self Sabotage

Theta is standing outside, talking to a girl.

This would normally give Koschei no cause for alarm. Two of the Deca’s members are girls whom they talk to every day. They’ve both had class project or laboratory partners who were girls. A significant percentage of the people they see on a daily basis are, were, or potentially will be girls. So Theta talking to a girl should not be a Thing To Be Concerned About.

Except that Koschei is pretty sure that he knows every single face of everyone in their year, and She is not among them. He rules out lab partner and project groupmate instantly, and that is frankly alarming because Theta is talking to Her over lunch instead of to Koschei, and there is no reason outside of school that could possibly be important enough to interrupt Koschei’s Theta Time.

Maybe, Koschei thinks, Theta has been waylaid: the innocent, hapless victim of a spontaneous conversation leech.

Except that Theta doesn’t appear to be in any distress; he’s chatting animatedly with The Girl. His lightly freckled face, half-turned away from Koschei’s line of sight, is candle-bright and warm. Laugh lines and smile lines crinkle the corners of his blue eyes and his upturned mouth. It’s an expression that Koschei is used to being directed at himself, not at a complete stranger. His posture is relaxed, and the lines of his tall, slim form are fluid and elegant. He doesn’t even seem to be on the lookout for Koschei.

Maybe, Koschei tries, he’s forgotten that today’s the day I come back. His Introduction to Anisotropic Spacetime Perturbations class had been gone on a field trip for the past week. But that was only a week—surely Theta couldn’t have forgotten in just a week…

Theta laughs at something The Girl has said, and throws his hands up with careless abandon, tipping his face towards silver leaves dripping with drops of afternoon gold—drops that fall like molten summer and pool in the waves of his white-blonde hair. Then he leans closer to The Girl—really much closer than Koschei thinks he ought to be—and wags one index finger at her chidingly, still chuckling as he does so. The Girl laughs with him, and Koschei notices for the first time how beautiful she is. Her long, thick red hair glows like fire in the sunlight about her heart-shaped face and spills in waves down her long, slender neck to tumble about her shoulders. Her skin is nut-brown and smooth, and try as he might, Koschei can’t find any imperfections in her complexion, though he does note with a tiny bit of satisfaction that her nose is a tad too large for her face. She tilts her head flirtatiously to one side and bats her eyes at Theta, and to Koschei’s absolute horror, Theta laughs and leans in a little bit closer.

It’s far from uncommon for girls to flirt with Theta. Theta is gorgeous and brilliant, so of course girls are going to flirt with him. But Theta has never paid any attention to their advances before…

I’ve been gone a week. One. Week. It’s not possible, Koschei thinks, for Theta to have gone and found himself a—a—

“Yeah,” Drax’s voice cuts into his thoughts. “They’ve been like that every day since you left.” Koschei hadn’t even noticed the other boy come to stand by his elbow. “Her name is Vera. She’s about a decade or so behind us, but apparently she’s quite clever.”

“Clever?” Koschei’s teeth are gritted together. Surely she can’t be as clever as I am, he thinks.

Drax nods. “They share a class together. Recreational Mathematics, I think. I guess Theta only just worked up the nerve to talk to her during lunch the day after you left for your field trip. They hit it off brilliantly from the start.”

“Good for them,” Koschei says icily.

Drax looks up at him and blinks. “You okay, Kosch? You’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes, just staring at them.”

It’s true. Koschei had been on his way outside to meet up with Theta for lunch, like they always did this time of day. He’d gotten as far as the entrance pillars when he’d seen them, and confusion had rooted his feet to the stone patio.

“I’m fine.” His hands have clenched into white-knuckled fists and have started to tremble. He quickly clasps them firmly together behind his back and turns his head to stare elsewhere around the field, as though he’s actually been looking for open places to sit the entire time.

Drax looks at him doubtfully. “Okay…” He thinks for a moment, glances between Koschei and the pair outside, and then haltingly adds, “well, um, I have a workshop in a few minutes, so could you tell him for me that study group is going to be delayed an hour tonight?” Before Koschei can answer, Drax is already bounding away. “Thanks Kosch! See you later!”

Koschei stares after him and makes a mental note to nick something nice for Drax the next time he and Theta sneak out of the Capitol. His eyes draw back towards Theta and Vera. Now armed with a Legitimate Excuse to interrupt them, Koschei pushes away from the entrance pillar and stalks across the burning grass towards his best friend.

He’s halfway there when Vera notices him. She says something to Theta and chintips lightly in Koschei’s direction. Koschei can’t see Theta’s face, but he can read his body language better than anyone’s; Theta tenses up, all of his warm, fluid lines freezing into sharp, brittle angles.

Koschei stops, stunned, and stares as, without even a glance in Koschei’s direction, Theta offers his arm to Vera—who takes it graciously—and walks with her across the field, away from Koschei.

The grass beneath Koschei’s feet seems to have threaded up to trap his ankles, and it is all that holds him in place as the balance of his reality is tipped—his best friend on one end falling away from him and leaving Koschei alone on the other, pivoting and plummeting into the empty nothingness outside of space. The unthinkable has happened. Even though the truth is right before his eyes, it takes him several seconds to wrap his mind around it. Theta has replaced him.

Theta has a girlfriend.

Koschei skips the rest of his classes that day—something he’s never done before. He claims illness, and even though he’s not actually sick, he feels miserable enough that the excuse isn’t really a lie. His heartsrate is elevated and he can’t seem to get enough air no matter how deeply he breathes. His stomach is churning and twisting around knots of sharp pain, and he feels nauseous even though he hasn’t eaten anything. He doesn’t think he could bear to sit so close to Theta, not after what had happened that afternoon. Not now that he knows Theta would just be wishing that he were with someone else.

Koschei throws himself down on his bed and stares at his ceiling. “Fuck,” he says. “I was gone a week. A single fucking week.”

A week during which he hadn’t even been able to focus on the interesting aspects of the triple-system millisecond pulsar his class had been there to observe; he’d been too preoccupied thinking about Theta. Every time the professor had begun to yammer on self-importantly, Theta hadn’t been there to whisper acidly witty remarks in Koschei’s ear. When Koschei finished compiling the data he’d gathered on the pulsar, Theta hadn’t been there to listen to all of his brilliant ideas on how they could use it, and then to expand on them with his own unique imagination. Theta hadn’t been there, and the empty space where he always stands next to Koschei had gaped like a ragged hole in the universe.

Koschei scowls. One of the constellations in the Celestial Map he’d painted onto his ceiling has begun to look like Vera every time he glances at it. He snags a pen from the nightstand and flings it viciously at the image. It lodges in one of her eyes. She smiles at him, unconcerned, and regenerates near Sagittarius B on the other side of the room. Koschei buries his head beneath his pillow.

He lies there and feels sorry for himself for most of the afternoon before he comes to his senses.

Theta is Koschei’s best friend. Koschei is Theta’s best friend. He’s known Theta since they were first admitted to the Academy at eight years old. Theta has no right to cast aside that bond as though it had never even existed, and Koschei will make him very aware of that fact. He will make certain that Theta knows what a bad idea it was to cast him aside. Vera may have had a week to stage the first assault, but she’s fighting a bond that’s decades old.

And the war has just begun.

Fingers tapping to a beat of four, Koschei goes to find Ushas.

“Go away.”

“But this is important!”

Ushas doesn’t even turn around. She adjusts the heat on the burner nearest to her and begins measuring out a foul-smelling ochre powder. “I’m busy.”

Koschei narrows his eyes and tries to keep his irritation at being brushed aside from showing. “I’m not leaving.”

“Oh, really?” Ushas pours the powder into a glass beaker, adds a clear liquid, and sets it to boil on a hot plate. “Then you won’t mind making yourself useful as a testing template. My Entomorphthorales are all refusing to adapt themselves to a wider range of host specificity.”

Koschei places a larger distance between himself and the Time Lady, but does not leave. As the senior lab technician, Ushas is the only one with extra keys to every workroom in their building. Koschei needs those keys.

“Oh for the love of…” She turns around at last, irritated, and glares at him. “What?”

“I need keys to Theta’s lab.”

“You’re kidding me. You lost yours?”

Koshei blinks. “…I never had any.”

“Really?” Ushas’ irritation slips into puzzlement for a moment. “But I thought…oh, never mind. Look, I really am busy here. Just ask Theta to make you some copies.”

Koschei grits his teeth and tries, unsuccessfully, to keep the edge out of his voice. “He’s been a bit busy lately.”

Ushas stares at him uncomprehendingly for a few seconds. Then her expression clears, only to be constipated with disdain and exasperation a second later. “Rassilon, leave me out of your little domestic spats! Just apologize and snog him or whatever. Get out of my lab.”

Koschei gapes at her, horrified. “I—we’re not—we didn’t—“ Of all the indignities, now he’s stammering like a thirty year-old. Koschei ignores the heat in his own cheeks and snaps, “Ushas, just give me the keys and I’ll leave you alone with your carnivorous fungi.”

“Fine. Take my spare.” She turns back to the boiling solution, which is now fluorescing bright orange and emitting what sounds disturbingly like high-pitched animal screams. “Top left drawer of Table One. Anyone finds out that you have it, and I’ll have found a new host for my Zoophthora Alpha. Also, don’t touch the agar dishes behind the keys."

Koschei takes the threat seriously. He carefully retrieves the spare keys anyway and leaves Ushas’s lab as quickly as possible to go and make a few copies. He doesn’t want to risk Ushas’s wrath a second time if he can help it.

Koschei waits until Theta is in class to break into his laboratory. The door is deadlocked, but his newly acquired keys take care of that problem without leaving any signs of a forced entry. Paranoid, Koschei thinks, and then smirks. With good reason, I suppose. Koschei and Theta have pulled enough pranks on their classmates to warrant fear of retribution. He deadbolts the door shut behind him.

Theta’s lab is immaculate; tools are organized according to type and function in labelled boxes, experiments are neatly contained on separate benches, and every step of every process has been carefully annotated in workspace-specific notebooks in Theta’s smooth, elegant script. Koschei rubs his thumb over a thready blue sentence and feels a surge of warm affection flow through his chest. He swallows back the twinge of guilt that prickles his hearts and reminds himself that Theta is the one who started this. Theta is the one who abandoned him. He’s brought what Koschei is about to do down on himself.

“Right then,” Koschei says quietly, and cracks his knuckles in preparation. “What do we have here?” He flips back a couple of pages and grins. Despite Theta’s usual predilection towards procrastination and laziness, he has never been sloppy with his notes. “Oh, Theta, how considerate of you to be so very thorough. This is going to be easy.”

The next morning, Borusa stops in mid-sentence as Theta, late to class as usual, attempts to slink unnoticed through the back door of the classroom. Oh, good luck with that in your condition, Theta, Koschei thinks snidely.

“What,” Borusa asks, “in Rassilon’s name have you done to yourself?”

Every head in the classroom turns to look. Koschei remains very still and holds his lower lip tightly between his teeth to keep from laughing. Snickers rise throughout the room, and Koschei can tell that Theta should probably be turning bright red about now.

If, of course, he weren’t a bright fluorescent blue from head to toe.

“Laboratory accident,” Theta mumbles, though it’s clear from his expression that he doesn’t for a microsecond believe the “accident” portion of his own excuse.

Koschei is grinning; he can’t help himself. This is working perfectly according to plan. Across the room, Ushas catches sight of his triumphant expression and gives him her most withering ‘I cannot believe how juvenile you are’ look, before pointedly ignoring them both in favor of her textbook. Drax takes slightly longer to catch on—his eyes dart back and forth between Theta and Koschei for a couple of seconds—but when he does, his eyes widen comically in horror. He sinks deeper into his seat and raises his book like a barricade.

Borusa sighs and waves Theta to his seat, picking up where he left off in his lecture on temporal field mapping.

Koschei watches Theta navigate the maze of desks to the seat adjacent him. Theta sits down and arranges his books and notes with as much dignity as he can muster, and then, very slowly, turns his head to look with narrowed, suspicious eyes at Koschei.

Koschei smirks. “What’s wrong, Theta? Feeling a bit blue today?” he whispers.

Theta stares at him.

Up close, the results of Koschei’s sabotage are even more impressive. Blue has soaked into every pore and every crease of Theta’s skin, as though pools of artron energy have overflowed from the core of his body and spilled like rivers into lakes beneath an alien sky. Every strand of hair, every eyelash glows like impossibly thin psychic threads all coalescing into an electric halo around Theta’s perfect face.

Very suddenly, Koschei wants to kiss him more than anything. He wants to catch Theta’s lower lip gently between his teeth and drink him in. He wants to savor the fullness of everything that is Theta and bottle it on his tongue. He wonders how it would feel to have Theta’s lips on his, and what he would taste like if he wanted Koschei as much as Koschei wants him. For a few seconds, all Koschei can do is stare back at him, stunned and bewildered by the sudden, unexpected desire overwhelming him. Where had this come from?

Koschei manages to force his eyes away, down to his notebook, and he grips his stylus between his fingers hard enough that he can feel his twin hearts pulsing between thumb and forefinger. The quadruple beat of drums in his head is mirrored by his hearts, louder in unison than he has ever heard them before. He has no idea why, out of nowhere, he suddenly wants to kiss his best friend breathless. Worse, he can feel Theta’s eyes on him. He wonders if Theta has noticed his strange reaction, and if so, what he’s thinking.

Koschei doesn’t look in Theta’s direction again for the remainder of the period, despite the insistent pressure of Theta’s telepathic queries tapping impatiently and with sharp irritation against his mental shields.

Class ends, and Koschei switches the screen of his notebook off and tucks away his books. By the time he stands from his desk and looks over, Theta is already gone.

Koschei sighs, unsure whether the rush he feels in his chest is disappointment or relief, or maybe a strange blend of both. Theta has probably gone to find a way to remove the blue from his system (unfortunate, really, considering how striking Theta had looked, but on the other hand the color had clashed horribly with the red and orange Prydonian Chapter student robes).

And anyway, Koschei has Theta’s attention now for certain, which was the entire point in the first place. Even though Theta had left without even speaking to him, Koschei tells himself that he knows Theta too well; this won’t be the end of the matter.

Koschei has no idea how right he is.

Koschei waits in the library, allowing several people to witness him going in so that Theta will be able to track him down with ease. He works on his assignments, taking his time about them. He studies the handbook of TARDIS flight regulations when he’s finished with his main coursework; he’s determined to pass his exams the first time around.

Hours pass by, and Theta has still not made an appearance.

Koschei sets his books aside and leans back in his chair, frowning. He cards his fingers through his hair, working the tangles from the fine black strands, and then moves his fingertips to his temples and gently massages his psychic centers. Despite his earlier success, he feels as though he’s losing control of the situation—or worse, that he was never in control. The nausea he’d felt yesterday rises up once more, and his stomach begins to throb.

The feeling sets his teeth on edge, sets the drums pounding harder inside his skull. An ache settles within the psychic centers of his brain. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, can’t-wait-any-more.

Koschei is out of his seat before he even registers having moved. He stuffs his electronic texts and notebooks into his satchel and goes off in search of Theta.

Theta isn’t hard to track down. It doesn’t appear as though he’s been trying to avoid Koschei, even if he certainly hasn’t been trying to seek him out either. Then again, Koschei has managed to approach unnoticed, so he doesn’t know if Theta would have tried to evade him otherwise. Possibly so, as when Koschei does find him, Theta is in his lab with the door shut, and Koschei can hear two different voices coming from within.

“—no idea what the little fool is doing.” Theta’s voice carries a raised edge of petulance amidst overt irritation. “Everything was going so well until he came back.”

“Are you still going to tell him?” a unfamiliar girl asks. Her voice is smooth and musical. Vera, Koschei determines. This must be Vera.

“No. Yes. Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to tell him eventually.”

“He’s going to find out sooner or later. My bet is on sooner; Koschei is clever. You know that.”

Koschei thinks he might have to raise his opinion of Vera just a little bit.

Theta scoffs derisively. “He hasn’t noticed yet, has he? He’s utterly clueless, that one!”

Koschei feels something crumple between his hearts and sag, heavy and aching, in his chest. Has Theta always thought this poorly of him, and he’d just never known? His fingers tremble as he presses them lightly against the door.

“It would still best that you be the one to tell him,” Vera insists.

Theta’s sigh is audible even on Koschei’s side of the closed door. “You’re right. But I simply—he drives me mad. I can’t even stand to be around him sometimes.”

The weight in Koschei’s chest collapses inward to the point where he stops breathing entirely. He feels cold all over from a chill that begins deep inside his body and seeps outwards, as though a hole to the empty void outside of space and time has opened inside him. His hearts ache, and he hears the echoes of Theta’s last words reverberate inside his head, nearly as loud as the drums and far more painful.

A light tinkle of glass and metal interrupts the conversation: equipment being shifted around, likely tidying the ‘adjustments’ Koschei had made to Theta’s workstations. The noise drowns out Vera’s next few words, and all he can make out is, “—like that at first. It’ll get better, but only if you tell him soon, so he has time to get used to the idea.”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Theta huffs. “But I wonder what his problem is now. He’s never sabotaged my experiments before. Have those pulsar emissions addled his mind?”

“You know him better than I do.”

There’s a pause. Then, Theta says, “Hm. Sometimes I feel as though I don’t know him at all.”

Koschei bites down on his lower lip and closes his eyes. I could say the same about you, Theta. I thought we were friends. Best friends! I thought…

The sounds of footsteps, clattering tools, and the hum of electricity thrumming through whirring apparatuses’ metal veins fill in the next half-minute of silence. Koschei’s mouth has gone dust-dry. The drums have lodged in his windpipe; his respiratory bypass engages, but he still can’t seem to get enough air.

“Now that is terribly clever, Vera. Yes, very clever indeed.” Koschei can imagine perfectly how Theta must look on the other side of the door, from all of the times that he had praised Koschei’s cleverness in the exact same manner. His hands will be gripping the lapels of his open outer robe while he rocks back very slightly on his heels and nods with approval, a pleased expression brightening his face. The open admiration in Theta’s voice rips like needles in Koschei’s blood. “What would I do without you?”

Koschei flees silently before he can hear Vera’s response. He doesn’t stop running until he’s safely ensconced inside his own lab several hallways down. He deadlocks the door behind him and leans heavily against it while he tries to control his suddenly erratic breathing.

Not going according to plan. Not at all. Sabotaging Theta’s experiments had been a sure way to get his attention (Academy students take their science seriously), and force Theta to stop ignoring him. It had been, in Koschei’s mind, a very not-subtle hint that ditching your best friend of over six decades for a girl you’ve known inside of a week is a Bad Idea. A small portion of the overwhelming hurt and pain he feels kindles into anger again, because Theta has no right to do this to him. Koschei is not someone to be taken for granted. He will not be deceived and then discarded and ignored.

He had intended his little prank to remind Theta of this. He had not expected the incident to draw Theta and Vera even closer while simultaneously pushing Koschei further away. The realization makes him feel even more sick.

And what had Theta meant to tell him? What secret is he so reluctant to expose to Koschei? Theta has never kept anything remotely important from him before! Whenever anything happens to either of them, the other is always the first to know. So why is Vera now suddenly the only person Theta can talk to? What could possibly be between them that Theta couldn’t tell Koschei about first?

Koschei scowls at the floor, his mind whirring and flipping through possibilities until he stumbles upon a possibility that wrenches his breath from his lungs. “No,” he whispers, eyes wide with horror. “No, they can’t be that serious already. That isn’t possible.” Shock drains the strength from his legs until all he can feel are tiny bursts of pin-prick pain amidst detached numbness. He slides slowly down the door to sit in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Unless…unless Theta has been seeing Vera for far, far longer than Koschei had thought, and Koschei has just been oblivious to the entire thing. Prydonian Chapter students are cunning, devious, and good at keeping secrets. They pride themselves on this talent. Theta is no exception; he just seems lazier than most about it. No one, not even Koschei, would suspect Theta of even being capable of sustaining such a thorough, long-term deception.

Maybe that was how he’d done it—how he’d pulled the cloth over Koschei’s eyes. He might have been involved with Vera for years without Koschei ever knowing.

Koschei grips the drums in his thoughts as he feels panic swell inside of him. Their steady, firm rhythm braces him, supports him with its unyielding structure, and Koschei uses them like a ladder to anchor himself as he descends into his own memories. He looks for clues: anomalies in Theta’s behavior, things that would seem suspicious only if he knows what he’s looking for.

He finds nothing until about a year ago. Somewhere around that time, Theta had stopped touching him quite as much. He’d started keeping a bit more distance between them at all times. He’d avoided eye contact now and again, sometimes refusing to look at him at all abruptly and for no apparent reason. He’d started excusing himself from Koschei’s room earlier than usual, started taking more classes that Koschei wasn’t enrolled in. Memory after memory wells up in his mind until he’s drowning in all of the details he’d never wanted to see.

Koschei surfaces from his thoughts, trembling with revelation. A year. This has been going on for a year right in front of him, and he’s never even suspected it. “Oh, Theta,” he whispers. He isn’t sure whether he feels admiration for Theta’s unexpected deviousness or hearts-breaking betrayal. He thinks that he feels both, one in each heart, polluting his bloodstream with alternating beats in time with the drums.

Koschei lets out a long, slow, quiet breath. He’s going to have to re-weave his perception of Theta, but that isn’t something he wants to do. He wants his Theta, his brilliant, lazy, clever, rebellious Theta. His Theta wouldn’t keep something like this from his own best friend; such an act would be akin to maliciousness, and Koschei’s Theta isn’t malicious. Impish, yes. A troublemaker, absolutely, but a harmless one.

This isn’t harmless, and that’s the problem, Koschei realizes. This hurts in a way that Koschei could never have anticipated, could never have braced for. Koschei has defenses everywhere and against everyone except for Theta. Koschei is a castle, and his cornerstone has been shattered; he feels his walls crumbling and tumbling away, leaving him naked and cold and empty.

Koschei swallows and steadies his mind with the quiet, ever-present drumbeat. He will not fall apart. He will deal with this. He will resolve it somehow. Koschei closes his eyes against the stinging prickles behind them and tries to blink back the moisture that follows. He takes in deep, shuddering breaths to calm himself. Maybe, he thinks, I should be direct for once. Just go to him and lay it all out and demand answers.

Yes, that’s a good idea. Except that it involves Koschei admitting to Theta something that he hasn’t quite come to terms with himself just yet, so maybe he’ll wait a little while. Figure out what to say and how to say it. Besides, Theta seemed busy and irritated when Koschei had overheard him and Vera, and therefore probably not in the best frame of mind to listen openly to what Koschei has to say. Maybe he’ll find Theta tomorrow; he’ll wait a good twenty four hours to simmer down any tension between them.

In the meantime, Koschei has some lab work waiting for him that he can concentrate on to take his mind off of Theta. He might just be able to increase the accuracy of his handheld gravity wave detector by a couple of significant figures if he calibrates it with the new pulsar data he’d collected on his class trip.

Koschei does not, of course, rule out the possibility that Theta has broken into his lab for some retaliatory pranking, so he checks his notes and equipment thoroughly before he starts. When he finds nothing amiss, he feels slightly insulted and a tiny bit hurt; either Theta is refusing to play his game, or Theta just doesn’t consider Koschei worth his time at all anymore.

If Koschei hadn’t already decided to confront Theta directly, he’d have taken this as an indication that he needs to be a bit flashier and a bit more vicious with his pranks. No one dismisses Koschei out of hand like that. No one. The fact that it’s Theta who appears to be doing so just hits that much more painfully home.

And…and Koschei had turned his attention to his lab projects so that he wouldn’t have to think about Theta for a while, and that seems to be Not Working. He scowls at his equipment for a minute, then switches the power supply on and doggedly forces himself to concentrate.

Koschei gets about halfway through his procedure when a glass vacuum tube begins to emit a piercing, high-frequency shriek. Koschei nearly drops the circuit component in his hands, and he stares at the tube for the half-second it takes him to rule out ninety percent of all possible internal causes for such a phenomenon. Discarding the remaining ten percent and remembering what a prime target he currently is for sabotage takes him another tenth of a second.

He still doesn’t manage to duck beneath the table in time.

Koschei wakes to find the lab bench on the ceiling. Which is really quite alarming, as that is certainly not where he left it. Then the edges of his vision kaleidoscope briefly into focus, and he reels, because the lab bench is not in fact on the ceiling; Koschei is on the ceiling, and someone has inexplicably glued his signal function generators to the wall by his right hand.

Wait. No. That’s not right either.

The world kaleidoscopes again, symmetries unfolding in seven dimensions, and then his spatial orientation rotates and bends from comfortably euclidean into hyperbolic space.

Ohgodohgodohgod…

Koschei squeezes his eyes shut and wills his brain to turn off its spatial sensitivity, for the sake of both his sanity as well as his stomach. The nausea passes eventually, but he keeps his eyes closed, floating formlessly in the safety of his own mind while he tries to figure out what in Sepulchasm has just happened.

Sabotage, obviously. It’s equally clear who the perpetrator is: Theta Sigma. And while on one hand this is wonderful, he should probably save reveling in triumphant glee until after he gets this mess sorted.

Which, at the moment, is a decidedly non-trivial problem.

Koschei squints one eye open. A corner of his lab folds in on itself and vanishes, only to reappear as mirror reflections of itself three feet on either side of where it used to be.

Koschei groans.

As long as he keeps his spatial senses tuned to a minimum, however, the geometrical fluctuations are bearable. I can work with this, he thinks. Koschei does some quick calculations in his head, takes a step along what should translate as being the shortest path to the lab bench…

…and promptly falls arms over toes into a dustbin.

“What the—?” Koschei flails and tries to extricate himself from an assortment of crumpled papers, clipped wires, and sticky notes. He succeeds by tipping the bin over and emptying its contents—himself included—on top of the (blessedly closed) door.

The geometry had changed again mid-step. Koschei scowls. Whatever appreciation he had once held for the beauty of non-euclidean spaces is now eclipsed by an exponentially increasing annoyance over how damned inconvenient it is to maneuver in. Particularly when the entire room seems to transform randomly.

Wait.

Koschei stills and watches the room carefully. His temporal sense is still in tact, so he knows exactly how long it’s been since the last switch. When the room buckles once more, ellipses warping into Dehn Planes. He glances at the lab table and groans; an infinite number of parallel lines passing, impossibly, through any given point is not something he’d ever wanted to subject his eyes to. Koschei marks the time lapse down to the nearest nanosecond. Then he waits again.

Because however mad, infuriating, lazy, and oblivious Theta Sigma may be, he is also brilliant. Nothing about this situation is random; there’s a pattern, and if Koschei can find it, then he can work against it.

Twelve iterations later, he has it. Another five iterations, and he’s formulated an absurdly complex, precise path of movement that should bring him back to the lab bench where this whole thing started.

Three false starts, two missteps, one encounter with an unexpected hatstand, and two and a half hours later, Koschei is finally clinging to the edge of the table—or, rather, what would constitute an edge if there were edges in the current geometry. He grits his teeth and glares at the vacuum tube that triggered it all. It is lying, innocent and still, along the table’s now saddle-like curves. Koschei studies it closely.

“Now that’s odd,” Koschei murmurs. “Nothing wrong with you.” He flicks his eyes from the glass tube to scan across the table’s remaining contents. “So if not the tube, then what did you break?”

Koschei fingers a capacitor’s collapsing curves, turns over a couple of flattened cable adaptors, and checks the non-existent contents of his glass flasks-turned-Klein bottles. None of his equipment seems to be altered, outside of the shifting spatial coordinate bases.

A horrifying and infuriating thought occurs to him.

“Oh no you don’t,” Koschei snarls, grey eyes slitting. “You have not tried to rig this so that I need to come to you for help. Oh no. Theta, you smug, arrogant bastard.”

Well, he’s certainly not going to give the other boy the satisfaction. Theta has to be affecting localized space somehow, and if Koschei can figure out how then he can beat Theta at their little game.

Wait. Wait.

Comprehension blooms, bright as the second sun, in Koschei’s face. Of course! He glances up at his gravity wave detector, just to be sure, and flicks it on. Readings pop up to confirm his suspicions.

Ha! Got you.

Theta has been controlling everything remotely—from the safety and anonymity of his own lab. Koschei remembers speculating with his friend about such a remote device, and on how they might be able to use it in their eventual plan to superglue the Lord President’s perigosto stick. But Koschei hadn’t known Theta’d been working on it since, much less that he’d successfully built one!

Even though this is even more painful evidence that Theta has been keeping secrets from him, deceiving him and manipulating him, he can’t help but also admire how brilliant he is. A surge of affection swells in his chest and pools in his stomach, as though a knot of gravity has nested in his belly and is drawing his insides down around it into a ball of tingling heat.

Oh. Oh dear. The same inexplicable and undeniable feelings that had overwhelmed him in the classroom yesterday have returned, and are making themselves very difficult to ignore this time.

He’ll…deal with that problem later. And try very, very hard not think about it right now. Not, at least, until after he reverts space into something that obeys the Saccheri-Legendre Theorem; triangles should never be permitted to have angles that sum to greater than 180 degrees—not in this dimension, at least.

Except…he can’t just jam Theta’s remote device and switch it off. Well, okay, he could, but where would be the fun in that?

No, no, he has a much better idea. It’s tricky, considering that he’ll still have to work with the changing geometries, but now that he’s worked out the pattern, all he needs is time. Planning his steps carefully in advance, Koschei snags a couple of long wires and bends them into the shape of a gamma. Then he strings a rubber band across the top prongs, pinches carefully folded, specifically-shaped sheets of foil around the wires, and attaches the ensemble to a function generator and his gravity wave detector. Koschei eyes his creation and smirks. Okay, Theta, he thinks. Let’s see how good you are at thinking on your feet…or off of them.

Koschei presses a switch and reflects Theta’s signal transmission.

The room rights itself, curves flattening into lines and hyperbolas closing up until normal euclidean space has reasserted itself.

Simultaneously, a loud screech shatters the silence throughout the entire building, emanating unmistakably from Theta’s lab.

Koschei tips his head back and the room reverberates with his laughter, the walls splitting his voice along symmetries until all that can be heard are the kaleidoscoping echoes of his triumphant glee.

The game is on.

Part II

Fic: Bugs Bunny Tactics

2011-11-13T06:06:36Z

Title: Bugs Bunny Tactics
Word Count: 2543
Beta: narwhale_callin
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Three/Delgado!Master
Warnings: CRACK. Specifically Looney Tunes Crossdressing Crack.
Prompt: Response to an anon meme prompt from best_enemies: In the old Looney Tunes cartoons, it was a common tactic for the character running away to cross-dress and seduce the character chasing them [...] I want to see one of them about to be caught, a quick change, and let the cross-dressing seduction commence.
Summary: In which the Master resorts to desperate measures in order to escape from UNIT, and gets a bit more than he anticipated.
Notes: This is the crackiest thing I have ever written you guys. And I have no shame. I regret NOTHING. Also, a huge thank you to Nar. She saved my Three characterization and made me cut out about a page of unnecessary chase scene at the beginning, among other things. It was somewhat painful, but so good. ♥

Bugs Bunny Tactics

In retrospect, perhaps poisoning Britain’s tea had not been a wise choice after all. The Master doesn’t trust the soldiers not to shoot him this time, and he doesn’t have regenerations to waste.

He needs to hide long enough to shake the Doctor from his immediate trail, formulate a way out of the city, find his stolen TARDIS from wherever the Doctor has stowed it, and then he can work out just how the Doctor managed to ruin his meticulous plans this time.

“He can’t be far…I think he ran this way.”

The Master’s hearts clench in his throat and he snaps his head up, eyes wide. He’s found me already? The Doctor’s voice had come from just around the corner.

The Master doesn’t even think. There’s no time to run and no place to run to, so instead he bolts into the shop directly behind him. It’s a clothing shop, so with any luck he’ll be able to find a temporary disguise, because without one it will be close to impossible to escape undetected from UNIT troops. A light tinkle of bells announces his presence. The Master stops just inside the door and stares in dismay.

Coats, trousers, dresses, blouses, and scarves of all shapes and sizes line the shelves and racks throughout the little store, all decorated with bubbly flower patterns and colourful designs that resemble what the Vortex might look like if one were under the influence of ten Fluorenian Kaleidoscope Mushrooms and at least one Pan Galactic Gargleblaster.

More significantly, however, the Master notes that all of the clothes are designed specifically for women.

“Sir?” A young lady emerges from behind one of the clothing racks and stares uncertainly at him. “Can I…help you?”

The Master glances back towards the door. Somewhere on the other side, the Doctor is searching for him, and soldiers will soon be following in his wake. He looks at the girl, about to ask her if there’s a back door exit, when he spots a garish, purple, fruit-adorned, broad-brimmed hat hanging from a stand in the clearance section.

Abruptly, he thinks of a rabbit.

And then he knows exactly what to do.

---------

The Doctor stands on the side of the main street in the market district, hands on his hips and frowning. He scans the crowd closely, searching for any glimpses of telltale black. He knows he saw the Master running this way, and with the Brigadier already having positioned men and women to close the area off, he knows the other Time Lord couldn’t have gotten far, not without someone raising the alarm.

Then again, he has been known to underestimate his old friend. Koschei was always so deviously clever and resourceful, not that he’d admit as much to him now.

The Doctor huffs. He can sense the presence of a Time Lord close by. The Master must be hiding. “Really, old chap,” he tuts quietly under his breath as he proceeds down the street with long, brisk strides. “Of all things, you had to target tea. It’ll serve you right if UNIT finds you before I do. I thought you had more sense than—oof!”

Distracted by his thoughts, he’d collided with a young woman and very nearly knocked her off her feet.

“Oh! Oh, I’m terribly sorry!” the Doctor apologizes, and reaches out to help steady her. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you quite all right?”

She doesn’t answer him at first. She just stares at him from behind a pair of dark sunglasses, frozen as though in shock. The Doctor frowns and wonders if she recognizes him from somewhere. She does seem familiar somehow… He takes a moment to look at her more closely.

She’s dressed a bit oddly, though the Doctor has never been able to wrap his sensibilities around fashion in 1970s Britain. A warm, waist-length lime green coat is buttoned up at the front, beneath which she appears to be wearing a canary yellow dress patterned with green and pink floral designs. She’s also wearing a pair of those ludicrous platform shoes. But the Doctor has seen more garish combinations than this. What really catches his attention is her scarf; she has wrapped a long pink silk scarf about her head and neck so that it covers the entire lower half of her face, including the tip of her nose. A yellow hat holds the scarf in place atop her head.

She snaps from her daze. “I-I’m fine, yes. Thank you.”

The Doctor stares at her in horror. “My dear young lady, your voice! Are you ill?” She had practically rasped at him, her voice hushed and rough and unnaturally low.

The girl winces and hugs her coat more tightly about herself. “Y-yes. I’m just heading home. I shouldn’t have tried to come to work today.”

Ah, the Doctor thinks. That explains the scarf over her mouth, then. Preventing the spread of infection, now there’s a sensible precaution. He nods with approval, and then scans the market streets once more. UNIT personnel have begun filtering in like blood through swollen veins to sweep the area. The Master still hasn’t been caught yet, then. The Doctor looks back down at the girl, who is shivering slightly and swaying a bit on her feet.

Oh, dear, he thinks guiltily. In her state, she may be worse off from our collision than I thought. The poor girl.

She’s particularly vulnerable here, too. If the Master is looking for a hostage to ensure his safe departure, this girl would be a prime target. He really can’t walk away, knowing that. The Doctor sighs and gives the girl a gentle, encouraging smile. “Do you live far from here, my dear?”

She looks up at him and hesitates a moment before answering. “Not far. Just a few blocks that way…” She points to the northwest.

The Doctor nods. That wouldn’t take him too far out of his way. And, he realizes, it will give me a chance to search for the Master in case he’s managed to sneak around the UNIT blockades. He gives the girl a gentlemanly bow and extends his arm. “Please allow me to escort you home.”

“O-oh, that won’t be necessary,” she stammers, but the Doctor cuts her off smoothly.

“Nonsense. You’re obviously quite ill, and there happens to be a dangerous criminal lurking about the area. Please accept it as my apology for running into you.” The Doctor smiles.

The girl stares at him for a moment, then looks down at his arm. After a moment of thought, she reaches out slowly and links her arm in his.

“There’s a fine girl,” he says cheerfully. “Lead the way.”

She starts off at a slow, somewhat stiff walk, glancing up and down the streets nervously. After a few moments, she asks, “Dangerous criminal?”

Ah, perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned that, the Doctor thinks, too late. Now she’ll be upset on top of sick. “Oh, well, I suppose ‘dangerous criminal’ is stretching it a bit,” he says. “He’s more of a nuisance than anything else. An unimaginative plodder who manages to do himself more damage than anyone else, so you shouldn’t worry too much.”

Oddly, rather than relaxing as he expected her to, the girl seems to have tensed even further, her posture and movements stiff as wires and her footsteps heavy on the concrete. Her arm has tightened with surprising strength about his own. “Why are so many soldiers here, then, if he’s such a small threat?” It’s quite possible that he’s imagining it, but her voice seems clipped and terse beneath the hoarse, raspy tone.

“Oh, well,” the Doctor shrugs, partly in an effort to loosen her arm from its death-grip around his own. He’s starting to lose feeling in his fingers. “He’s a rather persistent chap, and he has an inconvenient talent for escaping at the last minute. We’ll catch him, though, don’t you worry.”

She doesn’t respond to that save to nod stiffly. They continue walking in silence, with the Doctor keeping a sharp eye out for the Master every step of the way. Their trip remains uneventful save for a startling moment when the girl—clearly still a bit dizzy from the collision and her illness—accidentally trips him and very nearly sends him falling on his face. She apologizes profusely, and afterwards her grip loosens to reasonable levels.

It quickly becomes apparent that she isn’t going to offer up any more conversation unless prodded. “So,” the Doctor says brightly, “where do you work?”

The girl’s step falters for a moment. “A clothing shop,” she answers. “I just started not long ago.”

“I imagine you’d get along well with a friend of mine. Her name is Jo. She does go on about fashion at times. Frankly, I don’t see the appeal of the popular style these days.”

“Mmm.”

Not much of a conversationalist, are you? the Doctor thinks. Well, fortunately he can talk more than enough to make up for the both of them.

---------

The Master fumes. He has long since tuned out the Doctor’s incessant babbling. It had taken all of his self-control not to reach up and throttle the man earlier. Unimaginative? A plodder? A mere nuisance? The part of the Master that hasn’t curled into a withered ball of misery inside is burning with fury over the Doctor’s casual dismissal. He tries not to think about how much more of him is in the former category than the latter, and instead begins plotting imaginative, vicious ways to punish the Doctor and teach him to never underestimate his Master ever again.

They pass through the UNIT blockade with ease, which had been the entire reason that the Master had decided to accept the Doctor’s assistance. Now, however, he begins to think that perhaps he can trick the Doctor and incapacitate him. That would be a suitable start to my revenge, he muses. I could hold him hostage for the return of my TARDIS.

But that would, he realizes, also require revealing his current disguise. The thought isn’t particularly appealing at the moment. If the Doctor isn’t taking him seriously now, the dress will not help matters. And, anyways, the streets are still too full of witnesses for him to pull off such a feat, even if he could manage to get the drop on the Doctor.

Still, the idea is tempting. He’s burning with a desire to reverse the situation, to have the Doctor at his mercy. He imagines what the Doctor’s face would look like if forced to watch his beloved humans die one by one, powerless to save them. He imagines the Doctor on his knees, defeated, and begging him, his Master, for mercy.

Abruptly, he becomes aware that the Doctor has been asking him a question. He blinks and places the fingers of his free hand to his temples, affecting light-headedness. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

The Doctor looks down at him, concerned. “Are we getting close to your home?” he asks again.

“Oh, ah, yes.” The Master thinks quickly, eyes scanning the street. “It’s that one there, actually. I can make it from here, thank you.”

“Oh, let me walk you to the door at least,” the Doctor insists. “It wouldn’t do for you to collapse in the street.”

The Master clenches his teeth in irritation and resists the urge to kick him hard in the shin. “Thank you.”

Once at the door, the Master removes his arm from the Doctor’s and clutches the buttoned collar of his coat. “I appreciate your help, sir,” he says, as politely as he can manage in the circumstances. “I’ll be quite all right from here.”

The Doctor smiles, infuriatingly cheerful, at him. “My dear young lady, it was the least I could do.” He turns a half step, as though to go, but then pauses. “Pardon me, but I never did ask your name. I’m the Doctor, how do you do?”

The Master is about to offer him a hastily made-up name in return when, quite out of nowhere, a very strong wind sweeps in.

The Master squints his eyes shut behind his sunglasses and hunches within his coat. Even through the four layers of clothing he has on (the coat, the dress, and his jacket and shirt beneath those), the wind slices through him like icy needles. He shivers.

When he straightens and opens his eyes again, the Doctor is staring at him with an expression of complete shock and dawning horror. The Master looks at him, alarmed, and wonders what’s wrong.

Then he realizes that his head feels much lighter than it did previously.

Oh, no. There, out in front of his buttoned coat, his scarf is unraveled and fluttering in the wind like a swarm of pink butterflies. His hat has blown away, leaving the Master with his face exposed. He turns pale and stares back at the Doctor, eyes widening with equal horror.

“You?!” the Doctor chokes.

The Master panics and does the first thing that comes to mind after having spent hours watching cartoons in which a certain rabbit has faced this exact dilemma. He lunges for the Doctor, grabs the back of his head and the collar of his ridiculous shirt, pulls him down, and kisses him hard.

The Doctor makes a startled noise in the back of his throat, but is too stunned to try and pull away. And while this would be the perfect time to push the Doctor off and make good his escape, the Master finds himself sinking deeper into the kiss and curling his fingers in the Doctor’s hair. His platform shoes, while awkward to walk in, are now giving him a delicious extra few inches in height that he is finding extremely convenient.

Then, the Doctor starts kissing him back. The cold, withered clump of misery that had tightened in the Master’s chest earlier now blooms with sudden warmth and unravels in fluttering tendrils throughout his chest. His lips part in a tiny, surprised gasp, which the Doctor takes advantage of by coaxing his mouth open and slipping in his tongue. Oh… The Master is dimly aware that the hand clutching the Doctor’s shirt has tightened into a white-knuckled fist around folds of velvety fabric.

It’s only when the Doctor creeps a hand about the small of his back, trying to pin him close, that the Master realizes his peril. He gathers his wits and surreptitiously slides one foot just behind the Doctor’s. He leans into the other Time Lord and, when he’s positioned just right, gently breaks the kiss.

Then he braces his leg and shoves, toppling the Doctor unceremoniously to the ground. The Master turns and bolts down the street as fast as possible in his ridiculous shoes without waiting to see the Doctor’s reaction.

The Master doesn’t, as it turns out, have to be concerned about pursuit. The Doctor props himself up on his elbows and watches his best enemy, clad in a yellow dress and bright pink scarf, flee ungracefully down the street.

The Doctor’s howling peals of laughter chase the Master the remainder of the way to safety.

Asexuality Awareness Week, Day Seven: Fic + a fic rec

2011-10-30T06:08:58Z

Okay, so, I had really wanted to end this week with something light. I certainly didn't want to end it with this, because this is possibly even darker than the last one, and it does not have a happy ending. Read the notes for details.

To make up for this, however, I come bearing a rec! Because when I checked my friends list this morning, I found that someone in the best enemies community had been reading my mind and wrote a fic in honor of Asexuality Awareness Week with the same premise that I'd been contemplating doing. Only ne did it much better than I could have done. So, if you want something nice to follow this up with, check out the rec!

For those who don't know about Asexuality, please give the topic a few minutes of your time! You can read more about what asexuality is at the AVEN website. Here is a link to AVEN's brief overview: ASEXUALITY BASICS

Today's fandom is Forgotten Realms! Read the notes.

Title: Nothing Left to Say
Prompt: Asexuality Awareness Week.
Word Count: 797
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Artemis Entreri, Jarlaxle
Warnings: This is dark. It does not end happily.
Summary: in which Artemis explains to Jarlaxle why they are no longer friends.
Notes: This doesn't have much in the way of plot or any explanation as to why I have the three of them (Drizzt, Entreri, and Jarlaxle) being forced to work with one another. It's obviously AU. I don't care. The point is that I've really, really wanted for a long time to point out how wrong what Jarlaxle did to Artemis was.

tinypinkmouse has made a podfic of this story! You can find it here.

Nothing Left to Say

Artemis stands at the edge of the clearing, as far from the campfire as possible, with the pretense of keeping watch. He knows that no one is fooled, but he really doesn’t care so long as his companions get the message.

Drizzt understands. He understands because he feels the same way about Artemis as Artemis does about him. They interact only when necessary, and even then they acknowledge one other with stiff wariness and as few words as possible. They are only at ease together in battle; they fight like two halves of the same warrior, reading each other’s thoughts in the turns of their wrists, the placements of their feet, and the fluid grace with which they arc their blades—too swiftly for anyone else to follow, leaving rivers of silver and crimson in the air.

Jarlaxle is another matter. He doesn’t understand, because for some reason unfathomable to Artemis he still believes that they’re friends.

Artemis hears the nearly soundless footfalls of a drow approach from behind. He knows who they belong to; the drow is not trying to hide his presence. Startling Artemis is a quick way to die.

“If you come any closer,” Artemis says without bothering to turn around, “I will kill you, and damn the consequences.”

The footfalls cease. A jangle of jewelry confirms what Artemis had already known. In the seconds of silence that follow, he almost believes that Jarlaxle will turn and walk away. Almost, but not quite, because he knows Jarlaxle better than that. And sure enough, moments later the drow’s voice, as bright and irritating as his clothing, grates on his ears. “Artemis, come now, is this any way to treat an old friend?”

Artemis turns now, because it’s obvious that Jarlaxle isn’t going away. His arms are loose at his sides. His weapons are microseconds away from his fingers. He meets the drow’s red eyes and sees them widen, unprepared for what they find in Artemis’s own. “We are not friends,” he hisses. “We will never be friends.”

Jarlaxle’s voice softens into a tone less manic and more pleading. “I understand that what happened at Memnon upset you a great deal, but—“

“No,” Artemis cuts him off in a voice as sharp and quick as his blade. “This isn’t about Memnon. This is about the Flute. This is about what you did.”

The animated lines of Jarlaxle’s form still into a quiet calm, and the colors seem to dim. Even the ridiculous hat he wears seems to flop at the brim, drooping along with the elf’s expression. “Artemis, I did that for your benefit. I was trying to help you.”

Artemis feels rage settle like a frost in his veins, sharpening his eyes and his limbs. Calm has cleared his mind and razored his thoughts.

He remembers. How could he ever forget? The first moment he’d felt physical attraction towards another being had been like waking up in someone else’s body with someone else’s life and being told that everything you were was just a dream. He had always been able to depend upon himself. He’d trained his body and his mind to perfection, and they had never failed him until then.

By the time he’d realized what was happening, he had already fallen in love with and made love to a woman who later attempted to murder him. What happened in Memnon afterwards was just the last mound of dirt clumped atop the corpse of the man who was once Artemis Entreri. He’d snapped the flute apart and thrown it at Jarlaxle’s feet, but undoing the spell could never undo the damage that had been done.

“I will only say this once.” Artemis takes a single step forward, tense and predatory and hostile. “You violated me. You knew what Idalia’s Flute was doing to me. You used it to twist my mind—my thoughts and emotions—against my will and without my knowledge. That was no better than rape.”

Jarlaxle opens his mouth to speak, and within an eyeblink the Jeweled Dagger is unsheathed and in Artemis’s left hand. “No. You do not speak to me. Until you understand why what you did was wrong, I have nothing more to say to you.”

They stare at one another for a few moments longer, but it is Jarlaxle who, wisely, backs away. Artemis watches him leave and does not sheathe his dagger until the drow has reached the campfire, where Drizzt is sitting and watching them curiously.

Artemis turns away and stares out into the night. Maybe, maybe, if Jarlaxle can come to realize what he has done and admit his wrong, maybe someday, in a few hundred years perhaps, Artemis will be able to forgive him.

But until then, there is nothing left to say.

And now, the much happier and fluffier recommendation! I've shamelessly copy-pasted the info blurb from the community that the author cross-posted this to. The only bit I added was the 'why this must be read' bit.

Title: In Which The Doctor Is, Fortunately, Not An Amoeba
Author: nemaline
Rating: PG
Summary: Shalka!fic. Alison is rather confused about the relationship between the Doctor and the Master.
Warnings: Silliness, insufficient editing, and fluff. References to sex, including the blueprints for certain parts of the Master's anatomy.
Author's Notes: So I am not, as it happens, dead. And it is (as I believe has already been mentioned!) Asexuality Awareness Week, and then dragonofmemory talked me into writing fic to celebrate this occasion, because she is an enabler. And then I wrote Shalka!fic, because the world always needs more Shalka. It's all her fault, anyway, that's the main point.
Why this must be read: This is exactly the premise I'd been considering writing for Day Seven. But nemaline pulls it off so much better. The premise is basically Alison realizing that the Doctor and Master are more than friends, but then being confused by the obvious lack of physical intimacy between them. So she goes into detective mode, trying to figure out what the deal is. The Doctor and Master voices are perfect, and the ending is wonderfully sweet. Also, the world will always need more Shalka-verse fic.

Asexuality Awareness Week, Day Six: To Save a Stranger from Quiet Evils

2011-10-29T05:33:46Z

Okay, so, I'm running out of fandoms. I really, really wanted to keep all of my fics of the light-hearted or uplifting kind...and then I picked Batman for this day's fic. So we all know how well that went.

For those who don't know about Asexuality, please give the topic a few minutes of your time! You can read more about what asexuality is at the AVEN website. Here is a link to AVEN's brief overview: ASEXUALITY BASICS

Today's fandom is Batman (Earth-3)! Okay, I cannot stress this enough. Read the warnings. Because while this ends well, it deals with seriously dark and potentially triggery issues.

Title: To Save a Stranger from Quiet Evils
Prompt: Asexuality Awareness Week.
Word Count: 1922
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jokester, asexual!OC
Warnings: This is very dark. There is non-explicit but potentially triggery discussion concerning coersion.
Summary: In which the Jokester finds a girl crying in an empty schoolyard, and asks her what's wrong.
Notes: I'm not sure what to say about this one right now. The severity of the issue discussed really eclipses any possible worries I might have over the quality of writing here.

To Save a Stranger from Quiet Evils

It’s Saturday evening, and a child is crying on a deserted schoolyard bench.

No, not a child, Jokester corrects himself, tiptoeing closer across the rain-slicked rooftops and through shrouds of cold steam as grey needles pour from the sky, lancing his skin with cold. A teenager. A girl.

She’s bent with her head hanging over her knees, and she looks like a wilted flower. The colors of her jumper and jeans are faded, washed into sullen, muted ghosts of their former brightness by the rain and the night. Her hair, stringy with moisture, is the last gold left in the gloom. Around her, paint peels from derelict wooden castles and mud swells into the empty footprints of yesterday’s children.

Jokester considers her. She hasn’t seen him yet. Frankly, he’d be surprised if she noticed anything until it got within a few feet of her. Dangerous, he thinks. She might as well be shining a spotlight into the sky that says ‘Look at me! I’m a target!’

He glances out into the gloom. It’s Saturday evening, and the streets are as quiet as they get. Owlman gives Gotham a day to breathe between the fallout from the last Tuesday and the start of the next. Very little crime happens without the Crime Syndicate’s approval, so on Saturdays the streets are quiet, and only mice linger in the darkness of most shadows.

It’s probably the only reason the girl is still alive.

Jokester balances his mallet on his shoulder and gauges the distance to the ground. He swings from the lip of the roof down to the gritty street below, his polished shoes snapping, sharp and loud, against the concrete. The noise catches the girl’s attention, and her head whips up to look at him. Her eyes are wide shadows, unreadable in the pouring rain from this distance. She doesn’t run, however, which means that she either knows who he is or just doesn’t care. He hopes for the former and crosses the street. He keeps his hands where she can see them. His smile is, as always, red and warm and welcoming, but he can’t tell if she’s comforted by that or not.

He reaches the bench. The girl stares dully up at him. This close, he can tell that her eyes are swollen and leaking tears that are swallowed by the rain, and that they’re the color of the sky that Gotham never sees: clear light blue.

She doesn’t say anything, so Jokester speaks first. He gestures to a spot on the bench next to her and says, “Mind if I take a seat?”

She shakes her head and sniffles. Jokester interprets her response optimistically and sits down, leaning his mallet against the side of the bench. The girl lifts her fingers and rubs at her eyes.

Jokester watches her for a moment, then rummages for something in the inside pocket of his coat. “Here,” he says, “have a smile. You look like you could use one.” He pulls out a wind-up chattering false teeth toy and hands it to her, grinning.

She stares at the offering blankly for a few seconds. Then the absurdity of the gift hits her, and her face is transformed as she hiccups with laughter. She curls her fingers around the toy and cradles it in her palms. “Thanks,” she says, and sniffles again. Her voice is shaky, but her smile clings to the curve of her mouth like a sliver of sun over the edge of storm clouds.

“Don’t mention it,” Jokester says, waving a hand carelessly. “What’s your name?”

“Alicia,” the girl says. She straightens a bit and tucks strings of damp hair behind one ear. “I know who you are. You’re the Jokester.”

Jokester’s grin widens. He loves it when people recognize him. It tells him that Owlman hasn’t won yet; Jokester keeps hope and decency alive in some hearts still. “That’s right!” He tilts his head to one side and his smile fades, just a little, into something less manic and more sympathetic. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.

Alicia stares at him. One…two…three…seven raindrops collect on the tip of her nose and drop before she looks away, down at the clean, bright red and white toy in her hands. She looks back up at him. “Okay,” she says, just as softly.

Jokester waits. Alicia has looked down at the toy again, rolling it absently in her fingers and not really seeing it. It’s a comforting weight: something solid and clean amidst a life stained with pain and breaking apart around her. Jokester knows how that feels.

“It’s one of my friends,” she says. “This guy I started hanging out with over summer. He’s a lot of fun. We like the same stuff—books and movies and games. We’d see each other every day, even once school started. We have some classes together, too. Anyway, he…he really likes me, I found out. Well, he told me as much.”

Jokester’s smile vanishes altogether. The chill in the air sinks into his stomach and freezes his insides, heavy and cold with dread. He does not like where this is going.

“And, well, I wasn’t interested in him that way. I’m still not,” she goes on. “I like him as a friend, you know?”

Jokester nods.

“I told him so, and he left it alone for a while. Then he started bringing it up again, and all the time, too. Saying he loves me, wants to be with me, asking me if I’m sure I’m not interested in at least trying. He told me that he doesn’t want to go through life wondering if it would have worked out, and regretting never having tried.”

Jokester feels the cold in his stomach kindle with anger.

Alicia sniffs again, harder this time, and swallows. She rubs her thumb in little circles along the chattering teeth’s plastic joints. “I tried saying that really, no, I just like him as a friend, that’s all. I mean, I like touching and hugs and all that, but it’s just…hugs, you know? I don’t want anything more. I don’t want…” Her breath catches in her throat and she swallows hard. “Well, he wants it. He asked me if he just wasn’t my type. And I…I told him the truth. I don’t have a type. I’m not…I’ve never looked at anyone like that. I’ve never been attracted to anyone that way, and I don’t think I’m going to ever start.”

Well, Jokester thinks. That’s a twist. And then he thinks, Oh, geez, because he knows what’s coming before she tells him.

“He like, couldn’t believe it. He asked if I’d been hurt before by someone, and I said no. I haven’t. I’ve had a pretty good life so far. Good as you can get in Gotham, right?”

Jokester cracks a tiny, tiny smile at the joke, and nods.

“And then he’s like ‘well, have you ever tried it?’ And I said no, because I’ve never wanted to. I don’t…” She shivers, and Jokester doesn’t think it’s because of the cold or the rain. “So, anyway, he starts telling me that I can’t possibly know unless I try it, and there’s no better opportunity than with him. I kept telling him no, but he just wouldn’t stop. He started saying that there must be something wrong with me. We got into an argument today, after school.” She pauses, takes a deep breath, and swallows again. Her head tilts down and her hair slides free from her ear and falls like a knife-torn curtain by her cheek. “He said it’s not healthy, that I must be sick or something. And when I said I’m not sick, I’m fine, he said that I must be heartless to be so cruel and lead him on. He said that I owe it to him to give it a try after everything I’ve put him through. He said he’d help me get over my…psychosis or whatever…and I’d be helping him in return. And I just…I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know!”

Alicia crumbles into sobs. Her shoulders shudder like leaves beneath the pouring rain. Jokester sits very still and stares at her. He can’t feel his fingers anymore; he’s clenched them into fists so tight that the blood has fled and his nails have nearly cut through the cloth of his gloves. He’s furious.

Jokester has been fighting the overt crimes, the bloody street wars and muggings and “protection payments”. When he manages to save people, he saves them from knives and explosives and other violent deaths all too commonplace in Gotham. But he’s never saved someone from such an insidious evil as this one.

Jokester will rectify that tonight.

“Hey,” he says, and reaches out to touch the top of his gloved index finger to the tip of her chin. “That guy,” he says, as firmly as he can while keeping his voice quiet and gentle. “is not your friend. He’s the one who’s sick, not you.”

Alicia looks at him, water-blue eyes filling with rain or tears or both. “B-but m-maybe he’s right. M-maybe there’s s-something wrong with m-me.”

“No,” Jokester says. His voice is tight and his eyes are hard. “No. Hey, look, there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re not sick and you’re not a freak.“ By the way she flinches, Jokester can tell she’s been called that before. “And I know sick, believe me. I’m an expert on freak, too. Just look at me. There’s no one nuttier on the streets than the Jokester, and I’m telling you that you’re fine.”

She smiles, just a little. Jokester smiles back encouragingly. “No one knows you better than yourself, got it? And no one has the right to make those decisions for you. This little punk is way out of line. He’s the worst kind of predator: ignorant, selfish, and relentless. Don’t let him hurt you, you got that?”

Alicia nods slowly and catches her lower lip in her teeth. She looks down at the toy in her hands and folds her palms closed around it. “Okay. Yeah.” A wavering smile creeps to life. “Hey.” She looks up at him again. “Thanks. I guess…I guess I knew all that but…”

Jokester understands. “Sometimes you need someone else to believe in you, too,” he finishes for her.

Alicia’s smile strengthens and she nods. “Yeah.”

Jokester grins. “You’re fantastic, kiddo. Don’t you ever doubt it. And hey, if you ever need any help, you just give me a call, okay? Here’s my number.” He pulls a card out of his inside coat pocket. It’s soggy, but still legible, so he offers it to Alicia. She pinches it gingerly between her fingers and smiles. “Leave a message,” he says. “I check them pretty often.”

Alicia carefully clamps the chattering teeth’s jaws around the little card to hold it securely. “Thank you. Really, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, kiddo.” Jokester stands up off the bench and looks at the sky for a moment. “You’d better get inside before you freeze to the bone. I’ll walk you home, okay? You don’t want to be out here this late alone, even on a Saturday.”

“Yeah. Thanks again. I don’t live far from here.” Alicia stands up, a little wobbly on her feet, so Jokester offers his arm in support. She takes it, grateful, and leads the way.

Asexuality Awareness Week, Day Five: There is Always Time for Pai Sho

2011-10-28T04:36:03Z

So, not sick anymore! Just very, very woozy and loopy with vertigo. Yay. Here is fic.

For those who don't know about Asexuality, please give the topic a few minutes of your time! You can read more about what asexuality is at the AVEN website. Here is a link to AVEN's brief overview: ASEXUALITY BASICS

Today's fandom is Avatar: the Last Airbender!

Title: There is Always Time for Pai Sho
Prompt: Asexuality Awareness Week.
Word Count: 1374
Rating: PG
Characters: asexual!Zuko, Iroh
Warnings: This has not been beta'd.
Summary: In which Zuko is working too hard (as usual), and his uncle corners him to talk about it.
Notes: Throughout Book 1 and the first half of Book 2, Zuko consistently struck me as an ace. So that's what I've run with here. The dialogue feels a bit forced, so I dunno. It's been a while since I've written in this fandom, guys. I'm out of practice.

There is Always Time for Pai Sho

His uncle worries about him, Zuko knows. He worries in so many ways, some of which Zuko would never admit are perhaps valid, and most of which are because his uncle doesn’t understand.

“You work too hard, my nephew,” Iroh rumbles behind him, and Zuko can smell the lingering rich scent of the roasted duck he’d had for dinner, and he can hear the polished clack of pai sho tiles rolling between Iroh’s fingers. “Come with us,” he says. “It is so rare that we stay at port overnight; you should not miss this opportunity.”

“I’m fine, Uncle,” Zuko says, and snaps into the next form of the firebending set he’s been practicing for the past week. “And I don’t have time for breaks. The Avatar has had decades to train.”

Iroh sighs, as he always does when they argue like this. “Zuko, an evening spent on shore will not hurt you. Who knows? The rest could do you good! Leave you refreshed and stronger!”

“Or out of practice. I’m staying here,” Zuko snaps, and then curses, because he’s lost his concentration. His foot has slipped and slid over the treacherous deck too far out, like a soldier breaking rank—isolated, unbalanced, and vulnerable. Zuko snarls and stalks five paces back to his starting point. He tries again from the beginning.

There is no sound from Iroh, and when Zuko next looks, he is gone. Iroh does not push too hard, not on this; he knows that he won’t win because Zuko finds Iroh’s disappointment easy to overlook in favor of more important things.

Zuko slides through the motions, his movements sharp and aggressive and anything but graceful. He hasn’t yet learned to combine the Blue Spirit’s water-like fluidity with the rage that fuels his firebending. The two are separate worlds, divided in his mind. They are two necessities that must never, ever meet.

Heat curls in his stomach, spreading sparks outwards in his veins and turning his breath into steam. Fury howls in his heart and whips glittering chakra coals into a firestorm that sears beneath his skin and boils in his lungs. Zuko channels that rage. He twists it with an iron will that fire can never hope to melt and channels it into hungry, howling torrents of molten gold.

He holds the sun sparkling in his veins long after it has set. Firebenders are weakest at night, which is why Zuko always practices then. Even when the moon unveils her face amongst the stars, cold and silver blue, Zuko keeps his fire alive. The Avatar will not care what the hour is when he fights; he has no weaknesses. The air itself is his ally.

He practices until his hands are tight with heat, until the ocean waters glitter with reflected rivers of copper and gold as well as slivers of moonbright silver. When he is too tired to hold a proper stance any longer and he feels his solid connection to the ground start to splinter, he walks to the starboard railing and watches the moon reclaim the reflective waters as her own.

It takes him a few minutes to realize that he’s not alone. A shadow shifts carelessly in the corner of his eye, and a familiar sigh whispers through the still air.

Zuko turns his head. “Uncle Iroh?” he asks in surprise. “Why are you still here?”

Iroh joins him by the railing, walking like the old man he pretends to be and that Zuko sometimes thinks he really is. “I want to talk,” he says.

Zuko frowns and opens his mouth to snap his usual harsh denials, to isolate himself behind thorny words. I’m not a child, so don’t treat me like one. I have to do this to regain my honor. I know what I want. I know what I need. I don’t need your sympathy.

But Iroh knows him too well and cuts him off, raising his voice just enough to indicate that he cant be brushed aside this time. “Just listen, Zuko. Humor an old man who cares so much for you. I’m not going to try to convince you to do anything. Just listen.”

Zuko stares at his uncle. Sometimes he forgets that this man is the Dragon of the West. And then there are moments when Iroh does something devious and clever, and he remembers. Something like hiding silently in the dark until everyone else has gone and Zuko no longer has excuses to busy himself with, and speaking with steel in his kind and gentle voice.

“All right,” Zuko says.

Iroh smiles, and then turns to gaze out over the water. He links his hands together atop the railing. “I know you think I worry too much. And perhaps I do. I know why you work so hard, and I admire your determination. You never give up, even in situations that would break older and more experienced men.”

Zuko waits for the ‘but’.

“But,” Iroh says, “I don’t understand why you isolate yourself. Solitude will not bring you strength, my nephew. Some pleasant company, now and then, could help your mind and heart. Alone, you will tire and your roots will be easier to break.”

Zuko sighs. He’s heard this particular litany before, though never phrased quite like this. Perhaps his uncle’s logic makes sense for most people, but it just isn’t the case for him.

His uncle is watching the waves and waiting patiently. He will not let this go easily, and Zuko is too tired to fight him. He probably counted on that, he thinks. “I don’t have the time or the patience or the need to get the crew to like me, Uncle. They just need to follow my orders. And if I relax, I’ll get sloppy. I can’t afford that. And I really don’t want any…pleasant company.”

To his surprise, Iroh laughs. Not the full belly laugh so loud and deep that it could swallow the world, but the low, gravelly rumble warm with kindness and rich with wisdom. “Zuko, I know that you do not get along with your crew. And while I could argue with you on that point, that is not what I meant. Neither is that what I meant about pleasant company.”

Zuko turns and leans against the side of the railing to face his uncle. He crosses his arms over his chest. “What, then?”

“I know you have no interest in the type of company that most of the crew enjoys on shore. And no, don’t look at me like that. I know it’s not because you work too hard. You just are not interested. There is nothing wrong with that.”

Zuko forgets how perceptive his uncle can be. But even remembering that, he wonders how Iroh knew. The crew has invited him along, once or twice when he became old enough. After his acidly vehement refusals, the invitations stopped and morphed into vicious jokes about how he’s too uptight and needs to get laid. Zuko ignores such whispers like the idiocy they represent. It isn’t that he’s too caught up in his work to appreciate or want comfort of that kind; he just doesn’t want it at all.

“But, Zuko,” Iroh continues, “you can still enjoy the pleasant company of friends. You should turn up to music night. Or,” Iroh hastily adds, when Zuko rolls his eyes in disgust, “enjoy a nice quiet game of Pai Sho with your lonely uncle. I do miss our games.”

Zuko is quiet, thinking.

Iroh waits, fingering the tiles in his hands, and then passes one of them to Zuko. “Just think about it,” he says.

Zuko nods stiffly and looks out over the water. Iroh steps away and leaves, silently.

The moon has drowned the ocean in silver, and the sun feels far away and cold. Zuko is tired, and sunrise is still so far away, but he doesn’t think he can sleep quite yet. He opens his palms to reveal the tile, and a white lotus blooms between his fingers. Well, maybe just one game, he thinks. Just one game.

He closes his fingers around the tile and heads belowdeck, where he knows Iroh is waiting hopefully, the board already set out.

Asexuality Awareness Week, Day Four: Of Like Minds

2011-10-27T03:20:29Z

So, still sick. That's fun. Hopefully this fic will be somewhat coherent, even if I'm currently not. Also, this fic a day thing is tough. I'm already burned out.

For those who don't know about Asexuality, please give the topic a few minutes of your time! You can read more about what asexuality is at the AVEN website. Here is a link to AVEN's brief overview: ASEXUALITY BASICS

Today's fandoms are Harry Potter and the BBC 2010 Sherlock. Yes, fandoms. You heard me. That means crossover. Behold, the insanities that pour forth from my head when I'm sick. Do read the notes!

Title: Of Like Minds
Prompt: Asexuality Awareness Week.
Word Count: 1211
Rating: PG
Characters: asexual!Harry Potter, asexual!Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: Insane crossover AU snippet. Also, still not beta'd.
Summary: In which Harry has a problem, and Sherlock offers some unexpected advice.
Notes: So, uh. There was a point when I realized how eerily similar Sherlock Holmes is to the movie!Snape. Listen to them talk. Cumberbatch's Sherlock sounds disturbingly similar to Alan Rickman. Also, note the fondness for dramatic entrances/exits. Chemistry, potions, acidic snark. So this AU popped up in my head in which Sherlock is actually an alternate universe incarnation of Snape, and somehow Dumbledore summons him and John to Hogwarts to solve an uncrackable murder mystery (or something like that). And everyone is weirded out by Sherlock's antics, and Sherlock is viciously critical of and condescending towards wizarding society. And much hilarity ensues. Don't judge me for this. Also, in this fic, Harry is a bit older when the Triwizard Tournament happens, solely because it felt like it worked better that way for the purposes of this fic. Think fifteen or sixteen. I dunno. It's an AU. Just run with it.

Of Like Minds

“Take a friend.”

Harry starts and looks up from his books at the tall, black-clad, pale man who is definitely not Snape, even if their voices sound eerily similar. Sherlock stares back down at him, green eyes somehow both expectant and bored. “Erm, what?”

“Ugh.” Sherlock rolls his eyes in disgust towards the Great Hall’s storm-cloud ceiling and grimaces. His ire shifts targets momentarily, and he glowers at the illusion as though resenting the very fact of its existence. Which, from what Harry has seen and heard of the man thus far, is probably spot on. “Unbelievable! One would think that, in possessing such remarkable abilities, witches and wizards would also possess a modicum of intelligence above the numbing idiocy I’m forced to endure daily. But no. Your minds are just as scattered and foolish as your ludicrous flights of fancy would indicate.” He bats a hand contemptuously towards the ceiling.

Harry bristles. He clenches his jaw and grinds his teeth together to prevent himself from saying anything he might regret. In moments like these, Harry has no trouble at all seeing how this man could be—as Dumbledore claims—an alternate dimension version of everyone’s least favourite Potions Master.

Sherlock meets his glare evenly. For a few seconds, they are completely still, and Harry is sure that the insufferable detective will flounce off to find something more worthy of his attention.

But, to his surprise, Sherlock takes his gloved hands from the pockets of his coat and links them together on the table as he sits down across from Harry and studies him.

Harry feels abruptly like a troublesome potions ingredient that’s being examined for dissection. He shifts uncomfortably.

Finally Sherlock speaks, enunciating each word slowly and sharply. “Take. A. Friend. To the Yule Ball.”

Harry stares at him, his anger long forgotten. He’s heard of the man’s uncanny insight—even seen him in action a couple of times around Hogwarts—but he’s never been the target before. It makes him feel like a fruit being peeled and split open, his secrets laid out in sections for examination. “How’d you—“

Sherlock cuts him off, obviously used to the question, and fires a rapid list of points so swiftly that Harry can barely follow. “You’ve been avoiding your classmates with a reclusiveness that borders on paranoia for the past week, coinciding precisely with when said classmates have begun asking one another to this ridiculous Ball. One could credit nervousness, but, as evidenced by your tie, this is clearly not the case. You have also checked out a book on traditional wizard dance forms, but you haven’t even opened it once, which you would have done if you were even the least bit interested in learning from it. But, you keep the book with you at all times, carefully positioned so as to be visible over the top of your satchel, implying that you want people to see it so that they’ll think you’re trying.”

Harry’s mouth has dropped open. He glances guiltily over at the aforementioned book. Sherlock is right, of course. The detective sweeps on through his deductions without pausing for breath.

“That tactic hardly delays the inevitable. As one of the Four Champions, you’re expected to attend with someone, and since you haven’t found anyone, you’re here sulking and feeling miserably anxious. Very anxious, if your fingers are any indication.”

Harry looks down at his hands. They’re ink-stained—more so than usual—and the dry skin around his cuticles is savaged from where he’s been subconsciously jabbing the tip of his quill.

“So. You have plenty of options, but are actively uninterested—not intimidated or nervous—but uninterested in any of them. The entire concept bores you, but you can’t simply not go. The solution is simple; take a friend.”

Harry blinks. “But…”

“But what? It’s a perfectly logical and viable solution.”

“But all of my friends are already going with someone else!” Harry blurts. “Ugh.” He sinks his head into his hands with a frustrated groan. “Even ‘Mione and Luna have dates.”

Sherlock’s lips part silently, and he leans back. “Ah.”

“I don’t want a date, either!” Harry storms on, and it feels good to vent to someone else, even if that someone else is Snape’s alternate dimension self. “If I could go with someone who I know could understand that, who wouldn’t get any ideas or hopes for later, then that would be brilliant. But I’m not going to lie or pretend just to get through this. I’m sick of everyone assuming that it’s easy for me and that I should have someone I fancy and just ask her! It’s stupid!”

Sherlock is silent. After a few seconds, Harry wonders if the man has up and left sometime during is diatribe. He lowers his hands and looks up. Sherlock is still there and, astonishingly, is smiling a quiet, knowing smile.

“I believe I can help you on that note,” he says. “I don’t normally bother with this sort of thing, but it is admittedly more relevant to my interests when I notice the rare individual who shares my—and your—persuasions.”

Harry frowns and opens his mouth to say that no, he’s not gay thanks, but Sherlock’s next words shrivel his protest before it can be born.

“Edwina Rivers, a Hufflepuff, is also asexual. She’s struggling with similar peer pressure difficulties. You might find some common ground to discuss.”

Harry stares at him, speechless. He has never heard the term ‘asexual’ before, but it’s obvious what it means, both by the word itself and by how perfectly it resonates with those inexplicable eccentricities that before were just more tallies under the label ‘Freak’. Okay, I have to look this up, he thinks, because if it means what he’s pretty sure Sherlock is implying that it means, then he’s not alone; there are more like him. That knowledge lifts him and lightens him, drains the tension, the anxiety, the fear, and the anger away. “Edwina?” he says.

Sherlock nods. Harry digs for a scrap of parchment and scribbles the name down. “So, you’re…asexual, too?” he tries the word out. It feels awkward on his tongue, but not unpleasant.

“Yes, I did say so,” Sherlock replies, his patience clearly spent.

Harry looks up and frowns. “You said that this stuff isn’t worth your time or attention. So why help me out?”

The scorn disappears from Sherlock’s eyes. Just for a moment, Harry sees the aloof green soften with empathy. Sherlock sighs and stands, slipping his hands back into his coat pockets. “Because,” he says, “I had the same experience once, a long time ago.” He pauses. “Mine ended far more unpleasantly.” He meets Harry’s eyes. “Take my advice.”

Harry nods. “I will. Thanks.”

Sherlock nods, turns, and walks away down the length of the Great Hall, his formidable mind already refocusing on the problem he was brought here to solve. “JOHN!” he bellows. “JOHN! I HAVE NEED OF A PAPERCLIP!” When no response is forthcoming, Sherlock snarls something uncomplimentary about cell phones and wizard castles, and stalks off in search of his partner.

Harry smiles. He packs his books away in his satchel and picks up the scrap of parchment. Time to find Edwina.

Asexuality Awareness Week, Day Three: Cocoa, Cuddles, and Coyotes

2011-10-26T05:27:00Z

Well, despite being horribly sick and having nothing to do other than curl up miserably at home and write, I have still only just managed to get this one done. Also...this is kind of rubbish. It really is this time. I am kind of ashamed that this is my first (not anonymously posted) fic in this fandom. But I also kind of can't think straight at the moment, so maybe I will be forgiven.

For those who don't know about Asexuality, please give the topic a few minutes of your time! You can read more about what asexuality is at the AVEN website. Here is a link to AVEN's brief overview: ASEXUALITY BASICS

Today's fandom is Doctor Who. You knew this was coming. And this is also a complete 180 shift from Day One's fic. Whereas then we had the aromantic asexual not-cuddly Dilandau, in this one we have a romantic, cuddly asexual relationship. DO READ the warnings and notes on this one.

Title: Cocoa, Cuddles, and Coyotes
Prompt: Asexuality Awareness Week. Also, see notes.
Word Count: 1143
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: asexual!Ten/asexual!Simm!Master
Warnings: No sex, but there is use of sexual innuendo. It's not my fault. It kind of wrote itself, and I was like REALLY, SELF? REALLY? There is also kissing and cuddling.
Summary: In which the Doctor and Master cuddle on the couch with cocoa and compare one another to cartoon characters.
Notes: This is NOT BETA'D. Believe me, if I had the time, I would beg for a beta for this, because it's shoddily written and doesn't flow well and the characterizations are off. I KNOW the characterizations are off. My deepest apologies in advance for those who read this. Maybe I will get this fixed up someday. There is about zero descriptive, lovely imagery, for which I am very sad. I kind of failed here.

Also, do you know what's more pathetic than filling your own anon meme prompt? Failing to fill it properly. Guess what I did here.

Also, also, there is backstory around this. This particular scene is from near the end of an AU that's been floating around in my head in which, during LoTL, the Master tries to activate the Vortex Manipulator again after the Paradox Machine is disabled (but before Jack catches him). The Doctor, naturally, tries to stop him and, naturally, fails so spectacularly that the two of them wind up stranded out in the boonies of time and space with the Vortex Manipulator broken. I haven't though it out much more than "the Doctor and Master's Epic Hitchhiking Adventures Across the Universe", but at this point they're (finally) in an established relationship. Also, I wanted fluff, so they get along unrealistically well. I unno, these two need more fluff, so I don't feel too bad about that.

Cocoa, Cuddles, and Coyotes

“You know,” the Doctor muses, “if we take the television set apart, we might be able to fix the Vortex Manipulator.”

The Master, immobilized beneath blankets and within the tangle of the Doctor’s lanky limbs, manages to tilt his head up and glare murderously at him. “Looney Tunes are on,” he says, slowly as though the Doctor must have somehow missed this despite the fact that they’re currently both curled up on a couch together watching said children’s program.

“Well, not now, obviously,” the Doctor hastens to add. “I meant later. When we’re both ready to leave. Which is not yet, because this is comfortable and did that spaceship really just stop falling because it ran out of gas?”

The Master rolls his eyes and looks back at the television. “Yep.”

They stare at the screen, watching as the current short ends and the opening theme announces the start of the next with a loud sproing and blaring of trumpets. “That’s hilarious,” the Doctor says finally.

The Master looks up again, and his grin is as wild and mad as the Doctor’s is goofy and absurd. “Isn’t it just? The things your apes think of.” He glances back at the screen and his eyes widen with glee. “OH! It’s the coyote!”

“You like Wiley Coyote?” The Doctor stares down at him with surprise.

“Of course I do.”

The Doctor frowns. “But…nothing ever works out well for him. And his plans are…”

“Inspired, Doctor,” the Master cuts in smoothly. “The word you want is inspired. Besides, it’s hardly his fault that the laws of physics always betray him and never the bird.”

They watch for a little while longer in silence, until Wiley emerges as an accordion from beneath a very large boulder at the base of a very high cliff. The Doctor winces. “Oh, that was hardly fair.”

The Master snorts. “You? Sympathizing with the coyote?”

“How is that surprising?” The Doctor asks, and raises an eyebrow. He disentangles his right arm so that he can reach the mug of cocoa on the table in front of them. The Master jabs a sharp elbow into his side, and the Doctor retrieves the Master’s mug as well. The other Time Lord snatches it from his fingers.

“You’re welcome,” the Doctor says wryly.

“Mmph.” The Master’s undoubtedly scathing reply is drowned within the mug’s steaming contents. The Doctor watches him, amused. A frothy smudge of chocolate clings to the Master’s upper lip after the mug is lowered, and in staring at it, the Doctor nearly misses his response. “You’re like the roadrunner,” he says.

The Doctor blinks. “What?”

“You. The roadrunner. You zip around, heedless to the destruction you leave in your wake save to run away from it, and the rules don’t ever seem to apply to you.”

The Doctor stares at him, and then the connection clicks. “Ah, I see. And you’re like the coyote. Clever, bent on dominance of some kind, always trying to trap me with elaborate plots.” He smiles fondly. “And no matter what happens, you always get back up and try again.”

The Master doesn’t respond. His fingers curl with a tighter grip around his mug, though, and he watches the screen with his eyes not quite following the crisp, sunbright colors.

“I always liked that about you,” the Doctor continues, still watching the man curled against him. The Master gives up all pretense of paying attention to the show, and tilts his head up as he listens. “Your determination, that is. You’ve never given up, even after everything that’s happened between us. Well, that and your brilliance of course. Can’t help but admire that.”

Like a cat being stroked, the Master stretches beneath the blankets and somehow snuggles in closer between the Doctor’s arms to rest against his chest, his head pillowed on the Doctor’s collarbone. “Glad you finally noticed.”

The Doctor laughs, and then immediately regrets doing so when he feels the Master tense in response. Oh, that won’t do, he thinks, and, holding the Master against him with his right arm, leans forward to deposit the mug in his left back on the table. “I’ve always noticed,” he says when he settles back against the couch, left hand joining the right in encircling the Master. He squeezes gently and the tension drains away, leaving the Master boneless and content once more. “I’ve come to count on it. A cosmos without you—“

“—scarcely bears thinking about,” the Master finishes for him. “It’s nice that you can finally admit that.” He tilts his head back until his nose nuzzles the Doctor’s jaw. “I believe I’ve succeeded where the coyote failed.”

“Mm?”

“I did catch you, after all.”

“Oh, true. And I’ve stopped running, come to think of it. Though I do hope you aren’t planning to eat me.”

The Master jerks slightly, mouth rounding into a surprised ‘o’. He blinks, and then the Doctor feels him begin to shake with suppressed laughter. “Cheeky. I like this current regeneration of yours, Doctor. But no, neither of us are really interested in either connotation of eating one another, are we?”

The Doctor grins and dips his head down to press a light kiss to the Master’s temple. “True, we’re not. I’m rather fond of this, though.”

“What, looney tunes?” The Doctor can hear the Master’s smirk in his voice.

“Well, that too, although I have to say I’m not really a fan of the rabbit. Now, Marvin, he reminds me of—“

The Master elbows him in the stomach. Hard.

“All right, all right! Yes, I meant cuddling you with blankets and cocoa in a nice, warm cabin during a blizzard. Well,” the Doctor amends again, before the Master decides to sulk, “actually, just cuddling you.”

The Master doesn’t respond save to reposition himself more comfortably in the Doctor’s arms, cocoa long forgotten between his fingers and his mind relaxed and humming with contentment.

“You finished with that?” the Doctor asks after a few more minutes of cartoons.

“Eh?”

The Doctor nudges one hand towards the Master’s mug.

“Oh. Yes.” The Doctor loosens his grip long enough for the Master to lean forward and clink his mug down on the table next to the Doctor’s. The Doctor catches him before he can quite settle back and turns him gently around. The Master blinks at him and frowns. “What?”

“You missed a spot.”

Before the Master can quite process that, the Doctor cups one hand around the nape of the Master’s neck and leans down to kiss the chocolate from his upper lip. The Master rumbles deep in his throat and leans into the kiss, tipping his weight to overbalance and push the Doctor against the back of the couch.

When they finally break apart, the Master smirks. “You just wanted the chocolate, didn’t you?”

The Doctor pouts, wounded. “Not only.”

“Prove it.”

The Doctor does.

Asexuality Awareness Week, Day Two: The Value of Friendship

2011-10-25T02:05:14Z

Okay, so, this one fic a day thing is going to be hard. This might be utter crap, since I wrote it very fast and haven't really had time to proof it or anything. The title is absolute rubbish, too. I might go back later and clean it up, but oh god I have no time to do anything right now!

For those who don't know about Asexuality, please give the topic a few minutes of your time! You can read more about what asexuality is at the AVEN website. Here is a link to AVEN's brief overview: ASEXUALITY BASICS

Today's fandom is Sid Meier's Alpha Centauri. It is a somewhat old video game that is the lesser-known (and much better, in my opinion) sequel to Sid Meier's Civilization series. Because I am lazy, here is a wikipedia link with information about the basic plot and characters of SMAC.

Title: The Value of Friendship
Prompt: Asexuality Awareness Week
Word Count: 840
Rating: PG-13 for a very brief, non-descriptive mention of sex. None actually happens or anything. Yeah, I rate high to be on the safe side.
Summary: Once a week, Academician Prokhor Zakharov and Lady Deirdre Skye meet in the Virtual World for chess and companionship.
Warnings: See rating. Other than that, um...obscure fandom? Oh, and this is rubbish and badly written. That deserves a warning.

The Value of Friendship

Lady Deirdre Skye places her index finger on the mane of her knight and slides it up and over. Her finger hovers uncertainly. She doesn’t bother looking up into Zakharov’s face; she knows she’ll find no clues there.

She’s already lost, though. It’s twelve moves away, but Zakharov sees it, and there’s no way for Deirdre to salvage the game at this point. But, she’s getting better, he thinks. Next time, she might win. I would not be surprised.

Chess is only one of many reasons why they’re both here in the Virtual World. Amidst the chaos of politics and the struggle to survive on an alien, hostile world where the remnants of Earth live at odds with both the Planet and each other, friendship and companionship are luxuries that few can afford. This is especially true for people like them: the faction leaders, the names and faces at the forefront of it all, each standing for separate fundamental ideals. Even centuries after Planetfall, humans still can’t stop fighting amongst themselves, even when the living ground beneath their feet is trying to wipe them out like the alien infection they are.

Zakharov moves his bishop, and Deirdre stares at the board. After a minute or so of concentration, she topples her king and leans back with a wry smile.

“Good game,” Zakharov says, and tips the top of his wine glass towards her in acknowledgement.

“Yes, it was.” She returns the gesture, and then sets her glass aside and checks the time on her wristcomm.

“Leaving?” Zakharov asks.

“Nearly,” Deirdre says. “A little while longer and I’ll be late for another meeting, and then we’ll never get the rumors to stop.”

Zakharov laughs. “I think that is already a lost cause.” He shrugs, unconcerned. “Once people come to a solution they like, it is very difficult for them to accept an alternate explanation.”

Deirdre hums in agreement. “Speaking of, when did you first know, anyway?”

Zakharov tilts his head to one side. “Oh, a long time ago. In university. A literature course, actually.” At Deirdre’s raised eyebrow, he chuckles. “I am actually well-rounded, regardless of popular view.”

“Fair enough. So, literature?” Deirdre smiles curiously. “What happened?”

“Oh…” Zakharov sets his glass down and leans back in his chair. His fingers lace together loosely atop his crossed knees. “There was a professor sitting in on the class, just because she really loved the material. I admired her insight most of the time, but one day she said something that I found very peculiar.” Zakharov pauses and closes his eyes for a moment, shifting his mind inward and seeking the blurred colors and grainy sounds of a memory centuries old.

“What did she say?”

Zakharov opens his eyes. “We were discussing a novel. I forget which one, but I do remember that what it did best was…connect to the essence of human nature. Experiences, feelings, moments that everyone can remember having at least once in their life. And there was one instance in which a boy develops a…crush, is it?” Deirdre nods, and Zakharov quirks his smile up at one corner, amused with the term. “A crush on his sibling’s older friend. And over the course of the novel, the boy’s crush develops into something more…adult in nature. And the professor used that as an example—not just once, but several times—of something that everyone can relate to. ‘Everyone remembers the first tingling of desire, the first time they look at someone and want them.’” Zakharov clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “I had wanted to speak up and say that no, I had never had that happen to me. I’d never looked at someone and found myself attracted to them in such a manner.”

Deirdre nods, understanding. “Personally, I can’t imagine life without sex,” she says. “I love it too much. But I bet it’s just as difficult for you to imagine the converse.”

“Precisely. And this, Lady Deirdre, is why we are such good friends!”

“Against all odds,” Deirdre replies, grinning.

“We are both open-minded people in a world where such a quality is still rare. On the contrary, the odds were in our favor,” Zakharov says.

Deirdre laughs. She rises fluidly to her feet, more out of habit than necessity, and steps closer to fold Zakharov in a gentle hug, which he returns. “Same time next week?” she asks.

“Same time next week,” Zakharov says.

They step apart and their forms shimmer as they withdraw their minds back into their physical bodies, another dimension away and hundreds of miles apart. They will be surrounded by questions, by assumptions, and by whispers. The questions they might answer, the assumptions might change, and the whispers might dissipate, but even if they don’t, neither of them will mind overly much. In a world where almost everyone is alone, or afraid, or both, they have each other, and every week they will meet again in a space set apart from the world to celebrate that fact.

Asexuality Awareness Week, Day One: Of Sand and Acceptance

2011-10-24T00:22:22Z

Okay, so in explanation, Oct. 23 - 29 is Asexuality Awareness Week! In celebration of this, and to help spread awareness, I'm going to be posting one ficlet a day centered around, or somehow pertaining to, asexuality. I'm going to try to cycle through my fandoms as I do this, but we'll see how successful I am at that.

For those who don't know about Asexuality, please give the topic a few minutes of your time! You can read more about what asexuality is at the AVEN website. Here is a link to AVEN's brief overview: ASEXUALITY BASICS

Today's fandom is Escaflowne. How could I resist? My favourite character in that series is a canon asexual. Note that Dilandau is aromantic asexual in this story, but in general asexuals are not necessarily aromantic. The two are not the same thing!

Title: Of Sand and Acceptance
Prompt: Asexuality Awareness Week
Word Count: 1422
Rating: PG-13 for mentions of sexuality (obviously)
Summary: Dilandau isn't attracted to anyone. Allen is a bit concerned by this.
Warnings: THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW. This is in the same universe as a fic I wrote a long time ago, which you cannot read because it is eyeball-meltingly godawful. What you do need to know is that Dilandau deserted the Zaibach army just before the last battle and eventually hooks up with Van and Allen after a series of very weird, twisted events. The madoushi are brought to justice, Dilandau gets a bit of peace of mind, begins the slow process of recovery, is pardoned, and Allen is now his legal guardian. I have another fic in the same 'verse that isn't quite as awful: Dance in Shadows.

Of Sand and Acceptance

Dilandau doesn’t quite believe Allen’s reasons for taking them on a daytrip to the beach (“You could use some sun, Dilandau,” ignoring his ward’s waspish reply that he’s an albino, thank you very much, and doesn’t need sun), but he lets the excuses slide, because really, anything is better than suffering through yet another day of being introduced to increasingly vapid court ladies whose brains seem to be composed of even more lace than their clothing.

They’re a few miles out from Palas, at one of the more popular resort areas. The beach is crowded—shirtless men and boys tumble and laugh until their skin is crusted in sand, which they then wash clean in the frothy waves rumbling up cold from the deep. Gaggles of girls giggle together, all in the extremely lax state of dress permitted on the beach, watching the boys coyly or playing various team games of their own.

The more sensible people, like Dilandau, are huddled on towels beneath shade umbrellas, reading books.

A cascade of yellow tumbles over the umbrella’s edge, framing a familiar sideways frown. Dilandau does his best to ignore it.

“Dilandau?”

“What?” Dilandau grips the edges of his book more tightly.

“Aren’t you going to have some fun?”

“I am having fun. I am sitting beneath some wonderful shade and enjoying an engrossing tale of swashbuckling bloodshed and revenge on the high seas. I’m not even complaining. What more do you want?”

Allen’s frown has taken up residence on his face with a permanence that suggests having paid its rent several months in advance. “I meant more along the lines of enjoying the scenery.”

Dilandau looks up now and pushes his tinted glasses up onto the crown of his head. His silver hair curls around the frames and loops in familiar, comfortable waves. “Schezar, we live in sight of the ocean. I see the ocean every day. Has the sun finally fried what’s left of your brain?”

Allen ignores the insult and instead dips downward to sit, uninvited, in the shade next to his ward. Dilandau scowls and pointedly does not shift over. “I didn’t mean the scenery,” Allen says.

Dilandau stares blankly at Allen. Then he glances out at the beach.

The ocean is an exquisite sight. Blue waters sway, drunk on silver and sparkling with the white light of millions of stars trapped just beneath the waves, their brilliance bursting free with every surge into the sky. Summer is in the sand, in the hot and sizzling grains that, when kicked under heels and toes, spill forth a shower of molten sunlight. The air is golden on the tongue, heavy and salty and hot. Tongues of white fire dance along the crests of the waves and the dips in the sand, sparkling as though all the wild beach is aflame.

Yes, exquisite, Dilandau thinks. “Could do with less people,” he says.

Allen goggles, as though Dilandau has completely missed the point. Maybe he has, but Dilandau’s patience has run out. He snaps his book shut and scowls. “Out with it, Allen.”

Allen sighs and looks out at the beach. His blue eyes are not, Dilandau notices, tracing the ebb and flow of the sea, but rather—and predictably so—following the curves of the women. Dilandau rolls his eyes and cracks his book open again.

“You weren’t at all interested in any of the women at the Palace,” Allen says. Dilandau tilts his head back up. “So I thought, maybe, you were…well, there were rumors, what with the young men in Zaibach…” Allen trails off uncomfortably.

Dilandau grits his teeth and sees red. “You mean my Dragonslayers?” he growls. Even though he’s buried them, picked the tatters of his life up and patched them together around the ragged holes where they used to be, their memories still ache like phantom limbs. “They were my command, Schezar. My subordinates. Even if I had been interested,” he says the word with a disdainful curl of his lip, “it would have been highly unprofessional. So no, of course not.”

Allen meets his eyes, and Dilandau holds the gaze, anger bubbling in his crimson irises. Then Allen nods and, surprisingly, apologizes. “I’m sorry. I don’t doubt your professionalism, and I didn’t mean to insult you or them.”

Dilandau is perfectly still, but not quite as bristling any longer. He nods curtly.

Allen runs his fingers through his sheets of golden hair, and sighs again. “What I’m trying to say is, you don’t seem interested in anyone that I’ve seen, regardless of gender, class, or profession. I’m trying to help you find a place in this world, help you live a normal life, but frankly you’re not giving me much to go on here.”

Dilandau closes his book and sets it aside, shifting to give Schezar his full attention. His guardian seems to be listening, so Dilandau is going to take advantage of that while it lasts. “No, Allen, I’m not. Because I’m not attracted to anyone, and neither do I particularly want to be.”

Allen eyes him uncertainly, and a shroud of wary concern clouds his eyes. “Is this something that Zaibach did? Because if it is, we can try to fix—“

“NO!” Dilandau snarls, loud and fiercely enough that several nearby beachgoers stumble in the sand and turn, startled, to stare at them. Dilandau lowers his voice down to a hiss. “No. There’s nothing wrong with me. This is just me. It’s the way I am. I’m not traumatized. I’m not underdeveloped, I’m not repressed.” Repressed, ha. The wild abandon with which he had comported himself in battle probably eliminated that idea from having ever been considered.

Allen’s face goes slack with bafflement. “That…Dilandau, that’s not normal.”

That’s it, Dilandau thinks. I’m setting fire to Allen’s wardrobe when we get home. And replacing his shampoo with purple hair dye. “Normal?” he says out loud, voice pitched high with incredulity. “Normal? Allen, a year ago you helped save the world from a reality bomb created by an insane, centuries old Mystic Moon Scientist, with the aid of a reality-warping psychic witch—also from the Mystic Moon—and a Draconian, in the process of which you not only discovered that Atlantis actually does exist, but also WENT THERE. And you think that me not wanting to snog anyone is weird?”

Allen cringes sheepishly. “Okay, okay, you have a point. But…you aren’t unhappy?”

Dilandau’s voice is wry. “If you mean, ‘Does the lack of a significant other leave a hole in your existence,’ then the answer is no. I don’t need a romantic interest. I don’t need to screw anyone to make my life more fulfilling. Nor do I want to, for that matter.”

“…huh.” Allen processes this, and is quiet for some time. Dilandau follows his eyes out to the sea, then reaches for his book again. He’s gotten as far as the next page when Allen speaks up again. “You’re sure? Really?”

Dilandau nearly splits the book in half between his fingers. “I’m very sure, yes. Look, I’m about as likely to change my mind as you are to wake up tomorrow and find that you think Van is the hottest piece of ass on Gaea.”

Allen chokes, horrified. “Jeture, Dilandau! No!” His normally flawless complexion takes on a green tinge.

Dilandau chuckles, annoyance evaporating into smug satisfaction that his analogy has hit home. “Now you see my perspective.”

“Okay, yes. Point taken. I won’t bother you about it again.”

Dilandau raises a silvery eyebrow. “On your word?”

“On my word.”

Dilandau grins. A heaviness he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying evaporates from his shoulders and chest. “Good.”

They remain where they are, comfortable in shade and silence, with Allen watching the women laugh on the sand and Dilandau lost in a seafaring adventure far away in the pages of his book. An ease has settled between them; the brittle tension has melted away, leaving one of them more enlightened and the other quietly delighted at being accepted, once again, for who he is.

Maybe Dilandau will even spare Allen’s shirts, and settle for just dying his hair instead.

Fic: Red is the Color of Laughter (Part 1)

2011-06-10T00:22:15Z

Title: Red is the Color of Laughter (Part 1)
Prompt: knightvsanarchy: red
Word Count: 1043
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jokester, Owlman
Summary: Jokester sometimes thinks that if he'd had the misfortune to have lived in Gotham all his life, he wouldn't know what color is.
Disclaimer: This work is based on characters and concepts created and owned by DC Comics, Warner Bros. and other entities and corporations. No money is being made and no copyright and/or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: Disturbing imagery. Earth-3 alternate universe.

Red is the Color of Laughter: Part 1

Jokester sometimes thinks that if he'd had the misfortune to have lived in Gotham all his life, he wouldn't know what color is. Gotham is grey in every sense: in sight, in sound, in smell, in taste, and in touch. Even when the sun is bright and not smothered by stormclouds or haze, all the light does is bleach the streets and smog-stained buildings like a spotlight casting over rubble while the cockroaches and spiders scuttle into deeper black cracks where the brightness can't reach them. The stains just stand out more starkly during the day than they do at night.

Even death is without color, Jokester has noticed. People don't die with loud shrieks of bursting crimson; they die with quiet gurgles burbling black from their throats, or with shredded screams that sound like rotting cotton being ripped apart. They die in dank, filthy alleyways, blood oozing down nearby drains like thick ichor. They die with their bellies opened and smelling like sewers. They die feeling cold and with greasy grit roughening the pockets in their skin.

Jokester is different. When he drops down onto the streets of Gotham in his bright clothing and circus smile, he looks like a hole in the universe. He wears the vibrant Phoenician purple of ancient royalty, but he laughs and dances like a court jester. His scars aren't black and rotten with the smell of fear; they're painted brilliant red and they laugh even when Jokester cannot.

Jokester remembers believing that life in Gotham would be freer, that he could start over once more and finally escape the bullies and bad luck that had diseased his life up until then. Everyone had said that college is incomparably better than high school, and that big cities afford opportunities that he would never see in a small, quiet town on the outskirts of Arkham.

Maybe that was true for other big cities, but not for Gotham. The bullies are just bigger, and armed, and they don't stop chasing you once you make it home from school. No one can stand on the sidelines, and no place is safe. Everyone knows it, so everyone who stays in Gotham buries their dreams beneath the dust.

Well, not everyone. There had been Eve.

But Eve is gone, Jokester thinks. Eddie is gone, and Duela is never coming back. Stop dwelling. It's almost showtime.

Jokester slinks down the alleyway, ten feet above the ground and boots silent upon damp roof shingles. He can be as stealthy as shadows when he wants to be; the would-be muggers are closing in on a young couple who had thought to take a shortcut through Gotham's back alleys. Stupid move, even in the middle of the afternoon. They must be new to the city.

Thanks to Jokester, they'll live to learn not to make the same mistake again. He drops down mallet-first into the midst of the muggers and whacks their skulls until they see blinding white stars and nothing else. No blood--only bruises. Jokester doesn't kill--not because he doesn't want to, sometimes, but because he wants to prove to Owlman that he can survive without shedding his colors, without becoming as black and dirty as everyone else.

Maybe he'll have to break that rule someday, but he's not going to break it for mere alley trash.

He ties the muggers up while they're still unconscious and pins a dandelion-yellow smiley button to each of their shirts. The couple is gone; they'd darted away the moment that the fight had started. Jackie can't blame them. The guy that beats up the people who attack you is more likely to be the new crime management than your savior. And besides, even people who know Jokester is the good guy don't hang around long enough to thank him; where Jokester goes, Owlman is likely to swoop in.

Where is that flying rodent-eater, anyway? Jokester wonders as he monkeys back to the rooftops and darts in search of more crime to bust. He hasn't seen or heard of Owlman in days. That makes Jokester nervous. It means that Owlman is planning something big.

But there's no sense worrying about that, either. Jokester has no one to go to for leads. Not even a crazy person would spill information about Owlman, no matter what Jokester threatened to do.

A sharp, strangled noise catches Jokester's attention. He veers towards it and perches over the rain gutter to squint down into the darkness. The daylight doesn't reach this deep in the Narrows, so he can't find the source at first. He listens, and then he hears it again: a small child's burbling sobs. He sees the kid's shape in the the shadows as a quivering blotch of grey that doesn't quite fit into the black around it.

Aw, man, Jokester thinks. That ain't right. He swings himself over the roof edge and lands, polished boots clacking brightly against the dirty concrete. He hears the child's breathing hitch, followed by the scuffle of cloth. "Hey, kiddo, it's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you," Jokester says reassuringly. "Are you hurt? Lost? Where are your parents?" Probably dead, Jokester thinks, but here's hoping otherwise.

He gets close enough to make out details. The child is a boy, no older than seven. He's thin, scraped, and terrified. He has his arms huddled around his chest beneath a worn jacket. Jokester pauses six feet away and crouches down. "Don't worry. I'll protect you. I'm the Jokester. Are you hurt?"

The boy stares at him with wide black eyes. He does not blink. His arms twist beneath the jacket, and Jokester thinks that maybe the boy is hurt after all, so he steels himself for the sight of something ragged and ugly.

Instead, the boy's arm emerges with something small, black, and cylindrical clutched tightly in his fingers. He yanks a shiny metal bit out of one end, hurls the object at the Jokester, and dives beneath a metal box that Jokester hadn't noticed until now.

Jokester has enough time to think, well, I always wanted to go out with a BANG, before white floods his eyes and stinging silence stuffs his ears. Vaguely he senses a strange-smelling cloth pressing against his nose, and then nothing more.

Part Two

Fic: Is this your card?

2011-05-13T04:03:15Z

Title: Is This Your Card?
Prompt: calling card(s)
Word Count: 3686
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Batman doesn’t know what the Joker is playing at this time, nor does he care. He isn’t interested in indulging the clown’s twisted mind games. He wants the Joker caught and back in the Asylum before he can destroy any more lives, preferably heavily sedated and with a few broken limbs.
Disclaimer: This work is based on characters and concepts created and owned by DC Comics, Warner Bros. and other entities and corporations. No money is being made and no copyright and/or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: Some disturbing imagery. Unbeta'd, mostly unedited, and unfinished.

Notes: This was written for the 18th round of knightvsanarchy . It...is not my best work by any stretch of the imagination. I started it two weeks ago. Then finals happened. Finals are now over, but the challenge ends tomorrow and I am too tired to write any more of this. Also, if I do write more tonight, it'll be even more crappy than what I have now. Eventually I will finish the last half of this and see if my wonderful beta has any interest in reading Batman fic.
ALSO: This fic is intended to provide an unofficial story to THIS BATMAN COMIC COVER. There is not currently any official story to go with this art. This is a CRIME. So I am fixing it. Unfortunately I haven't gotten to writing out this scene yet, but it's coming. I SWEAR. (Also, you will notice that the Joker is using the Ace of Spades here. This is beyond awesome. Some of you will know exactly where I plan to go with this.)

Is This Your Card?
Part One

The sky rains cold needles onto glass shards sharp and slick and warm with blood. Sticky threads well up black against the alley’s grey pavement and trickle towards a gurgling sewer drain buried beneath years of grime and the tattered discards of Gotham’s poor. A streetlamp coughs and sputters reluctant yellow light onto the empty sidewalk beyond—and away from—the alleyway’s maw.

No one is watching.

Batman stares at the tattered and broken carcass by his feet. He does not know this man, though even if he did he doubts he would be able to recognize him anymore; his body is black with blood and burnt bone, buckled and broken and bent like a disjointed wooden puppet whose strings have been cut and limbs cannibalized for parts. The puppeteer has laid him out on glass in the rain and has pinched cloth between slivers of split bone, twisting and wrapping and rearranging until what’s left looks like the body of a bat, wings outstretched for flight.

There is a note, too: a solitary scrap of white somehow unstained by the mess it’s pinned to. Its sibling—the note that had led him to this forgotten hole in civilization—is crushed within Batman’s right fist. He’d found the latter on a henchclown—one of nine sent to terrorize a nursing home. There hadn’t been a point to the raid, other than to catch Batman’s attention and deliver the note.

The second note—the one pinned to the sodden corpse—does not say much. It is a white playing card, one of those blanks sometimes found in Bicycle decks. On the top surface, the Joker has scribbled a question in green ink: Is THIS your card?

Batman bends and unpins the card, flipping it over to the other side where he finds a set of cryptic directions similar to the ones that had led him here. He studies them for a moment, then flicks his eyes back to the twisted display on the ground.

Sometimes Batman wishes he’d let the Joker fall from the Prewitt building.

Arkham hadn’t caged the madman for long. Within five weeks he had driven two psychiatrists into early retirement; one went home to Florida while the other, less lucky, found peace in silence beneath stone (You’re so serious! the Joker had told him. You and the grave are made for each other!). Within two months, the Joker had amassed a following of cronies that surpassed Scarecrow’s. A week after that, the Asylum’s security system had gone down and insanity had hemorrhaged out from the walls and gates into the streets of Gotham.

Batman has been searching for him ever since, trading hours of sleep for the biting night wind and gutter rats that tremble in his fists and swear that they don’t know anything about the Joker, and even if they did, does he really think they’d tell him?

Batman has rules.

Joker doesn’t.

Batman is reminded of this as he stares down at a bat-signal fashioned from bone, tied with flesh and cloth, and painted with blood sluggish and black in the cold, wet, moonless night.

Is THIS your card?

Batman doesn’t know what the Joker is playing at this time, nor does he care. He isn’t interested in indulging the clown’s twisted mind games. He wants the Joker caught and back in the Asylum before he can destroy any more lives, preferably heavily sedated and with a few broken limbs.

The card wrinkles beneath the pressure of his fingers. It’s his only lead. The Joker has learned Gotham’s secrets: her nooks and hideaways and twists and turns. The Joker can run with almost as much skill as Batman can chase, and the Joker has the advantage of a head-start.

Batman doesn’t have a choice but to play the game for now.

He folds the card away in a plastic bag tucked in his belt and sighs. There is nothing he can do about the once-man crumpled on the ground. The murder will be blamed on Batman, of course, thanks to the symbol the victim has been twisted to resemble. Knowing the Joker, that was part of the idea.

They need you right now, but when they don't, they'll cast you out…

Batman knows what the Joker is trying to prove. But what the Joker doesn’t understand is that Batman doesn’t need to be loved or accepted by the people he protects. He just needs to protect them.

But, then, sometimes he can’t even do that. Batman thinks of Rachel and Harvey Dent and wonders if the Joker knows how much it kills him that he couldn’t save them.

Batman looks at the corpse one last time. Maybe the Joker does understand after all.

He grapples to the rooftops and uses his cell phone to leave an untraceable, anonymous tip with the Gotham City Police Department. Murder in the narrows is common, but not something as gruesome and vicious as the mess in the alley below, and Batman fears that more of its like will surface soon.

He ghosts across pinched rooftops and slippery shingles through shadows and steam shrouds of rain until he is crouched beneath a sheltering ledge of a tall building, high and far away from everything. Then he takes out the card—still in the sealed plastic bag—and studies what the Joker has written. Later he will return to the Bat Cave and run chemical diagnostics in the hopes that something microscopic will speak to fill the gaps that words have left silent.

But for now he stands sentinel beneath a sky that bleeds needles, and tries to understand the mind of his enemy.

I’ll find you , he swears silently. And when I do…

Batman only has one rule.

~*~

Hours later and somewhere along the greyest edges of Gotham, a man in bright colors paces the splintered basement of a fraying apartment choked beneath dust and soot. He looks out of place: obscenely loud technicolor staining the grainy sanctity of a forgotten silent film. He wears a new coat; his last one had been confiscated and destroyed. His hair is clean from months spent in the Asylum where orderlies scrub dirt away like they think it might fix whatever festers underneath (it never does). Wavy locks freshly dyed a radioactive green brush a painted jaw taut and clenched with concentration.

“Didn’t like the first one, did he? No…too, hnnn, obvious, I suppose,” the Joker mutters, turning on his heel at the edge of the room and pacing back the other way. “Maybe this one…no no NO no, not his style. Hmmm.”

The Joker shuffles through a deck of cards that are as colorless as his surroundings; even the hearts and diamonds are just thin black outlines instead of full red shapes. A number of the cards sprinkle the floor, dismissed and tossed away as unsuitable. A majority of the hearts suit lies there, along with several clubs.

“Orrrrr…” the Joker holds up a single card to the pale light of the basement’s only lamp. He smiles. The corners of his mouth follow the upward curve of the scarlet greasepaint on his ruined lips and cheeks. “THIS one…”

Laughter, high and shrill, bubbles from his lungs in crazed gasps that scrape the brittle air like sandpaper on skin.

“Time for Round Two!”

~*~

Bruce Wayne doesn’t bother to show up to a meeting that he would have just slept through anyway. Instead he keeps himself awake with coffee and adrenaline and stares at the literature search on his computer screen while machines hum in the background, running assay after assay on a tiny corner-edge torn from each card.

Bruce had learned very quickly that the card he had found was actually two cards: one spliced almost invisibly between the cloven halves of another. When he’d carefully peeled the pieces apart, the King of Spades had gazed up at him with black, empty eyes.

Is THIS your card?

Bruce can hear the madman’s low, nasal drawl scraping inside his head. He grits his teeth and imagines breaking the clown’s nose. Then he thinks about Rachel, and then Harvey Dent and everyone else that the Joker has taken away, and he imagines doing worse.

None of it helps.

Bruce forces his focus back to his computer screen. Daydreaming about catching the Joker won’t help anything. Solving the riddle will. He rereads the passage, even though he has the words burned into the hollows behind his eyes by this point, hoping to see something, anything illuminating.

If he should say 'HOW CAME YOU HERE?'

(The way that YOU began, Sir,)

In such a case your course is clear -

'ON THE BAT'S BACK, MY LITTLE DEAR!'

Is the appropriate answer.

The message on the card—easily the worst set of directions he has ever received in his life—had screamed quote to Bruce instantly. A quick internet search had identified the source: Lewis Carroll’s seven canto poem Phantasmagoria. The poem is sprinkled with puns throughout—something that would appeal to the Joker. It’s obvious to Bruce why the Joker had picked this particular stanza as well. What isn’t obvious is the meaning behind it.

Bruce had read and reread the entire poem, looking for context or clues. He had picked the stanza apart line by line and word by word, casting for different angles of meaning and catching only nonsense and frustration.

Bruce sighs and leans back in his chair. He sips a cup of coffee to keep himself from dozing off. On the Bat’s back, my little dear! Bruce thinks that line could be a reference to the next victim. The Joker is probably planning to implicate Batman in his next murder.It fits the context of the rest of the canto, Bruce thinks. A ghost haunts his chosen victim, the victim asks how he came to be where he is, the ghost replies “on the bat’s back”.

It makes sense, certainly, but it doesn’t at all help Bruce narrow down where.

Bruce tips the last swallow of coffee into his mouth and is about to stand up to fetch another cup when he hears machinery grind at the far end of the hallway.

Alfred, Bruce thinks. He imagines the expression on Alfred’s face when he must have stepped into his room with a breakfast tray only to find Bruce’s bed made and un-slept in: a sharp blend of disappointment, exasperation, and resignation.

Bruce turns as Alfred approaches and he sees nearly the same expression still deepening the lines of the old man’s face, only with a little less disappointment and a little more of the latter two.

“Master Wayne,” Alfred greets. “You realize that beds tend to work much better if you actually sleep in them?”

Bruce smiles. Amidst all of the ragged holes in his life where certain people used to be, there is still Alfred. “Good morning, Alfred.”

“Good morning, sir.” Alfred eyes the coffee cup in Bruce’s fingers with disapproval. “May I ask what you’ve been doing down here? I understand that you were missed at the board meeting today.”

“My snoring was missed, you mean.” Even during the months that had spanned the Joker’s trial and brief incarceration in Arkham, Bruce’s sleep had been broken and unrestful—diseased with the sounds of the Joker’s shrill laughter and strangled with all of the what-ifs and maybes stringing around Rachel’s death. More often than not, his body had taken advantage of the quiet hum of voices and shuffling papers in board meetings to snatch an hour or so of dreamless sleep.

“It’s the Joker,” Bruce explains. “The note lead me to a body in the Narrows. The corpse was fixed to look like a bat. He left a card with two more notes.” Bruce shows Alfred the card—still in the bag—and then gestures towards the computer. “I can’t figure out what it means. I’ve been staring at this all night and I still don’t know where he’s trying to lead me.”

“Sleep might help with that, sir,” Alfred replies mildly, bending to peer at the poem on the monitor. “Phantasmagoria. I would have thought he’d have picked something from Alice in Wonderland.”

Bruce blinks. “Why?”

Alfred straightens and turns to look at him. “Well Master Wayne, from what you’ve told me, he’s running with a card theme. If he’s going to quote Lewis Carroll, it would make more sense to pick the work that features playing cards as actual characters. But, this is the Joker…”

Bruce is no longer listening. Sight and sound has drained away from him like blood pouring from a wound, leaving him grey and stunned with shock. Images flash through his mind with the force of lightning and his ears are deaf with their thunder.

Alice in Wonderland.

The Queen of Hearts.

The Gardens.

“Master Bruce!” Bruce snaps back into himself and stares into Alfred’s wide-eyed, concerned face. The older man looks poised as though to catch Bruce if he should topple over.

Bruce takes a slow breath and squeezes his hands to tighten around his coffee cup, only to find that the coffee cup is gone. It had slipped from his numb fingers and shattered on the floor. Little wonder why Alfred is so alarmed, Bruce thinks. Then he says, “The Joker’s clue. I know what it means.”

Alfred blinks. A second passes. “Ah,” he says, catching on. “It is Alice, then?”

Bruce nods and moves to the computer where he types and searches for as many references to the Queen of Hearts as he can find. “The stanza on the card is a smokescreen. He used it because he thinks it’s funny.”

“Wonderful sense of humor, that man,” Alfred says dryly.

Bruce clicks a link. “The real clue was the author. You were right, Alfred.” He scans the text on the screen; Alice meets the Queen of Hearts at the garden entrance. But Bruce only needs to read the first sentence to know where he needs to go, and what the Joker is planning to do.

Bruce straightens abruptly and heads down the hall towards the armory. If he’s quick enough, maybe he can stop the Joker before he kills again.

“Sir, where are you going?” Alfred calls after him.

Bruce pauses and half turns, surprised that Alfred even had to ask. “The Botanical Gardens.”

“Now, sir?”

Bruce stares at the older man. “Alfred, it may not be too late to stop him.”

“Sir, it’s the middle of the afternoon,” Alfred explains patiently. “What are you going to do? Stalk the grounds in plain view for several hours? Even you can’t watch the entire Botanical Gardens in broad daylight with people milling about everywhere without being seen.”

Bruce winces. He had thought of that, but… “What would you have me do, then? I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

Alfred walks over to him. “You should eat, Master Wayne. I’ll wager that you’ve had nothing but coffee for the last twenty hours. What’s the point in chasing the Joker when you have no energy?”

Bruce winces again. Food has been the last thing on his mind. His stomach chooses that moment to rumble reproachfully. He sighs and relents. “Fine.”

Alfred claps his shoulder and guides him towards the lift. Bruce reassures himself that the Joker won’t be at the Gardens until nightfall anyway, not if he plans to frame Batman for this next crime as the stanza on the card implies. And once darkness falls, Batman will be there, waiting for him.

The lift takes Alfred and Bruce away. The computer screen is still lit. The cursor highlights a sentence in grey:

“ A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red.”

~*~

Batman is in the Botanical Gardens before their admissions booths shut their windows for the day. He had hacked into their security system earlier so that he could watch the visitors leave. He doesn’t think the Joker will try to use the front door, but Batman can’t forget the attack on the Mayor four months ago. The Joker had been in the front row, armed and faceless, and no one had known.

Batman watches the entrance camera feed on a small handheld device and searches the grainy grey image for scars. He is hidden in the darkest shadows of one of the greenhouses, waiting while caretakers tend to the plants and the custodial staff clean up trash. There are roses in this particular building—Batman keeps watch on that area—but there are roses scattered everywhere else in the Botanical Gardens as well. He cannot watch them all at once.

In times like this, Batman is frightened by the knowledge that he does not know what the Joker looks like without his costume. He has never seen the man without his bright clothing, painted face, or dyed hair. He thinks the hair might be blonde beneath the green and grease, but he isn’t sure. He knows the shape of the Joker’s face, knows its wrinkles and edges, but even though he also knows the color of the Joker’s skin, he still can’t mesh the two together in his mind. The scars are the only defining physical aspects of him that stay when the costume is gone, but even those could be hidden with some theatre prosthetics.

Batman never realized until now how faceless of an enemy the Joker really is.

It scares him.

But he is Batman; he doesn’t show his fear. He is fear, so instead he will show the Joker that he cannot be twisted by the madman’s mind games.

He waits. Darkness pools in corners and under dense foliage, spilling into shadows until they overflow upon the walkways. The last of the staff departs. Batman is alone.

He wastes no time; Batman switches his cowl’s thermal sensors on and sweeps through the building. Finding no one, he takes his search outside and climbs to rooftops for a more encompassing view of the grounds before sweeping through the rest of the buildings. He moves swiftly and efficiently. Each time he clears a location, he leaves behind a concealed motion sensor. Within an hour, the Botanical Gardens are peppered with a sentinel army of mechanical eyes.

Five hours later, the Joker still has not appeared.

Batman pauses in his rounds to pick up a newspaper from the gift shop stands. He puts fifty cents on the countertop in payment and then walks out, sifting through the pages. He scans the headlines until he finds what he’d been looking for.

BATMAN STRIKES AGAIN!

An unidentified man was found brutally murdered in the Narrows this morning, police report. While Police Commissioner Gordon has stated that there are no official suspects yet, other sources have reported that the trademark signal of the Batman was found on the victim. Batman has also been implicated in the murders of District Attorney Harvey Dent and Salvatore Maroni…

The remainder of the article is filled with descriptions of his alleged past crimes as well as speculations on his motives and where he might strike next. There is no mention of the Joker. Batman finds nothing else of interest. He folds the paper up and deposits it on a nearby bench. Then he takes to the rooftops again and wonders where the hell the Joker is.

I can’t have missed him , Batman thinks as he begins another sweep through the grounds and buildings. It isn’t even midnight yet. I have a while.

He waits. Midnight comes and goes without any break in the still silence. Batman goes back to the gift shop and deposits enough coin for a can of coffee.

By 2AM, he’s getting antsy. The caretaking staff might show up as early as five. Surely the Joker will have to make his move before then. Batman frowns. Unless…

He drops to the ground and prowls the area, this time not looking for a person so much as looking for clues that he might have missed. He pays particular attention to every rose bush he finds, especially the red and white ones. He pokes between their thorny arms and sniffs the air for telltale rot and honeysuckle sweetness. He finds nothing but earth and drowsy bees.

He takes his search indoors. Roses are cultivated in two places, he remembers; one of them was where he had hidden himself while waiting for the Gardens to clear. Batman heads to the other building first.

The roses are red and white, growing in a tangled cluster of soft petals and needlelike thorns. They are denser than the other roses Batman has searched through, so he approaches them with caution and increased awareness. Something isn’t right, he realizes. He slows to a stop and stares at the roses. The pattern is strange.

A chill drops his stomach like a stone. He takes two steps forward and catches a red flower in his gloved fingers. When his thumb swipes across the petals, the red smears away with it, revealing pink-stained white beneath.

…the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red.

Batman goes cold. For a moment all he can do is stare at the flower and wonder how the Joker had gotten past him. Then he wonders whose blood has been used as paint, and abruptly he is pushing against thorns and digging between branches, looking for a corpse.

But he doesn’t find one. Perplexed, Batman extricates himself from the bushes and stares at them.

What the…

Batman takes a step back and frowns. He takes another and stops, eyes widening as the entire stretch of roses fills his vision and the pattern fits together like pieces of a puzzle, all lining up just right.

The crude shape of a bat with wings outstretched has been painted onto the flowers, like something from a twisted connect-the-dots drawing booklet. In the very center, Batman spots a card.

The Ace in Escaflowne

2011-04-19T03:49:30Z

In which I discuss a disturbing trend in fandoms, with Dilandau from Escaflowne as a prime example. I am not f-locking this post. I'm posting this because people need to hear it. F-locking would be counter to that end.

"Male-Character never shows any interest in women, not even Gorgeous-Female-Character! He must be gay!"

I've come across this 'logic' far, far, far too many times over the years. Most often, it's used as the rationalization for a non-canon slash pairing. I don't have any problem with slash pairings. Most of my favourite pairings in fandom happen to be slash. This is not what frustrates me.

People can embrace whatever pairing they like. That's ok. To each their own, right?

But I really, really wish these people would stop using that justification. It is not okay. When you're dealing with a character who never expresses any sexual or romantic interest whatsoever towards anyone in canon, do not assume that said person is homosexual. Do not say "ne is never interested in the opposite gender! Ne must be homosexual!"

Because asexuals are people, too. We exist, and we do not like being invisible. We don't appreciate the assumption that sexuality is implicit and a necessary aspect of one's personality. It is, essentially, telling us that there is something wrong with us, and that we don't exist. Now, I realize that most people don't even know that there's such a thing as asexuality. In which case, the assumption is a natural one to make, if not a reasonable one. But that's one reason why I'm posting here--if no one speaks up about this, how will anyone else ever know or understand?

Let's take Dilandau from Escaflowne as an example. For those who don't know the series, Dilandau is the captain of an elite, special forces team. He himself is considered to be the finest soldier in his nation's (Zaibach) possession.

He is also the transgendered, brainwashed, amnesiac little sister of one of the series' main characters. It's.....complicated. Now, some people might argue that any 'quirks' of Dilandau's personality (aka his asexuality) should be attributed to how messed-up he is, or that he's not a complete person and is only a manufactured persona forced onto Celena. I don't buy into this, because in order to discuss Dilandau's personality in any depth, one first has to accept that he is a person. And the people using the argument mentioned at the beginning of this post are already implicitly assuming that he is a complete person.

At this point, it becomes beautifully obvious how very ace Dilandau is (specifically aromantic asexual). He's a fifteen year old boy and he never shows any form of romantic or sexual attraction to anyone. He gets a fair bit of screen-time, too, and plenty of opportunity to show some form of interest, even crude.

But he doesn't. Ever. In fact, towards the beginning of the series, one of the main characters claims another main character to be his 'paramour', and kisses her on the cheek. Dilandau is right there watching. Out of ALL of the possible reactions a teenage boy could have, he gives THIS one. And then promptly changes the subject.

But strangely enough, no one else in the fandom seems to recognize that he's ace. Most people pair him with one of his subordinates with the excuse that "he never shows any interest in women! he must be gay!" Well, no, he doesn't show interest in men, either. Not even once. Not even a hint. And this is in a series that plays like a soap opera when it comes to the romantic entanglements (seriously).

But I've never seen a fanfiction that focuses on an asexual Dilandau (I am rectifying this with my own story). I've seen the standard Mary Sues, I've seen Dilandau x Hitomi, Dilandau x Celena (people get creative with that one), Dilandau/Allen, Dilandau/Van, and Dilandau/-insert-Dragonslayer-here. And I'm okay with these. Really. I enjoy reading several of these pairings, and my favourite Escaflowne story in the entire fandom has a well-executed Dilandau/Van pairing.

But it would be nice not to hear, over and over, the slash pairings justified by "lack of interest in women == interest in men". It doesn't work like that. Be educated. Please stop. This type of attitude is hurtful, even if that hurt is unintentional. More people need to be aware that being sexual is not a given, and that that's okay. People need to acknowledge the existence of asexuality, and not assume that it's impossible.

I have a paper to write now, otherwise this would be longer and more elaborate. I might expand it later when I'm feeling a bit more energetic and eloquent.

Megamind Icons (...what??)

2011-04-06T00:22:36Z

I can't be the only one who thinks that kid!Megamind is the most adorable thing ever. There is a serious lack of iconage for him (that or I am blind and have missed them all).

But the point is that I made icons featuring kid!Megamind ~~when I should have been doing other more productive things~~. Icons are below the cut! There are 31 of them, though a lot are similar variations of the same image.

Please comment and credit if you take any!

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Created with angelamaria's Icon Table Generator @ Bauble

Mini-bang fic: The Chains of Honor, chapter 1 (minibang version)

2011-03-30T05:15:56Z

Prompt: #21 Zuko In Chains by jin_fenghuang
Title: The Chains of Honor, Chapter 1
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4795
Beta-reader: bluealoe
Warnings/Pairings: Some disturbing imagery. No pairings.
Summary: If the Yu Yan had not stopped firing, if Aang had been a little slower in deciding to take Zuko with him, and if Zhao's garrison had been a little quicker on their feet, then Zuko's rescue of Aang in "The Blue Spirit" might not have gone quite as well.

Notes: This was also written for the avatarbigbang mini-bang challenge! Check out the other stories over there--they are all brilliant!
Also, this was not supposed to be a long story. It was supposed to be short. And then, after the first section was done, I realized that it had grown into a monster that could not be contained within 5000 words. So this is the first chapter of a much larger work. Also, this is missing scenes that I really would have liked to put in but didn't have the room for, so it's plot-holey at the moment. I will be rewriting this with those extra scenes put in, and that will be the full version of chapter 1 of what is bound to be a ridiculously long epic.

The Chains of Honor

~*~

Even after the first one had found its target, the arrows kept coming. Aang airbended three of them off course in the span of time it took for his masked rescuer to fall. It wasn’t easy to see them coming; it wasn’t easy to see anything that small in the dark. But the forest behind them was silent and the Fire Nation fortress they’d fled from was still, at least for the moment, so he could hear them coming, like blades of grass sighing in the wind.

Aang sidestepped another arrow, turned his head towards the sound of a body hitting the ground, and narrowly avoided getting pincushioned by the fifth and sixth arrows. The Yu Yan weren’t aiming for his clothing this time, he realized. They were aiming for flesh, for tendons in his arms and legs, for clusters of nerves that would leave him crumpled on the ground and twitching helplessly in pain.

This is not good.

Aang lashed his arms out in an arc through the air, the riptide current whipping up clouds of concealing dirt around himself and the unconscious swordsman. If the archers couldn’t see, then they couldn’t aim, and that would give the young airbender the few seconds he needed to—

His plans broke apart and fell like sand from his mind the moment he turned to look at the man on the ground. His mask had been knocked slightly askew, leaving a small portion of the left side of his face bare.

The scarred left side of his face.

It couldn’t be him, Aang told himself, even as he moved forward and down and stretched his fingers out to clasp the edge of the mask. Surely there were lots of people with burn scars in the world, even ones near their left eye…

The mask fell away, and Aang couldn’t breathe.

No…

Prince Zuko’s face greeted him like the visage of a sleeping monster.

In two seconds, Aang was already five feet away, facing the forest with muscles tensed to sprint for freedom and away from the enemies that haunted his every footstep. His heart tightened in his throat. Every defensive instinct urged him to run.

He wasn’t sure what made him look back. Maybe it was the gentleness of Aang’s soul that made him pause and look at the other boy’s still form. Maybe it was the monks’ teachings of selflessness, forgiveness, and compassion. Or maybe it was the memory that cut through his vision like the steel of a knife—the memory of Zuko desperately fending off a small army of spears and swords, buying time for Aang to escape through the swiftly closing front gates. Zuko would not have survived if Aang hadn’t turned back and helped him.

So how could Aang leave him now?

He couldn’t. So after a moment of hesitation, he turned back, intending to gather Zuko up and escape with him into the dense forest.

Aang took one step forward before he realized that the dust cloud—the cover that had protected them both from the Yu Yan—was gone. Aang froze, and in that instant he took in all of the sounds that panic had numbed his ears to: the trample of approaching boots on the road, a man’s distant shout, and then sharp, hollow whistles like razors in the air.

Aang dodged to the side. Four wooden shafts buried—*THOK*—in the road a foot behind where he’d been standing. Cover. They needed more cover! Aang raised his arms to whip up another miniature dust storm, but the brief pause nearly cost him; before he could follow the motion through, arrows sprouted in the forefront of his vision, too fast and too close and too many. He flung himself sideways, and the jerk at his shawl along with the sound of an arrow tearing through fabric told him that he had just barely been fast enough.

Aang dodged another flurry of arrows, then spun and ducked to avoid a pair aimed at pinioning his arms. Now that Aang was no longer disadvantaged by an armful of frozen frogs, the Yu Yan had little hope of pinning him down. He could deflect or evade their combined attacks as long as that was all he did, but…

…But he would not be able to lower his defenses for enough time to save Zuko.

This is bad. This is really, really bad!

He could hear voices now above the trample of approaching feet, loud and triumphant and near. The Fire Nation soldiers had almost reached them. More whistles cut through the air, and Aang instinctively dodged, only to find that the arrows hadn’t been aimed for him. He watched, horrified, as a thicket of crimson flowers blossomed around Zuko’s body, their straight wooden stems anchoring the boy’s clothing to the ground.

There was nothing Aang could do. He had to leave Zuko behind. But, Aang told himself firmly, he wasn’t abandoning him.

“I’ll be back for you,” he whispered. Then air ballooned beneath his feet and launched him high out of sight.

~*~

When Zuko had been seven, Blood-bone Fever had nearly stolen his life. He couldn’t remember much from those two weeks: only vague impressions of his mother hovering, of doctors drifting in and out like a cool wind that sometimes brought relief from the inferno that ravaged his muscles, head, and throat. He remembered wondering why he couldn’t bend the fire away, and then thinking that Azula probably would have been able to if it had been her in his place. Maybe that was why Azula never got sick.

Most of all, Zuko remembered how it had felt to wake up.

There was a very brief thread of time between dreams and wakefulness when he was not quite conscious enough to feel the pain but was aware enough to appreciate its absence. Whenever he tried to hover at that thread, reality always pushed inward like a razor and severed him from the cocoon of his subconscious. Waking up during a sickness was like being born; his thoughts had felt wrapped within soiled cotton, and his nose and mouth had been clogged with the afterbirth of sleep. It had been hot and sticky and miserable, and it was exactly how Zuko felt when he came to in a Fire Nation prison cell.

At first, he thought he must be on his ship. The hard surface pressing against his legs and back felt like metal: smooth and cold against his bare, firebender-warm skin. But as his awareness spread, he realized that couldn’t be right. His body was sore and twisted and he couldn’t move his arms. Why couldn’t he move his arms?

A twist of his hands drew the faint clink of irons to his ears, and tiny needles of pain flared in his blood-starved fingers. Something sharp cut into his wrists.

The creak of leather and the sandpaper skiff of cloth caught his ear. “Ah, Prince Zuko…”

He knew that voice. Command—no, Admiral Zhao. Why was he here? What was—

Oh, no...

He remembered. Clarity flooded, sharp and icy, though his veins, and horror pooled like cold stones in his gut. He remembered freeing the Avatar, remembered the clang of the alarm as their escape was discovered, remembered the liquid silver blur of his broadswords and the whistle of the Avatar’s makeshift staff, remembered backing out the front gates with his swords crossed over the Avatar’s throat, remembered being almost into the tree line…

And then nothing.

He didn’t want to open his eyes. He still felt disoriented enough that he could pretend this away as a dream so long as he didn’t look. The moment that his eyes opened he would make it all real.

But then Zhao spoke again, and his voice was more than real enough.

“Everyone knows what a failure you are, but I confess…” Zhao trailed off for just a moment, and Zuko could imagine his smirk, could hear the bitter wine of triumph flavoring his words, “…I had never imagined you to be a traitor.”

Zuko’s eyes flew open and he snarled, the denial already searing past his lips. “I am not a traitor!”

The cell was dark. A sputtering torch on the wall beyond the bars reluctantly coughed light down upon Zhao, who stood just beyond the bars with his arms crossed, facing Zuko. His smirk was even more infuriating on his face than it had been in his voice.

“Really?” Zhao purred, and he leaned inward. “Then why did you free the Avatar?”

Zuko took it back; Zhao’s smirking voice was maddening.

“I had no choice!” Zuko hissed.

“Yes, yes, we all know; your ‘honor’ depends upon your capture of the Avatar.” Zhao shifted his stance and began pacing slowly back and forth before the cell, but his eyes remained fixed on Zuko. “Did it not occur to you that in aiding the Avatar—in stealing him from a Fire Nation Admiral—you would lose all of the honor you had left, without even the right to earn it back?”

Zuko was silent.

After a short pause, Zhao continued. "Not that you had a chance to begin with. Your father doesn’t want you back. He’s wanted you gone for years—“

“That’s not true!”

But the words kept coming, and even though Zuko’s heartbeat boiled in his ears and rage stained his vision and distorted his thoughts, he still couldn’t drown out what the Admiral said next.

“—and now he has a reason to have you executed. And he will, Prince Zuko. The Fire Lord does not tolerate failure. And for his own son to have committed treason? Do you really believe he will show you mercy after you have shamed yourself, your father, and your nation again, this time by directly aiding the enemy?”

Zuko stared at the Admiral. The thunder was ebbing from his ears. He tried to find the words to deny Zhao’s accusations, but every thread he pulled led back to his father. He had disrespected the Fire Lord, and for that alone he had lost his honor. He had been given a chance to redeem himself, and he had failed.

But I had no choice! Zuko thought desperately, furiously.

But then he imagined kneeling before his father with that excuse, and the idea crumbled like ash in his mind. He knew what the Fire Lord would think. Zhao was right. Spirits, Zhao was right.

Zhao stopped pacing and faced the cell door again, leaning in close to the bars. He watched the horror sink into Zuko’s eyes for a moment, and then dealt one last blow in the form of a soft whisper: “For three years you’ve wanted nothing more than to return home. How ironic that, disgraced and dishonored, you will get your wish after all…just before you die.”

Zuko didn’t respond. His vision boiled and the shadows of his cell curled and churned like smoke until the sharpness of the now blurred and bloomed into faded watercolor memories. He saw turtle-ducks dive to catch the crumbs he tossed into their pond. He saw the Fire Lord’s throne and the seat at its right-hand side—empty and waiting for him. He saw the harbor at the base of the capitol, the sun melting like butter on the sand and the water glittering so bright that it looked like a thousand white fires all pulsing with the ocean’s heartbeat.

He had dreamed every day and every night for three years of returning to those warm shores. He had dreamed of presenting the Avatar—chained and defeated—to his father, of standing before his father’s proud gaze and feeling the forgiveness and acceptance in his voice wash through him. And now that the Avatar had a body, a face, and a voice, his dreams felt so much more real, so much more tangible than they had ever been before.

He would not let Zhao take his dreams away from him.

When the images faded and his eyes focused again, what he noticed first was how close the Admiral was to the bars.

Zuko filled his lungs, deep and slow.

And then he breathed.

An inferno cascaded past his lips and flooded up to the prison bars. Zhao’s eyes flashed wide in shock. Instinctively he jerked backwards, fast enough to avoid getting burned but not quite fast enough to prevent the tips of his sideburns from catching fire. The Admiral was quick to snuff the tiny flames, but his dignity and composure had already been destroyed.

Now it was Zuko’s turn to smile grimly while the other man snarled and reddened with rage. Zhao jabbed a finger at his captive, carefully keeping a safe distance away. “Your uncle’s flashy tricks won’t get you out of this cell,” he spat. “Not with your hands chained to the wall. And I will personally see you delivered to the Fire Lord in those chains.” Then Zhao spun on his heel and stalked out of the room.

Zuko would have to thank Uncle Iroh for teaching him the Breath of Fire.

~*~

Hours later and miles away, Aang sat cross-legged on the floor next to Appa, and fidgeted.

He’d had no trouble finding enough frozen frogs for Katara and Sokka to suck on. The herbalist might be crazy as a tortoise-loon, but she knew what she was doing; after only the first frog, Sokka’s hallucinations had faded, leaving him lucid again, and Katara, whose sickness hadn’t been as advanced as her brother’s, had been cured completely. After Aang had hastily explained why he’d given them both frogs to suck on, Katara had helped him convince Sokka to try another. Sokka had only relented once they’d pointed out empirical evidence of the frogs' healing powers, but he had drawn the line at two frogs. Fortunately, two had proven to be enough.

But the fever had drained much of their strength, so neither of Aang’s friends were able to travel just yet. And while they slept, there was nothing for Aang to do except think and worry.

He wanted to rescue Zuko. He knew that Admiral Zhao wouldn’t have killed the prince. Zuko was royalty, no matter that he was banished or that he appeared to have committed treason. The Fire Lord would want to handle the matter personally, especially since it was his son involved. Aang didn’t think any harm would come to Zuko from his own father, but he didn’t know when Zhao was planning on sending the prince home…nor did he know what Zhao was doing to him in the meantime. Aang knew that ‘alive’ was not the same as ‘unharmed’.

He wanted to rescue Zuko. But he couldn’t break into the fortress by himself. He needed help. He needed Sokka and Katara.

And that was another problem; how was he going to explain all of this to them?

Aang had no idea. So he fidgeted and quietly practiced speeches.

“So uh…” Aang’s voice cracked and faltered. Oh yeah, that’s a great start. He cleared his throat and tried again. “So remember when I went out looking for medicine? Well, there were these archers and they were really good. I mean, really good. And they kind of shot me when I was collecting frogs—well not shot me shot me, I mean, haha, they just got my clothes!” Aang’s voice trailed from a nervous laugh into a sigh. “Okay, no good. Let’s try this again.”

Aang took a deep, calming breath. He closed his eyes, centered his mind, and lowered his heartbeat. Focus. He tried again. “The important thing is that I’m okay. Everything’s fine. Except, well, not everything, but I’ll get to that. Commander Zhao—you know, the guy with the sideburns—kind of captured me while I was out collecting frogs. But I’m okay! Because um, this ninja with a blue mask came and rescued me, and it was amazing, but he got knocked out by an arrow and now he’s been captured, and I’ve gotta go rescue him but I need your help.” Pause. “Oh, and he’s also Prince Zuko.”

Aang was still for a moment before he groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “This is not gonna over well,” he mumbled, and then peeked between his fingers up at Sokka and Katara. They were still sleeping soundly.

Well, at least he had a while to practice.

~*~

Firebenders rise with the sun. The moment that Agni’s liquid bright fingers reach up from the horizon to warm the sky, Agni’s children feel their own blood thrum with the energy of life.

So even in the cold darkness of his stone cell, Zuko knew when the day had arrived.

And he still didn’t have a plan.

Zuko hadn’t slept. Even neglecting the fact that his arms were stretched uncomfortably with his wrists chained to the wall high above his head, his mind had been too alert, too electric with fears and certainties; he knew that Zhao had likely already sent a messenger hawk to the capitol, detailing the prince’s apparent betrayal. Zhao was an admiral now, which meant that he was high in the Fire Lord’s favor. And Zhao had an entire garrison of witnesses to back his claims.

But if Zuko could escape and make his way back to his ship, he might still have a chance. Uncle Iroh would vouch for his alibi, he knew. And he was fairly certain that the crew would follow his uncle’s example; ever since Zuko had saved the helmsman from falling to his death during the storm, his men as a whole seemed to respect him more. It would, at the very least, cast enough doubt on Zhao’s claims that Zuko would have some time to figure out a better plan from there.

As he had done countless times during the night, Zuko again tested the chains that bound him, trying to wrench or at least loosen them from the wall. He felt something give this time, but not in the metal. His wrists had chafed and swelled and scabbed from his earlier struggles, and now something cracked and slid beneath the manacles, like rotten flesh dripping from bone. He’d sheared the skin away. Pain throbbed from the opened wound, and something hot and slick began trickling down his right arm.

Not good, he thought. A chill sank into his stomach when he thought of infection. Stupid, stupid stupid! Zhao wanted him alive, but there wouldn’t be much he could do if festering poison spread through Zuko’s veins.

He had to get out of here soon.

Ignoring the pain, Zuko relaxed as much as his bonds allowed and closed his eyes. He focused on his breathing, deep and slow, in and out, and felt the ebb and swell of his chi. He needed to calm down and think with a clear head.

Okay, what are my advantages? Zhao hasn’t posted a guard at my cell. Arrogant idiot. If I can break these chains, they won’t know I’m free until it’s too late. How do I break the chains without cutting my hands off?

Zuko called to mind everything he knew about prisons and restraints and Fire Nation steel. He knew that the manacles weren’t coming out of the wall—the bloody ruins of his right wrist testified to that—so he had to find some way of breaking them instead.

But what did he have that could possibly break steel? Or even bend it? Steel was only malleable when it was…hot.

Zuko’s eyes snapped open and his breathing stilled.

If he couldn’t pull the restraints off the wall, he would melt them off.

Zuko pushed himself to his feet. His legs stung, half numb and half needled with lack of blood flow, but he barely noticed the pain. His attention was fixed solely on the steel chain to his left. Zuko considered its length. Metal conducted heat, and if the chain was too short he might end up destroying his own hand.

It should be fine , he decided. Focus on the link connecting to the wall anchor.

Zuko raised his left hand, aimed carefully, and breathed.

Gradually, the steel began to glow.

~*~

“YOU WHAT?”

Aang cringed and tried desperately not to look guilty. He hadn’t gotten past the first sentence of his explanation before two voices had shrieked in unison. Katara looked horrified. Sokka looked horrified and mad.

“You were captured? By Commander Sideburns? HERE?” Sokka’s voice had reached a decidedly unmanly pitch.

“Aang!” Katara wasn’t quite mad yet; she was still more worried that her friend had been hurt. “You said you’d be careful!”

“Well, yeah, I know, but I was trying to get the frogs and those archers were really good—“

“ARCHERS?” Sokka’s arms flailed.

“—But I’m okay now! And I wasn’t hurt! Someone rescued me!“ Aang added hastily. That seemed to give the siblings pause. Two pairs of blue eyes blinked at him with confusion.

“…who rescued you?” Katara asked. “Where are they now?”

Aang fidgeted. “He um, kind of got captured as we were backing out of the gates.”

Sokka’s mouth snapped shut and his nose scrunched. “Gates. You were in a Fire Nation fortress.” It wasn’t a question, and Sokka didn’t look pleased.

“Yeah…” Aang tapped his thumbs together and smiled nervously. Katara’s eyes narrowed and Sokka crossed his arms over his chest. They glared at him and waited for an explanation.

Aang sighed. This was not going well. “Okay, you guys have to promise not to say anything until I’m done. Okay?”

Sokka raised one eyebrow and squinted his other eye almost shut. “Ooooh-kaaay…”

Aang shifted his gaze to Katara. “Please?”

Katara glared at him, motionless, for another second. “Fine,” she relented, although she didn’t look happy about it. Her eyes promised that they would be having words when this was over.

Aang sighed with relief. Breathe. He was in a world of trouble for having gotten himself into so much danger, he knew. But he’d deal with that later. Right now, he needed to think about Zuko.

Start from the beginning, ease your way forward.

“It happened right after I’d left the herbalist’s,” he began. “I was going to find a river to look for frozen frogs…”

~*~

Zuko had decided that the spirits hated him.

He had almost burned the first chain through when he’d heard heavy footsteps rapidly approaching from down the hall. Desperately, he’d tried to snuff the heat out of the steel, but he hadn’t been fast enough. Seconds later, the admiral had marched into the room and stopped completely still.

Zhao had taken one look at the scene—Zuko standing with a poorly-concealed expression of panic while the base of one of the chains glowed orange—and had immediately sent for more guards. Then he’d stalked closer and threatened to have Zuko drugged to the point where he couldn’t even move. Zuko had, somehow, managed to just fume silently in response.

So now two guards were posted at the far end of the room, watching him. He was never alone for even a second.

He spent the rest of the day thinking and trying not to move his damaged wrist. If it re-scabbed and wasn’t disturbed, he might escape infection. While his abused body seemed to benefit from the meditative stillness, his mind was becoming increasingly panicked and frustrated.

Zuko had no idea what to do. He’d blown his only chance for escape. Why didn’t I think of burning through the chains earlier , while everyone was still asleep? he thought, furious with himself. I could have been free by now!

His only hope, it seemed, was to wait for Zhao to have him transferred onto a ship for the journey back to the Fire Nation. An opportunity might present itself…but until then, he had to wait.

Zuko was patient. He’d spent three years at sea, searching with iron determination for a ghost that few people believed existed anymore. And his patience had finally been rewarded. If he kept still and observant and waited, he would find a way.

So he forced his frustration down and channeled his anger into the pool of warmth in his stomach, felt the inner fire flare, and concentrated on breathing.

~*~

Three days later, Zuko did not wake with the dawn. When he did finally wake, he wasn’t even sure what time it was; he couldn’t seem to focus on the sun. His mind felt like rotting cotton, cloudy and tangled and with every thought crumbling at the slightest pressure of concentration. He felt hot— too hot—but not sticky; he had a fever, but he wasn't sweating, and some part of his mind registered that as a bad sign.

Food had been nonexistent, and Zhao was allowing him only the bare minimum amount of water to keep him alive. Zuko was hungry, but the thirst was far worse. His mouth felt like baked sand and his tongue was thick and foreign, too dry to form any moisture.

Zuko couldn’t feel his arms. He couldn’t feel much of anything outside the haze of heat and the ache that tangled his thoughts and throbbed everywhere in his head. His eyes—he couldn’t open his eyes. He felt sure that if he did, they would explode from the pressure behind them.

Zuko drifted, sometimes floating close to dim awareness, other times drowning deep in nightmarish fever dreams. At some point, he surfaced to the sound of voices, very near yet muffled. Whispering? No, he just couldn’t hear them. And it was too much effort to focus. He imagined he heard the words “infection” and “doctor” and an aggravated noise in what sounded like Zhao’s voice before consciousness slipped away again.

~*~

The next time he heard voices, they sounded sharper and more urgent somehow. He struggled to focus. Something about those voices cut through the cotton wrapping his thoughts and demanded attention.

“Oh man, that’s not right.” A man’s voice—no, a boy’s, and irritating, though Zuko had no idea why.

“How do we get him out of those irons?” A younger voice, much younger. He knew that voice.

“I’ll handle that.” A girl’s voice this time. Then the sound of shifting cloth and the clear, bubbling sound of moving water and oh spirits he was so thirsty! Zuko tried to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut. His lips parted and he tried to speak, but instead of “water”, all he managed was a broken whisper, like wind over cracked desert.

They didn’t seem to have heard him. “I dunno…Aang…he looks pretty bad. He might not…” The older, annoying boy trailed off.

Aang…Aang…the Avatar?

“This is my fault,” Aang said, but this time his voice didn’t sound so young; even dazed, Zuko recognized the same unyielding determination that was within himself. “He wouldn’t be here if I’d been more careful. He’s not going to die. I won’t let him.”

Zuko’s mind was a muddled sea of confusion, and all he could think was: why would the Avatar be here?

A liquid whistle accompanied a sharp metallic whine, and something heavy crashed to the ground before him. The sound of flowing water came closer, and Zuko’s mouth burned with longing. But before he could try to ask for some again, his arms jolted and crumpled at his sides, feeling like loose blubber, as the cold steel holding them snapped away. “Okay, got him,” the girl—the waterbender—said.

What? Were they…rescuing him?

“C’mon, they’re not going to be distracted for long. We’ve got to go, now.”

“I’ve got him.” Aang again, but much closer this time. And then there was an arm around his shoulders—cold, much too cold—and then the whoosh of air, and then an alarming sense of vertigo as he was suddenly not quite on the ground anymore.

And then they were off and running with him half-held, half-suspended by the Avatar.

This had to be a dream. But the cold air on his skin felt real enough, and his head throbbed with every quick dodge and jolt Aang made, and he could sense fire being bent nearby, though not at them, and were those frogs he heard croaking?

Had the Avatar really come back to save him? They were enemies! What in Agni’s name was he supposed to do now?

It was too much all at once, and none of it made any sense. And Zuko hurt too much to think anymore. So he let his awareness slip away, promising himself that he would make sense of it all and come up with a plan.

Just not yet.

Mini-bang fic: Ashes to Ashes

2011-03-30T05:02:16Z

Prompt: #35 Ashes to Ashes - In Zuko's Memory by teamabodo
Title: Ashes to Ashes
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2119
Beta-reader: bluealoe
Warnings/Pairings: character death, canon pairings implied. TEARBENDING! Also some tense-bending that I have yet to re-organize.
Summary: Zuko does not survive Azula's lightning strike. A year later, those who knew him are still haunted by thoughts of everything that could have been.
Notes: This was written for the avatarbigbang minibang challenge (a reverse-bang in the sense that the artwork came first, and the writers picked artwork to use as their story prompts). This is the very first AtLA fanfiction I've written. All things considered, I'm rather proud of it. Also, I highly suggest taking a look at all of the stories posted for the mini-bang. They are all fabulous!

Ashes to Ashes

~*~

In the Upper Ring of Ba Sing Se, a tea house lies empty and silent, collecting dust behind locked doors. It is said that the great General Iroh, the Dragon of the West, had been its owner, and that he had planned to spend the rest of his days there in quiet, dispensing ancient remedies within steaming cups and imparting gentle, wise words to any who stepped across the threshold.

Most people don't really believe it. The doors had only been open for a few scant weeks before they had closed forever. But even a year later, citizens of Ba Sing Se will sometimes pass it by, pause, and point at the darkened windows. "The Jasmine Dragon served the best tea in Ba Sing Se," they tell their companions. "Maybe the best tea in the world. And the old man who owned it--you could talk to him about anything. His eyes had seen the world, and he always knew what to say."

"What happened to him?"

"...no one knows."

~*~

After everything goes wrong and the ashes of your dreams settle like corpse dust at your feet, it's easy to dwell upon the what-ifs, the maybes. Even a year later, sometimes it's all that Katara can think about.

Maybe, if Zuko had been right about Azula, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe if Azula had been...

...a little more unhinged and a little less in control...

...a little more focused on the ghost of her mother's voice and a little less focused on murdering the child she knew that voice loved more than her...

...a little more dismissive of her brother's hidden strength and a little less sure of her own in the face of it...

...a little less angry and a little more scared of just being alone...

...then maybe her lightning wouldn't have struck with the full strength of Sozen's Comet screaming within its crackling arcs. Maybe--and this is the part that twists her heart and chokes her breath--maybe if Katara hadn't run onto the field and inadvertently drawn Azula's strike, maybe Zuko would have been prepared to redirect it, with his feet grounded to the earth and his heart and mind calm.

Or maybe if Katara had been just a little better at healing...

Maybe Zuko would have survived.

But maybes are just dead dreams that sit like ash in Katara's mind, clouding her thoughts with regret as she kneels on the grass next to her brother, staring at stone.

No one can change the past.

~*~

When the news had arrived, Iroh had been serving tea to Aang and his friends in the Jasmine Dragon.

Ozai was being held in Ba Sing Se under careful watch of the White Lotus. He would be transferred to the Fire Nation once Zuko had taken the throne, so they'd all been waiting for Katara to return on Appa and tell them it was safe. The Fire Lord had been defeated. Ba Sing Se had been reclaimed in the name of the Earth Kingdom. Ozai's fleet lay in splintered ruin. They had already won. So Zuko's victory against Azula had just been taken as a given.

But Katara never came. Instead, an Earth Kingdom messenger had arrived on the doorstep with a Fire Nation hawk on his shoulder and a message for Iroh in his hands.

Once Iroh had opened the scroll, he hadn't needed to say a word. Everyone else in the room had understood the moment they saw the slump of Iroh's shoulders, saw the cumulative weight of his years tearing his spirit down.

The moment they saw the fire in Iroh's eyes die into ash.

The days following had been disjointed, tangled with grief and shock, stuttering from moment to moment as they'd all struggled to function and deal with the chaos Zuko's death had left in its wake. With Zuko gone, Ozai defeated and imprisoned, and Azula lost in the shattered fragments of her own mind, it had fallen to Iroh to take up the throne and work with the Avatar towards reconciliation.

Iroh had done so, silently and without protest. He'd devoted himself entirely to his work, spending every waking moment in meetings, drawing up treaties, and travelling from place to place, restoring to the Fire Nation the honour that his nephew had died for. Those around him thought that perhaps it was because this was all that he had left, and it kept him from thinking about anything else. Perhaps he wanted to honour his nephew's memory. And although the latter was certainly true, sometimes it seemed like Iroh was just in a hurry to get it all over with.

Only Toph, out of all of them, had understood. Everyone else in their group would keep going; they had a new world to build, one of peace and love, one that they could all live in. They had each other to lean on, to live for. They all just assumed that Iroh would keep going, too.

But Toph knew that no amount of consolation or support would help Iroh. She'd known the moment that the news had reached them, and she hadn't needed her earthbending to tell her. She'd known from the way Iroh had talked about his nephew when they'd first met. She'd heard it in his voice, how much Iroh had loved him. Zuko was all he'd talked about because Zuko was all he'd had.

Iroh wouldn't survive the loss of a second son.

~*~

The lightning inside Zuko's body had consumed him, burning his core away to nothing. He'd never felt a cold like the one that had followed, not even when he'd been flung into the freezing sea after a bomb had blown away his ship. He'd almost died then, but his wounds hadn't been beyond healing, and Uncle had managed to save him. But this time the ache was too deep, and in the spreading numbness that followed, he knew that he was dying. He had managed to hold on long enough to witness Katara's victory against Azula.

Katara had turned him on his back, and for that he'd been grateful--he'd wanted to see her face, the face of a friend, so he wouldn't be alone.

The healing water on his chest had felt warm rather than cool. Some part of his mind had dimly registered the wrongness of that. He'd thought he glimpsed tears in Katara's eyes, but he hadn't been sure. He couldn't seem to focus on her face. Then she'd spoken, but her voice had sounded so far away, like an old memory almost forgotten.

His last thought had been of regret. He'd tried to speak, and somehow found the strength to do so. The water on his chest had glowed, the only bright point left in his darkening sight, but it hadn't been...it wasn't...

"It wasn't enough," he'd whispered. "Everything I...it wasn't enough."

In the end, it never is.

~*~

Firebenders don't have graves. When they die, if their bodies are recovered, they are given back to Agni. The fire that had flowed through them in life is gifted back to them one last time in death. Afterwards, it is said, the fire will use the energy of its former master to spark a new life, a new firebender. Eventually, that spark would be given back again so that it could continue on to another.

Ashes to ashes.

Sokka didn't know much about Fire Nation culture, but this much had been explained to him before Zuko's funeral. Later, while he'd stood amongst his friends and watched Zuko's body burn, he'd wondered if somewhere a child had been born with the same fire--the same passion and strength and honesty--that had burned within the prince.

Maybe there had.

But there would never be another Zuko.

~*~

Iroh had Zuko's memorial stone placed in the garden by the turtle-duck pond. He knew Zuko would have liked that. He had debated for a long time whether he should have Azula's stone placed nearby as well. She hadn't outlived her brother by very long. Iroh had made preparations to send her to a mental institution where she could be cared for properly, but the day she was due to depart they'd found her body in her cell, cold and pinned with a dozen tiny knives.

In the end, Iroh decided to place Azula's memorial near her brother's. They'd never really been a family in life. At least they could all be together in death.

Iroh worked hard in the following months to find someone he could trust to become Fire Lord. He found such a person eventually--a distant cousin with a quick mind and a smile that almost reminded Iroh of Zuko's: bright and as pure as the sun itself. Iroh trained him as well as he could under the circumstances. The boy got on well with Aang, and perhaps together they would manage to heal the wounds the war had inflicted upon the world.

But the boy wasn't Zuko. He didn't understand the true nature of honour. He'd never fought as hard as Zuko had just to find himself. Zuko had earned wisdom that most men never learn in a lifetime of hardships. Zuko had understood what the Fire Nation truly needed.

This new boy didn't understand. He didn't have the spirit.

But neither did Iroh, anymore. His spirit had gone with Zuko's, and soon his body would follow. The day that he first tasted ash in his tea was the day that he realized it was time to let go.

Iroh's memorial stone was placed next to Zuko's in the garden.

~*~

People die in war. Sokka knows this. He'd known ever since the day he'd first seen the black snow fall gently upon his village from a pale sky.

So he'd known, logically, that there had been a chance one or more of them wouldn't be coming back on the day of Sozen's Comet. He'd been afraid mostly for Aang, and then for Suki as she'd fallen away with half of a burning airship, and finally for himself and Toph. But he'd never worried for Zuko or Katara. Zuko had survived despite the best efforts of the most terrifying people Sokka knew. He had begun to think that Zuko was indestructible.

All of the logic in the world couldn't have prepared him for the writing on the stones in front of him.

Katara and Aang had taken Zuko's death the worst out of anyone in their group, save for Iroh. They still blame themselves--Aang because it's his nature to do so, and Katara because the maybes that haunt her all lead her to believe that it's her fault. Even a year later, the pain hasn't lessened.

Katara stands abruptly after half an hour and flees from the gardens, chased by her own thoughts. Aang goes after her.

Sokka stays.

The worst of the pain, he realizes, is not so much due to how well he'd known Zuko, but rather how well he hadn't known him. Even after Zuko had joined Team Avatar, Sokka had taken a while to warm up to him. Then, after the Boiling Rock, when Sokka had finally been able to label Zuko as Not A Jerk After All, he still had never gotten the other boy to open up to the rest of them. Zuko had kept mostly to himself, hiding his own pain beneath stoic determination. If they'd had more time, maybe Sokka could have really gotten to know him. There had been a good friend in Zuko, he was sure of it. Sometimes, when Zuko had flashed a rare smile, Sokka could see a brother in him.

Sokka leans forward and brushes his fingers over the indented inscription in the cold stone. Zuko's memorial reads "Ashes to Ashes", but Sokka wonders who is left to remember what the fire had been like. He wishes that he could have been one such person.

Sokka bows his head and weeps.

~*~

In the Upper Ring of Ba Sing Se, the Jasmine Dragon lies empty and silent. Somewhere, amidst all of the maybes and should-have-beens, there is sunlight, and the sweet smell of tea that Zuko serves to his friends, and laughter as Iroh tells the full version of his tea joke, and teasing when Sokka tries with hilarious inadequacy to capture the moment on paper. There is joy and a bright future where no one is left behind, and where they all have each other.

But maybes are just dead dreams that sit like ash, dusting unused tables that lie forgotten behind the locked tea house doors.

This is the reason I don't have the next Jeture chapter done yet.

2011-03-27T18:01:26Z

I have been reading too much Avatar: the Last Airbender fanfic. No, wait, scratch that; there is no such thing as reading too much AtLA fanfic. But it still hasn't been good for my productivity. Well. Not Jeture productivity.

So it occurred to me that Dilandau could totally be a Firebender. I mean, come on. And without a teacher or anyone who even knows what he is, his lack of control is totally explainable. I could say that the Sorcerers' Fate Alterations had something to do with making him a Firebender. Somehow. It's possible! ~~I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON~~ DON'T JUDGE ME.

This little AU has consumed my mind over the past two weeks, whispering you want to write me you know you do. Just a drabble or two! C'mon! It's perfect! This NEEDS TO BE DONE!

So I caved. I wrote a little something last night. Of course that wasn't enough, but I don't have time to write a full-blown epic for this (and I'm already working on Jeture and that avatarbigbang mini-bang fic that became a monster) so I'm turning this into a request meme. Meme is probably not the right word for this, but oh well. I can get away with this with my current schedule because I know there aren't many people watching this journal, and the active Escaflowne fandom is kind of small. Poor fandom :(

The Rules

1. Comment with your prompt: a character, a scene from canon to redo, or something else you'd like to see done. You can request any point in the timeline, though I might ask that you don't request anything post-series or near the end of the series just yet, as I have no idea how the plot for this will pan out.

2. You can request as many times as you like, but wait until I've filled your current request before you ask for another. Put each new request in a new comment.

3. Official deviation from canon begins when Dilandau is created. The first notable deviation is the thing I have written at the end of this post.

4. I am open to the idea that other canon characters might become benders. If they do, it is all Hitomi's (accidental) doing.

5. Bending is unknown in this Esca-verse. People don't know what bending is or even that it exists. In fact, it probably shouldn't exist, but messing with Fate does funny things.

6. Repeat requests will be deleted (I'll let you know if yours is a repeat)

Timeline/History:

World Building: where bending comes from, and how Millerna is a waterbender
World Building: bender population distribution (second half of the post)
World Building: Folken's role in all of this

This timeline will get filled in as prompts are requested and answered.

Pre-series:
Dilandau discovers fire

During series:
Millerna heals with waterbending for the first time

Post-series:
Celena knows that something is missing

And here is the (first) thing I have written for this AU. I might put this in a more convenient location later, when I think of a more convenient location.

Dilandau Discovers Fire

Dilandau is seven, and he is in a room with the sun.

He has never seen fire burn before. Candles are nothing like this. Candles are small and weak and know nothing of hunger, of potential, of ambition. Candle flames cling quietly to the wax-wrapped string that is their entire world and wait, placid and content, for their lives to be snuffed. Dilandau is a fighter; he cannot respect something that has no spirit.

So it isn’t until he accidentally knocks over one such candle from its perch in his master’s study that he realizes what fire can do. His master notices the mishap instantly, of course, and rushes to stamp out the flames, cursing Dilandau’s clumsiness with each breath.

It will never occur to Dilandau to wonder why the fire didn’t die. It should have—the flame is small and the master’s boot is large and heavy—but instead it sparks and sputters and clings desperately to the dry cloth it has fallen upon. It darts through a forest of winding threads, one boot-step ahead of the curling smoke trail that the master frantically follows.

Dilandau watches, mesmerized, and does not hear his master snarl at him to don’t just stand there you foolish child! Help put this out! All he hears is the ragged crackle of the fire’s breath, desperate for life, fighting to survive and consume and rise.

Dilandau understands that desperation, and suddenly all he wants is for the fire to win.

Go! he thinks, and his fingers clench into the soft centers of his palms, where they feel—but don’t register—the heat budding beneath his skin. There, catch on the papers! And the tapestry behind the desk!

Dilandau doesn’t think it strange when the small blaze follows his mental commands. The fire is not a thing; the fire is a brother in arms. The fire is a kindred spirit. The fire is him.

Dilandau draws in a breath and he feels something break loose inside him like a crusty scab peeling away, like the roots of a baby tooth tearing from the pressure beneath: painful, startling, and liberating. Something hot kindles in his stomach.

The fire has caught a corner of the papers. It flares, bright and joyous in its success, and flings itself across the desk, spreading out as the master tries to beat it down with his coat.

Heat roughens Dilandau’s throat; it burns as though he’s run for miles. The kindling in his stomach catches with his next breath, and a fever floods through his legs and arms and wraps around his scalp. But none of this feels uncomfortable. None of this feels alien.

Dilandau does not feel as though he’s on fire; Dilandau is the fire. When he raises his hands up and fills his lungs, he is not even conscious of his motions; all he can feel is a fierce swell of triumph as the flames on his master’s desk snag the tapestry on the wall and begin to climb.

The flames will not touch Dilandau. He knows this instinctively, so it is without hesitation that he urges them to circle around the desk and cook the door’s circuits.

The enemy cannot be allowed to escape.

Seconds later, the fire has won, and Dilandau is standing in a room with the sun while his laughter drowns away the sound of his master’s screaming.

Because I have too much to do already...let's add MORE!

2011-02-23T00:42:39Z

Fiction Meme! Yeah, yeah, I know. But I wanted to request one from messageredacted , so I have to subject myself to the same thing.

The first TEN people to comment (like I have that many watching this journal, HA, as if), in this post get to request that I write a ~~drabble~~ ficlet of any pairing/character of their choosing.* ~~In return, they have to post this in their journal, regardless of their ability level.~~ You don't really have to. I want stuff to write. Give me prompts, please!

(1) messageredacted : (Batman: Nolanized Earth-3) Jokester & Duela. [Filled]
(2) dracomaleficium : (Escaflowne) Dilandau & Folken [Filled]
(3) bluealoe : (Escaflowne) Moleman [Filled]
(4) disklobos : (Escaflowne post-series) Adelphos' thoughts on Celena [Filled]
(5) alpha_hydra (AtLA) Jetko: Brainwashed!Jet knows there's something about Li. He just can't remember what.
(6)
(7)
(8)
(9)
(10)

*Fandoms include Avatar: the Last Airbender, Chrono Trigger, Escaflowne, Disney's Animated Robin Hood, Doctor Who, Equilibrium, Harry Potter, Improbable Island, Nolanverse!Batman (including Nolanized Earth-3), Sid Meier's Alpha Centauri, Star Wars, Tokyo Babylon/X1999. (These are just the ones I actually feel comfortable writing for)

This meme is currently OPEN!

A Wish for Jeture: Prologue

2011-01-28T17:21:28Z

Title: A Wish for Jeture
Fandom: Vision of Escaflowne
Characters: Dilandau, Dragonslayers, various others
Ships: none
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mild language. (It's Dilandau for crying out loud).
Summary: Jeture lives within your desires. He knows what your soul longs for, even if you yourself do not. Sometimes he will speak to you, if you wish fervently enough. Sometimes he will even grant your wish. But not all wishes are meant to be realized...

This story was heavily inspired by some scenes from the Escaflowne Drama CD. In a section of that CD, Jeture actually does speak to Dilandau in his dreams, and insinuates that Dilandau's wish isn't what he thinks it is (power, at the time). I highly recommend reading the transcripts to this CD, if for no other reason that it really sheds much more light on events in-between some of the earlier episodes, as well as on Dilandau's past and how exactly he got to be such a high-ranking officer (and in command of an elite squad) at such a young age.

A Wish for Jeture: Prologue

Power is meaningless in dreams. It doesn’t matter who you are, what rank you hold, or who is afraid of you; the moment that your subconscious slithers to the surface, it swallows your free will whole, gorges itself on your uncertainties, and vomits nightmares into the unguarded pits behind your eyes. Nothing is ever secure in dreams. One night you may be aware and able to influence the intangible forms around your illusory self, but most nights you will be helpless, unaware that you are even asleep—trapped within a morphing reality.

Dilandau hated dreams. He'd learned long ago that he could not count on control there, lost within the blind abyss of fear and desire. He'd dreamed of cold tables, foul-tasting air, and syringes that injected terror into his heart. He'd dreamed of Escaflowne, charging, charging, charging and slicing his cheek with a stone-coloured steel blade. He'd dreamed of his Dragonslayers, melting within liquid silver and electric flames that were the same shade as their soul-shredding screams.

Forgotten fears made themselves known. Past mistakes mired his thoughts in despair.

After the massacre at Godashim, his dreams had not waited for Dilandau to surrender his head to the pillow in his dark and empty quarters; rather, they had reached up, laughing at his pain and confusion with the ghostly, sobbing voice of a little girl. He had passed out on a lonely catwalk: one of the few on the Vione that ventured far enough from the fortress’s metallic bowels to taste the sharp, frigid air. After the rush of failing blue and the onset of granular greys fading into black vision, he’d watched, frozen, the replay of their deaths—his Dragonslayers’ deaths. He’d screamed soundlessly until he was alone, utterly alone, and then he’d screamed even more for someone—anyone—to come.

And then a voice had answered.

He’d heard this voice only once before, and only in his dreams. He could not remember when—only that he knew that voice from somewhere. Deep, calm tones rolled like waves and resonated with every bone in his body.

<<Now do you know your true desire?>>

Dilandau was floating. He realized this as he struggled to understand what was being asked of him. His mind felt clearer than it should have in a dream, although his thoughts were sluggish with shock.

“Who are you?” he demanded. His voice did not carry in the depths of midnight blue. He sounded small and meek. Dilandau was never small or meek. But here, in dreams, none of that ever mattered.

<<I am Jeture. I have heard your soul’s cry, and I have answered. Speak your desire, mortal, if you yet realize its nature.>>

Jeture? Dilandau found his head tilting upwards, ballooned by an invisible weightlessness. There, the serpentine form of a regal dragon darkened the curtained seascape like a black bruise upon deep deep blue. Dilandau stared, oddly devoid of fear—perhaps because this was only a dream. Or, perhaps, because Dilandau did not believe in gods. Gods were legends made up by mortals, security blankets thrown up in desperation to shield themselves from the cruel knowledge of death.

Death.

Dilandau noticed, abruptly, how the colours of the water enveloping him were the same colours as his Dragonslayers’ deaths: blue armor, blue Alseids, blue liquid flames. They had been the best soldiers in the entire Zaibach copper army. He’d made them the best in the span of a single year, and they’d idolized him for it. They’d loved him. They’d loved him so dearly that they’d reached their grey fingers from beyond the stillness of death to save him from joining them.

They’d loved him, and he needed them. They represented everything that he’d achieved. They’d stood as the sum of his power: young and gifted and unsurpassed. Power was everything. Without it, he was hollow. Without them, he was an opened shell.

What was he going to do without them? Gatti, Shesta, Dalet, Viole… He didn’t know what he’d done wrong. He didn’t understand how he could have misjudged the battle so severely. He didn’t understand how Escaflowne could have destroyed every single one of them. If only they hadn’t died.

And suddenly, he knew his most fervent desire.

“I want them to live. My Dragonslayers.” His voice sounded stronger this time. “Something went wrong today, and they died. They should not have died. I want to change what happened.”

The sea god rumbled thoughtfully, and it sounded like wet thunder. <<And if it was their fate to—>>

Dilandau cut the god off unthinkingly, blinded by sudden fury, and shouted, “I’m sick of hearing about fate! You asked me what I want! That’s what I want! So either help me or quit screwing with me!”

Deep, consuming silence clogged Dilandau’s ears after his voice quieted. Only in that moment did fear press at his heart, hindering its beating. He had dared to interrupt a god. Even though he knew that this was a dream, and even though he did not believe in gods, his surroundings were too vivid for him to blanket himself with total apathy.

All motion died. Currents ceased. The serpentine blue-black bruise burned in stillness against the backdrop like congealing spots in his eyes after a bright flash.

Dilandau expected to wake up, or die, or both. Or for the dream to freeze entirely, then morph into something less coherent, something more like the nightmares. In the uncertain seconds that followed, Dilandau hoped desperately for anything but that last possibility.

He felt the roar before he heard it; his entire frame jerked in its force, thrashing angrily like a doll throttled by a furious child. Earthquake. It was only once he realized that he was not in pain that he understood why the ocean was shaking.

Jeture was laughing, and his voice was tearing the dream down with its force.

The god never stopped laughing, even as the blue currents around Dilandau turned to grainy noise and fell away as waves of colourful sand into nothing.

The House That Smiled

2009-01-03T07:28:06Z

Title: The House that Smiled
Fandom: TDK Batman (Nolanverse)
Characters: Joker
Genre: Horror, one-shot
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Inspired by H. P. Lovecraft's vivid mythos.
Summary: I got to thinking one day about where the name 'Arkham Asylum' had come from. It occurred to me that Arkham is one of the main cities in Lovecraft's mythos. And then I started to think that wouldn't it be neat if the world of Batman and the world of Lovecraft were one and the same? This would certainly explain the unusually vast number of dangerously insane people present in Gotham. This short story delves into the Joker's past and describes the incident responsible for his fall into insanity.

The House that Smiled

A Batman/Lovecraft fanfiction

The first mistake leading to Jacob Napier's demise was his choice of residence. He was new to the city of Arkham, and he did not place any credence into superstitions. Nor did he question why the selling price of the house was so low; he was a graduate student with a wife and child to care for, so he could not afford to search for any strings pulling the windfalls that brushed his path.

Perhaps if Jacob had been less involved in his dusty texts and their dry discourses on dead gods and forgotten corpses, he would have noticed that something was wrong with the house.

But he hadn't, of course, and so he didn't notice anything at all. And that was his second mistake.

The Napier family moved into the house on a bright summer's day: the same day, in fact, that the local schools had let out for the summer. This was significant for two reasons. The first reason was that the son, Jack, did not have to go to school for three more months, and consequently spent much of his time observing the house. The second reason was that the neighboring children were also not in school, and were therefore available to whisper the local superstitions into Jack's credulous ears.

Jack knew that something was wrong before either of his parents did. But by then, of course, it was far too late.

The house was not a very large one. This suited Jacob well enough; large houses were expensive to heat during the cold winters, and the queer architecture of the house made a wood stove impractical. Its hallways weaved and twisted beneath thick-veined wooden supports that lined the ceiling like ridges on the roof of a dark, reddish mouth. Jacob's study lay at the end of the longest of these strange hallways, muffled away from the rest of the house. Jack never liked going down to the study. He only did so when asked to by his mother, usually to bring his father a late-night snack.

The only aspect of the house that Jack liked was the view. The living room window opened out over the Miskatonic River. Jack liked to sit upon the edge of that window and gaze into the dark waters, seeing nothing in their depths and filling it up with all of the creatures of his vivid imagination.

It started with a feeling of general unease.

Jack wasn't sure if he had always felt something a little off, or if it was just paranoia due to the accumulation of whispers and stories dripping from his new friends' mouths. It wasn't that the house was haunted, per se. There were no stories of ghosts or monsters within. It was just how many people died there. People grew frail and sickly over time, but more quickly and more frequently than one would expect. People grew pale in that house, and their breath rattled like dry wind over cracked bones. People died of illness, madness, suicide, murder.

Jack brought his acquired fears to his mother once. She had been standing in the kitchen, staring out of the window, her thin frame bathed in the yellow light of sunset and her hands submerged into forgotten dishwater. She had smiled down at him and patted his head with her wet hand. He was only eight, and naive even for his age. There was nothing to worry about, she told him. The other children made up those stories just to frighten him. "Now be a good child and bring the soup over on the counter to your father in the study," she dismissed him.

He did as he was told, and he never brought his fears up again.

Not even when he first saw the rafters move.

He was down by his father's study when he first saw it. Something shifted in his peripheral vision. He stopped to turn his head and focus his eyes, and he saw nothing. Jack dismissed it as a startled spider, and walked up to the door of the study. He lifted his hand to the knob, and just by chance he raised his eyes upwards, up to the frame where it met the darkly-veined ceiling supports.

He saw the wood move.

It was subtle, and someone less curious and observant than Jack would have passed it off as a trick of the dim light or a deception of the tired eye. Something about the air around the frame, no, the wood itself, was wrong in a way that Jack's mind was not capable of comprehending.

For a moment, he was too terrified to do anything save stare in horror. The next moment, he was screaming and running wildly back up the hallway, toes digging into the dirty carpet and the soup bowl he had once held now laying upside-down, its cooling contents coagulating in front of the abruptly opened study door.

He said nothing about what he had really seen. A gigantic black widow spider, he said, had been suspended on a sticky thread just before the door. Of course no one ever found the spider. Jack's father was furious, and his mother was tight-lipped and pale with frustration.

Jack would have refused to make any further trips down that hallway if he hadn't known that his mother would simply have to go in his stead. He didn't want her down there, beneath those aberrations, without even knowing that something was there. So he resumed his nightly trek, but always with his head down, eyes firmly on the floor. He never dared to look up. His feet brushed as swiftly as possible without stumbling over the fraying, dank carpet, and as soon as the door parted to accept whatever he had brought, he ran as fast as he could back to the safety of the living room.

Except that the living room was not safe any longer, either. The ceiling of that room also contained the same type of reddish, thick-veined timbers for its supports as did the hallway. Jack did not dare to gaze up at those, either, fearful that he might see them move.

Jack began to spend as much time as possible outside. He left at dawn and came back inside only for dinner and bed. But even though Jack placed himself back within those eerie walls at night, he ceased to sleep. When he did, his dreams were always filled with a thick, wet blackness that smothered his mind and filled his heart with a fearful dread, and he always awoke more tired in the morning than he had been the night before.

His parents slept at night. Jack knew this because he could see them fading away before his eyes, day by day, just as in the stories the other children had told him. His mother, always possessed of a light frame, was now more bone and sinew than muscle. Her breath was unsteady, and she coughed often. His father almost never came outside of his study anymore.

Jack knew that they had to leave the house. He knew this before either of his parents even suspected that something was amiss. They, of course, could not be reasoned with as things were. So he would run away, he decided, but not really. Just far enough that they would have to leave the house to come and find him. Once they were away, they would get better, and then they would see what was wrong.

By the time that he had come to this conclusion, it was too late. The night that he had planned to run away was the night that the horror in the house unveiled itself fully.

He was bringing the nightly snack to his father's study when the smell hit him. Jack reeled from the assault on his senses and stared at the door in front of him. The smell was sour, pervasive, and made him want to retch. He knocked on the door, just as he always did, eager to be rid of his burden.

His father did not open the door.

Jack stood there for a moment longer, his unease growing by the moment and warring with his need to know just what lay beyond.

He felt for the doorknob. It was unlocked. Jack turned it and pushed, and let the door swing open upon a sight that Jack would later block from all conscious memory.

There are horrors in this world, horrors borne of men, horrors that occur every day in most darkened side streets of the world. But this was no horror of man. The sight that greeted Jack was a loathsome pageant of abominations vomited into cracks of our unsuspecting reality from some hideous and inconceivable alien dimension.

Jacob Napier was sitting in his cushioned chair, rocking it creakily back and forth. Around him, everywhere around him, the woodwork was moving. The ceiling shuddered and pulsed, the supports along the walls bent and oscillated to a rhythm abhorrently unnatural. And everywhere, the room was red. And as Jack stared into the room, his humanly inept mind attempting to grasp the sight that his eyes presented him, a low, grating sound joined the creaking of the chair.

Jacob Napier was cackling. Laughing with what was left of his ruined vocal chords. Ruined, clearly, for the sound that clawed its way out of Jacob's throat was alien to Jack. Jacob turned his head, bringing his sunken, reddish flesh into view. Cold fingernails of fear dug into Jack's chest, and he was unable to breathe the foul air once he finally saw. And once he saw, he could never stop seeing.

The movements of the wooden walls, almost illusions of the light, suddenly leaped into clarity. The movements were analogous to a gigantic, raw, sucking mouth, clamping down its bloodstained wooden teeth and slurping the life out of Jacob Napier.

The house was eating him alive.

Jack felt his sanity reel, felt his mind buckle beneath the inconceivable truth. He stumbled and dropped the bowl that he had been carrying.

He went cold as the house paused. As he stared, he could sense whatever entity was inside, he could sense as its monstrous intent shifted away from his father and focused on him.

It smiled.

Jack screamed. He screamed and he ran like a wild thing back up the hallway. He did not dare look up or look back. He knew without even thinking that the thing was following him, snaking its will throughout the house so that it could draw him, too, into its terrible grasp.

Jack heard a shriek, suddenly silenced, from the direction of the kitchen. He did not stop to process the fact that his mother was dead, seized by the ghastly abomination that had claimed his father.

Somehow, he found himself outside, running. The sky yawned open above him, the wood of the house now behind him and falling further and further away. But still he ran. He ran because he could not reconcile his fragile mind with what he had witnessed. His sanity broke in shards and fell to the hard ground, swallowed by the shadows of the house and abandoned.

Jack would leave the city of Arkham with little of his mind left. He would wreathe himself in the squalor of Gotham's slums where he would learn to laugh at everything, even pain. He would adopt the alias 'The Joker', and he would take a razor to his cheeks and carve a permanent smile on his face, though he wouldn't know quite why.

For some reason, he found it funny.

Nightmare

2008-10-14T19:31:03Z

This is another Lensmoor story post. I haven't been doing much writing outside of that fandom lately. This particular story was written as a submission for a contest held by the clergy of Lord Sindri, God of Nightmares. It won first place. ^_^

Title: Nightmare
Fandom: Lensmoor MUD
Characters: OC, obviously
Genre: Expressive piece
Rating: PG-13 for hints of torture.
Warning: Obscure fandom. Is it even a fandom??

Nightmare

The narrow paths of my life wind through straining hills of optimism and terminate in thickets of horror. I am beginning to believe that my
traitorous subconscious leads me to those thickets despite my waking efforts to escape. Within the thickets, the wide-mouthed screams of a young girl are choked by the tangled indurium brambles curling lovingly around my slickly bloodied wrists. But what I strain the most desperately not to hear are the soft whispers of Antrippa's sandstone.

My freedom is everything to me. The feel of the cool wind's unfettered fingers against my chestnut-brown skin is what caresses my heart to beat. I wake. I move. I breathe. But the sunwashed sandstone threatens softly in my dreams to steal it all away from me.

I was once a slave to the savage continent. Held in a hall where the sand sleeps beneath black stone that no one remembers laying down. Indurium shackles wrapped with magic sealed my body to the room and my magic somewhere else where I couldn't reach it. But I kept my tongue and wielded it against my captor. My only weapon served as a means to desperation. I urged my master to break my body so that my will would be strong enough in the wake of my insanity to allow me my last plan for escape.

He melted the stone beneath me. Coarse and dry sand once solid beneath my bruised feet liquified under me in response to the stretch of his will. Gooey and sticky, the quicksand clung to me and pulled me slowly down. "I will bury you," he told me, "beneath this city for all eternity. A small hole to let you breathe is all that you will have. You will lie there, trapped forever, unless you yield.

I yielded. I took the horror of that threat and freed myself with it later. But the Sands did not forget, and my skin still remembers the eager sucking as the ground pulled me down.

It wants me still. The darkness at the corners of my open dreams clings at my vulnerable mind. It closes in, and suddenly my dreams have been squeezed aside by a thick, wet blackness. I cannot move. I cannot see. I feel the grit and smell the musty hatred of ancient soil. The blackness crushes me in a fierce, possessive grip, and I know-- I know --the weight of that terrible, unseen gaze! The malevolence heaves out panic from my throat, and my mind is blind with the terror of being buried alive, and I scream only to hear ageless laughter mocking my desperate cries.

It does not want me to wake up. But every time, I do. I escape the dream and gaze with sweat-washed eyes into a sunrise as golden as the
light-bathed sandstone.

Every time, I fear the coming of the night from which I shall not awaken.