So in some alternate universe somewhere, Jason is just starting to hang out with the family again, but only mostly on missions. Dick, when he’s unexpectedly injured on patrol one night, decides to take the opportunity to remedy that - and maybe it’s Barbara’s suggestion a little, but he’s not telling anyone that.
So because he hasn’t met Cassandra yet and Dick wants him to know and love the whole family, and them to love him also, he uses some nefarious “You owe me for The Thing, Jason”-means, to bully Jay into taking Cass to the carnival since he can’t anymore.
Tim and Damian, separately, find out about this, and while both of them know Cass is decidedly capable of taking care of herself, they really don’t want to leave it up to fate, and “Todd” (whose relationship with them still needs plenty of mending). Tim and Damian discover they’re both on the same mission, and since they can grudgingly agree two people might be needed, they agree to work together. So they follow Cass and Jason to the carnival, and spy at a discreet distance.
Only, they lose their targets at some inopportune moment, getting stuck on a ride or something. Whether or not Jason and Cass actually noticed their tail and purposely lost them is a mystery… But, when Tim sees Damian looks like he’s sort of enjoyed the ride, he tricks the kid into going on more with the pretence of “We’ll get a better view of the park from the ride.” Damian catches on, but Tim doesn’t care because “You’re a kid and this is a carnival. Don’t argue, dammit,” and they give up the chase and enjoy themselves instead.
Damian regrets it only because by some curse or another, every time he comes across a cart selling something sweetly delicious, it’s somehow Stephanie behind the counter, and she teases him relentlessly because this is the fifth time he’s come back for cotton candy (at five different places, but the woman is magically everywhere). Tim just grins at her, surprised and amused and smug at getting Damian hooked on the candy.
Meanwhile Cass and Jason are bonding over their newly-discovered mutual love for all the most dangerous rides, and when they can’t go on one because Cass is somehow too short and Jason is too tall, they both Batglare the attendant into submission, and then smile serenely when he gives in. He’s not there when they come out.
Eventually the four of them run into each other, and they’re all just there, facing each other, obviously guilty (and Tim is covered in souvenirs and stupid hats and stuffed animal prizes that are half of them Damian’s, and Jason has a bump on his forehead and his arm round Cass’s shoulders, and she’s eating a huge chocolate ice cream that can’t compare to all the packages of sweets Damian’s lugging around), and after some awkward feet-shifting and staring and eye-averting, they all at once agree to NOT TELL DICK, before they go on at least three rides together.
When they get back to the Cave, separately, but magically all at the same time, even though they took different routes and left separately (because Oracle), they find Stephanie eating waffles drenched in syrup and Alfred’s amused and Dick has this really smug look on his face like, Yeah. I know what you did.
So Jason groans and leaves, and Tim scowls and Damian glares, swearing revenge, and Cass just grins and brings up the most hilarious and embarrassing moments of their excursion at inappropriate moments and always in front of Dick, who laughs his head off (like while trying not to get shot at during patrol, and it freaks criminals out because he’s Batman at the time). But the boys can’t be mad at her for too long and, eventually, when the carnival comes around again the next year, they all just sort of show up for it. Without inviting Dick the first time, because revenge, but then it becomes an annual family tradition (and of course Alfred and Babs get dragged along, too).
I haven't felt like making new stuff so I'm going to post old stuff until I do. XD
So here's a fic from 2015 of my Dragon Quest 9 party fighting a grotto boss.
It was the first chapter of a fic, but I don't care for the rest of it and think this works on its own, even though it ends abruptly. I'm pretty sure the abrupt ending was because I was trying to make it like the intro of an episode before it goes to the theme song. I was also trying to emulate a camera moving in the first paragraph, I was pretty influenced by TV back then.
Concrit is still OK, but being nine years old I might know by now, but maybe not seeing as how I still don't know why TV gets away with abruptly cutting to the next scene but it looks weird when I do it. XD
---------
It was a peaceful night in the fields of Stornway; but if one stood before the mouth of the cave, which rested in the middle, and listened carefully they might’ve heard unpeaceful echoes. Moving through the carved corridors, past roaming creatures and down stairs, the echoes would get louder and louder.
“Huh!” “Ow!” “Look out!” the echoes went in various voices; louder and louder until a large room was reached.
“Nieeeegh!” a large, monstrous horse whinnied as it raised its hooves in the air to bring them down with crackles of lightning. The lightning struck the four attacking the horse and knocked them away.
While the others hit the wall or floor, one managed to keep her boots planted on the ground and shield up in front of her. The lightning struck the shield, merely scooting her back. She looked up at the horse, shaking her head to get the brown waves out of her face.
A fairy flew out of her pocket to glare at her right next to her face. “You got any more flappin’ ideas, Hannah?!”
“Watch your language.”
“I didn’t say anything,” said a redhead nearby as she pulled herself off the floor.
Hannah glanced past the fairy at her, extending her sword arm toward her. “Celeste, oomph me!”
The red head rolled her eyes. “We gotta think of a better name for that.” She waved an arm at her as she focused her magic onto her.
Hannah’s sword glowed with a yellow light. She snatched the fairy out of the air and stuffed her back in her pocket. She rushed forward towards the horse, her sword held behind her. “Maya, sap him!”
A young blue haired girl stepped out of the shadows, casting a spell on the enemy.
Feeling itself weaken it charged for Maya.
She screamed and ran.
Hannah swerved to the right to run after him; she quickly reached him and started to swing forward but the monster reared up and donkey kicked her away. She flew back a ways, bumping into something soft and landing on it. She looked up into the bright red eyes of a man’s face. “Thanks for catching me,” she smiled.
“Any time,” he smiled back.
She faced forward, quickly jumping up while knocking him back down.
The monster had Maya backed into a corner. It raised a hoof but paused as it heard an ear-piercing whistle. It looked back at Hannah standing in the middle of the room.
“Look at you, talk about a nightmare,” she smirked at her own joke.
“My name is Equinox!” it turned to face her. “I will not be taunted by a mere mortal!”
Hannah held back a laugh.
A fireball struck Equinox in the face before it could go on anymore. Celeste stepped up to stand next to Hannah, another fireball ready between her hands. “Why did we come here again?” she asked, exhausted.
“Because it was there,” Hannah said plainly.
“Wait…” she turned to her gaping, the flame dissipating “what?!” The horse suddenly charged into her, knocking her away.
I read this post on tumblr; and felt inspired.
Sidenote: the second half I wrote the next day, so it ended up in another tense entirely. Idek.
Bruce passed through the grandfather clock in his study and trudged down the steps to the Batcave at a glacial pace, rubbing at sore eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
He’d only just returned home from a too-long business trip spent clothed in the persona of Brucie Wayne, which, while it did afford him the opportunity nowadays to gush a little and mostly boast about his children and their successes as he was expected to do – and secretly, or not so secretly enjoyed – it was a tiresome half-act amongst the world’s upper-crust, judgemental riches nonetheless.
He was happy to be home.
He’d be happy to go back to patrolling as well, though it was getting to be too early for that. The sun would be on the rise in a couple of hours, and by this time in general, he and the kids were usually headed home.
Bruce had no doubt, thus, that this was where he would find his three sons and daughter – coming in from what he could only hope had been a relatively quiet patrol, all of them home safe now and none the worse for wear – which was more the reason he was heading for the cave than any desire to squeeze in an hour or two’s patrol before sunrise himself.
There was chatter from the computer console, Bruce could hear when he at last reached the foot of the stairs, and when he looked up, focusing his tired eyes, he could see Tim in his chair, still in uniform. Cass sat on the desk next to the keyboard, legs swinging, and Dick and Damian were the ones speaking; only, as Bruce approached, it wasn’t their voices that caught his attention.
Instead, there was a somewhat indistinct mutter coming from—
Bruce frowned, and concentrated on the muffled, incoherent speech, trying to determine—
The…case…?
He turned, but – there was no one there.
It was, as always, only the spare uniform of his once second son, suspended in its glass case as if worn by a rigid, invisible body standing at attention.
My soldier.
My fault.
“A good soldier. A good ‘soldier.’ A good soldier.”
Bruce blinked, startled when the indistinguishable muttering suddenly became words in his ears.
But, still – where was it—?
“Betrayed. Betrayed. Betrayed me. Never avenged me. Never avenged me. Never-never-never—”
Bruce glanced all around, lost in his head, entranced by the voice – Jason’s voice – as he tried desperately to find where the young man was hiding, or—
Or, was this all in Bruce’s head?
Was he hallucinating his once dead son’s voice in his head? Was this the fatigue getting to him?
Or, something else? Why would it now, suddenly—?
“Betrayed-betrayed-betrayed. Never avenged me. You let the clown live.”
What was going on—?
“Father!” Damian’s voice cut in through Jason’s, all but startling Bruce out of his stupor.
He released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, hands coming to rest on his youngest’s small shoulders. “Damian…” he half-sighed. “I apologize, I was—distracted.”
“Tt,” Damian rolled his eyes.
“You’re not going mad, B,” Tim, who’d spun the chair around, said, too loudly. “We hear him, too.”
“Ear buds, Timmy,” Dick admonished, pointing, at the same time that Cass reached over from behind Tim to pop one ear bud out of his ear.
“Oh,” Tim said, taking the one from Cass and removing the other, “Heh, right. Sorry…”
Bruce only frowned harder.
“Honestly, Father,” Damian started, sounding exasperated and annoyed as he shrugged Bruce’s still-lingering hands from his shoulders. “Are you blind?”
Bruce looked down at him, and Damian, scowling, arms crossed, tilted his head in the direction of the case. “Look again.”
Bruce spared his other three children a brief glance, Jason’s voice distinct in his ears, never stopping, before he, if somewhat cautiously, looked back over at the case. “I don’t—” he started, feeling somewhat ridiculous and—exposed—with all his children’s eyes on him as he looked to that – but then, he did see it.
Nothing in the case or on it, but rather—next to it, seemingly facing it.
Like boulders, the same grey as the rest of the cave floor and walls, only, they weren’t rocks, they hardly seemed solid in fact, and the longer he looked at them the less they even seemed still.
They were just shapes.
A collection of grey, indiscriminate shapes, falling over and bumping into each other, moving one moment and still, almost unnoticeable the next, moving in a little cluster, all of them a heap barely reaching Damian’s height.
Moreover, and this was the most important and most alarming thing – Jason’s voice appeared to be coming from the mound of shapes.
“Let the clown live-live-live. Betrayed me. Never avenged me. Never-never-never—”
“What,” Bruce started, only somewhat unintentionally sounding like The Batman, “Exactly, am I looking at?”
“It’s Jason…”
“Todd.”
“Jason.”
“Hm-hm.”
A beat passed – “Betrayed-betrayed-betrayed—” – before Bruce breathed – in, deeply, and exhaled in a huff, turning back to his children, all of whom stood watching him with varying expressions of apprehension.
“Say that again,” he said slowly, “Use, smaller words, this time.”
“Uhhhhh...” Dick put a finger to his chin, his other hand on his hip, looking like he was genuinely thinking of smaller words. “It’s…Jason.”
“The one who failed.”
“Jason ‘once-a-Robin-always-an-ass’ Todd?”
Cassandra gestured with her hands, forming vague shapes, “Your son.”
“Tt.”
Bruce couldn’t tell if they were being serious or if this entire situation was just an awful prank. Had they gotten him on April Fools?
He didn’t remember.
“Just, explain how this happened,” he instructed, and at once four people opened their mouths to reply. Bruce threw up a halting hand, “Only one speak.”
“Todd was being an imbecile!” Damian declared at once.
“Dami!” Dick rebuked short on his heels, coming to stand by his youngest brother, dropping a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “That’s not—…technically untrue,” Damian smirked. “But let’s not point any fingers,” Dick intoned meaningfully, glancing sideways in the direction of the case, and…Jason, apparently. A bundle of shapes.
Bruce’s estranged son was a bundle of shapes.
Well.
“Died-died-died—didn’t die. You let the clown live.”
“There was a magician in town while you were away,” Tim started up, speaking quickly, when a momentary silence brought Jason’s voice back to their ears. “He and Jason apparently fought, and then there was a spell and now Jason is—” Tim paused, half-gesturing; Jason’s clumsy, chanting grey form speaking for itself.
“Shapes,” Bruce filled in the word anyway, brows furrowing even more.
“Shapeshifter,” Cass corrected.
“What?”
“At first he changed in normal ways, and, at will,” Dick began. “Different hairstyles, different hair colours – blonde, redhead, he had a little white streak in his fringe, and a really obnoxiously chiselled jaw at one point—” Dick gestured at his own chin with a thumb and forefinger, lips pursed, when Tim apparently decided it was time to cut in—
“But then he started changing into other things—”
“A dragon,” Damian supplied. “Which would have been somewhat impressive if he wasn’t such a tiny thing that couldn’t breathe fire or fly – he just sat there, flopping his little wings, fwap-fwap,” Damian gestured with his hands, scowling.
“You thought he was cute,” Cassandra said, having come up next to her littlest brother, to poke him in the arm.
“I did no such thing!” Damian snapped at once, hands fisted and ears tinged pink.
“Wanted to keep him. As a pet.”
“Quiet, Cain!”
“The robot he turned into next was…interesting,” Tim went on, before Bruce could give into his impatience and demand someone finish explaining. “But it was around there things went a little……haywire.”
Dick snickered, briefly, “But, we’re figuring it out. The magician said the spell would wear off eventually, the timeframe for it depending on the person,” he shrugged. “Nothing else to do but wait it out, apparently. He seemed sincere enough—”
“After some persuasion,” Damian mumbled.
“But just in case, we’ve been researching every known account of shape shifting caused by magic, and/or superpowers, permanent and otherwise. We’ll fix him if it comes to that,” Dick squeezed Damian’s shoulder; more to comfort himself than the younger kid, Bruce knew.
“You let the clown live-live-live.”
“He can’t…change back of his own volition?”
Tim shook his head, “That doesn’t seem to be the case. After the dragon, when he started shifting into things that weren’t human anymore, it seemed like he...”
“Got lost,” Cass said, solemn.
“Yeah…he doesn’t seem to know what’s going on at all. He’s stuck on…just the one thing.”
“He says the same things over and over,” Dick added quietly, the atmosphere in the cave having noticeably turned sombre. “Just stays there in the corner…by the case,” a tiny hint of disapproval in Dick’s tone at the word, that, Bruce knew, wasn’t for Jason, but rather for him. “Swears at you sometimes.”
“Hm.”
“Never-never-never—”
“Do you have any reason to suspect your magician might have been lying – about the spell wearing off?”
“Um,” the kids exchanged glances, before the boys collectively turned to Cass.
She gave Bruce a look, and he knew she knew what his intentions were depending on that answer.
“No.”
“Are you certain?” he asked pointedly, earning another distinct look.
“Yes,” she said, firmly.
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. The backs of his eyes were burning with fatigue and—something else.
“Get some rest then. You have things to do in the morning.”
None of them moved, however.
“We can all stay, Bruce, really. We don’t mind,” Dick said, and there was no tongue-click from Damian, who had his eyes firmly fixed on the floor and his arms crossed again.
“Yeah,” Tim agreed, “It’s no bother,” even as his fist clenched tighter round his ear buds.
Cassie gave him a small smile, “Come,” she ordered, grabbing Tim by the elbow and reaching for Dick’s free hand. “Sleep-time. Now,” she tugged. “Everyone – in Bruce’s bed. The biggest one.”
Dick exhaled a laugh, “Yeah, okay. C’mon, Little D,” he was already moving, half-guiding Damian along with his hand on the boy’s shoulder, but the entire procession halted when Damian stopped short not a full two paces along.
His arms tightened against his chest for only a moment, before he uncrossed them and spun back towards Bruce, determined, “Father—” but he came up short, lips left parted to say something more he was plainly uncertain of.
Bruce dropped to one knee in front of him, Dick’s hand discreetly slipping from the boy’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Damian,” Bruce said quietly, and Damian snapped his mouth shut. “I’m happy to be home, son. Get some rest, chum – please. We can talk in the morning.”
Damian watched him a moment longer, his blue eyes flitting this way and that across Bruce’s face. “Yes, Father,” he answered at last, posture relaxing. “I’m—it’s good to see you, as well,” and, swift as his reflexes would allow, Damian threw his arms round Bruce’s neck, squeezed and let go in what felt like only a second – far too fast for Bruce to properly react, at least – “Good-night,” before he’d sprinted past his siblings, heading for the stairs.
“Race!” Cassandra announced at once, and spun on her heel, running off.
“What—hey! That’s cheating!” Tim accused, following quickly in her wake.
Dick was grinning at their retreating forms, though, as Bruce got up. His eldest boy turned round to him, his smile somewhat diminished. Dick closed the gap between them without a word, to give Bruce a more proper hug, “He’ll be fine,” he said, as he pulled back. “Pissed to see you, probably,” he added with a rue smile and a shrug, glancing at the case. “But mostly fine.”
Bruce nodded in lieu of an answer, unconvinced that “thank you” was enough of a reply.
Dick seemed to know what he meant anyway, for he grinned, nodded back, and ran off after his siblings, “No fair, guys – you started without me!”
“Your uniform, Master Tim,” Alfred’s voice drifted from the top of the stairs as Bruce turned his back on the scene, turning once again to the case instead.
He stepped closer, somewhat cautious, not entirely certain how Jason in all his shifting, shaped glory would react to him – if he might be just the thing to snap his son from his uncomprehending state.
“Jason…?” Bruce whispered, when he was a mere pace away, but—
There was no reaction apart from the norm—
“Betrayed me. Betrayed me. Betrayed me.”
Sighing, forlorn, Bruce sunk to the cave floor, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees.
“Kiddo? Can you hear me…?”
“Never avenged me,” the shape seemed to hiss, and shift, and Bruce felt inexplicably as if it – as if Jason – had turned from the case to face him directly, even though there was no discernable face to his form that could prove it.
“Never-never-never,” his chant continued.
“I’ll just…sit here with you, then,” Bruce said quietly. “Until you feel better.”
“Betrayed me. Betrayed-betrayed-betrayed—
“You let the clown live!”
Bruce’s eyes droop for a moment, and he thinks, if fleetingly, that he might just rest them a little, at last. There’s no fear of falling asleep, at least – not with his second son’s continued chanting in his ears, in his head, echoing around his insides—
“Betrayed me. Betrayed me. Betrayed me.”
In fact, it’s because the chant stops unexpectedly, leaving the cave stunningly silent, that Bruce’s eyes snap open again at once, because—
What’s happened now?
Has he shifted into something else again—?
And—
Oh. Oh no.
He has.
Bruce blinks, as if to clear his vision, disbelief plain in his expression, and he’s not quick enough to hide it before his eyes meet Jason’s – back to their usual blue-green mix even as they no longer reflect all the usual angry hurt Bruce has come to associate with them. Because…Jason’s eyes have smoother contours, less angry lines, brows knit together in confusion instead of rage, and, freckles all over his nose and cheeks like he’d spent all day in the sun—
“What?” Jason asks, from where he lies on the cave floor curled into a ball, like he honestly doesn’t know, and his voice cracks a little like he hasn’t used it in forever, or, maybe, like he’s used it too much—
Bruce means to say something, but Jason’s the one blinking now, like he finally remembers, and he’s upright before Bruce can react, looking at his hands and the green gauntlets he wears, his expression—
Stunned. And…terrified.
“Jason—”
“No!” Jason snaps, jumping to his feet and tugging at his bright yellow cape all at the same time, “No, I’m not this anymore!” he’s frantic, and turning, and pulling at his gauntlets, and Bruce—
Has hardly been breathing, is half on his haunches and hesitating – does he grab the kid—the kid, what the hell?—by his shoulders and force him to calm down? Does he say something – what even?
For all that he looks thirteen, it’s still Jason – grown, once-dead, resurrected, vengeful Jason, and Bruce…Bruce has never known how to handle him.
“Jason,” Bruce tries again, cutting into the boy’s hissed curses at his irremovable gauntlets and boots, the swinging cape—
Jason finally looks at him again, face furious, throwing his cape aside as he swipes one hand defiantly through the air, “This isn’t me anymore!” he hisses, sounds more like himself even as his voice is the same half-forgotten echo Bruce sometimes hears in his dreams – when he dreams of all the mistakes he made and the things he regrets.
Jason scowls at Bruce just long enough for the older vigilante to gather his wits and remind himself he meant to say something placating, but then Jason has turned his head, looked away, and—
Bruce watches his son’s expression change, at first, anger and defiance back into the same shock and fear as when he saw he was Robin, and then—
The uniform he wears is tattered, and bloodied, frayed and burnt round the edges, his cape torn and half his mask missing – a twisted reflection of the suit in the case Jason’s staring at.
Jason’s gotten taller, his shoulders broader, in the almost-second it took Bruce to blink, and – there are already bruises blossoming beneath the tears in his uniform, blood trailing down his arms and legs, matted in his hair, and, his breathing has gone ragged, his knees weak—
“S’not’me,” he mumbles, wide-eyed, at the case, when he slumps to the ground and, Bruce has already moved to catch him—
—only, it’s not a fifteen year old, battered and bruised teenager he wraps his arms around, but his twenty-one year old son instead, the young man’s head lolling to the side, resting against Bruce’s shoulder as he mumbles one last time, “It’s not me…”
Bruce has his arm round Jason’s shoulders, his other hand on his son’s arm, gripping tight, “Jason?”
But Jason’s eyes have fallen shut, and the slow, rhythmic up-and-down of his chest suggest he’s fallen right asleep – likely a result of all the magic he’s been exposed to and all the shifting he’s done, not to mention how long he’d been in one incomprehensible form, muttering non-stop.
Bruce puts two fingers to his pulse anyway.
There are tears blurring the edges of his vision and Bruce can still feel his heart hammering in his ribcage, the image of his beaten, broken son, the corpse he’d found in a warehouse, burned into his mind’s eye anew.
Bruce lets out a shaky breath, shoulder’s slumping and his grip on Jason tightening.
“You’re right, chum…” he whispers. “You’re not…” he looks up, barely moving his head, to catch sight of the case and Jason’s old suit, “That anymore…you’re…someone else entirely, and I…” he trails off, uncertain. When he speaks again a moment later, it’s to address the butler he’s well aware of, in as composed a manner as on any other day, “Make up a room for him, Alfred. We should keep an eye on him, in case this…happens again.”
“Indeed, sir,” Alfred replies, as expected, but Bruce isn’t unaware of all the things Alfred doesn’t say.
This is apparently the second fic I've titled Homecoming, but thankfully, the fics are for two different fandoms. This is another one that never made it out of tumblr until now. Originally written for KakaSaku Week 2015, Day 2 - Summer Rain/Thunderstorm.
Series: Naruto
Pairing: Kakashi/Sakura (friendship)
Rating: G
Word Count: 842
Just a quick snapshot of Kakashi and Sakura’s dynamic as healer and patient, but more importantly, as friends.
I stumbled across this ficlet on here and realized I hadn't posted it elsewhere. While I did a quick read-through of it and cleaned up a sentence here and there, it's still rife with run-on sentences. I'm leaving it. It's part of its charm.
Originally written for KakaSaku Week 2015, Day 1 - Kakashi's Drunk Confessions.
Series: Naruto
Pairing: Kakashi/Sakura
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,089
Drink often loosens the tongue, but not enough in Kakashi's case.
If you saw my true self,
would you love me?
If you knew my true desires,
if I took off this mask,
if I revealed what’s in my heart,
would you?
Would you still love me?
I am told you would not.
“We are too flawed,” they say.
A mess of passion, and fear, and desire,
that cannot be shown.
We are the gods mortals only hope to be.
We are Apollo.
We are Bragi.
Bes, Lada, Erzulie Freda Dahomey.
We are what every human desires,
so we must not be flawed.
And I am given a mask,
to cover these unseemly cracks
and to hide every feeling, thought, desire,
behind stone cold perfection.
But still I wonder…
Would you love me anyways?
If I was not a god?
Is it even love
when you only know what I’m allowed to show?
I am terrified.
I am frozen within myself,
wondering and wondering.
Longing.
Hoping.
-Extracts from Danaus plexippus and the protozoan parasite by John Moore-
The Danaus plexippus is one of the most recognized species of butterflies in all of North America. Noted for their beautiful, orange and black wings, these butterflies make annual migrations from regions as far north as Canada all the way down to regions as far south as Mexico, covering thousands of miles of inhabited land every year without fail.
More commonly, they are referred to as Monarch Butterflies.
John didn’t know what he’d been expecting when he accepted that ticket from his coworker, but it certainly hadn’t been seeing Valerie up on stage, shining under the spotlights in all her glory.
She looked good. Better even than when John had last seen her, at their Cornell graduation two years earlier. He’d heard soon after graduation that she moved to New York in order to try her luck with all the big Broadway productions, as had always been her dream, so to find her acting in some second rate play in Minnesota, whose name he hadn’t even heard of, came as a surprise to John. He’d been expecting her to be more successful.
Not that he wasn’t happy to see her, though.
No. John was absolutely thrilled. Her presence in the play was the highlight of his viewing experience, and he soon lost track of what was actually happening in the play, too captivated by her appearance to pay attention to anything else. It was almost as if he was back in Cornell’s student theater, watching her glide across the stage for the very first time, head held high and long hair rippling out behind her with every step, red as the wings of the Danaus plexippus.
She had been stunning. She was still stunning, even after these two years apart. And, just as when he’d first saw her performing, a single, powerful thought came unbidden to John’s mind.
Mine.
Like most creatures in nature, of course, the Danaus plexippus are prey to a variety of other living organisms, including birds, beetles, and even some mice who can withstand their toxin.
However, one of the largest threats that the Danaus plexippus face is not one of predators, but rather one of parasites. In particular, the protozoan parasite Ophryocystis elektroscirrha presents much risk to the butterflies, whom the parasite infects while still in the caterpillar stage.
Much research has been conducted in the area of this parasite and the response of the Danaus plexippus to a known infection. Researchers have looked into whether the butterflies may have adapted behaviors to help reduce infection, such as avoiding infected plants or, if infected, eating the leaves of particular plants as self-medication.
“John! John, is that you?” he heard someone call out over the noise of the backstage crowd. His heart leapt, recognizing the voice, and he turned around just in time to feel Valerie’s slim arms wrap around his neck in a tight embrace, her body almost colliding into his. He pressed a hand against her back, throat going dry at fluttering heartbeat he felt just below his palm, just as Valerie murmured, “It’s been so long.”
“I’ll say,” he replied, voice cracking. John cleared his throat, then added, “I wasn’t expecting to see you up there tonight,” which made Valerie laugh against his shoulder. He pulled back and looked her over, noting the stage makeup caked across her face and the sweat beading at her hairline. Her eyeliner had been smudged from the perspiration and streaked across her right cheekbone in thin, black lines, but John only thought this enhanced her attractiveness, adding character where her natural beauty had not. “You seem to be doing well for yourself.”
“I’m doing alright,” she answered with a shrug. “It pays the bills. And touring means I run into old friends. I think I saw Oliver earlier too.” She turned her head to the side, glancing briefly about the room, and a few strands of hair fell from the elaborate bun she’d been wearing for the play. John’s eyes followed those strands as they floated down to rest against the curve of her slender, white neck. “You remember him, right? From Cornell? I was just about to go find- oh! Ollie!”
Valerie lifted her arm, breaking John’s concentrated gaze, and waved at someone on the other side of the room. Following the direction of her attention, John recognized Oliver’s bulky frame from amongst the crowd, and he inwardly groaned.
“Val!” Oliver boomed, easily pushing his way through the people to reach where John and Valerie stood, much to John’s displeasure. “You were incredible!”
Valerie laughed. “You dog. Why didn’t you tell me you’d be coming? I nearly tripped over my lines when I saw you in the audience,” she said, slapping his arm, though John privately wished she had done so with some actual force. “They’re the only lines I have, you know.”
“Sorry. I wanted to surprise you.”
“Seems to be a theme tonight,” John chimed in at Oliver’s elbow, not liking how overshadowed he’d suddenly been by Oliver’s appearance, just as it’d been back when they were roommates and John attempted to bring his dates over.
Oliver had always been the more physically appealing of the two of them. Despite his best attempts, John’s dates always ended up more enamored with Oliver’s toned muscles and sun-kissed skin than John’s intellect and ambition.
He’d been the paramour of Valerie for a few months during their last year at Cornell, until she’d broken up with him in favor of focusing on her acting. John liked to think it was also because she wanted to get closer to him, whom had become her closest confidant after Oliver was out of the picture.
Still, their relationship had never become official they way hers and Oliver’s had, and so the animosity still remained. He didn’t want history to repeat itself here when he finally had a second chance.
Oliver, however, took no notice of the chill John snuck into his words, and greeted him just as sunnily as ever, thumping a large hand against John’s upper back. “John! It’s been ages! How are you?”
John cursed and stumbled forward under the force of Oliver’s hand. “Oh, I can’t complain,” he muttered as Valerie laughed beside him. He lifted his head to glare at his former roommate, but paused as he caught sight of an unfamiliar female standing just behind Oliver.
“My wife, Anne,” Oliver introduced, pulling her forward. “Annie, meet John. We went to school together a while back. He helped me a ton.”
Yeah, if by help Oliver meant did his work for him, John privately mused. But any actual hostility he had felt towards Oliver had all but vanished at Oliver’s use of the word ‘wife,’ clearly being shackled down by this waif of a creature before them and entirely unavailable for Valerie’s favor.
“Nice to meet you,” Anne said in a soft voice, stretching out a delicate hand, which John shook after a moment of consideration. A shiver passed through him at the touch, and he gave her a flat smile.
Upon closer inspection, John didn’t see what Oliver found so appealing about her. She was like an average moth in complexion; dull, and brown, and wrinkled. Marks of age already stretched from her eyes and the corners of her upturned lips, and her cheeks were mottled by the small bumps of clogged pores. Like the beginning growth of parasites, just starting to erupt all over her face.
John pulled his hand back quickly.
“What have you been up to? Are you back at school?” Oliver inquired once introductions had been made, not noticing as John wiped his hand against the back of his pants. “I remember you saying something about getting a masters.”
“I’m working on my PhD now, actually.”
“Wow. That’s awesome,” he exclaimed. He seemed impressed by John’s progress in the field, and, aware of Valerie’s awed gaze upon him, John puffed out his chest with pride as Oliver asked, “Are you still studying… birds, was it?”
“Butterflies.”
“Oh yeah. You had that giant board in your room with all those butterflies on it, didn’t you?” Oliver recalled, and John nodded. It was the same board that hung in his part of the laboratory now. “Didn’t you give them all names?”
Anne’s nose scrunched, adding more wrinkles to her growing collection. “That’s kind of creepy.”
“I think it’s sweet,” Valerie argued, expression soft. “That he cares so much about them.”
“I suppose.”
Hearing Oliver’s reluctant concession, Valerie shook her head, little wisps of red hair fluttering with the movement, and turned back to John. “It must be beautiful now with all those butterflies on it.”
“I don’t have that many. Just the ones I’ve researched,” he answered, stomach knotting under the warmth of Valerie’s gaze. He looked away from her face, focusing instead on her shining hair as he continued, “I’m working with monarch butterflies at the moment.”
“Oh, those are my favorite!”
At the excitement in her voice, John chanced a glance back at her face, and almost immediately regretted it when he saw how she beamed at him, white teeth peeking through the chrysalis of her pink lips.
He felt his heart swoop, and then flutter frantically within his ribcage, caught by the winds of desire.
“Mine too.”
This research has concluded that the Danaus plexippus will do neither of those actions, or in fact any true action to cure themselves, when confronted with infection.
Three hours, and several drinks, later found Valerie clad only in a tank top and pair of black panties in the bedroom of John’s small apartment.
“Thank god this was the last performance,” she said as she on the bed next to John, pulling pin after pin from her hair. John watched in fascination as locks of red tumbled from the bun down to Valerie’s slender shoulders, resting against her skin in uneven waves. “I’m so tired of having to do hair and makeup. It’s such a hassle.”
“It looks beautiful though.”
And it really did. Though John much preferred her hair loose, as it was now, he wouldn’t deny the beauty of her elaborate bun. It was graceful, elongating her creamy neck and slender limbs, especially with how vivid its hue stood against the paleness of her skin.
“You think so?” Valerie questioned, however. Seeming almost troubled, she took a lock of hair and rubbed it between her fingers. “You don’t think my hair is too orange?”
“Of course not.”
It was a beautiful color. Rich and full of life. To him, it brought out the very best of its possessors. Especially in moments like this, as Valerie sat on his bed, all stage makeup wiped clean and fiddling with the straps of her tight-fitting tank top.
He had to admire her figure. The curves of her full breasts and tight ass. The flat plane of her stomach beneath the bunching fabric of her shirt. The silken smoothness of her long, bare legs. Tall and lean, with just the right amount of softness on her muscles to make her appear dainty.
Nature had truly spared no expense on her. From head to toe, she was a work of art, crafted as exquisitely as any creature of this earth could hope to be.
“The directors think so,” she confided to John, who slipped a hand beneath her tank to curl around her slender waist. He shifted closer and placed his other hand on her warm thigh as he worshiped her legs, her breasts, her hair with greedy, possessive eyes. Preening under the attention, Valerie let the hair she’d been holding fall back against her shoulder and collapsed back against the pillows to pull John closer. “I’m thinking of dying it for my audition next week.”
John froze where he was, kneeling over Valerie’s lithe frame, panic starting to bubble in the pit of his stomach. “You’re what?” he questioned, hoping that he had simply heard Valerie wrong. “Why?”
“The director said it’ll clash with the costumes. And I need this part.” She ran her fingers up his spine and tilted her head to the side, considering. “What do you think of brown? Brown’s a pretty color.”
No. No it wasn’t, actually.
Brown was the color of dirt, of sticks, and empty cocoons. It was the color of moths, of parasites, of decay. Brown was anything except a pretty color, and was completely unacceptable for Valerie, even if John consented to her dying her hair. Which he certainly did not.
But to tell her that wouldn’t go over well. He needed to approach his objection carefully, to attempt to persuade her away from the destructive path she seemed so bent on taking.
“You shouldn’t have to change yourself just to get a part,” he said, his tone light. Almost conversational, so as not to incite the stubborn side that John knew she had. But Valerie just shook her head.
“John, dear,” she laughed, not noticing how John cringed as she continued, “that’s what acting is.” Wrapping her legs around his waist, she ran a hand through the messy tangle of his own brown locks. “Maybe a lighter brown. Dark would wash me out.”
So she really wasn’t kidding about it then.
John bit his bottom lip, teeth tugging at the soft flesh as he tried to imagine Valerie as a brunette. But all John could see was the butterfly he’d left on his lab’s counter that very morning. He saw the beautiful orange and black wings of the butterfly spread out and covered by hideous, brown spores. He saw the parasite corroding the butterfly from the inside out, until it was pushing its way out of the butterfly’s eyes in a brown, oozing mess.
John couldn’t let that happen here. Not to Valerie.
“Don’t dye your hair. You’re already perfect,” he begged, taking the hand she’d been running through his hair in his own and lacing their fingers together. Valerie looked at him, a half-smile across her lips as he brought her hand to his lips.
“That’s sweet of you,” she said, then sighed. “I seriously need this job though.”
“If the directors don’t like you, that’s their loss.”
“It’s my loss too. Food doesn’t pay for itself,” Valerie pointed out with a frown, and something snapped within John at the reasonable way with which she presented her unreasonable thoughts.
“Then stop acting. Find something else to do,” he commanded, squeezing Valerie’s hand in a vicelike grip. “You’re smart. You could be a secretary or something.”
“You’re fucking kidding, right?” She gave a little half laugh, as if John had told some sort of lame joke, but soon fell silent when he didn’t laugh along.
He didn’t see why he should laugh during such a serious matter, and all the suggestions he’d made were completely serious. If acting was going to cause her to dye her hair, then she needed to give up acting. Or else give up dying her hair. Those were the only solutions.
Frowning, Valerie pulled her hand free from John’s grasp and let her legs fall from their position around his waist. “John, acting is my life. I’m not going to give it up.”
“Fine. Then keep acting. Just don’t dye your hair.”
“I’m sorry,” she began, cutting into John’s panic with her incredulous tone, “are you really telling me what to do with my hair?”
“I’m just giving you advice.”
“You don’t understand. This is literally a part of my job,” she said, shaking her head. “Besides, I’ve always hated my hair.”
At this, John almost gasped. “How could you hate your hair? It’s perfect,” he explained breathlessly, reaching out to reverently stroke Valerie’s hair. His fingers caught a lock, and he lifted it to his lips, pressing a loving kiss to the red strands. Seeming perturbed by this for some reason, Valerie brushed his hand away and frowned.
“It’s just hair, John.”
“It’s not!” he exclaimed, leaning all the way forward, right into Valerie’s personal space, who, in turn, scrunched as far back against the pillows as possible, eyes wide with alarm as John demanded, “You’d better not change it. I won’t let you.”
Her nostrils flared at this. “Excuse me? You won’t let me?” she snapped, clearly upset. And this definitely wasn’t the way John wanted this to go.
“It was a figure of speech, Val,” he tried to appease. He kissed her neck, her cheek, her unresponsive lips. But, finding her unwilling to be swayed, he had to pull away with an exasperated sigh. “We can discuss this tomorrow, when you’re more reasonable.”
“No!” Roughly shoving John away, she slid off the bed. “I don’t even know what this has to do with you! This is the first time we’ve seen each other in years!”
John watched as she stomped about the room and collected her things from where they’d been thrown earlier. She pulled on her sweatpants, covering her beautiful legs, and hoisted her bag over her shoulder. “Val, you can’t…”
They’d only just met up again. She couldn’t leave him yet. She couldn’t leave him ever.
Valerie glared at him, all fire and scorching heat, and spat, “The hell I can’t.”
She turned on her heel, and then stormed from the room, leaving John to scramble off the bed and hurry after her. His heart was in his throat as he followed her down the hall, towards the door of his house.
“I’m just trying to help you!” he yelled, desperate to make her understand. To know the pain he felt at the desecration of her glorious hair.
“What if I want to cut it then, huh? What if I shaved it all off? Is that allowed?”
She grabbed her shoes from the kitchen, where she’d left them after they’d first arrived, and then turned toward the entry hall. But John was already there, his arms and legs outstretched to fill the small doorway. He couldn’t let her pass and disappear from his life. Not when he was so close to having her.
Blocked from the front door, Valerie backed further into the kitchen, further away from John and his soft pleading of, “Valerie, please.”
“No. You’re really freaking me out, John.” She held up a finger, a warning to John as he stood from his stool to follow after her. “I don’t know what kind of obsession you seem to have with my hair, but I really couldn’t give a shit.”
She took another step back, and John followed, backing her into the kitchen as he explained, “I just want you not to cut your hair. Is that really so hard to understand?”
“Don’t come any closer.”
“Please. You have such pretty hair. The most gorgeous hair I’ve ever seen.” Catching Valerie against the counters at the back of the kitchen, John grinned and walked over, caging her within his two arms.
Perhaps now she would listen to him. Perhaps now he could make her understand. He was only demanding this to preserve her perfection, why couldn’t she see that? Didn’t she want to perfect? Like the perfect monarch butterflies among their court of flowers and milkweed?
He lifted a hand, tracing Valerie’s hairline with the barest ghosting of fingers across the strands, his movements careful so as not to mar the beauty before him. “Please don’t cut it. For me?”
“For you?” she repeated weakly, and John nodded, delighted that she appeared to be considering what he asked. Delighted, that is, until she spat, “Fuck you,” and kicked John right in the shin.
Then, breaking from the cage John’s arms had created, she lunged across the kitchen to grab a knife from the rack on the counter and chopped off almost a foot of her perfect, red hair before John could stop her.
However, though the Danaus plexippus take no action to cure themselves or reduce their infection, research has also shown that they do not surrender to the protozoan parasite completely either.
John stood there in horror, watching as Valerie let her beautiful hair drop to the tile floor. The strands scattered before her feet and covered the floor in red, like blood.
“What have you done?” he cried, dropping to his knees in anguish, unable to comprehend what had just occurred. He crawled across the floor, paying no mind to Valerie as her feet shuffled backwards, further away from his arms as he swept the hair from the floor into a pile at his knees.
The hair was a thick, red knot on the floor, fallen like the feathers of a ruined specimen. He clasped it in his shaking hands, mute from shock and the agony of realizing his dreams had all turned to dust the second that knife had sliced through the first strand. And, separated from the original source, the hair no longer held any meaning or value, except that of perfection lost.
“You ruined it!” he sobbed, pressing his face into the hair on the floor. His hands clutched about wildly, searching for any more fragments of his soiled treasure.
There had to be some way to fix this. There had to be.
Maybe glue would do the trick? Or tape? No, tape wasn’t permanent enough. Could they sew it back together? Could one even sew with hair?
His butterfly would know. Yes, surely. She had to know what to do. She ruined it, so she should know how to make it better, surely.
Holding the hair to his chest, he looked up at Valerie, his gaze imploring. “Fix it.”
“What?”
“Fix it!” he screamed, which startled Valerie from her own shocked stupor. She looked between John and the hair in his hands, while John just glared up at her, mentally commanding her to put the hair back on her head. To make it all better again.
She shook her head. “I can’t fix it, John. It’s hair!”
No. No no no. She had to make it better. She had to. John would make her. He’d make her fix it.
“That’s not how it works, John, and you know that.”
Throwing the hair aside, John screamed and lunged, his hands closing around the slender neck beneath the uneven strands of Valerie’s red hair.
Unfortunately, this fight within the Danaus plexippus helps only the offspring of infected females, who lay their eggs on medicinal plant leaves to help reduce infection in the next generation. But as for the infected butterflies themselves, they have no natural adaptations to aid themselves in fighting off infection, and so they all eventually succumb to the parasites and die.
Though research has not shown any adaptations of infected Danaus plexippus against the protozoan parasite, it is interesting to note the role of the environment in both species’ evolutions as well as the parasite’s role as the instigator in the host-parasite life cycle.
Perhaps this research may be applied to other butterfly species as well?
John took care while positioning his specimen for display.
She was delicate, so fragile. He needed to be cautious as his chlorocresol-coated fingers moved her limbs into position, so as to avoid any other unnecessary damages. She had to be perfect for the display. Absolutely perfect.
“That one’s pretty,” he heard from behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he noticed one of the female lab assistants—Audrey, he seemed to recall her name being—watching him pin the large monarch butterfly to his corkboard with undisguised interest. “What’s her name?”
Audrey looked away from the board to John, and he was struck by just how large and blue her eyes were. Blue as a cloudless summer’s day, or a hydrangea in full bloom. As blue as the wings of the Morpho didius.
“Valerie,” John answered, lost in Audrey’s perfect blue eyes. “Her name is Valerie.”
-Extracts from Morpho butterflies and the threat of collectors by John Moore-
Found in both South and Central America, the butterflies of the genus Morpho are recognized by their distinctly metallic wing hues, usually in greens or blues. Due to their beautiful and unique wing colors, these butterflies are often prized by butterfly collectors.
But one has to wonder whether this collecting of the Morpho butterflies is a threat that should be contained before going too far, or merely just a harmless hobby.
